CHAPTER THREE
THE DEAD MAN'S BROTHER
Wedgwood, fingering his chin as if in deep reflection, slowly repeated the word which Miss Tandy had just pronounced.
"Mortover," he murmured. "Mortover, eh? As you remark, ma'am, an uncommon name that. Does it convey anything to you, now?"
"Nothing!" declared Miss Tandy. "Nothing at all!—never heard it before. But there it was, printed in big letters—his handwriting—on the back of the manuscript, which he'd laid down on my table. I glanced at the manuscript as we were talking about my doing it for him, and saw that word—as a matter of fact, it was the only word on it. At first I thought it was Mortgage—something legal, you know. Then I saw it was Mortover, M-o-r-t-o-v-e-r—Mortover. But whether it's the name of a place, or a person, of course I don't know."
"He said nothing about it?" suggested Wedgwood.
"Not a word!" replied Miss Tandy. "All he was anxious about, and all he spoke of, was having the thing done by three o'clock this afternoon." She paused, looking speculatively at the detective. "What's your theory about it?" she asked. "I suppose you have one?"
"Looks as if somebody followed him here to your flat, watched you leave it, came in, and knocked him down in order to get possession of that paper," said Wedgwood. "Some important secret in it, no doubt."
"I wonder what, now?" said Miss Tandy. "Interesting, I'm sure. Do you think you'll find out?"
Wedgwood permitted himself to smile. He made a non-committal reply, and went away—to seek the nearest public library. There he consulted the last edition of a dependable gazetteer, only to find that there was no such place as Mortover, city, town, village, or hamlet, in the United Kingdom, and no such name in the London Directory. He wasted no time in looking at a dictionary; though he was far from being a scholar, he felt assured that Mortover was not a word to be found in any of the dictionaries, from Johnson to Murray.
Going back to the police-station, Wedgwood found a man awaiting him; an elderly man, in conversation with the station-sergeant.
"Gentleman's called to give you a bit of information about the man who was murdered last night," said the station-sergeant as Wedgwood walked in. "Saw about it in the papers this morning."
"The bare announcement," remarked the caller, turning to Wedgwood. "I knew John Wraypoole. My name is Hilsdale—I'm a second-hand bookseller in Hart Street. Wraypoole often dropped in at my shop. Indeed, he was in there yesterday, about this time—noon."
"Do you know anything about his private affairs?" asked the detective.
"Scarcely anything. I've heard him say that he had a brother—Thomas—a tradesman somewhere in Wandsworth, and that they both came to London when they were mere boys. They came from Derbyshire."
"He—this dead man—was a great hand at Derbyshire history, I'm given to understand," remarked Wedgwood. "I learnt that at the British Museum."
"He was! He specialized in that subject," assented Hilsdale. "And it's just about that that I came round to see you. There may be something in what I've to tell, and there may be nothing at all. But it's this—when Wraypoole dropped in to see me yesterday morning, I hadn't set eyes on him for about a fortnight, which was unusual, for as a rule he looked in nearly every day, when he left the British Museum Library to get his bit of lunch. I remarked on this fact, and he said he'd been away in Derbyshire, revisiting the old place, Ashlowe, near Netherwell, from which he came. Then he went on to say that he'd had a special reason for going there. 'The fact is, Hilsdale,' he said—I'm giving you his very words—'the fact is, I've unearthed one of the prettiest secrets you ever heard of—I got the inkling of it here in London, and I've solved the mystery of it down yonder in Derbyshire. And it'll make nice reading in the papers, my lad—when it comes out!' Of course, I asked him what it was. 'No—no!' he answered. 'You wait, Hilsdale—it's my secret at present!' And I couldn't get him to say more; he wouldn't talk of anything but of the old village and the old folks."
"Did he refer to anybody or any place called Mortover?" asked Wedgwood.
The bookseller shook his head.
"No!—never heard it. Mortover? That's an uncommon word—or name. No!—I've no recollection of it—I'm sure he didn't."
