# The Mortover Grange Affair/Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE
THE FIRST STEP
Wedgwood, by this time, was in that mental condition in which any suggestion or assistance about a vexing problem is eagerly grasped at; he bade the policeman bring the caller in, and seating her in the chair which Thomas Wraypoole had just vacated, took a good look at her. She was a quietly-dressed, modest-looking young woman whom he at once set down as being of the shop-assistant or female clerk class, and she was obviously nervous at finding herself in a police-station.
"You want to see me about this Handel Street affair?" began Wedgwood. "Quite so—you can speak freely and in confidence here. You know something, eh?"
"I knew Mr. John Wraypoole," replied the visitor. "That is, slightly."
"Yes" said Wedgwood, encouragingly. "How did you come to know him?"
"I'm a waitress in the refreshment room at the British Museum," she replied. "Mr. Wraypoole used to come in there occasionally—three or four times a week. Sometimes he'd come in ​for lunch; sometimes for tea. I used to wait on him. And after I'd been there a little time—I've only been there three or four months—he once asked me my name.
"Yes?" said Wedgwood. "And what is your name?"
"My name," replied the young woman, "is Avice Mortover."
Wedgwood woke up to sudden and intense mental activity. Here, at any rate, was something worth listening to! Was it going to turn out that after several days' ineffectual groping in the dark he was now to find the thread of a clue in his hands? But he repressed his eagerness and tried to speak calmly.
"Unusual name, that!" he remarked. "Mortover, eh? Uncommon!"
The girl nodded assent.
"So Mr. Wraypoole said," she replied. "Very uncommon, he told me. But he said that he'd once known people of that name, himself."
"Did he say where?"
"No. He only said—what I've just told you. Then he asked me who my people, my family, were. I didn't know much about them."
"What did you know?" asked Wedgwood. "And—did you tell him what you knew?"
"I told him—yes. It wasn't much at all. ​Because, as I say, there isn't much that I know."
"Do you mind telling me?" suggested the detective. "That is, what you told him?"
"No, I don't mind. I think, perhaps, what I told him may have something to do with all this, though, of course, I can't see how or why. Well, I told him that all I knew was that I was born in Canada. My father, I always understood, had gone out to Canada some little time before I was born there. His name was Matthew Mortover. He went to Canada from England, but I don't know from what part. He never spoke of England nor of any relations here: he was a reserved man: mother said he'd a grievance against England or something in England. But when he died last year, she was all for coming back to England, and we came—she and I. Then she died, and there was next to no money, and I had to earn my own living. And I got this work I've told you of. That's what I told Mr. Wraypoole."
"No more?"
""There's no more to tell—it's all I know."
"Was Mr. Wraypoole interested?"
"He seemed so. He asked questions, but I couldn't answer them. You see, I knew nothing, because father never told anything, even to my mother. She knew no more than I did; he ​wouldn't talk to her about anything of that sort—family affairs. I said to Mr. Wraypoole that I'd often wondered if I had relations anywhere in England."
"What did he say about that, now?" enquired Wedgwood.
"Nothing, then. But the other day—the day before I heard of his death it would be—he came into the refreshment room for some lunch and said something to me, and it's because of what he said that I've come here, you know—I told the manageress about it yesterday, and she strongly advised me to tell the police authorities at once."
"Well?" asked Wedgwood. "And what was it?"
"He'd been away for a while—I hadn't seen him for a week or two, and I made a remark about it when I got him his lunch. 'Ah!' he said. 'And you don't know where I've been, nor what I've been doing, my dear—you'd be surprised if you did. The fact is,' he said, 'I've found out something about you and your family, and you shall know all about it in a day or two—perhaps to-morrow.' 'Why not now?' I said. 'Do tell me, Mr. Wraypoole!' 'No!' he said. 'Wrong time and place. To-morrow, when you've finished your work.' 'Is it good news?' I asked him. Then he laughed, as if something ​amused him. 'You can feel sure of that!' he answered. 'Best of news! Now be patient till to-morrow—you shall know all about it to-morrow afternoon—I shall be ready then.'"
