The Mortover Grange Affair/Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SUSPICIOUS APPRENTICE
Before three o'clock on the following afternoon, Wedgwood and all the world (as represented by half a dozen reporters and a crowd of eager listeners that filled every inch of the Coroner's Court) knew precisely to what extent Thomas Wraypoole had benefited by the murder of his brother John. Thomas, indeed, made no secret of that or of anything. Attending the inquest in company with his solicitor, he proved a ready and an informing witness. He told everything that he knew about John; his history, his occupation, his bit of property, his will—which the solicitor had with him, and was prepared to produce. Everything that John had possessed was left to him, Thomas—and it was about six thousand pounds. Thomas, indeed, was candid to the point of ingenuous confidence. But as to any reason why John should be murdered, Thomas professed complete ignorance: the thing was beyond him.
The inquest was adjourned as soon as the Coroner had finished with Thomas and had heard the formal evidence of Miss Tandy and the police and their surgeon, and Wedgwood went away to think things over. He, of course, knew more than he had so far divulged; in his opinion his knowledge of whatever it was that lay behind the word Mortover, and his discovery of the loose diamond, had best be kept back until he knew more, heard more. But during the next two days Wedgwood heard nothing that was new. The newspapers made much of the Handel Street mystery, but none of their readers came forward to help. Then, when Wedgwood was cudgelling his brains in an effort to see a gleam of light, information came to him from a source which he could only regard as of considerable importance. There walked into Hunter Street police-station on the third evening after the inquest a sharp-eyed, all-alive youth who, after a good deal of cautious inspection of his surroundings and a great many guarded questions as to secrecy and confidence, intimated to Wedgwood that if they two were alone and if anything he said was to be treated as of strict privacy, he could tell something that the detective would doubtless be interested to hear. Wedgwood gave his visitor satisfactory assurances and conducted him to a private room and a comfortable chair; he himself perched at an adjacent desk and prepared to listen.
"All to ourselves here," he observed, with emphasized re-assurance. "And beyond me, nothing'll go! So—what's it about?"
"This Handel Street affair!" replied the youth, promptly. "Seen all about it in the papers, you understand. Inquest, and all that. And Mr. Thomas Wraypoole's evidence. That's what I've come about—his evidence. And—him!"
"Yes?" responded Wedgwood, encouragingly. "What about his evidence and him?"
"My name's Stainsby," replied the visitor. "George. I'm apprenticed to Mr. Thomas Wraypoole. Oil and colour business, you know—Wandsworth Road."
"Oh!" exclaimed Wedgwood, waking up to the knowledge that here was something of a distinctly promising nature. "To be sure! Apprentice to him, eh? Ah!—then you'll know him pretty well?"
"Sh'd think I did!" agreed the apprentice. "Been with him five years—two to go, yet. Which, of course, is why I don't want anything to get out. Wouldn't do for him to know I'd been to you. Still—there's such a thing as justice, ain't there?"
He looked knowingly at Wedgwood and Wedgwood nodded solemnly.
"Think you can assist, eh?" he suggested.
"Well, I know something," answered Stainsby with a smile. "May be of real importance. Anyway, after hearing all that's been said, and reading what's been in the newspapers, and especially what Mr. Thomas Wraypoole said before the Coroner, I felt I'd got to let out—in confidence—what I know, d'ye see?"
"To be sure!—very proper," said Wedgwood. "And—what is it?"
"This!" announced Stainsby, dramatically. "You know that evening that John Wraypoole was done in, round the corner here?"
"I know it!" assented Wedgwood. "Tuesday!"
"Tuesday it was! Well, that afternoon, about half-past four Mr. Thomas Wraypoole being out at the time, our telephone bell rang. I answered it and found it was John Wraypoole speaking. He———"
"Half a minute!" interrupted the detective. "You knew his voice, I gather?"
