The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher


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Page 30

He reckoned up his chances of getting at the truth of the
affair anew that night. As things were, it seemed unlikely
that any relations of Braden would now turn up. The
Wrychester Paradise case, as the reporters had aptly named it,
had figured largely in the newspapers, London and provincial;
it could scarcely have had more publicity--yet no one, save
this bank-manager, had come forward. If there had been any
one to come forward the bank-manager's evidence would surely
have proved an incentive to speed--for there was a sum of ten
thousand pounds awaiting John Braden's next-of-kin. In
Bryce's, opinion the chance of putting in a claim to ten
thousand pounds is not left waiting forty-eight hours--whoever
saw such a chance would make instant use of telegraph or
telephone. But no message from anybody professing
relationship with the dead man had so far reached the
Wrychester police.

When everything had been taken into account, Bryce saw no
better clue for the moment than that suggested by Ambrose
Campany--Barthorpe. Ambrose Campany, bookworm though he was,
was a shrewd, sharp fellow, said Bryce--a man of ideas. There
was certainly much in his suggestion that a man wasn't likely
to buy an old book about a little insignificant town like
Barthorpe unless he had some interest in it--Barthorpe, if
Campany's theory were true, was probably the place of John
Braden's origin.

Therefore, information about Braden, leading to knowledge of
his association or connection with Ransford, might be found at
Bartborpe. True, the Barthorpe police had already reported
that they could tell nothing about any Braden, but that, in
Bryce's opinion, was neither here nor there--he had already
come to the conclusion that Braden was an assumed name. And
if he went to Barthorpe, he was not going to trouble the
police--he knew better methods than that of finding things
out. Was he going?--was it worth his while? A moment's
reflection decided that matter--anything was worth his while
which would help him to get a strong hold on Mark Ransford.
And always practical in his doings, he walked round to the
Free Library, obtained a gazeteer, and looked up particulars
of Barthorpe. There he learnt that Barthorpe was an ancient
market-town of two thousand inhabitants in the north of
Leicestershire, famous for nothing except that it had been the
scene of a battle at the time of the Wars of the Roses, and
that its trade was mainly in agriculture and stocking-making
--evidently a slow, sleepy old place.

That night Bryce packed a hand-bag with small necessaries for
a few days' excursion, and next morning he took an early train
to London; the end of that afternoon found him in a Midland
northern-bound express, looking out on the undulating, green
acres of Leicestershire. And while his train was making a
three minutes' stop at Leicester itself, the purpose of his
journey was suddenly recalled to him by hearing the strident
voices of the porters on the platform.

"Barthorpe next stop!--next stop Barthorpe!"

One of two other men who shared a smoking compartment with
Bryce turned to his companion as the train moved off again.

"Barthorpe?" he remarked. "That's the place that was
mentioned in connection with that very queer affair at
Wrychester, that's been reported in the papers so much these
last few days. The mysterious stranger who kept ten thousand
in a London bank, and of whom nobody seems to know anything,
had nothing on him but a history of Barthorpe. Odd! And yet,
though you'd think he'd some connection with the place, or had
known it, they say nobody at Barthorpe knows anything about
anybody of his name."

"Well, I don't know that there is anything so very odd about
it, after all," replied the other man. "He may have picked up
that old book for one of many reasons that could be suggested.
No--I read all that case in the papers, and I wasn't so much
impressed by the old book feature of it. But I'll tell you
what--there was a thing struck me. I know this Barthorpe
district--we shall be in it in a few minutes--I've been a good
deal over it. This strange man's name was given in the papers
as John Braden. Now close to Barthorpe--a mile or two outside
it, there's a village of that name--Braden Medworth. That's a
curious coincidence--and taken in conjunction with the man's
possession of an old book about Barthorpe--why, perhaps
there's something in it--possibly more than I thought for at
first."

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