LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

marriage?—why, of course!”

      “Who was she?” demanded Bryce.

      “Governess at the vicarage,” replied Claybourne. “Nice, sweet young lady.”

      “And the man she married?—Mr. Brake,” continued Bryce. “Who was he?”

      “A young gentleman that used to come here for the fishing, now and then,” answered Claybourne, pointing at the river. “Famous for our trout we are here, you know, sir. And Brake had come here for three years before they were married—him and his friend Mr. Ransford.”

      “You remember him, too?” asked Bryce.

      “Remember both of ‘em very well indeed,” said Claybourne, “though I never set eyes on either after Miss Mary was wed to Mr. Brake. But I saw plenty of ‘em both before that. They used to put up at the inn there—that I saw you come out of just now. They came two or three times a year—and they were a bit thick with our parson of that time—not this one: his predecessor—and they used to go up to the vicarage and smoke their pipes and cigars with him—and of course, Mr. Brake and the governess fixed it up. Though, you know, at one time it was considered it was going to be her and the other young gentleman, Mr. Ransford—yes! But, in the end, it was Brake—and Ransford stood best man for him.”

      Bruce assimilated all this information greedily—and asked for more.

      “I’m interested in that entry,” he said, tapping the open book. “I know some people of the name of Bewery—they may be relatives.”

      The shoemaker shook his head as if doubtful.

      “I remember hearing it said,” he remarked, “that Miss Mary had no relations. She’d been with the old vicar some time, and I don’t remember any relations ever coming to see her, nor her going away to see any.”

      “Do you know what Brake was?” asked Bryce. “As you say he came here for a good many times before the marriage, I suppose you’d hear something about his profession, or trade, or whatever it was?”

      “He was a banker, that one,” replied Claybourne. “A banker—that was his trade, sir. T’other gentleman, Mr. Ransford, he was a doctor—I mind that well enough, because once when him and Mr. Brake were fishing here, Thomas Joynt’s wife fell downstairs and broke her leg, and they fetched him to her—he’d got it set before they’d got the reg’lar doctor out from Barthorpe yonder.”

      Bryce had now got all the information he wanted, and he made the old parish clerk a small present and turned to go. But another question presented itself to his mind and he reentered the little shop.

      “Your late vicar?” he said. “The one in whose family Miss Bewery was governess—where is he now? Dead?”

      “Can’t say whether he’s dead or alive, sir,” replied Claybourne. “He left this parish for another—a living in a different part of England—some years since, and I haven’t heard much of him from that time to this—he never came back here once, not even to pay us a friendly visit—he was a queerish sort. But I’ll tell you what, sir,” he added, evidently anxious to give his visitor good value for his half-crown, “our present vicar has one of those books with the names of all the clergymen in ‘em, and he’d tell you where his predecessor is now, if he’s alive—name of Reverend Thomas Gilwaters, M.A.—an Oxford college man he was, and very high learned.”

      Bryce went back to the vicarage, returned the borrowed book, and asked to look at the registers for the year 1891. He verified his copy and turned to the vicar.

      “I accidentally came across the record of a marriage there in which I’m interested,” he said as he paid the search fees. “Celebrated by your predecessor, Mr. Gilwaters. I should be glad to know where Mr. Gilwaters is to be found. Do you happen to possess a clerical directory?”

      The vicar produced a “Crockford”, and Bryce turned over its pages. Mr. Gilwaters, who from the account there given appeared to be an elderly man who had now retired, lived in London, in Bayswater, and Bryce made a note of his address and prepared to depart.

      “Find any names that interested you?” asked the vicar as his caller left. “Anything noteworthy?”

      “I found two or three names which interested me immensely,” answered Bryce from the foot of the vicarage steps. “They were well worth searching for.”

      And without further explanation he marched off to Barthorpe duly followed by his shadow, who saw him safely into the Peacock an hour later—and, an hour after that, went to the police superintendent with his report.

      “Gone, sir,” he said. “Left by the five-thirty express for London.”

Chapter IX. The House of his Friend

       Table of Contents

      Bryce found himself at eleven o’clock next morning in a small book-lined parlour in a little house which stood in a quiet street in the neighbourhood of Westbourne Grove. Over the mantelpiece, amongst other odds and ends of pictures and photographs, hung a water-colour drawing of Braden Medworth—and to him presently entered an old, silver-haired clergyman whom he at once took to be Braden Medworth’s former vicar, and who glanced inquisitively at his visitor and then at the card which Bryce had sent in with a request for an interview.

      “Dr. Bryce?” he said inquiringly. “Dr. Pemberton Bryce?”

      Bryce made his best bow and assumed his suavest and most ingratiating manner.

      “I hope I am not intruding on your time, Mr. Gilwaters?” he said. “The fact is, I was referred to you, yesterday, by the present vicar of Braden Medworth—both he, and the sexton there, Claybourne, whom you, of course, remember, thought you would be able to give me some information on a subject which is of great importance—to me.”

      “I don’t know the present vicar,” remarked Mr. Gilwaters, motioning Bryce to a chair, and taking another close by. “Clayborne, of course, I remember very well indeed—he must be getting an old man now—like myself! What is it you want to know, now?”

      “I shall have to take you into my confidence,” replied Bryce, who had carefully laid his plans and prepared his story, “and you, I am sure, Mr. Gilwaters, will respect mine. I have for two years been in practice at Wrychester, and have there made the acquaintance of a young lady whom I earnestly desire to marry. She is the ward of the man to whom I have been assistant. And I think you will begin to see why I have come to you when I say that this young lady’s name is—Mary Bewery.”

      The old clergyman started, and looked at his visitor with unusual interest. He grasped the arm of his elbow chair and leaned forward.

      “Mary Bewery!” he said in a low whisper. “What—what is the name of the man who is her—guardian?”

      “Dr. Mark Ransford,” answered Bryce promptly.

      The old man sat upright again, with a little toss of his head.

      “Bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Mark Ransford! Then—it must have been as I feared—and suspected!”

      Bryce made no remark. He knew at once that he had struck on something, and it was his method to let people take their own time. Mr. Gilwaters had already fallen into something closely resembling a reverie: Bryce sat silently waiting and expectant. And at last the old man leaned forward again, almost eagerly.

      “What is it you want to know?” he asked, repeating his first question. “Is—is there some—some mystery?”

      “Yes!” replied Bryce. “A mystery that I want to solve, sir. And I dare say that you can help me, if you’ll be so good. I am convinced—in fact, I know!—that this young lady is in ignorance of her parentage, that Ransford is keeping some fact, some truth back from her—and I want to find things out. By the merest chance—accident, in fact—I

Скачать книгу