"Yes! He's called up his brother on the phone many a time: usually did when he wanted to see him. I told him Thomas was out, and I didn't know what time he'd be in. So he gave me a message for him, which was that he wanted to see him that evening, and that Thomas was to come and meet him."
"Where and when?" asked Wedgwood.
"That he didn't say. I asked him that, though. He just said that Thomas would know about time and place. Then he rang off."
"Vague—vague!" muttered Wedgwood. He was disappointed. If only John Wraypoole had mentioned place and time! "Well?" he asked. "After that———"
"Thomas came in at a quarter-past five," continued Stainsby. "I gave him the message at once. He went away there and then, leaving me to look after things—said he shouldn't be back before closing time. As a matter of fact, he didn't come back till about nine o'clock—between nine and half-past."
"Came back?—do you mean to the shop?" asked Wedgwood.
"He lives over the shop. I live with him. There's three of us. Him—me—and a housekeeper. He's a single man, Mr. Thomas Wraypoole."
"Well?—I suppose he didn't say anything about where he'd been?"
"Not a word! Him and me and the housekeeper had supper when he came in—usual thing, supper at nine-thirty. No!—he said nothing."
"Didn't just mention that he'd met John?"
"He never mentioned John! And he didn't mention him next morning either—even when he'd read the paper," said Stainsby, significantly. 'And he couldn't ha' missed seeing that in the paper! There it was, in big, bold letters—I saw it!"
"You saw him with the paper next morning?"
"He was reading the paper—that page, too!—when I came down. Of course, I didn't see the paper until later, but when I did see it, I remembered which page he was reading when I saw him with it. He couldn't have missed seeing that!—about his brother."
"Well?—what happened?" asked Wedgwood.
"He kept the paper by him while we had breakfast. As soon as that was over he said he'd got to go out at once on business—legal business, he said—and shouldn't be back until afternoon. He gave me some orders and went away, and he didn't come back till past one o'clock. He'd a lot of papers and things of that sort with him—he was busy with them late that night. Burned a lot of 'em in the parlour grate."
"Did he mention his brother's death to you?"
"Not then. He did next morning—said a word or two to me and the housekeeper about it, when we were having breakfast."
"What did he say?"
"Oh, nothing much! That it was a sad thing, and so far there was no explanation of it. No more than that. Never mentioned it since."
Wedgwood considered matters awhile, in silence: Stainsby watched him steadily, as if endeavouring to gauge his thoughts.
"What's your notion, young man?" asked the detective suddenly. "Why do you come here to tell this?"
"I read all that Thomas told in the witness-box," answered Stainsby. "Why didn't he tell about meeting John the night before? Where was Thomas the night before? He set out to meet John. And then—Thomas comes into money by John's death! Six thousand pounds!"
"Do you know anything about Thomas Wraypoole's circumstances?" enquired Wedgwood. "His business, now?—is it a good one!"
"Not as good as it was when I first knew it," replied the apprentice. "Fallen off of late a good deal."
"He'd be glad of six thousand pounds, eh?" suggested Wedgwood.
"Sort that would be glad of anything in the money line!" answered Stainsby, with a knowing wink.
"Money-getter, eh?" said the detective.
"Close-fisted as they make 'em," replied the apprentice. "He doesn't exactly weigh out the butter nor count the potatoes, but he's next door to it."
"And what sort of man is he generally?" enquired Wedgwood. "Come!—you seem to be a smart chap yourself, and you've been with him at close quarters for five years, so you ought to know him. What sort of man is Thomas Wraypoole?"
Stainsby smiled, and there was an amount of cynicism in the smile that struck Wedgwood as strange in one so young.
"He's this sort of man, mister," he answered.
"If there's another man in London who could get round him, I should like to see that man—as a curiosity! But there isn't! He's as deep as—as the bottomless pit! That's what he is!—deep!"
"And clever?"
"Clever as the devil! I've known some of his tricks. Oh, he's clever!"
"Did you ever see John Wraypoole—the dead man?"
