 Chapter 25 of THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER by J. S. Fletcher This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 25 REVELATIONS Spargo turned on his disreputable and disillute companion, with all his journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since entering the King of Madagascar, that he was going to hear anything material to the middle-temple murder. He had more than once feared that this old, gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him for the purpose of extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother Guch's unfortunate propensities, evil eyes and sudden face. He only saw in her somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her eagerly. You say that John Maitland's son didn't die, he exclaimed. The boy did not die, replied Mother Guch. And that you know where he is? Asked Spargo. Mother Guch shook her head. I didn't say that I know where he is, young man, she replied. I said I knew what she did with him. What then? Demanded Spargo. Mother Guch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity and favoured Spargo with a look. That's the secret, young man, she said. I'm willing to sell that secret, but not for two half-sofferings and two or three drops of cold gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Bayless of when I was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret's worth something. Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to me, Bayless. Here was an unexpected result of it. Nobody but me can help you trace Maitland's boy. Continued Mother Guch, and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. That's plain language, young man. Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could this wretched, biblious old woman really be in possession of a secret, which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple murder? Well, it would be a fine thing for the Watchman if the clearing up of everything came through one of its men. And the Watchman was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying out money on all sorts of objects. It had spent money, like water, on much less serious matters than this. How much do you want for your secret? He suddenly asked, turning to his companion. Mother Guch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan had become. He did not understand that her nerves had been all a quiver and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed her and quickened them. Secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Guch spoke. Well, young man, she said, having considered matters and having a right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to have would be one of those annuities. A nice comfortable annuity, paid weekly, none of your monthlys or quarterlies, but regular and punctual every Saturday morning, or Monday morning, as was convenient to the parties concerned, but punctual and regular. I know a good many ladies in my sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it's a great comfort to have them paid weekly. It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Guch would probably get rid of her weekly doll on the day it was paid, whether that happened to be Monday or Saturday. But that, after all, was no concern of his, so he came back to first principles. Even now you haven't said how much, he remarked. Three pound a week, replied Mother Guch, and cheap too. Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might, might, lead to something. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to death within a year or two. Anyhow a few hundreds of pounds was nothing to the watchman. He glanced at his watch, at that hour, for the next hour. The great man of the watchman would be at his office. He jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert. Here, I'll take you to see my principles, he said, we'll run along in a taxi cab. With all the pleasure in the world, young man, replied Mother Guch, when you've given me that other half-sovereign. As for principles, I'd far rather talk business with masters than with men, though I mean no disrespect to you. Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over the second half-sovereign, and busied himself in ordering a taxi cab. But when that came round he had to wait while Mother Guch consumed a third glass of gin, and purchased a flask of the same beverage to put in her pocket. At last he got her off, and in due course to the watchman's office, where the whore-reporter and the messenger-boys stared at her in amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folks, and he got her to his own room and locked her in, and then he sought the presence of the mighty. While Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the fortunes and workings of the watchman, he never knew—it was probably fortunate for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the facts of the Middle-Temple murder, and saw that there might be an advantage in securing the revelations of which Spargo had got the conditional promise. At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room, intent on seeing, hearing, and bargaining with the lady he had locked up there. Spargo's room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Guch was soberer than ever. She insisted on being introduced to proprietor and editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before going into any further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing with her until something could be done to find out what likelihood of truth there was in her. But the proprietor, after sizing her up in his own shrewd fashion, took his two companions out of the room. "'We'll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms,' he said. "'She may have something to tell us that is really of the greatest importance in this case. She certainly has something to tell. And as Spargo says, she'll probably drink herself to death in about as short a time as possible. Come back, let's hear her story.' And they turned to the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by which the proprietor of the watchman bound himself to pay Mrs. Guch the sum of three pounds a week for life. Mrs. Guch insisting on the assertion of the words every Saturday morning punctual and regular. And then Mrs. Guch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Guch settled herself to do so, and Spargo prepared to take it down word for word. Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a monkey's tale, nor so short as a manx's cat's gentleman, said Mrs. Guch, but full of meat as an egg. Now you see, when that mate-land affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane Bayless at Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemptown, and close to the sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and had saved a nice bit. And having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a little fortune left her by her father, as was at one time a publican here in London, she had a good lump of money. And all that money was in this here mate-land's hands. Every penny. I very well remember the day when the news came about that affair of Maitland robbing the bank. Miss Bayless, she was like a mad thing when she saw it in the paper, and before she'd seen it an hour, she was off to Market Milcaster. I went up to the station with her, and she told me then, before she got in the train, that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her sisters, his wife's too, and that she feared all would be lost. Mrs. Maitland was then dead, observed Spargo, without looking up from his writing block. She was young man, and a good thing, too, continued Mrs. Gutch. Well, away went Miss Bayless, and no more did I hear or see for nearly a week. And then back she comes and brings a little boy with her, which was Maitland's. And she told me that night, that she'd lost every penny she had in the world, and that her sister's money, what ought to have been the child's, was gone, too. And she said her say about Maitland. However she saw well to that child. Nobody could have seen better. And very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for ten years, her and me talked about things. What's the use, says I to her, of your letting yourself get so fond of that child and looking after it as you do, and educating it, and so on, I says. Why not, says she. It isn't yours, I says. You haven't no right to it, I says. As soon as ever its father comes out, says I, he'll come and claim it, and you can't do nothing to stop him. Well, gentlemen, if you'll believe me, never did I see a woman look as she did when I says all that. And she up and swore that Maitland should never see or touch the child again, not under no circumstances, whatever. Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed presently, apparently refreshed. Well, gentlemen, that notion about Maitland's taking the child away from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times about it, always saying the same thing, that Maitland should never have him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers about it, and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied. And a day or two afterwards there came a gentleman who looked like a lawyer, and he stopped a day or two, and he came again and again. For one day she came to me and she says, You don't know who that gentleman is that's come so much lately, she says. Not I, I says, unless he's after you. After me, she says, tossing her head. That's the gentleman that ought to have married my poor sister, if that scoundrel Maitland hadn't tricked her into throwing him over. You don't say so, I says. Then by rights he ought to have been the child's pa. He's going to be a father to the boy, she says. He's going to take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a gentleman of him, she said, for his mother's sake. Mercy on us, says I. What'll Maitland say when he comes for him? Maitland will never come for him, she says, for I'm going to leave here, and the boy'll be gone before then. This is all being done, she said, so that the child will never know his father's shame, he'll never know who his father was. And true enough, the boy was taken away, but Maitland came before she'd gone and she told him the child was dead, and I've never seen a man so cut up, however that wasn't no concern of mine. And so there's so much of the secret gentleman, and I would like to know if I ain't giving good value. Very good, said the proprietor, go on. But Spargo intervened. Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy away? He asked. Yes, I did, replied Mrs. Gutch. Of course I did. Which it was, Elphic. