CHAPTER EIGHT
THE CYCLOPÆDIA
Wedgwood took the local superintendent into his confidence. Sizing him up as a man of intelligence and discretion, he set forth the whole story of his investigations from the moment of his call to Miss Tandy's flat in Handel Street to the conclusion of his brief visit to Mortover Grange. And when he had made an end he put a direct question. Could the superintendent help him?
The superintendent, whose interest and curiosity had waxed mighty during the telling of the tale, shook his head almost sadly.
"The fact is," he answered, "I've only been here fifteen months. I came from quite another part of the county, and this neighbourhood was all strange to me. Of course, I've picked up a bit of knowledge since I came here. Got to know who people are and so on. And I've heard, to be sure, what everybody else has heard about this Mortover Grange business."
"And that's—what?" asked Wedgwood.
"Just the common gossip of the place. About this colliery they're starting there. That began soon after I came. They say a gentleman who was staying at Buxton for his health was the first to suspect the presence of coal under that Mortover property: geologist, or something scientific, of that sort, he was. Then a Mr. Levigne came on the scene—he's stopped now and then at the 'Ram,' where you are, but sometimes he's stopped at Mortover Grange. Then boring operations began; they kept whatever news there was very quiet for a time, but it began to leak out that the results were highly gratifying. And then, of course, this company was started, and the talk here is that it's likely to do extra well—the local people are going in for shares, anyway."
"Do you know anything about this present Mortover?" enquired Wedgwood.
"Not much," replied the superintendent.
"Lumpish, taciturn sort of chap, from what little I've seen of him. I see they've put him on the board of directors, but that must be because of his name—he's no head for business, scarcely educated, I should say—he's just grown up there as a colt might. Run loose!"
"And that housekeeper of his—Mrs. Clagne?"
The superintendent made a wry face.
"Queer woman, that!" he said. "I have had a bit to do with her. She's—well, under certain circumstances, dangerous! One day this last summer a couple of men, out of works, tramps, in fact, went there to Mortover Grange when she was alone in the house. They asked for the master. She told them he wasn't in, and ordered them off the premises. Instead of going they hung about, waiting to see Mortover. What does this woman do but fetch a gun and shoot at 'em! Only just missed one of them, too—he'd pellets through his hat. Of course they came to me with a fine tale. I went out to see her about it and found her utterly defiant—she said she was a lone woman in a lonely house, she'd ordered these fellows away, and when they wouldn't go she'd a right to shoot at them. What was more, she told me point-blank that she cared for neither magistrates nor police—she'd take good care to protect herself. A determined party, she is—and, from what I could see, master there."
"Any relation to Mortover?" asked Wedgwood.
"That I can't say—know nothing about her except what I've told you."
"You don't know anything about the history of this Mortover family, I suppose?"
"I do not—except that I've heard it's been settled there on that property for hundreds of years. But I know who could tell you everything about the Mortover family history and their estates, ever since there was either estates or Mortovers!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Wedgwood. "That's what I want! Who, now?"
"Mr. Charles Umpeltye! He's a solicitor in the town—the oldest solicitor. And he's an antiquary and an historian—all that sort of thing. Mad on it! They say he knows the history and pedigree of every family round here, from peers to peasants. Queer old chap, but quite easy to approach, especially if you want information on his favourite topics," said the superintendent. He glanced at the clock over his mantelpiece. "Take you round to see him now, if you like," he went on. "It's close by—that old house at the back of the parish church."
"By all means!" responded Wedgwood. "But—a moment! Is Mr. Umpeltye the sort I can speak to as freely as I've spoken to you?"
"Why, he's a solicitor," answered the superintendent, smiling. "You mean—has he got to the garrulous stage? Scarcely, I think. If I were you I should tell him all you've told me. He may be able to throw a bit of light on the subject."
Wedgwood replied that if Mr. Charles Umpeltye had the family history of the Mortovers at his finger ends he would certainly be able to throw a great deal of light on one most important matter, and he readily followed the superintendent to an ancient mansion which stood in the shadow of the old church. He was beginning to feel pleased with the results of his labours; something he now felt assured was going to come of them. And he now had a conviction that it was not in London but here in this quiet, old-world town, that he was going to find a dependable clue to the solution of the mystery of John Wraypoole's murder.
Mr. Umpeltye, discovered in his study in the midst of a heterogeneous mass of books, antiques, pictures and curiosities, was a little, apple-cheeked, bright-eyed old gentleman who wore a black velvet skull-cap from the edges of which his silvery hair protruded in a crisply-curling mass. He was very old, but very much alive, and his air grew more alert and his eyes keener as soon as Wedgwood, re-telling his story, came to the mention of John Wraypoole's name.
"Wraypoole—that's a local name," said Mr. Umpeltye. "Ashlowe people they were—farmers—none of them left. Last of them were two boys, John, Thomas. Father and mother died when they were young, and they were taken to London. Never heard of them since."
"It's of John Wraypoole that I want to tell you, sir," continued Wedgwood. "And Thomas Wraypoole's name will come in. John Wraypoole was down here lately, Mr. Umpeltye; he stayed some days at the Ram Hotel."
"He never came to see me," said the old man. "I never heard of his being here, either. But tell me your tale."
Wedgwood went on, epitomizing his story. He soon discovered that Mr. Umpeltye however interested he was in matters of the past had precious little in affairs of the present—so little, indeed, that he had never heard of the Handel Street murder.
"I never read that sort of thing in the newspaper, he observed. "Indeed, I read the newspapers very little. So John Wraypoole has been murdered, eh! And—had his recent visit here any relation to his murder?"
Wedgwood replied that that was just what he wanted to find out, and went on with his details until he came to the visit to the police-station of Avice Mortover. The old man started.
