The Mortover Grange Affair/Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
THE COMPANY PROSPECTUS
Wedgwood went down to the police-station early next morning, all ready and equipped for his journey into Derbyshire. He had thought out his plan of campaign the previous evening; although it was now so late in the year he would go to Netherwell in the character of a leisured tourist, put up at the best inn he could find, look round him, keep eyes and ears open, and trust to luck to hit on something that had to do with his proper business. Experience had taught him that luck had a good deal to do with success in his profession—you heard a chance remark here; you saw a significant thing there; it was up to you after seeing one or hearing the other to take advantage of what you had heard or seen. And in this case he felt sure that he was going where things were almost certain to be seen and heard: John Wraypoole had just been there; John Wraypoole had made some discovery there—now it was his, Wedgwood's, job to find out the nature of that discovery.
The inspector met him as he walked into the office with his coat and bag, and gave him a significant glance.
"Off?" he asked.
"Going to catch the ten twenty-five for Derby at St. Pancras," replied Wedgwood. "Plenty of time, though. Anything you want me for?"
The inspector beckoned him into an inner room, with the air of a man who has something alike pertinent and mysterious to impart.
"Seen this morning's papers?" he asked.
"No," answered Wedgwood. "No time, so far—see 'em in the train. Why—anything in them?"
The inspector produced a copy of the Times and spread it out on a table. "Look at that!" he said. "There's something to ponder over—considering what we know already."
Wedgwood bent over the page spread before him: a page invariably devoted in the Times to advertising the prospectuses of new companies. And there, headed by great, block letters, running across the width of three columns he saw an advertisement that made his eyes open to their widest: He slowly muttered the wording of the first lines:
"A copy of this Prospectus has been filed with the Registrar of Joint Stock Companies.Application will be made to the Committee of the Stock Exchange, London, for permission to deal in the shares of this Company after allotment, and for a Quotation. The Subscription List will close on or before Friday the 31st day of October, 1913.
MORTOVER MAIN COLLIERY COMPANY LIMITED
(Incorporated under the Companies Act, 1908)
Capital . . . . . . . . . . . . £1,500,000
Divided into 1,500,000 Shares of £1 each
of which 1,400,000 Shares are now offered for Subscription at 21s. per Share."
and from there went on, in silence, to pore over the names of the directors, bankers, solicitors, brokers, his wonder of speculation increasing with every paragraph he read.
The inspector thrust a finger forward and placed it on a line of the prospectus.
"See that?" he exclaimed. "One of the directors is Philip Mortover, Esquire, of Mortover Grange near Netherwell, Derbyshire, who will join the board after allotment. And see there again the company's formed to acquire the freehold property of this Philip Mortover and to develop the coal underneath it, and so on and so on. Now, who is this Philip Mortover, and what's he got to do with the name on that manuscript that was stolen when John Wraypoole was murdered, and with that girl who came to see you yesterday? The name's too uncommon to allow one to think that all this is a mere coincidence! What do you think, Wedgwood?"
"That I shall have to be extremely careful in my work when I get down there!" said the detective. "That's what I think!"
"You'll go—after seeing this?"
"Why not?"
"Two of the directors," answered the inspector, putting his finger on the paper again, "live in London, you see. Information might be got from them—they seem to be men of position and substance. Then, the solicitors and brokers are in London—they could be approached———"
"No!" said Wedgwood. "I'll go to the fountain-head—where Wraypoole had just been. Seems to me that he discovered something about this affair, and that the girl, Avice Mortover has—or, perhaps, ought to have—something to do with it. No! I'll get down to Netherwell and find out what I can on the spot. Of course, what I do want to find out is—what John Wraypoole was doing, or trying to do, or actually did while he was there! In that, in my opinion, is the secret of his murder."
"Well, keep us posted," said the inspector.
Wedgwood promised and went off. He bought several newspapers before getting into the train; each contained the prospectus of the Mortover Main Colliery Company, Limited. Wedgwood read it through more carefully and had soon got the hang of it. Mining experts had discovered the presence of a highly valuable seam of coal on the freehold estate of Philip Mortover, Esquire, of Mortover Grange; the company was being formed to acquire that gentleman's rights and to work the coal—that was the whole thing in a nutshell. And, of course, Philip Mortover as vendor was to have an enormous price for what he was selling.
Wedgwood reached Netherwell early in the afternoon, and making his way to what was recommended to him by the station-master as the best hotel in the place, found himself in a sleepy little market-town of grey-walled, stone-roofed houses, set amidst dark and black hills: at that time of the year an unfriendly and almost forbidding country. But the hotel, an old-world house, was warm and comfortable, and the folk who kept it were evidently prodigal of coal, and when Wedgwood had warmed himself at an immense fire in an old-fashioned parlour and had drunk a cup or two of scalding hot tea he decided that he might have found a worse base for his operations. This hotel, too, had been, as he knew, the base of John Wraypoole's operations; a word or two from himself to landlord or landlady would doubtless produce a certain amount of reminiscence of the dead man's recent visit. But Wedgwood said nothing of any knowledge of Wraypoole: his notion was to go slow and keep an intelligent look-out.
Himself a country-bred man, Wedgwood knew that if you want to hear the news of any market-town or rural neighbourhood there is no better place in which to pick it up than the inn-parlour, of an evening. Thither resort the gossips and wise-acres of the place; the news which circulates from one to the other differs vastly from that obtainable in the columns of a newspaper in that it is first-hand, un-edited, and unexpurgated; where the over-scrupulous editor or sub-editor is afraid of a possible suit for libel, your true tavern-knight fears none. And when Wedgwood had eaten his modest dinner he sought out the bar-parlour and with his pipe in his mouth and a glass at his elbow posted himself in a comfortable corner and prepared to keep his ears open.