"You're sure he didn't mention to you that he'd been writing something about somebody or something called Mortover?"
"He did not!—I should have remembered that, if only because of the oddity of the word."
"Just keep that word to yourself for a bit, Mr. Hilsdale," said the detective. "I don't want it to get out, yet awhile, anyway. Now, do you know the address of this man's brother—Thomas, I think you said?"
"Thomas: no, I don't. He has a business—a shop, I fancy—in the Wandsworth district, but that's all I know. I should have thought he would have turned up here—he must have seen the news in the papers."
"Not been here yet, nor communicated with us in any way," remarked Wedgwood. "The inquest'll be opened to-morrow afternoon—if we don't get hold of this brother, I suppose you can identify the body?"
"I can, of course. But Thomas Wraypoole will surely come forward! As far as my recollection goes, John told me, more than once, that there were just the two of them—and both bachelors. You could get Thomas Wraypoole's address out of the directory, you know."
"Just going to look for it," answered Wedgwood, and turned to a bulky volume ranged with other books of reference on an adjacent shelf, "Wandsworth, you say? Um!—well, I suppose this is the man. Thomas Wraypoole, oil and colour merchant, 1023 Wandsworth Road. I'll get on the telephone to him."
Thomas Wraypoole, however, was not to be got at—just then, at any rate. His manager, answering Wedgwood's call, said that Mr. Wraypoole had gone out just after nine o'clock that morning and had not yet returned; he had no idea where he had gone, nor when he would be back. And Wedgwood, after a few more words with the second-hand bookseller, went off, it being now past one o'clock, to get his dinner and to reflect over it on the events of the morning.
Those reflections led him at the conclusion of his meal in the direction of Porteous Road—he wanted to make a thorough examination of the murdered man's room, and of his papers. But when he presented himself at Mrs. Creech's door, the landlady as if divining his purpose, gave him a significant look.
"If you've come—as you said you would—to go through his things, mister," she announced, "you're too late! His own brother came this morning, early—leastways, before ten o'clock—and he's been in his room ever since, and has only just gone. He's taken a lot of things—papers and such like—away with him in a taxi-cab, and he's locked up all the rest—indeed, he's locked up the room, and I've strict orders not to let anybody enter—not even you, which I told him you'd been last night. He was very particular about it—not a soul to be permitted to enter!"
Wedgwood said nothing for awhile. He was thinking—thinking that it seemed a very strange thing, a most suspicious thing, that Thomas Wraypoole, on learning of his brother's tragic fate, should make for his belongings rather than for the mortuary where the unfortunate man was lying dead—and unclaimed. Suspicious?—yes, it was undoubtedly suspicious. Why this indecent haste? Thomas Wraypoole must have set off to Porteous Road almost as soon as he had read his newspaper. And there had been little in any newspaper—no more than the bare facts. Surely the first instinct of any decent-minded man would have been to go to the police for further information. . . .
"Carried off a lot of papers, did he?" remarked Wedgwood, abstractedly. "Um———"
"A bag full, mister," said Mrs. Creech. "And burnt a lot more—the grate was filled with papers he'd burned when he called me up into the room."
"How did you know this was his brother?" demanded Wedgwood. "You told me last night that he'd never had any relatives to call here!"
"Well, this gentleman said he was his brother," replied Mrs. Creech. "And gave me his name—Thomas Wraypoole. And you see, mister, there was a family likeness—it struck me that they may ha' been twins, them two."
Wedgwood left her, and for five minutes stood at the end of Porteous Road, wondering about Thomas Wraypoole's action. He was half-minded to go there and then to Wandsworth, to ask the oil and colour merchant for an explanation. But in the end he went back to Hunter Street, and there, closeted with the inspector who had gone to Miss Tandy's flat the night before, he found the man whose conduct was something of a puzzle to him.
