CHAPTER NINE
THE CONFECTIONER'S SHOP
The two men upon whose conversation Wedgwood chanced were apparently of the farmer class; they sat in a corner near the hearth, smoking and drinking, obviously enjoying half an hour's ease before going homeward. A newspaper lay on the table in front of them, and one was pointing the stem of his pipe to a passage in it as Wedgwood passed to a chair close by.
"Never said anything in these paper accounts, so far—at least, as far as I've seen—about this John Wraypoole being a native of our parts," said this man. "I've expected that, but there's been nothing about it up to now. Come out later very like. But of course he was—he was an Ashlowe man, and though him and his brother Thomas—I mind 'em well when we were all lads together—went away when they were youngsters, John was down here and stopping in this very house not so long ago. I had speech with him."
"You had, eh?" said the other.
"I had so! He came over to Ashlowe once or twice, and I recognized him—at least I thought I did, and I made bold to ask him if he wasn't John Wraypoole that I'd known many a year ago. He admitted it, and we had a glass or two together, but he told me that he didn't want it noised abroad that he was here—at least, who he was. He was down here, he said, on a bit of private and important business, of a very confidential nature. So of course I said nothing to anybody."
"To be sure!" assented the other. "Just so! And of course he wouldn't tell you what the business was?"
"He didn't—but I heard later that he'd spent a good bit of time examining the parish registers at Ashlowe—went to the parson about 'em, of course. No, he gave me no idea of what you might call the exact nature of his business. But I saw him again, here in Netherwell before he went away, though not to speak to. He was talking to that woman that keeps house for young Mortover."
"Janet Clagne, eh?"
"The same! I saw him and her—it was market-day—standing talking together outside Chipchase's confectioner's shop in the Horsefair—they had their heads close together—same as if they were discussing something of importance. And I was thinking of going up to him when he'd finished with her and having a bit more talk with him, when they both disappeared into Chipchase's shop—there's a refreshment room there, you know, where folks can get tea and such like, and I made out that they were going to continue their talk in it. So I went my ways and I saw no more of him. And as I reckon things up this murder must ha' taken place very nigh as soon as Wraypoole got back to London. It was certainly within two or three days o' my seeing him with that woman."
"What could he be wanting with her, now?" asked the second man. "Old friends, maybe?"
"Why, her family's been in these parts a good while," answered the first speaker. "Comes from beyond Ashlowe Ridge, she does. Queer woman, too! Had her own way yonder at Mortover Grange."
"They say that there'll be some rare changes there, now that this coal-mine's to be started. Young Philip'll be rolling in money! And by all accounts money's been scarce enough with these Mortovers up to now!"
"Poor as church mice! I've known three generations of 'em—they never had naught, none of 'em. Poor and proud! And it's all very well talking about young Philip coming in for so much over this colliery, but there's been a man behind him that'll have to be reckoned with—that London chap that's come here now and then. They say he's found all the money that's been wanted for this boring. And of course he'll want it back first go-off."
"Still, young Philip will be a wealthy man, I reckon! The land was his when all's said and done."
The man who had done most of the talking picked up his glass and drank off its remaining contents.
"Aye, well!" he observed as he set the glass down with an emphatic gesture. "That's as may be! There's some of us about here that could say a word or two about that, you know. In his possession, right! And in possession of his father before him, right! And possession as the saying goes is nine points of the law. But most folks of these parts knows well enough that old Gilson Mortover, grandfather of this Philip never made a will—at least, no will was ever discovered—and they know, too, that he had an elder son, Matthew, who went away and never came back. Now suppose Matthew turned up—he'd be an oldish man, yet not so old as all that—or that a son of his turned up? What then?"
The other man shook his head.
"Awk'ard situation that would be, I reckon!" he said. "Very awk'ard—for this young Philip!"
"I reckon!" agreed the first speaker. "It would—so far as I can see. Well? I'm for home!"
The two men stumped out and Wedgwood, who had affected to read a newspaper while he listened threw it aside, and lighting his pipe proceeded to think over the information acquired from their gossip. So Wraypoole had been in touch with Janet Clagne, had he? About what? Had he told her of the existence of Avice Mortover, and of her claim to be Matthew Mortover's only surviving child? Impossible to answer those questions, of course! Nobody could answer them but John Wraypoole and Janet Clagne—and he was dead and she . . . one might as well expect an answer from the Sphinx as a reply from her—unless she was pleased to give it.
But Wedgwood was determined to know more of that interview, and next morning after breakfast he walked round to the street called Horsefair and sought for Mrs. Chipchase's shop. That was soon found—an old-fashioned place, the bow-window of which was filled with cakes and pastries; through its brightly-polished panes he saw a smart, alert-looking woman busied behind a counter. And having already made up his mind as to what he was going to do, Wedgwood went in and ascertaining that the woman was Mrs. Chipchase, asked her for a private interview on business.
Mrs. Chipchase, somewhat surprised, ushered her visitor into a tea-parlour at the back of the shop; Wedgwood examined it with interest as the scene of Wraypoole's talk with the queer woman of Mortover Grange. It was just the sort of place for a secret conference—quiet, dark, shut off. He turned to the confectioner who was regarding him with a wondering enquiry.
"You don't know me, of course, ma'am," he said politely. "I'll tell you who I am and why I'm here in a minute—in strict confidence. But first of all I daresay you've read in the newspapers about a certain affair in London which has come to be known as the Handel Street murder? I thought you would!" he added, as Mrs. Chipchase nodded assent. "Well, ma'am, I'm the detective officer—Detective-Sergeant Wedgwood—in charge of the investigations relating to that case. I've come here as a result of those investigations, and I think you can tell me something."
