CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE BILLHOOK
It needed but one glance at Miss Tandy's face to see that she had something of serious importance to communicate; that same glance showed, too, that whatever that something was, Miss Tandy had lost no time in hurrying to tell it. On all previous occasions whereon Wedgwood had encountered Miss Tandy she had always struck him as being remarkably prim and proper in her attire, as regarded her head-dress, her gown, and her foot-wear. But she presented herself to him and the inspector in a get-up which made Wedgwood immediately think of the days in which he had seen his own mother accoutred for that terrible domestic campaign known to English housewives as spring-cleaning. Miss Tandy's head was tied up in what was neither more nor less than a duster—a spotlessly clean duster, but still a duster. Her spinster-like figure was swathed in a gigantic pinafore of brown holland; a pair of old gloves protected her hands; her feet were encased in ancient list slippers. And—sure proof, not of abstraction, but that she had been suddenly taken so much aback as to completely forget that she held it—her right hand grasped a carpet-brush, which, all unconsciously, she waved vigorously at the two men as she hurried into their presence.
"Come with me!" exclaimed Miss Tandy. "Come with me—immediately!"
Wedgwood jumped to his feet; the inspector rose more leisurely.
"What is it, Miss Tandy?" he asked. "Something wrong!"
Miss Tandy continued to beckon them.
"Come!" she repeated. "I—I've found something! Something—it must be—to do with that!"
"The murder?" exclaimed the inspector, showing more interest. "What is it?"
"Come and see!" said Miss Tandy. "I haven't put a finger on it! I ran—straight away! Come and see for yourselves!"
The other men in the police-station and the folk in the street outside stared as Miss Tandy led Wedgwood and the inspector forth and round the corner to Handel Street—Miss Tandy paid no attention to the interest her odd appearance created. But as they reached the foot of the main staircase in her building she spoke again.
"Not being particularly engaged just now," she said, "I decided this morning to spend a day in cleaning my parlour—it's a thing I do twice a year, as opportunity offers. And in moving a certain piece of furniture I made a discovery—a horrifying discovery! An object! Without touching it I ran headlong to find you!"
"Very proper, ma'am," said the inspector. "An object, eh? Now what sort of an object Miss Tandy!"
For answer Miss Tandy swept her companions into the parlour, where the carpet was up, brown holland sheets over the furniture, and newspapers pinned about the curtains, and leading them to a corner wherein a bureau had been partly dragged aside, pointed to something that lay between it and the wall.
"That!" she ejaculated in a horror-struck tone. "That!"
The two men craned their necks, looking around and over the top of the bureau. They saw something that looked like a weapon lying in the dust below. Without a word Wedgwood pulled the bureau further into the room, and, stooping, picked up and held out to the inspector a short, sturdy-looking thing, one end of which was stout wood, the other a curved blade of rusty steel
"A billhook!" he exclaimed. "And—see that?"
He pointed to a dark-hued patch on one side of the blade and shook his head significantly.
"Blood!" he said. "Blood!"
The two men and the woman stood for a minute in silence staring at this relic of a crime. Then the inspector took it out of Wedgwood's hand and went closer to the window.
"Don't know a tool of this sort by that name," he said. "Billhook, eh? Where do they call it that—I should have called it a wood-chopper! And what's it used for, where it's so called?"
"It's called a billhook in most country places," answered Wedgwood. "You see what it is—a curved blade of stout steel. They use it for lopping hedges, pruning, and that sort of thing. It could be used for chopping wood, of course. But billhook's what I've always heard it called."
"An old one, too, this!" remarked the inspector. "Edge blunted."
"Yes," assented Wedgwood. He took back the billhook, and began to point to it. "You see?" he went on. "All clean along the curved edge—clean of blood, anyhow. The murderer didn't hit Wraypoole with the sharp edge—he struck him with the back of this thing. That's why the bloodstain is there, not along the edge."
Miss Tandy was listening, with parted lips and dilating eyes.
"You—you think that's what it was done with?" she asked.
"No doubt of it, ma'am!" replied Wedgwood. "Of course, the murderer slipped it behind your bureau as soon as he'd done what he wanted. Oh, yes, this is the weapon, for certain!"
Miss Tandy breathed a sigh of horror.
"And to think that I've gone on working in this room with that dreadful thing in it!" she exclaimed. "Of course, ever since that happened, my friends have done their best to persuade me to leave this flat, and to tell you the truth, I've never actually slept in it since the—the affair. But I've worked in it, every day—though I don't think I should have done if I'd known what was behind my bureau! At my very feet, as you might say! Ugh!"
Wedgwood was turning the billhook over and over.
"Not much chance of tracing the ownership of this thing!" he muttered. "It's an old one, to start with. Blade made in Sheffield—but lord, they make hundreds of thousands, millions, indeed, of such things there. It is yours, of course, ma'am?" he asked suddenly turning on Miss Tandy.
"Mine!" shrieked Miss Tandy. "Good heavens, man, what are you talking about? I should think it isn't mine! Of course it isn't!"
"Some people keep a thing like this for chopping their firewood," explained Wedgwood. "I thought you might have had such a thing. Well, there's one thing certain, the—the murderer brought this with him! Therefore, he'd been carrying it about. With what object? To use it on John Wraypoole when the chance occurred. That's flat!"
"He could carry that in an overcoat pocket," observed the inspector. "Easy!"
"Oh, easy enough!" agreed Wedgwood. "It all fits in with what I've always said. Wraypoole was followed to this building by the murderer, who probably hung about when Wraypoole entered. When Miss Tandy went out the murderer came in, found Wraypoole alone in this room, struck him down, seized the manuscript, dropped this thing behind that bureau and made off before Miss Tandy could return. That's it!"