"And then this Handel Street affair happened—that very night!" muttered Wedgwood. "He'd said no more to you than what you've just told me?"
"Not a word more. Of course, I was awfully excited about it. I thought he'd found out that I had some relations living, or that there was money coming to me, or something of that sort, and I wondered what he'd tell me next day. And then, I read about his death in next morning's paper!"
She paused, looking shyly and enquiringly at the detective, and Wedgwood saw what was in her mind. He shook his head, sympathetically.
"You're wondering if I know what it was he was going to tell you?" he said. "I only wish I did. It would solve a good deal of mystery. But—I don't. I know no more than you do."
"Then I've done no good in coming here!" exclaimed the girl, sorrowfully.
"On the contrary, you've done no end of good," said Wedgwood. "You've given me the first bit of real help I've had since starting out! You won't understand yet, though you will in time, perhaps, but the whole mystery of this ​case is in that queer name of yours—Mortover!"
The girl looked her astonishment.
"But—why should anybody murder Mr. Wraypoole because my name happens to be that?" she asked. "Why?"
"Ah!" said Wedgwood, smiling at her ingenuous manner. "Now you are asking me something. Don't know—can't tell. But there it is—that name of yours has all to do with it, but in what way I can't imagine, at present. Now listen to me—you've said nothing of this to anyone but the manageress? No one? Very good. Now you go straight to her, tell her you've seen me, and beg her, from me, Detective-Sergeant Wedgwood, not to breathe a word of what you told her to anybody. And don't you breathe a word more yourself—till I see you again. You understand?"
"You're going to find things out?"
"That's my job at present, my dear!" answered Wedgwood, with a smile. "Who knows? I may find out what it was that John Wraypoole was going to tell you, and if I do you may depend on me not to keep you waiting."
When she had gone he remained some time alone thinking matters over: eventually he sought the company of the inspector with whom ​he had first gone to Miss Tandy's flat. And to him, as a man of experience, he laid bare all that he himself now knew, including the details of the name Mortover on the cover of the manuscript brought by John Wraypoole to Miss Tandy for immediate typing and the discovery of the loose diamond in the corner of the typist's parlour. The inspector listened in absorbed silence.
"Formed any theory on all this, Wedgwood?" he asked at last.
The detective allowed a minute or two to elapse before replying, and when he spoke his tone was that of a man who suggests rather than theorizes.
"I've felt all along that there was a lot—everything, perhaps—in the word or name Mortover," he answered. "The manuscript that John Wraypoole brought to Miss Tandy was labelled Mortover—just that one word. It disappeared during the quarter of an hour in which she was absent from her flat. Whoever killed John Wraypoole carried away the manuscript; probably he killed Wraypoole in order to possess himself of the manuscript."
"And—to silence him as regards what was in the manuscript?" suggested the inspector. "It was pretty evident that the murderer had struck to kill—those had been savage blows! ​One blow would have stunned Wraypoole and allowed his assailant to get off with the manuscript. But there were three or four blows—any one of them, said the doctors, sufficient to cause death. That surely means that in the manuscript and in John Wraypoole's consciousness there was a secret. The murderer kills Wraypoole to silence him, and steals the manuscript to destroy it. But—the secret?"
"Mortover is an uncommon name," said Wedgwood. "I never heard it before applied to either place or person. But here's a young woman who says it's her name, and evidently John Wraypoole knew it. Then John Wraypoole tells this young woman he'd found out something about her—good news for her, he suggests. He had been away—I know where. To his own native place, Netherwell, in Derbyshire. I think he'd known people of the name of Mortover there, in his early days: I think he made some discovery about them while he was down there, recently. Perhaps he found out that this girl is entitled to money? Anyway, he made some discovery while he was there at Netherwell, and in my opinion he put the results of that discovery in the manuscript he took to Miss Tandy to get typewritten. Eh?"
