Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (phonics readers .txt) 📖
- Author: J. S. Fletcher
Book online «The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (phonics readers .txt) 📖». Author J. S. Fletcher
“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.
But he was to know something before that. He opened the door of the surgery suddenly, but with his usual quietness of touch. And on the threshold he paused. Ransford, the very picture of despair, stood just within, his face convulsed, beating one hand upon the other.
CHAPTER IV. THE ROOM AT THE MITRE
In the few seconds which elapsed before Ransford recognized Bryce's presence, Bryce took a careful, if swift, observation of his late employer. That Ransford was visibly upset by something was plain enough to see; his face was still pale, he was muttering to himself, one clenched fist was pounding the open palm of the other hand—altogether, he looked like a man who is suddenly confronted with some fearful difficulty. And when Bryce, having looked long enough to satisfy his wishes, coughed gently, he started in such a fashion as to suggest that his nerves had become unstrung.
“What is it?—what are you doing there?” he demanded almost fiercely. “What do you mean by coming in like that?”
Bryce affected to have seen nothing.
“I came to fetch you,” he answered. “There's been an accident in Paradise—man fallen from that door at the head of St. Wrytha's Stair. I wish you'd come—but I may as well tell you that he's past help—dead!”
“Dead! A man?” exclaimed Ransford. “What man? A workman?”
Bryce had already made up his mind about telling Ransford of the stranger's call at the surgery. He would say nothing—at that time at any rate. It was improbable that any one but himself knew of the call; the side entrance to the surgery was screened from the Close by a shrubbery; it was very unlikely that any passer-by had seen the man call or go away. No—he would keep his knowledge secret until it could be made better use of.
“Not a workman—not a townsman—a stranger,” he answered. “Looks like a well-to-do tourist. A slightly-built, elderly man—grey-haired.”
Ransford, who had turned to his desk to master himself, looked round with a sudden sharp glance—and for the moment Bryce was taken aback. For he had condemned Ransford—and yet that glance was one of apparently genuine surprise, a glance which almost convinced him, against his will, against only too evident facts, that Ransford was hearing of the Paradise affair for the first time.
“An elderly man—grey-haired—slightly built?” said Ransford. “Dark clothes—silk hat?”
“Precisely,” replied Bryce, who was now considerably astonished. “Do you know him?”
“I saw such a man entering the Cathedral, a while ago,” answered Ransford. “A stranger, certainly. Come along, then.”
He had fully recovered his self-possession by that time, and he led the way from the surgery and across the Close as if he were going on an ordinary professional visit. He kept silence as they walked rapidly towards Paradise, and Bryce was silent, too. He had studied Ransford a good deal during their two years' acquaintanceship, and he knew Ransford's power of repressing and commanding his feelings and concealing his thoughts. And now he decided that the look and start which he had at first taken to be of the nature of genuine astonishment were cunningly assumed, and he was not surprised when, having reached the group of men gathered around the body, Ransford showed nothing but professional interest.
“Have you done anything towards finding out who this unfortunate man is?” asked Ransford, after a brief examination, as he turned to Mitchington. “Evidently a stranger—but he probably has papers on him.”
“There's nothing on him—except a purse, with plenty of money in it,” answered Mitchington. “I've been through his pockets myself: there isn't a scrap of paper—not even as much as an old letter. But he's evidently a tourist, or something of the sort, and so he'll probably have stayed in the city all night, and I'm going to inquire at the hotels.”
“There'll be an inquest, of course,” remarked Ransford mechanically. “Well—we can do nothing, Mitchington. You'd better have the body removed to the mortuary.” He turned and looked up the broken stairway at the foot of which they were standing. “You say he fell down that?” he asked. “Whatever was he doing up there?”
Mitchington looked at Bryce.
“Haven't you told Dr. Ransford how it was?” he asked.
“No,” answered Bryce. He glanced at Ransford, indicating Varner, who had come back with the constable and was standing by. “He didn't fall,” he went on, watching Ransford narrowly. “He was violently flung out of that doorway. Varner here saw it.”
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