“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.”
Ransford's cheek flushed, and he was unable to repress a slight start. He looked at the mason.
“You actually saw it!” he exclaimed. “Why, what did you see?”
“Him!” answered Varner, nodding at the dead man. “Flung, head and heels, clean through that doorway up there. Hadn't a chance to save himself, he hadn't! Just grabbed at—nothing!—and came down. Give a year's wages if I hadn't seen it—and heard him scream.”
Ransford was watching Varner with a set, concentrated look.
“Who—flung him?” he asked suddenly. “You say you saw!”
“Aye, sir, but not as much as all that!” replied the mason. “I just saw a hand—and that was all. But,” he added, turning to the police with a knowing look, “there's one thing I can swear to—it was a gentleman's hand! I saw the white shirt cuff and a bit of a black sleeve!”
Ransford turned away. But he just as suddenly turned back to the inspector.
“You'll have to let the Cathedral authorities know, Mitchington,” he said. “Better get the body removed, though, first—do it now before the morning service is over. And—let me hear what you find out about his identity, if you can discover anything in the city.”
He went away then, without another word or a further glance at the dead man. But Bryce had already assured himself of what he was certain was a fact—that a look of unmistakable relief had swept across Ransford's face for the fraction of a second when he knew that there were no papers on the dead man. He himself waited after Ransford had gone; waited until the police had fetched a stretcher, when he personally superintended the removal of the body to the mortuary outside the Close. And there a constable who had come over from the police-station gave a faint hint as to further investigation.