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Page 13
Bryce looked carefully and narrowly around him. Now that
Varner had gone away, there was not a human being in sight,
nor anywhere near, so far as he knew. On one side of him and
the dead man rose the grey walls of nave and transept; on the
other, the cypresses and yews rising amongst the old tombs and
monuments. Assuring himself that no one was near, no eye
watching, he slipped his hand into the inner breast pocket of
the dead man's smart morning coat. Such a man must carry
papers--papers would reveal something. And Bryce wanted to
know anything--anything that would give information and let
him into whatever secret there might be between this unlucky
stranger and Ransford.
But the breast pocket was empty; there was no pocket-book
there; there were no papers there. Nor were there any papers
elsewhere in the other pockets which he hastily searched:
there was not even a card with a name on it. But he found a
purse, full of money--banknotes, gold, silver--and in one of
its compartments a scrap of paper folded curiously, after
the fashion of the cocked-hat missives of another age in which
envelopes had not been invented. Bryce hurriedly unfolded
this, and after one glance at its contents, made haste to
secrete it in his own pocket. He had only just done this and
put back the purse when he heard Varner's voice, and a second
later the voice of Inspector Mitchington, a well-known police
official. And at that Bryce sprang to his feet, and when the
mason and his companions emerged from the bushes was standing
looking thoughtfully at the dead man. He turned to
Mitchington with a shake of the head.
"Dead!" he said in a hushed voice. "Died as we got to him.
Broken--all to pieces, I should say--neck and spine certainly.
I suppose Varner's told you what he saw."
Mitchington, a sharp-eyed, dark-complexioned man, quick of
movement, nodded, and after one glance at the body, looked up
at the open doorway high above them.
"That the door" he asked, turning to Varner. "And--it was
open?"
"It's always open," answered Varner. "Least-ways, it's been
open, like that, all this spring, to my knowledge."
"What is there behind it?" inquired Mitchington.
"Sort of gallery, that runs all round the nave," replied
Varner. "Clerestory gallery-that's what it is. People can go
up there and walk around--lots of 'em do--tourists, you know.
There's two or three ways up to it--staircases in the
turrets."
Mitchington turned to one of the two constables who had
followed him.
"Let Varner show you the way up there," he said. "Go quietly
--don't make any fuss--the morning service is just beginning.
Say nothing to anybody--just take a quiet look around, along
that gallery, especially near the door there--and come back
here." He looked down at the dead man again as the mason and
the constable went away. "A stranger, I should think, doctor
--tourist, most likely. But--thrown down! That man Varner is
positive. That looks like foul play."
"Oh, there's no doubt of that!" asserted Bryce. "You'll have
to go into that pretty deeply. But the inside of the
Cathedral's like a rabbit-warren, and whoever threw the man
through that doorway no doubt knew how to slip away
unobserved. Now, you'll have to remove the body to the
mortuary, of course--but just let me fetch Dr. Ransford first.
I'd like some other medical man than myself to see him before
he's moved--I'll have him here in five minutes."
He turned away through the bushes and emerging upon the Close
ran across the lawns in the direction of the house which he
had left not twenty minutes before. He had but one idea as he
ran--he wanted to see Ransford face to face with the dead man
--wanted to watch him, to observe him, to see how he looked,
how he behaved. Then he, Bryce, would know--something.
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