"I'm with you!" assented the inspector. "Sound all through, that!"
​"Well," continued Wedgwood, "the thing is—who got to know that Wraypoole knew a secret connected with this girl, Avice Mortover, and that the secret was in that manuscript? Somebody did! That somebody is probably the murderer. So far, there isn't the slightest clue to his identity. But there are certain things I'd like to know. One is—did Thomas Wraypoole see John before John went to Miss Tandy's flat? Did he see him for even ten minutes, five minutes?—not at Henekey's, but somewhere else. He may have done—he'd plenty of time. Had he seen him when he himself turned in at Henekey's—was the arrangement between them he, Thomas, was to wait at Henekey's while John went to Miss Tandy's? If they had met, did John tell Thomas the result of any investigation he'd been making down at Netherwell? Had he told him something before ever he went to Netherwell?"
"You don't trust Mr. Thomas Wraypoole?" suggested the inspector.
"No!" said Wedgwood, sharply. "In my opinion he's as clever as he's unscrupulous—both highly developed. I think he knows a lot that he's no intention of telling."
"But as to actual guilt?" asked the inspector. "Didn't he tell you that he could prove that at ​the very time his brother was murdered he himself was at Henekey's?"
"He did!" assented Wedgwood. "And I've not the least doubt that he could: I'm quite sure he wouldn't boast that he could if he couldn't. Oh, yes, I've no doubt whatever that at seven o'clock, when John was murdered, Thomas was taking his ease at Henekey's wine-house—no doubt! But———"
"Well?" asked the inspector as Wedgwood paused significantly. "But—what?"
"There may have been another man," answered Wedgwood, with a meaning glance. "Put up to it by Thomas! As I've said before—did John and Thomas meet that evening? Did John tell Thomas something which Thomas knew to be either against his own interests or the interest of somebody with whom he's closely concerned? Once more—there was plenty of time for the two brothers to meet between Thomas leaving his place in Wandsworth Road and his going to Henekey's."
The inspector rubbed his chin, reflecting over certain features of the case.
"What I didn't like about Thomas Wraypoole," he remarked presently, "was his indecent haste in rushing to Porteous Road the morning after his brother's death! Any right-minded man would have come here first."
​"You know his excuse?" said Wedgwood.
"That whoever was clever enough to murder John as John had been murdered was clever enough to secure John's papers," answered the inspector. "Oh, yes, I know that, but I didn't accept it!"
"Nor do I," said Wedgwood. "I think Thomas Wraypoole went to Porteous Road to lay hold of and to destroy certain papers, either known to him, or the existence of which was guessed at by him, connected with the secret in that Mortover manuscript. That's what I think—now!"
"What is the secret?" muttered the inspector.
"Man murdered—manuscript disappeared! Stiff proposition!"
"Well," said Wedgwood, it seems to me that there's only one thing to be done. John Wraypoole, in my opinion, discovered that secret at Netherwell. I ought to go down to Netherwell, to see if I can discover it."
"Good!" agreed the inspector. "I think you should go at once. Derbyshire, eh? Netherwell—what is it?"
"Small market town, in a wildish district," replied Wedgwood. "I'll put up at the hotel in which John Wraypoole stayed. Thomas says he has John's hotel bill, but I shan't let Thomas know I'm going. And while I'm gone, ​it will be advisable for somebody to keep an eye on Thomas."
"We'll see to that!" said the inspector. "Unobtrusively, of course. Queer case altogether this, Wedgwood," he went on, as they rose from their conference. "And the queerest thing about it, to my mind, is the ease with which the murderer did his job and got clear away! Now what do you make of that?"
Wedgwood shook his head with a suggestion of finality.
"That John was very carefully followed when he went to Miss Tandy's!" he answered.