The room was empty when he entered it, save for the presence of a barmaid who presided over a counter in a corner near the fire, and Wedgwood after an exchange of civilities with her, picked up a local newspaper that lay near and glanced over its contents. There he once more encountered the prospectus of the Mortover Main Colliery Company, and for the third or fourth time re-read it. He had just laid the paper aside again when a couple of men of the prosperous tradesman type bustled in, greeted the barmaid with the easy familiarity of regular customers, and arming themselves with liquid refreshment, lighted cigars and relapsed into elbow chairs to take their ease. One of them picked up the newspaper which Wedgwood had laid down: the Mortover Main prospectus face uppermost. He drew his companion's attention to it.
"See they've got that Mortover Colliery advertisement in here," he observed. "Spending a tidy lot in advertising! It's in all the London papers this morning."
"Manchester papers, too," said the other man. "Going in for it?"
"Well, I don't know—at least, I don't know about applying for shares straight off," replied the first. "They'll be on the market, you know. Are you?"
"I think I shall go in for a few," said the second. "According to all accounts, it's highly promising."
"They've certainly got highly-flattering reports from the mining experts," remarked the first man. "All this"—indicating the advertisement—"is, of course, what they term rose-coloured. But I've heard, privately, that it's no more highly-coloured than it deserves—they say it's likely to turn out one of the richest beds of coal in these parts."
"Piece of rare luck for young Mortover, anyhow!" said the second man, with a somewhat cynical laugh. "Talk about a sudden change of fortune—there's an instance for you, if you like. I used to think that Mortover property about as dismal a bit of country as you could set eyes on—worth nothing!"
"Why, and it wasn't worth anything!" agreed the other. "I question if any Mortover ever raised a blade of corn from it—and they say there's been Mortovers there since Henry the Eighth, or maybe Seventh's time. And what grass there was on it wouldn't feed a sheep—poor, starved land always!"
"Aye, well, it had the right stuff underneath it all the time!" remarked the second man. "Only wanted an expert's sharp nose to smell it out!"
"Who did get the first notion?" asked the first speaker. "I've heard different accounts."
"So have I. I did hear that the very first thing was that some tourist in these parts hinted to young Mortover that in his opinion there was coal under the Mortover Estate and advised him to call in a mining expert. Then I heard another tale—that a gentleman who was staying at Buxton got the same notion, and began approaching young Mortover about it. Two or three heads were put together about it, I fancy."
"Well, there's one thing certain!" said the man who had picked up the paper. "The money for all these preliminaries wouldn't be found by Philip Mortover! Poor as starved crows in winter those Mortovers have been for a long way back—we know that, here in Netherwell. And it would cost a tidy lot all that initiatory work!"
"Oh, it's pretty well known who financed the first beginnings!" replied the other man. He pointed the end of his cigar to a name on the list of directors. "That chap—a London man. Charles Bruno Levigne, Esquire, 581 Cleveland Square, London. Company Promoter. Seen him down here many a time—used to drop in this house now and then, didn't he, Mary, my dear?"
"Mr. Levigne?" responded the barmaid. "Yes, Mr. Appleyard, he's stayed here several times last year and this, for a day or two. He's not been here so much this year as last, but he was here only three weeks ago."
"That's the man who found the money to start with," said Mr. Appleyard. "And, of course, he's now a director."
Mr. Appleyard's companion laughed, cynically.
"Aye, well, they'll have need of some London brains on the board of directors if young Mortover's one!" he said. "I should say he's about as fit to direct anything as that poker is! Never knew him do anything but loaf round his old house with his hands in his pockets."
"Oh, well, I suppose as the land was his, they've put him down as a director!" said Mr. Appleyard. "There's four or five more of 'em—Mortover'll just acquiesce in what the others do. He's safe, anyhow—rich man now, what with selling the land and mineral rights to this company, and what he'll get on his shares. I've no doubt this mine's going to pay———"
The two cronies plunged into a discussion of the relative merits of local coal-mining enterprises, and Wedgewood, with a nod to the barmaid, went off to another room to look for writing materials. He wanted to write a letter—but before beginning it he sat for some little time thinking, trying, indeed, to recall something.
Charles Bruno Levigne—where had he heard that name before, and in connection with what? Some case in which he had been engaged, years before, he felt sure, but what particular case he could not recall. He had a vague notion that it was a case of fraud, in the City, and that Levigne was a witness, or an interested party. His memory failed to respond, and presently he wrote a letter to the colleague asking him to enquire quietly into the status, financial and otherwise, of the man of whom he was thinking. For there was a strong impression, however chaotic, in Wedgwood's mind that this Charles Bruno Levigne's record, as outlined in the bygone case he was thinking of, was somewhat shady.
Wedgwood set out next morning after a leisurely breakfast, to make his way to Mortover Grange. He had no difficulty in finding it—the Mortover property, he was told, on which the new colliery was being made, lay at the end of the valley, some three miles away. About eleven o'clock of a raw, misty, October morning he came to it, a dreary, featureless expanse of flat, dank land amongst the hills, in the centre of which crowds of men were at work on the surface equipment of the pit. Wedgwood visualized how that pit would transform the district—but he was not so much concerned with the colliery and its prospects as with the ancient home of the Mortovers. A turn in the road brought that in sight—an old, old house, high-gabled, dark, mysterious, set in a hollow of the hills.