Mrs. Chipchase stared at him in amazement.
"Lor' bless you, mister!" she exclaimed incredulously. "What can I tell you? I've never been in London in my life!"
"Never mind London!" said Wedgwood with a smile. "We may have to take in China or Peru or both before we've done! However, you know that the name of the murdered man is John Wraypoole. Now, did you ever know him?"
"No, sir!" replied Mrs. Chipchase. "That I'm sure of!"
"All the same," continued Wedgwood, "Wraypoole has been in your shop, and in this room not so long ago! Now listen—and bear in mind, Mrs. Chipchase, that all this is strictly private and confidential between you and me. Do you know a woman named Janet Clagne?"
"Mrs. Clagne of Mortover Grange?" replied the confectioner. "Why, of course! Everybody knows Mrs. Clagne round here!"
"Very well—now we can sail ahead! Do you remember Mrs. Clagne coming in here one market-day afternoon, quite recently, with a gentleman?"
"Yes, certainly I do. About ten days or a fortnight ago. Oh, yes, I remember that well enough. I'd noticed them talking together outside my window, for some little time before they came in. It began to rain so they turned in here. A tallish, quiet-looking, grey-haired man he was."
"Exactly, ma'am. Very well—that was John Wraypoole about whose murder you've read!"
Mrs. Chipchase gasped.
"You don't say!" she exclaimed. "And such a nice, polite man! Well, I never! And I suppose Mrs. Clagne knows all about it, mister?"
It was on the tip of the detective's tongue to answer that he'd give a good deal to know positively what Mrs. Clagne did know about it. But he shook his head.
"I haven't spoken to Mrs. Clagne in reference to the matter," he replied. "And I don't want you to say anything to Mrs. Clagne, or to tell anyone that I've mentioned it to you. What I want you to tell me is just this—those two came in here didn't they? Very well—how long did they stop?"
"The better part of an hour, mister. They had tea—and muffins—at that table in the corner there. I served it to them myself. I came in once again a bit later to bring hot water, and I noticed they seemed to be in very particular talk."
"You didn't overhear anything that was said?"
Mrs. Chipchase reflected awhile, fingering the corner of her white apron.
"Well," she replied at last, "I did just catch a word or two. But it wasn't anything that was said while they were in here—it was something the gentleman was saying as they passed through the shop when they were leaving."
"And what was that?" enquired Wedgwood.
"Well, of course, I didn't understand it," answered the confectioner. "But I've a good memory, and I can remember the exact words. He said 'Russell Square Tube, then, at six o'clock.' Just that and no more."
"Did she make any reply!"
"No—not that I heard. They were close to the door then; in fact he was opening it. I watched them after they got outside; they talked a minute or so; then he went one way and she went another."
Wedgwood turned to go; once more he had been fortunate in getting information; his next job was to think out some plan of acting on the information so far obtained.
"I'm obliged to you, ma'am," he said. "You'll remember that all this is in strict confidence. Parted outside, did they? Of course, that would be the last you saw of them?"
"Why, it was the last I saw of them together," replied Mrs. Chipchase. "I saw Mrs. Clagne again early next morning. Fact is she came in here by herself. It was a pouring wet day, that she came in here in an old horseman's cape dripping with rain, and told me that she'd walked in from Mortover on her way to the station to catch a train to London—might she leave the cape with me? I have it now—she's not called for it yet."
"That was the next day, was it?" asked Wedgwood.
"The very next morning!" assented Mrs. Chipchase.
Wedgwood went away pondering deeply over this last bit of information. Assuredly, he thought, he was getting at something. Wraypoole and Janet Clagne had a long conversation in Mrs. Chipchase's tea-room one afternoon. On parting he was heard to say "Russell Square Tube, then, at six o'clock." Next morning Janet Clagne went by an early train to London. Now arose questions. Did Wraypoole precede her? Did he return to London as soon as he had had that interview with her at the confectioner's shop? Was it he and she who were to meet at the Russell Square Tube station at six o'clock? If so was that meeting on the evening of Wraypoole's murder?
He went slowly back to his hotel and turned into the smoking-room—to do more thinking. And there at the counter, chatting familiarly with the barmaid was a stranger, a somewhat over-dressed, loud-voiced person, of a type suggestive of a certain sort of City man, who was sipping a glass of sherry and puffing a big, strong-smelling cigar. He glanced carelessly at the detective as he entered, then more closely, finished his sherry and with a nod to the girl went out, and crossing the hall vanished into a room on the other side, the door of which Wedgwood noticed had, since morning, been furnished with a printed label—Private.
The barmaid glanced at Wedgwood with a knowing smile.
"That's Mr. Levigne!" she announced with importance. "The gentleman that's all to do with this new colliery. A great London gentleman he is. Down here for a few days again—he always has a private sitting-room when he comes."
"Oh!" said Wedgwood. "Indeed! Great man, no doubt!"
He sat awhile, thinking, and watching the door on the opposite side of the hall—Levigne, in walking out, had left the smoking-room door wide open. And Wedgwood did not watch unprofitably. Before many minutes had elapsed Janet Clagne, evidently attired in her best, walked sharply into the hotel, and, as if knowing her way about well enough, knocked at and immediately entered the door of Levigne's private sitting-room. The door closed on her angular figure. . . .
Wedgwood had only just seen this when the hall-porter came into the smoking-room.
"Mr. Wedgwood?" he said enquiringly. "Telegram for you, sir—just come."