"Three or four times. It was very seldom he ever came to the shop. Usually, if he wanted to see Thomas he phoned him."
"The two brothers were very much alike in appearance, eh?"
"Well, they were and they weren't. If you saw 'em apart they were; if you saw 'em together they weren't. John was a quiet, well-mannered man; more of what you'd call a gentleman."
After another silence Wedgwood said:
"And that's all you can tell—at present?"
"Strikes me it's a good lot!" answered Stainsby. "But at present it is!"
"Keep it to yourself—strictly!—my lad, and if you hear more or find out more, come and see me at once," said the detective. "You can rely on me to keep it all to myself."
But without betraying any confidence, Wedgwood had already made up his mind to question Thomas Wraypoole as to his movements and doings on the evening of the murder, and within twenty-four hours of seeing Stainsby he found an opportunity of doing so. Thomas visited the police-station for the purpose of examining certain effects of John's which the police had taken possession of at Porteous Road, and he and Wedgwood met.
"Anything turned up?—any more information?" asked Thomas.
"Nothing!" replied the detective. Then, acting as if the notion had just occurred to him, but in reality working on a previously resolved on idea, he got the oil and colour merchant aside.
"Look here, Mr. Wraypoole," he said confidentially. "I want a word with you. You know you were very open at the beginning of the inquest the other day—about your brother's affairs, and everything being left to you, eh?"
"Nothing to conceal—nothing!" replied Thomas, cheerfully. "Candid nature, mine!"
"Aye, well, that's all very nice and proper, I'm sure," said Wedgwood, "but this world is not without suspicious people, and I've heard one or two remarks about the fact that you're the sole beneficiary under your brother's will."
"I am!" exclaimed Thomas. "What about it?"
Wedgwood gave him a look that was meant to suggest wise counsel.
"If I were you, Mr. Wraypoole," he said in a low voice. "I should just give an account of my movements on the evening of the—well, it was murder, no doubt of it, and we'll call it such! No doubt you can say where you were during that evening?"
"As I happen to have been in my right senses that evening, and as I'm always so, I should say I can, mister!" retorted Thomas. "Are you asking me?"
"Well, if you've no objection to tell———" began Wedgwood.
"None at all!" interrupted Thomas. "The truth is, I'd a phone message from John latish that afternoon asking me to meet him at the usual time and place: I was used to meeting him occasionally that way. And———"
"Excuse me—but where was the usual place and what was the usual time?" enquired the detective.
"Henekey's Wine House, in Holborn," replied Thomas, promptly. "And the time, all about half-past six. Now and then John would go there for a glass of wine."
"You understood, then, that Henekey's was the place, and the time six-thirty?"
"Of course! And as I'd a bit of business that way, I went off from my shop as soon as I got the message—that would be about five-fifteen. But I never saw John! He never came to Henekey's. I turned in there at six-thirty, and I was there until seven-thirty, but he never made his appearance. So I went home. I'll tell you what I think," he continued suddenly.
"What time, now, was it when, presumably, John was struck down in that Handel Street flat?"
"According to Miss Tandy, just about seven o'clock," replied Wedgwood. "Why?"
"Well, it's not many minutes' walk from Handel Street to Henekey's in Holborn," replied Thomas. "I think that John meant to do his bit of business with Miss Tandy first, and then join me at Henekey's afterwards—he'd know quite well that I shouldn't mind waiting half or even an hour for him. But there it is, mister—that's where I was. And if you know of any misguided person who doubts my word, you can send 'em to make enquiry at Henekey's—they know me well enough there—been going there regularly for the last thirty years!"
Wedgwood felt that Stainsby's suggestion had had all the pith taken out of it; it suddenly became limp. Still, left alone, he was wondering if Thomas Wraypoole's apparent candour did not cover a good deal of duplicity, when a police-constable appeared, to say that a young lady was anxious to have speech with him—about the case.