He picked up a newspaper from the floor and began to fold the billhook in it, Miss Tandy watching its disappearance with fascinated eyes.
"If you can only find out whose property that is," she suggested.
Wedgwood gave her a benevolent glance.
"You do well to say 'if,' ma'am!" he answered. "You know the old rhyme about if's and but's and apples and nuts, I dare say? However———"
He carried his parcel back to the police-station, where the inspector locked it up in company with the manuscript found in the street. And that done Wedgwood went to get his dinner at his favourite haunt, and after he had satisfied his appetite he smoked his pipe over a cup of coffee and gave himself up to thinking. The result of his thinking sent him down to Wandsworth Road, in quest of Thomas Wraypoole.
The oil and colour establishment of Thomas Wraypoole turned out to be a warehouse; above it were rooms evidently used as a private residence. The door of the warehouse was closed when the detective approached it, but there was another close by, and this, on his ringing its bell, was opened to him by a smart-looking young woman who eyed him narrowly as he raised his hat to her.
"Mr. Wraypoole anywhere about!" asked Wedgwood. "The warehouse seems to be closed."
"Mr. Wraypoole's out at present," replied the young woman. "But his apprentice is somewhere about. Is it anything I can do?"
"I want to see Mr. Wraypoole himself," said Wedgwood. "When is he likely to be back?"
"I couldn't say as to that," she replied, still watching him closely. "He's gone to the City, I believe, and he mayn't be home till late. Perhaps you can leave a message for him?"
"No, thank you," answered Wedgwood. "I'll call again some time. Doesn't matter about the name—I shall be looking in."
He went off along the street, conscious that the woman was watching him; there had been a close enquiry in her eyes and an inquisitiveness in her manner which made him suspect that she took him for what he was. He walked along wondering about this—and suddenly, well down the road encountered Thomas Wraypoole's apprentice, Stainsby.
Stainsby stopped, with a quick glance of recognition which swiftly changed to a look of enquiry. Wedgwood stopped, too.
"Hello!" he exclaimed. "You, eh?" He looked round and drew the apprentice aside into a narrow street that opened off the main road just there. "Just called at your place," he went on. "Closed, and Wraypoole not at home."
Stainsby was watching the detective in the same enquiring fashion as the housekeeper.
"Yes?" he said. Then, as if volunteering valuable information, he added. "He's out a good deal now—never knew him to be out so much!"
Wedgwood looked the apprentice up and down, considering him.
"Look here, my lad!" he said suddenly. "You've still got some suspicion about your master, haven't you? You had when you came to see me, you know!"
"I thought there were suspicious circumstances then, Mr. Wedgwood, and I think so now!" answered Stainsby. "Haven't changed my opinion—at all!"
"But you don't know any more?" suggested the detective. "You were to come and tell me if you found anything out—anything new."
"I can't say there's anything new," replied Stainsby. "Nothing positive! There's one thing I've noticed, though. Ever since that happened, Wraypoole's paid less and less attention to his business. He's left nearly everything to me. He's always out—most of the day he's out. And him and the housekeeper's out a good deal at nights, now—evenings, I mean. I've the place pretty well to myself of an evening. It didn't use to be like that: he stuck to business well, did Wraypoole, before this affair, and he was rarely out at nights. Now he's in neither day nor night—till very late."
"Any idea where he goes?" enquired Wedgwood.
"I haven't! I don't know if she has—the housekeeper. Him and her's very thick now; I constantly see 'em talking together as if they'd some secret."
"Who is she—what's her name?"
"Mrs. Bowman," replied Stainsby. "She wasn't there when I first came; she's been there about nine months. She was wearing widow's clothes, then, but she soon left 'em off. I've had an idea that her and Wraypoole's thinking of getting married, but I haven't heard 'em say so."
"Um!" said Wedgwood. He stood for a moment or two, wondering if there was anything to be dug out of all this. Then he gave the apprentice a look that was intended to imply intense secrecy, and lowered his voice. "Look here, my lad!" he went on. "You can keep things to yourself as well as anybody, I'll bet! What?"
"If there's occasion," answered Stainsby, knowingly. "I can!"
"Well, here's a question I want to put to you—you'll not understand it, but you can answer it—I'll see you lose nothing by any help you give me. Now, I daresay you've a fair lot of old wood knocking about that warehouse—casks, boxes, such like, eh? And no doubt some of it's used for firewood, what? Just so—now who chops it up for firewood?"
"I do!" replied Stainsby, obviously surprised. "Why, Mr. Wedgwood?"
"Part of your job, eh?" continued the detective. "All right! What do you chop it up with, now?"
"A hatchet," said Stainsby. "What else?"
"Do you know what a billhook is?"
"Yes! Seen men trimming hedgerows with 'em in the country."
"Have you ever seen one, an old one, lying about at Wraypoole's? Have you ever had one in use there? Do you know if he had such a thing?"
But Stainsby shook his head.
"No! We've a couple of old hatchets—square-headed choppers, you know—in the wood shed, but I've never seen a billhook there."
"Well—keep what I've asked you to yourself," said Wedgwood. "And look here—if anything occurs, if you hear anything, or see anything that seems suspicious, don't lose a minute in communicating with me!"
He went off then, wondering what to turn to next. If only he could get a clue to the ownership of the billhook, or the merest notion as to the history of the diamond that he had picked up from the floor of Miss Tandy's parlour. . . .
"Pretty fog-laden atmosphere!" he grumbled. "Thick!"
He was feeling it just as thick and fog-laden when, at noon of the following day, Stainsby came hurrying to the police-station, evidently bursting with news.