Thomas Wraypoole, as Mrs. Creech had remarked, bore a close resemblance to his dead brother, in superficial appearance at any rate, thought Wedgwood. But Wedgwood had never seen John Wraypoole alive; he had only seen his dead face, which, considering his violent end, was singularly calm and composed when the detective bent over it. Thomas, however, was there before him, alive, very much alive, and Wedgwood was not impressed favourably by his looks. He had the eyes, lips, and smile of a sly and crafty man; his voice was as oily as his business.
"This is the murdered man's brother, Wedgwood," said the inspector. "Mr. Thomas Wraypoole. He's identified the body and he'll attend the opening of the inquest to-morrow. But he can't throw any light on the murder."
Thomas Wraypoole, who was seated in an elbow chair, drummed silently with his fingers on its arms.
"Can't account for it in any way, gentlemen," he said in a silky tone. "No suggestion to make—none at all. A quiet, unobtrusive man, my brother John, poor fellow! Not likely to have enemies—oh, dear me, no! Wasn't even his own enemy, as the saying is. Sober, respectable, you understand. A mystery, gentlemen, a mystery!"
Wedgwood gave Thomas Wraypoole a good, long look.
"Have you done anything towards solving it, so far?" he asked.
"I? Dear me, no! Oh, no! That, I think, is your job—eh? I—I shouldn't know what to do!"
"I've just come from your brother's lodgings, at Porteous Road," said Wedgwood, pointedly. "You've been there all the morning, examining his effects. You carried away a lot of his papers: you destroyed a quantity of other papers by burning."
The inspector started, staring at the vistor. But Thomas Wraypoole looked back at Wedgwood and smiled.
"Well, mister?" he said quietly. "And what's that got to do with you, or with the police, or with anybody but me, myself? My late brother was a bachelor. I'm the only blood-relation he had in the world. Why shouldn't I visit his lodgings and do what I like there?"
"I should have thought you'd have come here first and made sure about him!" retorted Wedgwood.
"I was sure about him! There was quite enough in what bit there was in the papers this morning to assure me that the murdered man was my brother John. No, sir!—my duty was not here, but at Porteous Road. John was dead!—I could do no good looking at him. That could wait. But what he had at his lodgings couldn't!"
"What do you mean, Mr. Wraypoole?" asked the inspector.
"I mean, sir, that if whoever it was that murdered my brother was clever enough to do so in the way he did, he was clever enough to go to John's rooms and get certain papers which it was not in my interest he should get. So as soon as I heard of the murder I went myself."
"What papers do you refer to?"
"Well—papers relating to property—such like."
"Oh!—your late brother had property had he? Much?"
"He had property. House property—and other matters. Now mine, gentlemen. He and I being brothers, and unmarried, we each made a will, I leaving all I had to him, he leaving all he had to me. Naturally, as soon as I heard of his death, I went to his rooms in defence of my own interests. Who wouldn't?"
"You've got all his papers, then?" asked Wedgwood.
"All that matter, mister. But—that's my business. Not yours! I shall attend the inquest, and if questioned, shall give the proper replies. But as I'm sole executor and legatee, I've a perfect right———"
"I don't want to interfere with your rights," interrupted Wedgwood. "What I want to find out is—who murdered your brother? And you might answer a question or two. When did you see your brother last—alive?"
"I couldn't say, mister. No precise recollection, you know."
"Are you aware that he's quite recently been down to Netherwell, in Derbyshire?"
"I'm aware of it now, mister. I didn't know of it this morning."
"How did you learn of it this morning?"
"I found an hotel bill of his from which I gathered that he'd been at Netherwell."
"Have you any idea why he went there?"
"No more than you have, mister! But—perhaps you have? Perhaps you know?"
Wedgwood vouchsafed no answer to this, and presently, remarking that he should be there when the Coroner sat next day, Thomas Wraypoole took himself off. The detective shook his head.
"Don't like him—what?" suggested the inspector.
"I don't!" said Wedgwood. "And I don't like what he's told us. One fact's certain, however, by his own admission—he benefits by his brother's death!"