Mitchington, thoroughly taken aback by this candid statement, was at a loss for words, and again he glanced at Jettison. But Jettison gave no help, and Mitchington fell back on himself.
“So you fetched old Harker?” he said. “What—what for, doctor? If one may ask, you know.”
Bryce made a careless gesture with his cigarette.
“Oh—old Harker’s deeply interested in what’s going on,” he answered. “And as young Bewery drew my attention to your proceedings, why, I thought I’d draw Harker’s. And Harker was—interested.”
Mitchington hesitated before saying more. But eventually he risked a leading question.
“Any special reason why he should be, doctor?” he asked.
Bryce put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and looked half-lazily at his questioner.
“Do you know who old Harker really is?” he inquired.
“No!” answered Mitchington. “I know nothing about him—except that he’s said to be a retired tradesman, from London, who settled down here some time ago.”
Bryce suddenly turned on Jettison.
“Do you?” he asked.
“I, sir!” exclaimed Jettison. “I don’t know this gentleman—at all!”
Bryce laughed—with his usual touch of cynical sneering.
“I’ll tell you—now—who old Harker is, Mitchington,” he said. “You may as well know. I thought Mr. Jettison might recognize the name. Harker is no retired London tradesman—he’s a retired member of your profession, Mr. Jettison. He was in his day one of the smartest men in the service of your department. Only he’s transposed his name—ask them at the Yard if they remember Harker Simpson? That seems to startle you, Mitchington! Well, as you’re here, perhaps I’d better startle you a bit more.”
Chapter XIX. The Subtlety of the Devil
There was a sudden determination and alertness in Bryce’s last words which contrasted strongly, and even strangely, with the almost cynical indifference that had characterized him since his visitors came in, and the two men recognized it and glanced questioningly at each other. There was an alteration, too, in his manner; instead of lounging lazily in his chair, as if he had no other thought than of personal ease, he was now sitting erect, looking sharply from one man to the other; his whole attitude, bearing, speech seemed to indicate that he had suddenly made up his mind to adopt some definite course of action.
“I’ll tell you more!” he repeated. “And, since you’re here—now!”
Mitchington, who felt a curious uneasiness, gave Jettison another glance. And this time it was Jettison who spoke.
“I should say,” he remarked quietly, “knowing what I’ve gathered of the matter, that we ought to be glad of any information Dr. Bryce can give us.”
“Oh, to be sure!” assented Mitchington. “You know more, then, doctor?”
Bryce motioned his visitors to draw their chairs nearer to his, and when he spoke it was in the low, concentrated tones of a man who means business—and confidential business.
“Now look here, Mitchington,” he said, “and you, too, Mr. Jettison, as you’re on this job—I’m going to talk straight to both of you. And to begin with, I’ll make a bold assertion—I know more of this Wrychester Paradise mystery—involving the deaths of both Braden and Collishaw, than any man living—because, though you don’t know it, Mitchington, I’ve gone right into it. And I’ll tell you in confidence why I went into it—I want to marry Dr. Ransford’s ward, Miss Bewery!”
Bryce accompanied this candid admission with a look which seemed to say: Here we are, three men of the world, who know what things are—we understand each other! And while Jettison merely nodded comprehendingly, Mitchington put his thoughts into words.
“To be sure, doctor, to be sure!” he said. “And accordingly—what’s their affair, is yours! Of course!”
“Something like that,” assented Bryce. “Naturally no man wishes to marry unless he knows as much as he can get to know about the woman he wants, her family, her antecedents—and all that. Now, pretty nearly everybody in Wrychester who knows them, knows that there’s a mystery about Dr. Ransford and his two wards—it’s been talked of, no end, amongst the old dowagers and gossips of the Close, particularly—you know what they are! Miss Bewery herself, and her brother, young Dick, in a lesser degree, know there’s a mystery. And if there’s one man in the world who knows the secret, it’s Ransford. And, up to now, Ransford won’t tell—he won’t even tell Miss Bewery. I know that she’s asked him—he keeps up an obstinate silence. And so—I determined to find things out for myself.”
“Aye—and when did you start on that little game, now, doctor?” asked Mitchington. “Was it before, or since, this affair developed?”
“In a really serious way—since,” replied Bryce. “What happened on the day of Braden’s death made me go thoroughly into the whole matter. Now, what did happen? I’ll tell you frankly, now, Mitchington, that when we talked once before about this affair, I didn’t tell you all I might have told. I’d my reasons for reticence. But now I’ll give you full particulars of what happened that morning within my knowledge—pay attention, both of you, and you’ll see how one thing fits into another. That morning, about half-past nine, Ransford left his surgery and went across the Close. Not long after he’d gone, this man Braden came to the door, and asked me if Dr. Ransford was in? I said he wasn’t—he’d just gone out, and I showed the man in which direction. He said he’d once known a Dr. Ransford, and went away. A little later, I followed. Near the entrance of Paradise, I saw Ransford leaving the west porch of the Cathedral. He was undeniably in a state of agitation—pale, nervous. He didn’t see me. I went on and met Varner, who told me of the accident. I went with him to the foot of St. Wrytha’s Stair and found the man who had recently called at the surgery. He died just as I reached him. I sent for you. When you came, I went back to the surgery—I found Ransford there in a state of most unusual agitation—he looked like a man who has had a terrible shock. So much for these events. Put them together.”
Bryce paused awhile, as if marshalling his facts.
“Now, after that,” he continued presently, “I began to investigate matters myself—for my own satisfaction. And very soon I found out certain things—which I’ll summarize, briefly, because some of my facts are doubtless known to you already. First of all—the man who came here as John Braden was, in reality, one John Brake. He was at one time manager of a branch of a well-known London banking company. He appropriated money from them under apparently mysterious circumstances of which I, as yet, knew nothing; he was prosecuted, convicted, and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. And those two wards of Ransford’s, Mary and Richard Bewery, as they are called, are, in reality, Mary and Richard Brake—his children.”
“You’ve established that as a fact?” asked Jettison, who was listening with close attention. “It’s not a surmise on your part?”
Bryce hesitated before replying to this question. After all, he reflected, it was a surmise. He could not positively prove his assertion.
“Well,” he answered after a moment’s thought, “I’ll qualify that by saying that from the evidence I have, and from what I know, I believe it to be an indisputable fact. What I do know of fact, hard, positive fact, is this:—John Brake married a Mary Bewery at the parish church of Braden Medworth, near Barthorpe, in Leicestershire: I’ve seen the entry in the register with my own eyes.