"Avice—Avice Mortover!" he exclaimed. "Aye—Avice was always a favourite name for the Mortover women! A girl in London, earning her own living, and calling herself Avice Mortover, eh?" He gave the detective a searching look, and became even more deeply attentive. "Go on!" he commanded. "Go on—to the end of it!"
Wedgwood went on—to the end of his brief call at Mortover Grange. Mr. Umpeltye remained silent for a minute or two. At last he looked up.
"You didn't mention this girl in London to Philip Mortover?" he asked sharply.
"Oh dear no, sir!" replied Wedgwood.
"Nor to his housekeeper—nor to the girl you saw there?"
"I have not mentioned her to anyone down here, sir," said the detective. "Except to you and to the superintendent."
Mr. Umpeltye produced a snuff-box, and after helping himself to a generous pinch, looked over the tops of his spectacles, first at the superintendent and then at the detective.
"Umph!" he said. "I shouldn't wonder if that girl in London is the daughter of Matthew Mortover! And if so———"
He paused, and taking another pinch of snuff made a second grunt which seemed to indicate a sort of surprised satisfaction, after which he muttered more to himself than to his guests:
"Aye, that's how it would be if it is so. If so, of course—but that is how it would be!"
He relapsed into silence, nodding at the leaping flames in the grate by which he sat, and neither Wedgwood nor the superintendent broke in on his thoughts. Suddenly he twisted round on the detective.
"I shouldn't wonder if you've tumbled into a queer family romance, my friend!" he said, with a somewhat sardonic laugh. "If that girl in London calling herself Avice Mortover really is the daughter of Matthew Mortover, and if her father was the Matthew Mortover I am thinking of, she's the rightful owner of this Mortover property! What d'ye think of that, now?"
What Wedgwood thought was expressed by his silence. He suddenly saw a reason for John Wraypoole's murder! Mr. Umpeltye had indeed thrown light on that matter. And the old man was quick to note the detective's silence, and to understand it, and he chuckled as if amused.
"That gives you to think, eh, my friend!" he said. "Well, now you listen to me, and I'll tell you the recent history of the Mortover family. We'll begin at Gilson Mortover, grandfather of this present Philip Mortover. Gilson had two sons—the elder, Matthew; the younger, Stephen. When Matthew had grown to man's estate he didn't get on with his father, and eventually, after a violent quarrel with the old man, he left home. As far as I am aware he has never been heard of by his family since then, nor by anybody else in these parts. If the story you've just told me is true, he is probably identical with the Matthew Mortover who went to Canada. You say that the girl in London reports her father as a man who never spoke of his relations, or his past? That, according to my recollection of him, is in strict keeping with Matthew Mortover's character as a young man: he was a reserved, morose, sullen sort of fellow. Most likely when he cut himself adrift from his family he meant to do it thoroughly—and, to be sure, there was at that time nothing for him to look forward to; the Mortovers were then, and until quite recently, as poor as crows! Well, as I say, Matthew disappeared; in course of time old Gilson died. And he died intestate. Search was made high and low, but no will could be discovered—there is doubt that he ever made a will. Matthew was advertised for: there was no response. Eventually after some time Matthew's death was presumed, and Stephen took possession of the Mortover property. And now Stephen is dead and his son, the present Philip Mortover, is in possession. And—here is this girl! In all probability, from what you tell me, she's the daughter—and only child, you say—of Matthew Mortover, and Matthew himself has only been dead a short time. So—there is a pretty legal situation for you! For, as I've said already, Gilson Mortover died intestate and his eldest son survived him many years."
"What's the legal position of this girl, sir—Avice Mortover?" asked Wedgwood.
"Assuming that her father was the Matthew Mortover of whom I've been talking," replied Mr. Umpeltye, "and that she is his legitimate and only child, and can prove all that, she has a strong, and I should say, unassailable claim to the Mortover property. When Gilson died intestate, Matthew, as eldest son, succeeded to that property—which is all real estate. Matthew never claimed it, it is true; it is true, also, that a claim can be barred by the Statute of Limitations through failure to prosecute a claim for a period of twelve years, but this time does not begin to run against a claimant when he is beyond the seas until he returns home, nor against an infant until he or she attains the age of twenty-one years. Therefore, the position is this, as I see it—as Gilson died intestate, the property passed to Matthew. Matthew being alive it was never Stephen's. Stephen being dead it is not Philip's. It is this girl's—Matthew's daughter. That is, if her story is true, and if she can give full proof of all she alleges."
"What ought she to do, sir?" asked Wedgwood.
The old lawyer took another pinch of snuff.
"Obvious!" he answered with a grunt. "Put her case in the hands of a respectable firm of solicitors!"
Wedgwood and the superintendent presently went away. Outside, the superintendent laughed.
"Clever, shrewd old chap, isn't he?" he said admiringly. "Do you know what they call him hereabouts? They call him the Cyclopædia! Knows everything, what?"
"He's thrown a good deal of light on my business!" remarked Wedgwood. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Between you and me, he went on, "it's my opinion now that John Wraypoole was murdered because of his knowledge of this affair! He'd unearthed all the facts and had them set out in that manuscript labelled Mortover that I told you of. What do you think?"
"Precisely what I should think—from what you've told me," agreed the superintendent.
"Well—the thing now, I suppose is who did it?"
"That," said Wedgwood, "will take a lot of finding out!"
Still, he thought, as he turned into his hotel a little later, he had made a good beginning. He had learned a lot and discovered much since arriving at Netherwell. And as luck would have it he suddenly discovered more. Entering the smoking-room for a final pipe and a night-cap, he found men who were discussing the Handel Street Murder.