“Lively young couple, that, sir!” he said. “What they call healthy curiosity, I suppose? Plenty o' that knocking around in the city today.”
Bryce, who had half-turned in the direction of the Library, at the other side of the Close, turned round again.
“Do you know if your people are doing anything about identifying the dead man?” he asked. “Did you hear anything at noon?”
“Nothing but that there'll be inquiries through the newspapers, sir,” replied the policeman. “That's the surest way of finding something out. And I did hear Inspector Mitchington say that they'd have to ask the Duke if he knew anything about the poor man—I suppose he'd let fall something about wanting to go over to Saxonsteade.”
Bryce went off in the direction of the Library thinking. The newspapers?—yes, no better channel for spreading the news. If Mr. John Braden had relations and friends, they would learn of his sad death through the newspapers, and would come forward. And in that case—
“But it wouldn't surprise me,” mused Bryce, “if the name given at the Mitre is an assumed name. I wonder if that theory of Archdale's is a correct one?—however, there'll be more of that at the inquest tomorrow. And in the meantime—let me find out something about the tomb of Richard Jenkins, or Jenkinson—whoever he was.”
The famous Library of the Dean and Chapter of Wrychester was housed in an ancient picturesque building in one corner of the Close, wherein, day in and day out, amidst priceless volumes and manuscripts, huge folios and weighty quartos, old prints, and relics of the mediaeval ages, Ambrose Campany, the librarian, was pretty nearly always to be found, ready to show his treasures to the visitors and tourists who came from all parts of the world to see a collection well known to bibliophiles. And Ambrose Campany, a cheery-faced, middle-aged man, with booklover and antiquary written all over him, shockheaded, blue-spectacled, was there now, talking to an old man whom Bryce knew as a neighbour of his in Friary Lane—one Simpson Barker, a quiet, meditative old fellow, believed to be a retired tradesman who spent his time in gentle pottering about the city. Bryce, as he entered, caught what Campany was just then saying.
“The most important thing I've heard about it,” said Campany, “is—that book they found in the man's suit-case at the Mitre. I'm not a detective—but there's a clue!”