The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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interview of the previous afternoon, had been much in his thoughts all day, and he had an uneasy feeling that Bryce was playing some game. Bryce was quick to see that scowl—and to observe the sudden start which Mary could not repress—and he was just as quick to speak.
“I was going to your house, Dr. Ransford,” he remarked quietly. “I don’t want to force my presence on you, now or at any time—but I think you’d better give me a few minutes.”
They were at Ransford’s garden gate by that time, and Ransford flung it open and motioned Bryce to follow. He led the way into the dining-room, closed the door on the three, and looked at Bryce. Bryce took the glance as a question, and put another, in words.
“You’ve heard of what’s happened during the day?” he said.
“About Collishaw—yes,” answered Ransford. “Miss Bewery has just told me—what her brother told her. What of it?”
“I have just come from the police-station,” said Bryce. “Coates and Everest have carried out an autopsy this afternoon. Mitchington told me the result.”
“Well?” demanded Ransford, with no attempt to conceal his impatience. “And what then?”
“Collishaw was poisoned,” replied Bryce, watching Ransford with a closeness which Mary did not fail to observe. “H.C.N. No doubt at all about it.”
“Well—and what then?” asked Ransford, still more impatiently. “To be explicit—what’s all this to do with me?”
“I came here to do you a service,” answered Bryce. “Whether you like to take it or not is your look-out. You may as well know it you’re in danger. Collishaw is the man who hinted—as you heard yesterday in my rooms—that he could say something definite about the Braden affair—if he liked.”
“Well?” said Ransford.
“It’s known—to the police—that you were at Collishaw’s house early this morning,” said Bryce. “Mitchington knows it.”
Ransford laughed.
“Does Mitchington know that I overheard what he said to you, yesterday afternoon?” he inquired.
“No, he doesn’t,” answered Bryce. “He couldn’t possibly know unless I told him. I haven’t told him—I’m not going to tell him. But—he’s suspicious already.”
“Of me, of course,” suggested Ransford, with another laugh. He took a turn across the room and suddenly faced round on Bryce, who had remained standing near the door. “Do you really mean to tell me that Mitchington is such a fool as to believe that I would poison a poor working man—and in that clumsy fashion?” he burst out. “Of course you don’t.”
“I never said I did,” answered Bryce. “I’m only telling you what Mitchington thinks his grounds for suspecting. He confided in me because—well, it was I who found Collishaw. Mitchington is in possession of a box of digestive pills which you evidently gave Collishaw.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Ransford. “The man’s a fool! Let him come and talk to me.”
“He won’t do that—yet,” said Bryce. “But—I’m afraid he’ll bring all this out at the inquest. The fact is—he’s suspicious—what with one thing or another—about the former affair. He thinks you concealed the truth—whatever it may be—as regards any knowledge of Braden which you may or mayn’t have.”
“I’ll tell you what it is!” said Ransford suddenly. “It just comes to this—I’m suspected of having had a hand—the hand, if you like!—in Braden’s death, and now of getting rid of Collishaw because Collishaw could prove that I had that hand. That’s about it!”
“A clear way of putting it, certainly,” assented Bryce. “But—there’s a very clear way, too, of dissipating any such ideas.”
“What way?” demanded Ransford.
“If you do know anything about the Braden affair—why not reveal it, and be done with the whole thing,” suggested Bryce. “That would finish matters.”
Ransford took a long, silent look at his questioner. And Bryce looked steadily back—and Mary Bewery anxiously watched both men.
“That’s my business,” said Ransford at last. “I’m neither to be coerced, bullied, or cajoled. I’m obliged to you for giving me a hint of my—danger, I suppose! And—I don’t propose to say any more.”
“Neither do I,” said Bryce. “I only came to tell you.”
And therewith, having successfully done all that he wanted to do, he walked out of the room and the house, and Ransford, standing in the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, watched him go away across the Close.
“Guardian!” said Mary softly.
Ransford turned sharply.
“Wouldn’t it be best,” she continued, speaking nervously, “if—if you do know anything about that unfortunate man—if you told it? Why have this suspicion fastening itself on you? You!”
Ransford made an effort to calm himself. He was furiously angry—angry with Bryce, angry with Mitchington, angry with the cloud of foolishness and stupidity that seemed to be gathering.
“Why should I—supposing that I do know something, which I don’t admit—why should I allow myself to be coerced and frightened by these fools?” he asked. “No man can prevent suspicion falling on him—it’s my bad luck in this instance. Why should I rush to the police-station and say, ‘Here—I’ll blurt out all I know—everything!’ Why?”
“Wouldn’t that be better than knowing that people are saying things?” she asked.
“As to that,” replied Ransford, “you can’t prevent people saying things—especially in a town like this. If it hadn’t been for the unfortunate fact that Braden came to the surgery door, nothing would have been said. But what of that?—I have known hundreds of men in my time—aye, and forgotten them! No!—I am not going to fall a victim to this device—it all springs out of curiosity. As to this last affair—it’s all nonsense!”
“But—if the man was really poisoned?” suggested Mary.
“Let the police find the poisoner!” said Ransford, with a grim smile. “That’s their job.”
Mary said nothing for a moment, and Ransford moved restlessly about the room.
“I don’t trust that fellow Bryce,” he said suddenly. “He’s up to something. I don’t forget what he said when I bundled him out that morning.”
“What?” she asked.
“That he would be a bad enemy,” answered Ransford. “He’s posing now as a friend—but a man’s never to be so much suspected as when he comes doing what you may call unnecessary acts of friendship. I’d rather that anybody was mixed up in my affairs—your affairs—than Pemberton Bryce!”
“So would I!” she said. “But—”
She paused there a moment and then looked appealingly at Ransford.
“I do wish you’d tell me—what you promised to tell me,” she said. “You know what I mean—about me and Dick. Somehow—I don’t quite know how or why—I’ve an uneasy feeling that Bryce knows something, and that he’s mixing it all up with—this! Why not tell me—please!”
Ransford, who was still marching about the room, came to a halt, and leaning his hands on the table between them, looked earnestly at her.
“Don’t ask that—now!” he said. “I can’t—yet. The fact is, I’m waiting for something—some particulars. As soon as I get them, I’ll speak to you—and to Dick. In the meantime—don’t ask me again—and don’t be afraid. And as to this affair, leave it to me—and if you meet Bryce again, refuse to discuss