The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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at the sound of which he and Mary looked at each other.
“Who can that be?” said Mary. “It’s past ten o’clock.”
Ransford offered no suggestion. He sat silently waiting, until the parlourmaid entered.
“Inspector Mitchington would be much obliged if you could give him a few minutes, sir,” she said.
Ransford got up from his chair.
“Take Inspector Mitchington into the study,” he said. “Is he alone?”
“No, sir—there’s a gentleman with him,” replied the girl.
“All right—I’ll be with them presently,” answered Ransford. “Take them both in there and light the gas. Police!” he went on, when the parlourmaid had gone. “They get hold of the first idea that strikes them, and never even look round for another, You’re not frightened?”
“Frightened—no! Uneasy—yes!” replied Mary. “What can they want, this time of night?”
“Probably to tell me something about this romantic tale of Dick’s,” answered Ransford, as he left the room. “It’ll be nothing more serious, I assure you.”
But he was not so sure of that. He was very well aware that the Wrychester police authorities had a definite suspicion of his guilt in the Braden and Collishaw matters, and he knew from experience that police suspicion is a difficult matter to dissipate. And before he opened the door of the little room which he used as a study he warned himself to be careful—and silent.
The two visitors stood near the hearth—Ransford took a good look at them as he closed the door behind him. Mitchington he knew well enough; he was more interested in the other man, a stranger. A quiet-looking, very ordinary individual, who might have been half a dozen things—but Ransford instantly set him down as a detective. He turned from this man to the inspector.
“Well?” he said, a little brusquely. “What is it?”
“Sorry to intrude so late, Dr. Ransford,” answered Mitchington, “but I should be much obliged if you would give us a bit of information—badly wanted, doctor, in view of recent events,” he added, with a smile which was meant to be reassuring. “I’m sure you can—if you will.”
“Sit down,” said Ransford, pointing to chairs. He took one himself and again glanced at the stranger. “To whom am I speaking, in addition to yourself, Inspector?” he asked. “I’m not going to talk to strangers.”
“Oh, well!” said Mitchington, a little awkwardly. “Of course, doctor, we’ve had to get a bit of professional help in these unpleasant matters. This gentleman’s Detective-Sergeant Jettison, from the Yard.”
“What information do you want?” asked Ransford.
Mitchington glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I may as well tell you, doctor,” he said confidentially, “there’s been a most extraordinary discovery made tonight, which has a bearing on the Braden case. I dare say you’ve heard of the great jewel robbery which took place at the Duke of Saxonsteade’s some years ago, which has been a mystery to this very day?”
“I have heard of it,” answered Ransford.
“Very well—tonight those jewels—the whole lot!—have been discovered in Paradise yonder, where they’d been buried, at the time of the robbery, by the thief,” continued Mitchington. “They’ve just been examined, and they’re now in the Duke’s own hands again—after all these years! And—I may as well tell you—we now know that the object of Braden’s visit to Wrychester was to tell the Duke where those jewels were hidden. Braden—and another man—had learned the secret, from the real thief, who’s dead in Australia. All that I may tell you, doctor—for it’ll be public property tomorrow.”
“Well?” said Ransford.
Mitchington hesitated a moment, as if searching for his next words. He glanced at the detective; the detective remained immobile; he glanced at Ransford; Ransford gave him no encouragement.
“Now look here, doctor!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “Why not tell us something? We know now who Braden really was! That’s settled. Do you understand?”
“Who was he, then?” asked Ransford, quietly.
“He was one John Brake, some time manager of a branch of a London bank, who, seventeen years ago, got ten years’ penal servitude for embezzlement,” answered Mitchington, watching Ransford steadily. “That’s dead certain—we know it! The man who shared this secret with him about the Saxonsteade jewels has told us that much, today. John Brake!”
“What have you come here for?” asked Ransford.
“To ask you—between ourselves—if you can tell us anything about Brake’s earlier days—antecedents—that’ll help us,” replied Mitchington. “It may be—Jettison here—a man of experience—thinks it’ll be found to be—that Brake, or Braden as we call him—was murdered because of his possession of that secret about the jewels. Our informant tells us that Braden certainly had on him, when he came to Wrychester, a sort of diagram showing the exact location of the spot where the jewels were hidden—that diagram was most assuredly not found on Braden when we examined his clothing and effects. It may be that it was wrested from him in the gallery of the clerestory that morning, and that his assailant, or assailants—for there may have been two men at the job—afterwards pitched him through that open doorway, after half-stifling him. And if that theory’s correct—and I, personally, am now quite inclined to it—it’ll help a lot if you’ll tell us what you know of Braden’s—Brake’s—antecedents. Come now, doctor!—you know very well that Braden, or Brake, did come to your surgery that morning and said to your assistant that he’d known a Dr. Ransford in times past! Why not speak?”
Ransford, instead of answering Mitchington’s evidently genuine appeal, looked at the New Scotland Yard man.
“Is that your theory?” he asked.
Jettison nodded his head, with a movement indicative of conviction.
“Yes, sir!” he replied. “Having regard to all the circumstances of the case, as they’ve been put before me since I came here, and with special regard to the revelations which have resulted in the discovery of these jewels, it is! Of course, today’s events have altered everything. If it hadn’t been for our informant—”
“Who is your informant?” inquired Ransford.
The two callers looked at each other—the detective nodded at the inspector.
“Oh, well!” said Mitchington. “No harm in telling you, doctor. A man named Glassdale—once a fellow-convict with Brake. It seems they left England together after their time was up, emigrated together, prospered, even went so far—both of ‘em!—as to make good the money they’d appropriated, and eventually came back together—in possession of this secret. Brake came specially to Wrychester to tell the Duke—Glassdale was to join him on the very morning Brake met his death. Glassdale did come to the town that morning—and as soon as he got here, heard of Brake’s strange death. That upset him—and he went away—only to come back today, go to Saxonsteade, and tell everything to the Duke—with the result we’ve told you of.”
“Which result,” remarked Ransford, steadily regarding Mitchington, “has apparently altered all your ideas about—me!”
Mitchington laughed a little awkwardly.
“Oh, well, come, now, doctor!” he said. “Why, yes—frankly, I’m inclined to Jettison’s theory—in fact, I’m certain that’s the truth.”
“And your theory,” inquired Ransford, turning to the detective, “is—put it in a few words.”
“My theory—and I’ll lay anything it’s the correct one!—is this,” replied Jettison. “Brake came to Wrychester with his secret. That secret wasn’t confined to him and