The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (best autobiographies to read TXT) 📕

“There's something I think you ought to be told about, sir,” he remarked with a side-glance at Mary. “Something I heard this morning at school. You know, we've a lot of fellows—town boys—who talk.”

“I daresay,” responded Ransford dryly. “Following the example of their mothers, no doubt. Well—what is it?”

He, too, glanced at Mary—and the girl had her work set to look unconscious.

“It's this,” replied Dick, lowering his voice in spite of the fact that all three were alone. “They're saying in the town that you know something which you won't tell about that affair last week. It's being talked of.”

Ransford laughed—a little cynically.

“Are you quite sure, my boy, that they aren't saying that I daren't tell?” he asked. “Daren't is a much more likely word than won't, I think.”

“Well—about that, sir,” acknowledged Dick. “Comes to that, anyhow.”

“And what are their grounds?” inquired Ransford. “You've heard them, I'll be bound!”

“They say that man—Braden—had been here—here, to the house!—that morning, not long before he was found dead,” answered Dick. “Of course, I said that was all bosh!—I said that if he'd been here and seen you, I'd have heard of it, dead certain.”

“That's not quite so dead certain, Dick, as that I have no knowledge of his ever having been here,” said Ransford. “But who says he came here?”

“Mrs. Deramore,” replied Dick promptly. “She says she saw him go away from the house and across the Close, a little before ten. So Jim Deramore says, anyway—and he says his mother's eyes are as good as another's.”

“Doubtless!” assented Ransford. He looked at Mary again, and saw that she was keeping hers fixed on her plate. “Well,” he continued, “if it will give you any satisfaction, Dick, you can tell the gossips that Dr. Ransford never saw any man, Braden or anybody else, at his house that morning, and that he never exchanged a word with Braden. So much for that! But,” he added, “you needn't expect them to believe you. I know these people—if they've got an idea into their heads they'll ride it to death. Nevertheless, what I say is a fact.”

Dick presently went off—and once more Ransford looked at Mary. And this time, Mary had to meet her guardian's inquiring glance.

“Have you heard anything of this?” he asked.

“That there was a rumour—yes,” she replied without hesitation. “But—not until just now—this morning.”

“Who told you of it?” inquired Ransford.

Mary hesitated. Then she remembered that Mr. Folliot, at any rate, had not bound her to secrecy.

“Mr. Folliot,” she replied. “He called me into his garden, to give me those roses, and he mentioned that Mrs. Deramore had said these things to Mrs. Folliot, and as he seemed to think it highly probable that Mrs. Folliot would repeat them, he told me because he didn't want you to think that the rumour had originally arisen at his house.”

“Very good of him, I'm sure,” remarked Ransford dryly. “They all like to shift the blame from one to another! But,” he added, looking searchingly at her, “you don't know anything about—Braden's having come here?”

He saw at once that she did, and Mary saw a slight shade of anxiety come over his face.

“Yes, I do!” she replied. “That morning. But—it was told to me, only today, in strict confidence.”

“In strict confidence!” he repeated. “May I know—by whom?”

“Dr. Bryce,” she answered. “I met him this morning. And I think you ought to know. Only—it was in confidence.” She paused for a moment, looking at him, and her face grew troubled. “I hate to suggest it,” she continued, “but—will you come with me to see him, and I'll ask him—things being as they are—to tell you what he told me. I can't—without his permission.”

Ransford shook his head and frowned.

“I dislike it!” he said. “It's—it's putting ourselves in his power, as it were. But—I'm not going to be left in the dark. Put on your hat, then.”

Bryce, ever since his coming to Wrychester, had occupied rooms in an old house in Friary Lane, at the back of the Close. He was comfortably lodged. Downstairs he had a double sitting-room, extending from the front to the back of the house; his front window looked out on one garden, his back window on another. He had just finished lunch in the front part of his room, and was looking out of his window, wondering what to do with himself that afternoon, when he saw Ransford and Mary Bewery approaching. He guessed the reason of their visit at once, and went straight to the front door to meet them, and without a word motioned them to follow him into his own quarters. It was characteristic of him that he took the first word—before either of his visitors could speak.

“I know why you've come,” he said, as he closed the door and glanced at Mary. “You either want my permission that you should tell Dr. Ransford what I told you this morning, or, you want me to tell him myself. Am I right?”

“I should be glad if you would tell him,” replied Mary. “The rumour you spoke of has reached him—he ought to know what you can tell. I have respected your confidence, so far.”

The two men looked at each other. And this time it was Ransford who spoke first.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that there is no great reason for privacy. If rumours are flying about in Wrychester, there is an end of privacy. Dick tells me they are saying at the school that it is known that Braden called on me at my house shortly before he was found dead. I know nothing whatever of any such call! But—I left you in my surgery that morning. Do you know if he came there?”

“Yes!” answered Bryce. “He did come. Soon after you'd gone out.”

“Why did you keep that secret?” demanded Ransford. “You could have told it to the police—or to the Coroner—or to me. Why didn't you?”

Before Bryce could answer, all three heard a sharp click of the front garden gate, and looking round, saw Mitchington coming up the walk.

“Here's one of the police, now,” said Bryce calmly. “Probably come to extract information. I would much rather he didn't see you here—but I'd also like you to hear what I shall say to him. Step inside there,” he continued, drawing aside the curtains which shut off the back room. “Don't stick at trifles!—you don't know what may be afoot.”

He almost forced them away, drew the curtains again, and hurrying to the front door, returned almost immediately with Mitchington.

“Hope I'm not disturbing you, doctor,” said the inspector, as Bryce brought him in and again closed the door. “Not? All right, then—I came round to ask you a question. There's