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher. Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that made Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her nerves to be none of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of them with angry malevolence. Don't do that again, young man, she exclaimed sharply. I can't bear to be jumped out of my skin, and its bad manners. I observed that the gentleman's name was Elphic. Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor, a glance which came near to being a wink. Just so, Elphic, he said. A Lord gentleman, I think you said, Mrs. Gutch. I said, answered Mrs. Gutch, as how he looked like a lawyer gentleman. And since you're so particular, young man, though I wasn't addressing you but your principles, he was a lawyer gentleman, one of the sort that wears wigs and gowns. Ain't I seen his picture in Jane Bayless's room at the boarding house where you saw her this morning? Elderly man, asked Spargo. Elderly, he will be now, replied the informant. But when he took the boy away, he was a middle-aged man, about his age, she added, pointing to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the proprietor desired to laugh unconsumidely. And not so very young like him, neither, being one that had no hair on his face. Ah, said Spargo. And where did this Mr. Elphic take the boy, Mrs. Gutch? But Mrs. Gutch shook her head. Ain't no idea, she said, he took him. Then, as I told you, Maitland came, and Jane Bayless told him that the boy was dead. And after that, she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight tongue. Once or twice I asked her, and she said, Never you mind, she said, He's all right for life if he lives to be as old as Methuselum. And she never said more, and I never said more. But, continued Mrs. Gutch, whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe away tears, she's treated me hard as Jane Bayless, never allowing me a little comfort, such as the lady of my age should have. And when I hear the two of you were talking this morning, the other side of that privet-edge, thinks I, now's the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam, and I hope I've done it. Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head slightly. He meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted from Mother Gutch. What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here? He asked. You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you like. Which I shall be obliged for, young man, said Mrs. Gutch, and likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a Friday, whichever is agreeable to you, gentlemen. Then having my first week in my purse, and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes and go to a friend of mine, where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the dust of my feet off against Jane Bayless, and where I've been living with her. Yes, but Mrs. Gutch, says Spargo, with some anxiety, if you go back there tonight, you'll be very careful not to tell Mrs. Bayless that you've been here, and told us all this. Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed. Young man, she said, you mean well, but you ain't used to dealing with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I like. I wouldn't tell Jane Bayless my affairs. My new affairs, gentlemen, thanks to you. Not for two annuities paid twice a week. Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then come to my room, said the editor, and don't you forget, Mrs. Gutch, keep a quiet tongue in your head, no more talk, or there'll be no annuities on Saturday mornings. So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier's department and paid her her first week's money, and he got her a taxi cab and paid for it, and saw her depart. And then he went to the editor's room, strangely thoughtful. The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they stopped when Spargo entered, and looked at him eagerly. I think we've done it, said Spargo quietly. What precisely have we found out? asked the editor. A great deal more than I'd anticipated, answered Spargo. And I don't know what fields it doesn't open out. If you look back, you'll remember that the only thing found on Marbury's body was a scrap of grey paper on which was the name and address, Ronald Bretton, King's Bench Walk. Well, Bretton is a young barrister, also he writes a bit, I've accepted two or three articles of his for our literary page. Well, further he is engaged to Miss Ailmore, the eldest daughter of Ailmore, the member of parliament who has been charged at Bow Street today with the murder of Marbury. I know, well, what then, Spargo? But the most important matter, continued Spargo, speaking very deliberately, is this. That is, taking that old woman's statement to be true, as I personally believe it is, that Bretton, as he has told me himself, I have seen a good deal of him, was brought up by a guardian. That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphic, the barrister. The proprietor and the editor looked at each other, their faces wore the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the same conclusion, and the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a sharp interrogation. You think then? Spargo nodded. I think that Mr. Septimus Elphic is the Elphic and that Bretton is the young mapland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking, he answered. The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pocket and began to pace the room. If that's so, he said, if that's so, the mystery deepens. What do you propose to do, Spargo? I think, said Spargo slowly, I think that without telling him anything of what we have learned, I should like to see young Bretton and get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphic. I can make a good excuse for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands. Yes, yes, said the proprietor waving a hand, leave it entirely in Spargo's hands. Keep me informed, said the editor. Do what you think, it strikes me you're on the track. Spargo left their presence and going back to his own room, still faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Elmore was brought up that morning. There was nothing new, the authorities had merely asked for another remand. So far as the reporter knew, Elmore had said nothing fresh to anybody. Spargo went round to the temple and up to Ronald Bretton's chambers. He found the young barrister just preparing to leave and looking unusually grave and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo, he turned back from his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into an inner room. I say, Spargo, he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair. This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you told me to do yesterday, as regards Elmore? To get him to tell all, yes, said Spargo. Bretton shook his head, Stratton, his solicitor, you know, and I saw him this morning before the police court proceedings, he continued. I told him of my talk with you. I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been to the watchman office. Bretton and I both begged him to take your advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence against him, how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth at once, how he had certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion against himself, how, as the evidence stands at present, any jury could scarcely do less than convict him. And it was all no good, Spargo. He won't say anything, he'll say no more, he was adamant. I told the entire truth in respect to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the inquest, he said, over and over again. And I shall say nothing further on any consideration, if the law likes to hang an innocent man on such evidence as that, let it, and he persisted in that until we left him. Spargo, I don't know what's to be done. And nothing happened at the police court? Nothing, another demand. Stratton and I saw Elmore again before he was removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark. If you all want to prove me innocent, he said, find the guilty man. Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that, said Spargo. Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done? exclaimed Bretton. Are you any nearer? Is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else? Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, apparently thinking. Was Rathbury in court? he suddenly asked. He was, replied Bretton. He was there with two or three other men who I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in Elmore. If I don't see Rathbury tonight, I'll see him in the morning, said Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, sat down again. Look here, he continued. I don't know how this thing stands in law, but would it be a very weak case against Elmore if the prosecution couldn't show some motive for his killing Marbury? Bretton smiled. There's no necessity to prove motive in murder, he said, but I'll tell you what, Spargo. If the prosecution can show that Elmore had a motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they can prove that it was to Elmore's advantage to silence him, why then, I don't think he's a chance. I see, but so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has been shown. I know of none. Spargo rose and moved to the door. Well, I'm off, he said, then as if he suddenly recollected something he turned back. Oh, by the way, he said, isn't your guardian Mr. Elfolk a big authority on flattery? One of the biggest, awful enthusiasts. Do you think he'd tell me a bit about those Australian stamps which Marbury showed to cry dear, the dealer? Maybe he would. Delighted. Here. And Bretton scribbled a few words on a card. There's his address and a word from me. I'll tell you when you can always find him in five nights out of seven. At nine o'clock after he's dined. I'd go with you to-night, but I must go to Elmore's. The two girls are in terrible trouble. Give them a message from me, said Spargo, as they went out together. Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 27 Mr. Elfolk's Chambers Spargo went round again to the temple that night at nine o'clock, asking himself over and over again two questions. The first, how much does Elfolk know? The second, how much shall I tell him? The old house in the temple to which he repaired, and in which many a generation of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was full of stairs and passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the exact number of the set of chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander about in what was a deserted building. So wandering he suddenly heard steps, firm, decisive steps coming up as their case, which he himself had just climbed. He looked over the banisters down into the hollow beneath, and there, marching up resolutely, was the figure of a tall, veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realised, with a sharp quickening of his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof with Miss Bayless. Spargo's mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew from his extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that Miss Bayless had come to see Mr. Elphick, come, of course, to tell Mr. Elphick that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was on the track of the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it before, for he had been busily engaged since the departure of Mother Gutch, but naturally Miss Bayless and Mr. Elphick were keeping communication with each other. At any rate, here she was, and her destination was surely Elphick's chambers, and the question for him, Spargo, was, what to do? What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense, where he was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman did not look up. But Miss Bayless neither looked up nor down, she reached a landing, turned along a corridor with decision, and marched forward. A moment later Spargo heard a sharp double knock on a door. A moment after that he heard a door heavily shut. He knew then that Miss Bayless had sought and gained admittance somewhere. To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the landing which Miss Bayless had just left. There was no one about. He had not, in fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he went along the corridor into which he had seen Miss Bayless turn. He knew that all the doors in that house were double ones, and that the outer oak in each was solid and substantial enough to be sound-proof. Yet as men will under such circumstances he walked softly. He said to himself, smiling at the thought, that he would be sure to start if somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But no hand opened any door, and at last he came to the end of the corridor, and found himself confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters on a black ground. Miss the Elfix chambers. Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back as quietly as he had come. There was a window halfway along the corridor from which he had noticed as he came along one could catch a glimpse of the embankment and the Thames. To this he withdrew and leaning on the sill looked out and considered matters. Should he go and, if he could gain admittance, beard these two conspirators? Should he wait until the woman came out and let her see that he was on the track? Should he hide again until she went and then see Elfix alone? In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things slide for the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river and the brown sails and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten minutes went by, twenty minutes, nothing happened. Then as Havpas 9 struck from all the neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a second cigarette, marched straight down the corridor and knocked boldly on Miss the Elfix door. Only to Spargo's surprise the door was opened before there was any necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a benevolent yet somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and plaited face stood Mr Elfix, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled smoking jacket over his dress shirt, and a short pipe in his hand. Spargo was taken aback. Mr Elfix apparently was not. He held the door well open and motioned the journalist to enter. Come in, Mr Spargo, he said. I was expecting you. Walk forward into my sitting-room. Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an anti-room into a handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In spite of the fact that it was still very little past mid-summer, there was a cheery fire in the grate, and on a table set near a roomy armchair was set such creature-conference as a spirit-case, a siphon, a tumbler, and a novel, from which things Spargo argued that Mr Elfix had been taking his ease since his dinner. But in another armchair on the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding figure of Miss Baelis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She neither spoke nor moved when Spargo entered. She did not even look at him, and Spargo stood staring at her until Mr Elfix, having closed his doors, touched him on the elbow and motioned him courteously to a seat. Yes, I was expecting you, Mr Spargo, he said, as he resumed his own chair. I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages of which you saw me. You will remember at the mortuary. But since Miss Baelis told me twenty minutes ago that you had been to her this morning, I felt sure that it would not be more than a few hours before you had come to me. Why, Mr Elfix, should you suppose that I should come to you at all? asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits. Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner unexplored, replied Mr Elfix. The curiosity of the modern press man is insatiable. Spargo stiffened. I have no curiosity, Mr Elfix, he said. I am charged by my paper to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer and— Mr Elfix laughed slightly and waved his hand. My good young gentleman, he said, you exaggerate your own importance. I don't approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In your own case, you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and you have been trying to frighten Miss Baelis here into— Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him which, when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused now. He looked the old barrister full in the face. Mr Elfix, he said, you are evidently unaware of all that I know, so I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, and I will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs of what I know, and if you will trouble yourself to read the Watchman tomorrow morning, then you too will know. Dear me, dear me, said Mr Elfix banteringly, we are so used to ultra-sensational stories from the Watchman that, but I am a curious and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so perhaps you will tell me in a word what it is you do know, eh? Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table and looked the old barrister straight in the face. Yes, he said quietly, I will tell you what I know beyond doubt. I know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without doubt, John Maitland of Market Milkaster, and that Ronald Bretton is his son whom you took from that woman. If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in which Mr Elfix had treated it, he could not have been afforded a more ample one than that offered to him by the old barrister's reception of this news. Mr Elfix's face not only fell, but changed. His expression of almost sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly resembling abject terror. He dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair, recovered himself, gripped the chair's arms and stared at Spargo, as if the young man had suddenly announced to him that in another minute he must be led to instant execution. And Spargo, quick to see his advantage, followed it up. That is what I know, Mr Elfix, and if I choose all the world shall know it tomorrow morning, he said firmly. Ronald Bretton is the son of the murdered man, and Ronald Bretton is engaged to be married to the daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is not a matter of suspicion or of idea or of conjecture. It is fact. Mr Elfix slowly turned his face to Miss Bayless. He gasped out a few words. You did not tell me this. Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she too was white to the lips and as frightened as a man. I didn't know. She muttered, he didn't tell me. He only told me this morning, what I've told you. Spargo picked up his hat. Good night, Mr Elfix, he said. But before he could reach the door, the old barrister had leapt from his chair and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at him. He knew then that for some reason or other he had given Mr Septimus Elfix a thoroughly bad fright. Well, he growled, my dear young gentleman, implored Mr Elfix, don't go. I'll do anything for you if you won't go away to print that. I'll give you a thousand pounds. Spargo shook him off. That's enough, he snarled. Now I am off. What, you try to bribe me? Mr Elfix wrung his hands. I didn't mean that, indeed I didn't. He almost wailed. I don't know what I meant. Stay young gentleman, stay a little and let us, let us talk. Let me have a word with you, as many words as you please. I implore you." Spargo made a fine pretense of hesitation. If I stay, he said at last, it will only be on the strict condition that you answer and answer truly whatever questions I like to ask you, otherwise. He made another move to the door and again Mr Elfix declared beseeching hands on him. Stay, he said, I'll answer anything you like. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher. This Librivoxia recording is in the public domain. Chapter 28 Of Proved Identity Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left and looked at the two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced such a curious effect, and he recognised as he looked at them that while they were both frightened, they were frightened in different ways. Miss Bayliss had already recovered her composure. She now sat somber and stern as ever, returning Spargo's look with something of indifferent defiance. He thought he could see that in her mind a certain fear was battling with a certain amount of wonder that he had discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she was concerned the secret had come to an end. It was as if she said in so many words that now the secret was out. He might do his worst. But upon Mr. Septimus Elfix the effect was very different. He was still trembling from excitement. He groaned as he sank into his chair in the hand with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook. The glass rattled against his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The half-contemptuous fashion of his reception of Spargo had now wholly disappeared. He was a man who had received a shock and a bad one. And Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself, This man knows a great deal more than, a great deal beyond, The mere fact that Marbury was Maitland and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland's son. He knows something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had buried something deep deep down in the lowest depths and was as astonished as he was frightened to find that it had at last flung up to the broad light of day. I shall wait, suddenly said Spargo, until you are composed, Mr. Elfic. I have no wish to distress you, but I see, of course, that the truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you considerable, shall we say, fear. Elfic took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown steadier and the colour was coming back to his face. If you will let me explain, he said, if you will hear what was done for the boys, say, That, answered Spargo, is precisely what I wish. I can tell you this, I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to Mr. Breton. Miss Bailess relieved her feelings with a scornful snick. He says that, she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. He says that, knowing that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a scoundrel, an ex-convict. Er, Elfic lifted his hand. Hush, hush, he said imploringly. Mr. Spargo means well, I am sure, I am convinced, if Mr. Spargo will hear me. But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the outer door. Elfic started nervously, but presently he moved across the room, walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A boy's voice penetrated into the sitting-room. If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo of the Watchman here. He left his address in case he was wanted. Spargo recognised the voice as that of one of the office messenger boys, and jumping up went to the door. What is it, Rawlings? He said. Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There's Mr. Rathbury there, and it says he must see you instantly. All right, answered Spargo, and coming just now. He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elfic. I shall have to go, he said. I may be kept. Now, Mr. Elfic, can I come to see you tomorrow morning? Yes, yes, tomorrow morning, replied Elfic eagerly. Tomorrow morning, certainly, at eleven, eleven o'clock, that will do. I shall be here at eleven, said Spargo, eleven sharp. He was moving away when Elfic caught him by the sleeve. A word, just a word, he said. You have not told the boy, Ronald, of what you know. You haven't? I haven't, replied Spargo. Elfic tightened his grip on Spargo's sleeve. He looked into his face, beseechingly. Promise me, promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won't tell him, until you have seen me in the morning, he implored. I beg you to promise this. Spargo hesitated, considering matters. Very well, I promise, he said. And you won't print it? continued Elfic, still clinging to him. Say you won't print it tonight. I shall not print it tonight, answered Spargo. That's certain. Elfic released his grip on the young man's arm. Come, at eleven to-morrow morning, he said, and drew back and closed the door. Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room, and there calmly seated in an easy chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an evening newspaper, was wrath-bury, unconcerned and outwardly as imperturbable as ever. He greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a smile. Well, he said, house things. Spargo half-breathless dropped into his death chair. You didn't come here to tell me that, he said, wrath-bury laughed. No, he said, throwing the newspaper aside. I didn't. I came to tell you my latest. You're at full liberty to stick it into your paper tonight. It may just as well be known. Well, said Spargo, wrath-bury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned. Elmore's identified, he said lazily. Spargo sat up sharply. Identified? Identified, my son, beyond doubt. But as whom, as what, exclaimed Spargo, wrath-bury laughed. He's an old lag, an ex-convict, served his time partly at Dartmoor. That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. Do you see? Clear as noontide now, Spargo. Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were fixed on a map of London that hung on the opposite wall. His ears heard the throbbing of the printing machines far below. But what he really saw was the faces of the two girls. What he really heard was the voices of two girls. Clear as noontide, as noontide, repeated wrath-bury with great cheerfulness. Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact. What's clear as noontide, he asked sharply. What? Why, the whole thing? Motive everything, answered wrath-bury. Don't you see? Maitland and Elmore, his real name is Ainsworth, by the by, met at Dartmoor. Maybe, or rather certainly, just before Elmore's release. Elmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes back, starts new career, gets into parliament, becomes big man. In time, Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes back, the two meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Elmore, or threaten select folk know that the flourishing Mr Elmore MP is an ex-convict. Result, Elmore lures him to the temple and quiets him. The whole thing's clear as noontide, as I say, as noontide. Spargo drummed his fingers again. How, he asked quietly, how came Elmore to be identified? My work, said wrath-bury, proudly, my work, my son, you see, I thought a lot, and especially after we'd found out that Marbury was Maitland. You mean after I'd found out, remarked Spargo. Rathbury waved his cigar. Well, well, it's all the same, he said. You help me, and I help you, eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I thought, now where did Maitland or Marbury know or meet Elmore twenty or twenty-two years ago, not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in London, at any rate before his trial, and we haven't the least proof that he was in London after. And why won't Elmore tell, clearly because it must have been in some undesirable place? And then all of a sudden it flashed on me in a moment of, what do you writing fellows call those moments, Spargo? Inspiration, I should think, said Spargo. Direct inspiration. That's it. In a moment of direct inspiration it flashed on me. Why, twenty years ago Maitland was in Dartmoor, they must have met there. And so we got some old waters who'd been there at that time to come to town, and we gave him opportunities to see Elmore and to study him. Of course he's twenty years older and he's grown a beard, but they began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was the man they thought, he'd a certain birthmark. And he has. Does Elmore know that he's been identified, our Spargo? Raspberry pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed. No, he said scornfully, no, he's admitted it. What's the use of standing out against proof like that? He admitted it tonight in my presence, oh, he knows all right. And what did he say? Raspberry laughed contemptuously, say, oh, not much, pretty much what he said about this affair, that when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man, he's certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game. And of what was he convicted? Oh, of course we know all about it now. As soon as we found out who he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Elmore, or Ainsworth, Stephen Ainsworth, his name really is, was a man who ran a sort of what they call a mutual benefit society in a town right away up in the north, Cloudhampton, some thirty years ago. He was nominally secretary, but it was really his own affair. He was patronised by the working classes. Cloudhampton's purely artisan population, and they stuck a lot of their brass as they call it in it, then suddenly it came to smash and there was nothing. He, Ainsworth, or Elmore, pleaded that he was robbed and duped by another man, but the court didn't believe him, and he got seven years. Plain story, you see, Spargo, when it all comes out, eh? All stories are quite plain when they come out, observed Spargo, and he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn't want his daughters to know about his past. Just so, agreed Rathbury, and I don't know that I blame him. He thought, of course, that he'd go scot-free over this Marbury affair, but he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy. Oh, yes. Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few minutes. Rathbury, meanwhile, finding and lighting another cigar. At last Spargo came back and clapped a hand on the detective's shoulder. Look here, Rathbury, he said. It's very evident that you're now going on the lines that Elmore did murder Marbury, eh? Rathbury looked up, his face showing astonishment. After evidence like that, he exclaimed, why, of course, there's a motive, my son, the motive. Spargo laughed. Rathbury, he said, Elmore no more murdered Marbury than you did. The detective got up and put on his hat. Oh, he said, perhaps you know who did then. I shall know in a few days, answered Spargo. Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the door. Good night, he said, gruffly. Good night, Rathbury, replied Spargo, and sat down at his desk. But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the watchman. All he wrote was a short telegram addressed to Elmore's daughters. There were only three words on it. Have no fear. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 29 The Closed Doors Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the watchman appeared next date, destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple murder. The other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts of the identification of Mr. Stephen Elmore MP for the Brookminster Division as the cede of all Stephen Ainsworth ex-convict, once upon a time founder and secretary of the Half and Home Mutual Benefit Society, the headquarters of which had been at Cloudhanton in Daleshire. The fall of which had involved thousands of honest working folk in terrible distress, if not in absolute ruin. Most of them had raked up Ainsworth's past to considerable journalistic purpose, it had been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall of the Half and Home, to tell a new the story of the privations of the humble investors whose small hordes had gone in the crash. It had been easy too to set out to gain the history of Ainsworth's arrest, trial and fate. There was plenty of romance in the story. It was that of a man who by his financial ability had built up a great industrial insurance society had, as was alleged, converted the large sums entrusted to him to his own purposes, had been detected and punished, had disappeared after his punishment, so effectually that no one knew where he had gone, had come back comparatively a few years later under another name, a very rich man, and had entered Parliament, and been in a modest way, a public character without any of those who knew him in his new career, suspecting that he had once worn a dress liberally ornamented with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy, some of the morning newspapers made a couple of columns of it. But the watchman, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries in keeping the public informed of all the latest news, in connection with the Marbury affair, contended itself with a brief announcement, for after Rathbury had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and his editor, and had sat long in consultation with them and the result of their talk had been that all the watchman thought fit to tell its readers next morning was contained in a curt paragraph. We understand that Mr Stephen Aylmore MP, who is charged with the murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the temple on June 21st last, was yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen Ainsworth, who was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection with the Harth and Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly 30 years ago. Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargos, strolling jauntily along the front of the law courts, encountered a fellow journalist, a man on an opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which indicated derision. Left behind a bit that rag of yours this morning, Spargo, my boy, he remarked elegantly, Why, you've missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair, a miserable paragraph. Why, I worked off a column and a half in hours. What were you doing last night, old ma'am? Sleeping, said Spargo, and went by with a nod. Sleeping. He left the other staring at him and crossed the road to Middle Temple Lane. It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to Mr. Elfic's chambers. Precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the temple at that hour. But Elfic's door was closed fast enough. The night before it had been promptly open, but there was no response to Spargo's first knock, nor to his second. Nor to his third. And half unconsciously he murmured aloud, Elfic's door is closed. It never occurred to Spargo to knock again. Instinct told him that Elfic's door was closed because Elfic was not there. Closed because Elfic was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked slowly back along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the stairs, Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him, as if with a mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands. I'm glad you didn't print more than those two or three lines in the Watchman this morning, said Breton. It was considerate. As for the other papers, Elmora assured me last night, Spargo, that though he did serve that term at Dartmoor, he was innocent enough. He was scapegoat for another man who disappeared. Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added awkwardly, and I'm obliged to you too, old chap, for sending that wire to the two girls last night. You're as good of you. They want all the comfort they can get, poor things. But what are you doing here, Spargo? Spargo leaned against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. I came here, he said, to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick, an appointment which he made when I called upon him, as you suggested, at nine o'clock. The appointment, the most important one, was for eleven o'clock. Breton glanced at his watch. Come on then, he said. It's well past that now, and my guardian's a very martinette in the matter of punctuality. But Spargo did not move, instead he shook his head regarding Breton with troubled eyes. So am I, he answered. I was trained to it. Your guardian isn't there, Breton. Not there. If he made an appointment for eleven, nonsense, I never knew him miss an appointment. I knocked three times, three separate times, answered Spargo. You should have knocked half a dozen times. He may have overslept himself. He sits up late. He and old Cardelstone often sit up half the night, talking stamps or playing PK, said Breton. Come on, you'll see. Spargo shook his head again. He's not there, Breton, he said. He's gone. Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had seen Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He sees Spargo's elbow. Come on, he said. I have a key to Mr. Elphick's door so that I can go in and out as I like. I'll soon show you whether he's gone or not. Spargo followed the young Marista down the corridor. All the same, he said meditatively, as Breton fitted a key to the latch. He's not there, Breton. He's off. Good heavens, man. I don't know what you're talking about, exclaimed Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. Off? Where on earth should he be off to when he's made an appointment with you for eleven? And hello? He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and Miss Bayless the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself up on the threshold with a sharp exclamation. Good God! he cried. What? What's all this? Spargo quietly looked over Breton's shoulder. It needed but one quick glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he had quitted it the night before. There stood the easy chair in which he had left Elphick. There, close by it, but pushed aside as if by a hurried hand, was the little table with its spirit case, its siphon, its glass, in which stale liquid still stood. There was a novel turned face downwards. There, upon the novel, was Elphick's pipe. But the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The drawers of a bureau had been pulled open and never put back. Papers of all descriptions, old legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the centre table and the floor. In one corner of the room a black Japan box had been opened, its contents strewn about, and the lid left jorning. And in the grate and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred paper. It was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, wherever he might have disappeared to, had spent some time before his disappearance in destroying a considerable heap of documents and papers, and in such haste that he had not troubled to put matters straight before he went. Breton stared at this scene for a moment, in utter consternation. Then he made one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him. Together they entered an inner room, a sleeping apartment. There was no one in it, but there were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily packed a bag as he had destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo had seen him wearing the previous evening were flung here, there, everywhere. The gorgeous smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in one corner, a dress-shirt in the bosom of which valuable studs still glistened in another. One or two suitcases lay about as if they had been examined and discarded in favour of something more portable. Here, too, drawers revealing stocks of linen and under-clothing had been torn open and left open. Open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe, revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around him, seemed to see all that had happened. The hasty, almost frantic search for, and tearing up and burning off, papers, the hurried change of clothing, of packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and then the flight, the getting away, the... What on earth does all this mean? exclaimed Bretton. What is it, Spargo? I mean exactly what I told you, answered Spargo. He's off. Off. Off? But why off? What, my guardian, as quiet an old gentleman as there is in the temple? Off? cried Bretton. For what reason, eh? It isn't good, Spargo. It isn't because of anything you said to him last night. I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him last night, replied Spargo. There was a fool ever to let him out of my sight. Bretton turned on his companion and gasped. Out of your sight? he exclaimed. What? Why, you don't mean to say that Mr. Elfic has anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God's sake, Spargo. Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister's shoulder. I'm afraid you'll have to hear a good deal, Bretton, he said. I was going to talk to you today in any case, you see. Before Spargo could say more, a woman, bearing the implements which denote the child woman's profession, entered the room and immediately cried out at what she saw. Bretton turned on her almost savagely. Here, you, he said, have you seen anything of Mr. Elfic this morning? The child woman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands. Me, sir? Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes in much before half past 11, sir. Mr. Elfic being then gone out to his breakfast. I see him here yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his usual state of good health, sir. If anything's the matter with him now. No, sir, I ain't seen nothing of him. Bretton let out another exclamation of impatience. You'd better leave all this, he said. Mr. Elfic's evidently gone away in a hurry, and you mustn't touch anything here until he comes back. I'm going to lock up the chambers. If you've a key of them, give it to me. The child woman, handed over a key, gave her another astonished look at the rooms and vanished, muttering, and Bretton turned to Spargo. What do you say? he demanded. I must hear. A good deal. Out with it, then, man, for heaven's sake. But Spargo shook his head. Not now, Bretton, he answered. Presently, I tell you, for Miss Elmore's sake and your own, the first thing to do is to get on your guardian's track. We must, must, I say, and at once. Bretton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit his own senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room. Come on, he said. I know who'll know where he is, if anybody does. Who then? asked Spargo as they hurried out. Cardal Stone. Answered Bretton grimly. Cardal Stone. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 30 Revelation There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as ever manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry into which Spargo and Bretton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was, Bretton paused at the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and at the wall at the side. Wasn't it there, he said in a low voice, pointing at the place he looked at? Wasn't it there, Spargo, just there that Marbury or rather Maitland was found? It was just there, answered Spargo. You saw him, and I saw him. Soon afterwards, immediately after he was found, you know all that, Bretton. Why do you ask now? Bretton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his eyes on walking into the entry, shook his head. Don't know, he answered, I—come on, let's see if old Cardelstone can tell us anything. There was another charwoman armed with pales and buckets outside Cardelstone's door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was evident to Spargo that she knew Bretton, for she smiled at him as she opened the door. I don't think Mr. Cardelstone will be in, sir, she said. He's generally gone out to breakfast at this time. Him and Mr. Elfit goes together. Just see, said Bretton, I want to see him if he's in. The charwoman entered the chambers and immediately screamed. Quite so, remarked Spargo, that's what I expected to hear. Cardel, you see, Bretton, is also off. Bretton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in close attendance. Good God! Another, groaned Bretton. If the confusion in Elfit's rooms had been bad, that in Cardelstone's chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the previous scene were repeated. Draws had been torn open, papers thrown about. The hearth was choked with light ashes. Everything was at sixes and sevens. An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardelstone, like Elfit, had hastily packed a bag. Like Elfit had changed his clothes and had thrown his discarded garments everywhere into any corner. Spargo began to realise what had taken place. Elfit, having made his own preparations for flight, had come to Cardelstone and had expedited him and they had fled together. But why? The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob. Bretton strode forward across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous objects tossed aside, in that hurried search and clearing up into the inner room. And Spargo, looking about him, suddenly caught sight of something lying on the floor, at which he made a sharp clutch. He had just secured it and hurried it into his pocket, when Bretton came back. I don't know what all this means, Spargo, he said almost weirdly. I suppose you do. Look here. He went on, turning to that charwoman. Stop that, Rao! That'll do no good, you know. I suppose Mr Cardelstone's gone away in a hurry. You'd better. What had she better do, Spargo? Leave things exactly as they are. Lock up the chambers and assure a friend of Mr Cardelstone's, give you the key. Answered Spargo with a significant glance. Do that now and let's go. I've something to do. Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned to Bretton. I'll tell you all I know presently, Bretton, he said. In the meantime, I want to find out if the Lodgeporters or Mr Elphic or Mr Cardelstone leave. I must know where they've gone. If I can only find out. I don't suppose they went on foot. All right, responded Bretton gloomily. We'll go and ask, but this is all beyond me. You don't mean to say. Wait a while, answered Spargo. One thing at once, he continued as they walked up Middle Temple Lane. This is the first thing. You ask the porter if he's seen anything of either of them. He knows you. The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity. Anything of Mr Elphic this morning, Mr Bretton, he answered. Certainly, sir, I got a taxi for Mr Elphic and Mr Cardelstone early this morning, soon after seven. Mr Elphic said they were going to Paris, and they'd breakfast at Charin Cross before the train left. Say when they'd be back, asked Bretton with an assumption of entire carelessness. No, sir, Mr Elphic didn't answer the porter, but I should say they wouldn't be long, because they'd only got small suitcases with them, such as they'd put a day or two things in, sir. You're right, said Bretton. He turned away towards Spargo, who had already moved off. What next, he asked Charin Cross, I suppose. Spargo smiled and shook his head. No, he answered. I've no use for Charin Cross. They haven't gone to Paris. That was all a blind. For the present, let's go back to your chambers, then I'll talk to you. Once within Bretton's inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo dropped into an easy chair and looked at the young barrister, with earnest attention. Bretton, he said, I believe we're coming in sight of land. You want to save your prospective father-in-law, don't you? Of course, ground Bretton. That goes without saying, but... But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it, said Spargo. You see, sacrifices, exclaimed Bretton. What? You may have to sacrifice some ideas. You may find that you'll not be able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought of them in the past. For instance, Mr. Elfic. Bretton's face grew dark. Speak plainly, Spargo, he said. It's best with me. Very well, replied Spargo. Mr. Elfic, then, is in some way connected with this affair. You mean the murder? I mean the murder. So is Cardelstone. Of that, I'm now dead certain, and that's why they're off. I startled Elfic last night. It's evident that he immediately communicated with Cardelstone, and that they made a rapid exit. Why? Why, that's what I'm asking you. Why, why, why? Because they're afraid of something coming out, and being afraid their first instinct is to run. They've run at the first alarm, foolish but instinctive. Bretton, who had flung himself into the elbow chair at his desk, jumped to his feet and thumped his blotting pad. Spargo, he exclaimed, are you telling me that you accuse my guardian and his friend, Mr. Cardelstone, of being murderous? Nothing of the sort. I'm accusing Mr. Elfic and Mr. Cardelstone of knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I'm also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he knew this dead man to be John Maitland. You did? I did, and now Bretton, since it's got to come out. Well have the truth. Pull yourself together. Get your nerves ready, for you'll have to stand a shock or two. But I know what I'm talking about. I can prove every word I'm going to say to you. And first, let me ask you a few questions. Do you know anything about your parentage? Nothing, beyond what Mr. Elfic has told me. And what was that? That my parents were old friends of his who died young, leaving me unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me. And he's never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove the truth of that story. Never. I never questioned his statement. Why should I? You never remember anything of your childhood, I mean of any person who was particularly near you in your childhood. I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three years old, and I have just a faint shadowy recollection of some woman, a tall dark woman, I think, before that. Miss Bayless, said Spargo to himself. All right, Breton, you went unallowed. I'm going to tell you the truth. I'll tell it to you straight out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you're the only child of the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardelstone's staircase. Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he do? What would he say? What? Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the eyes. Prove that to me, Spargo, he said, in hard matter-of-fact tones. Prove it to me. Every word. Every word, Spargo. Spargo nodded. I will. Every word. He answered. It's the right thing. Listen then. It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the clock outside as he began his story. It was past one when he brought it to an end, and all that time Breton listened with the keenest attention, only asking a question now and then, now and then making a brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him. That's all, said Spargo at last. It's plenty, observed Breton leconically. He sat staring at his notes for a moment, then he looked up at Spargo. What do you really think, he asked? About what? said Spargo. This flight of elfics and cardelstones. I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than I saw elfic in last night, and it's evident that cardelstone shares in that fright, or they wouldn't have gone off in this way together. Do you think they know anything of the actual murder? Spargo shook his head. They don't know. Probably. They know something. Look here. Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. What's this, he demanded, stamps? That, from the description of cry dear, the stamp dealer, is a sheet of those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him, carried on him. I picked it up just now in cardelstone's room when you were looking into his bedroom. But that, after all, proves nothing, those may not be the identical stamps, and whether they are or not. What are the probabilities, interrupted Spargo sharply? I believe that those are the stamps which Maitland, your father, had on him. And I want to know how they came to be in cardelstone's rooms, and I will know. Breton handed the stamps back. But the general thinks, Spargo, he said, if they didn't murder, I can't realise the thing yet, my father, if they didn't murder your father, they know who did, exclaimed Spargo. Now then, it's time for more action. Let Elfic and Cardelstone alone for the moment. They'll be chapped easily enough. I want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an authority from the government to open a grave? Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made. Good, we'll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened. A grave opened? Whose graves? The grave of the man Chamberlain at Market Milcaster, replied Spargo. Breton started. His, in Heaven's name, why, he demanded. Spargo laughed as he got up. Because, I believe it's empty, he answered, because I believe that Chamberlain is alive, and that his other name is Cardelstone. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. Ants Fletcher This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 31 The Penitent Window Cleaner That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to the offices of the legal gentleman, who catered for the watchman when it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlain grave at Market Milcaster. The second was that on the following morning there appeared in the watchman a notice which set half the mouths of London a watering. That notice penned by Spargo ran as follows. £1,000 Reward Whereas on some date within the past 12 months there was stolen, abstracted or taken from the Chambers in Fountain Court Temple, occupied by Mr Stephen Elmore MP, under the name of Mr Anderson, a walking stick or stout staff of foreign make and of curious workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of John Marbury or Maitland in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June 21st to 22nd last, and is now in the hands of the police. This is to give notice that the proprietor of the watchman newspaper will pay the above mentioned reward £1,000 sterling at once and in cash to whosoever will provide that he or she stole, abstracted or took away the said stick from the said chambers and will further give full information as to his or her disposal of the same, and the proprietor of the watchman moreover engages to treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the most strictly private and confidential manner, and to abstain from using it in any way detrimental to the informant who should call at the watchman office and ask for Mr Frank Spargo at any time between 11 and 1 o'clock midday and 7 and 11 o'clock in the evening. And you really expect to get some information through that, asked Bretton, who came into Spargo's room about noon on the day on which the promising announcement came out, you really do. Before day is out, said Spargo confidently, there is more magic in £1,000 reward than you fancy, Bretton. I'll have the history of that stick before midnight. How are you to tell that you won't be imposed upon, suggested Bretton? Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick. Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick, said Spargo. I haven't the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken away from Elmore's rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the hands of— Yes, of whom? That's what I want to know in some fashion. I have an idea already, but I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing, when I get that information, as I shall, we shall be a long way on the road towards establishing Elmore's innocence. Bretton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a meditative expression. Spargo, he said suddenly, do you think you'll get that order for the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster? I was talking to the solicitors over the phone just now, answered Spargo. They've every confidence about it. In fact, it's possible it may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made early tomorrow morning. Shall you go? asked Bretton. Certainly, and you can go with me if you like. Better keep in touch with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there. You're concerned. I should like to go. I will go, said Bretton, and if that grave proves to be empty, I'll— I'll tell you something. Spargo looked up with sharp instinct. You'll tell me something? Something? What? Never mind. Wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or lead and sawdust. If there's no body there. At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, showed signs of something very like excitement. There's a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo, he said. He's been hanging about a bit, sir. Seems very shy about coming up. You won't say what he wants, and he won't fill up a form, sir. Says all he wants is a word or two with you. Bring him up at once, commanded Spargo. He turned to Bretton when the boy had gone. There, he said, laughing, this is the man about the stick. You see if it isn't. You're such a cocksure chap, Spargo, said Bretton. You're always going on a straight line. Trying to, you mean, retorted Spargo. Well, stop here and hear what this chap has to say. It'll no doubt be amusing. The messenger boy deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo's room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of good watchman money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a shy and self-conscious young man whose nervousness was painfully apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the threshold, looking round the comfortably furnished room and at the two well-dressed young men which it framed, as if he feared to enter on a scene of such grandeur. Come in, come in, said Spargo, rising and pointing to an easy chair at the side of his desk. Take a seat. You've called about that reward, of course. The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously and not without suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort. Of course, he said, it's all on the strict private. Name of Edward Molison, sir. And where do you live and what do you do, said Spargo? You might put it down. Routen House, Whitechapel, answered Edward Molison. Leaseways, that's where I generally hang out when I can afford it. And, window cleaner. Leaseways, I was window cleaning when... when... When you came in contact with the stick we've been advertising about? Suggested Spargo, just so. Well, Molison, what about the stick? Molison looked round at the door and then at the windows and then at Bretton. There ain't no danger of me being got into trouble along with that stick, he asked. Because if there is, I ain't going to say a word. No, not for no thousand pounds. Me never having been in no trouble of any sort, Governor, though a poor man. Not the slightest danger in the world, Molison, replied Spargo. Not the least. All you've got to do is to tell the truth and prove that it is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out of Mr Elmore's rooms in Fountain Court, was it? Molison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his feelings. He smiled weakly. It was certainly me as took it, sir, he said. Not that I meant to pinch it, not me. And as you might say, I didn't take it when all said and done. It was put on me. Put on you, was it? said Spargo. That's interesting. And how was it put on you? Molison grinned again and rubbed his chin. It was this earway, he answered. You see, I was working at that time, near on to nine months since it is, for the Universal Daylight Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and there in the temple, and then windows at Mr Elmore's. Only I knew them as Mr Anderson's, among them. And I was there one morning, early it was, when the child woman, she says to me, I wish you'd take these two or three r-thrugs, she says, and give them a good beating, she says. And me being always a ready one to oblige, all right, I says, and takes them. Is something to wallop them with, she says, and pulls that their old stick out of a lot, that was in a stand in a corner of the lobby. And that's how I came to handle it, sir. I see, said Spargo, a good explanation, and when you had beaten the hearthrug, swap then. Molison smiled his weak smile again. Well, sir, I looked at that bare stick, and I see it was something uncommon, he said. And I think, well, this Mr Anderson, he's got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up there. He'll never miss this old thing, I think. And so I left it in a corner, when I'd done beating the rugs, and when I went away with my things, I took it with me. You took it with you, said Spargo. Just so, to keep as a curiosity, I suppose. Molison's weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing his nervousness. The sound of his own voice and the reception of his news was imparting confidence to him. Not half, he answered. You see, Governor, there was an old cove as I knew in the temple there as is or was, because I ain't been there since, a collector of antiquities like. And I'd sold him a queer old thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye when I took the stick away, see? I see. And you took the stick to him. I took it there and then, replied Molison. Pitched him a tale I did about it, having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle Simon, which I never had no Uncle Simon, made out it was a rare curiosity, which it might have been one for all I know. Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh? Bought it there and then, answered Molison, with something very like a wink. Ah, bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for it, ah Spargo? Something handsome, I hope. Couple of quid, replied Molison. Me not wishing to part with a family heirloom for less. Just so. And you happen to be able to tell me the old cove's name and his address, Molison? Ah Spargo. I do, sir. Which they painted on his entry. The fifth or sixth as you go down Middle Temple Lane, answered Molison. Mr. Nicholas Cardelstone, first floor up the staircase. Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Bretton. Come this way, Molison, he said. We'll go and see about your little reward. Excuse me, Bretton. Bretton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came back. There, that's one matter, settle Bretton, he said. Now for the next. The Home Secretary's made the order for the opening of the grave at Market Middlecaster. I'm going down there at once, and I suppose you're coming. And remember, if that grave's empty. If that grave's empty, said Bretton, I'll tell you a good deal. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 32 The Contents of the Coffin They're travelled down together to Market Milkast the late that afternoon. Spargo, Bretton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the order for the opening of the Chamberlain grave, and a solicitor acting on behalf of the proprietor of the Watchman. It was late in the evening when they reached the little town, but Spargo, having looked in at the parlour of the Yellow Dragon, and ascertained that Mr. Quarterpage had only just gone home, took Bretton across the street to the old gentleman's house. Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door and recognised Spargo immediately. Nothing would satisfy him but that the two should go in. His family, he said, had just retired, but he himself was going to take a final nightcap and a cigar, and they must share it. For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage said Spargo, as they followed the old man into his dining room, we have to be up at daybreak, and, possibly, you too would like to be up just as early. Mr. Quarterpage looked an inquiry over the top of a decanter which he was handling. At daybreak, he exclaimed. The fact is, said Spargo, that grave of Chamberlains is going to be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get an order from the Home Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlains' body. The officials in charge of it have come down in the same chain with us. We're all staying across there at the Dragon. The officials have gone to make the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at daybreak, or as near as it can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that you know of it, you'll be there. God bless me, exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. You've really done that? Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all these years. You're a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, I'll pump my word. And this other young gentleman? Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak. Mr. Quarterpage, he said, This young gentleman is, without doubt, John Maitland's son. He's the young barrister, Mr. Ronald Breton, that I told you of, but there's no doubt about his parentage, and I'm sure you'll shake hands with him and wish him well. Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass, and hastened to give Breton his hand. My dear young sir, he exclaimed, That I will indeed. And as to wishing you well, I never wished anything but well to your poor father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlain. God bless me, what a night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is found empty? What then? Then, answered Spargo, Then I think we shall be able to put our hands on the man who is supposed to be in it. You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlain, sir? Observed Breton a few minutes later, when they had all sat down round Mr. Quarterpage's hospitable half. You think he was unduly influenced by him? Mr. Quarterpage shook his head, sadly. Chamberlain, my dear young sir, he answered, Chamberlain was a plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long, he had contrived to ingratiate himself with everybody, of course, to his own advantage. I firmly believe that he twisted your father around his little finger. As I told Mr. Spargo there, when he was making his inquiries of me a short while back, it would never have been any surprise to me to hear, definitely I mean young gentleman, that all this money that was in question went into Chamberlain's pockets. Dear me, dear me, and you really believe that Chamberlain is actually alive, Mr. Spargo? Spargo pulled out his watch. We shall know whether he was buried in that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage, he said. He might, while have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then nearly midnight, and before three o'clock Spargo and Breton, with the other men who had accompanied them from London, were out of the Yellow Dragon, and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town. Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking. The long stretch of marshland, which lies between Market Milkcaster and the sea, was wiped with fog. On the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery hung veils and webs of gossamer. Everything around them was quiet as the dead folk who lay beneath their feet, and the people actively concerned went quietly to work, and those who could do nothing but watch stood around in silence. In all my long life of over ninety years, whispered Old Quarterpage, who have met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in spite of his shortened dress, I have never seen this done before. It seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man's last resting place. A dreadful thing. If there's a dead man there, said Spargo, he himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation. He had no scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon the dead. He watched all that was done. The men employed by the local authorities instructed overnight had fenced in the grave with canvas. The proceedings were accordingly conducted in strict privacy. A man was posted to keep away any very early passer-by who might be attracted by the unusual proceedings. At first there was nothing to do but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by reflecting that every spadeful of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing him nearer to the truth. He had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at any rate one phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the body of the stockbroker chambered in, then a good deal of his, Spargo's, latest theory would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that coffin contained no body at all, then... They're down to it, whispered Bretton. Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface. One of them was brushing the earth away from the name-plate, and in the now strong light they could read the lettering on it. James Cartwright Chamberlain, born 1852, died 1891. Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the grave. We shall know now, he whispered to Bretton, and yet what is it we shall know if? If what, said Bretton, if what? But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had lately been working for, and the issues were tremendous. Now for it, said the watchman's solicitor in an undertone, come, Mr. Spargo, now we shall see. They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the graveside, as the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The screws were rusted in their sockets. They grated as the men slowly worked them out. It seemed to Spargo that each man grew slower and slower in his movements. He felt that he himself was getting fidgety. Then he heard a voice of authority. Lift the lid off. A man at the head of the coffin. A man at the foot suddenly and swiftly raised the lid. The men gathered round, craned their necks with a quick movement. Sawdust. The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust tightly pressed down. The surface lay smooth and disturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled it long years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of deceit. Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of laughter broke the spell. The chief official present looked round him with a smile. It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion, he remarked. Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies beneath the sawdust, he added, turning to the workmen. Turn it out. The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands. One of them, evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin, thrust down his fingers at various places along its length. He too laughed. The coffins waited with lead, he remarked. See? And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him, that at three intervals, bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin, where the head, the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested. Done it cleverly, he remarked looking round. You see how these weights have been adjusted. When a body is laid out in a coffin, you know, all the weights in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here you see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle, the lightest at the feet. Clever. Clear out all the sawdusts at someone. Let's see if there's anything else inside. There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin, two bundles of papers tied up with pink tape. The legal gentleman present immediately manifested great interest in these, so did Spargo, who, pulling Breton along with him, forced his way to where the officials from the home office and the solicitor sent by the watchman were hastily examining their discoveries. The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at Market Milcaster. Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to him, missed a quarter pages amongst them. He was not at all astonished to see these things, but he was something more than astonished when, on the second parcel being opened, a quantity of papers relating to Cloudhampton and the Half and Home Mutual Benefit Society were revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and drew Breton aside. It strikes me we found a good deal more than we ever bargained for, he exclaimed. Didn't Talemore say that the real culprit at Cloudhampton was another man, his clerk or something of that sort? He did, agreed Breton, he insists on it. The Nis fellow, Chamberlain, must have been the man, said Spargo. He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What will be done with those papers, he asked, turning to the officials. We are going to seal them up at once and take them to London, replied the principal person in authority. They'll be quite safe, Mr. Spargo, have no fear. We don't know what they may reveal. You don't indeed, said Spargo, but I may as well tell you that I have a strong belief that they'll reveal a good deal that nobody dreams of, so take the greatest care of them. Then, without waiting for further talk with anyone, Spargo hurried Breton out of the cemetery. At the gate he seized him by the arm. Now then, Breton, he commanded, out with it. With what? You promised to tell me something, a great deal you said, if we found that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on, quick. All right, I believe I know where Elphic and Cardelstone can be found, that's all. All, that's enough, we're then in Heaven's name. Elphic has a queer little place where he and Cardelstone sometimes go fishing. Right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire Moors. I expect they've gone there. Nobody knows even their names there. They could go and lie quiet there for ages. Do you know the way to it? I do, I've been there. Spargo motioned him to hurry. Come on then, he said. We're going there by the very first train out of this. I know the train too, we've just time to snatch a mouthful of breakfast and to send a wire to the watchman, and then we'll be off. Yorkshire, got reckoned as over 300 miles away. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 33 Forstalled Traveling all that long summer day, first from the south west of England to the midlands, then from the midlands to the north, Spargo and Bretton came late at night to Hawes Junction, on the border of Yorkshire and Westmoreland, and saw rising all around them in the half darkness, the mighty bulks of the great fells, which rise amongst that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that hour of the night and amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of some adjacent waterfall, the scene was impressive and suggestive. It seemed to Spargo as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of human life had sing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he saw a light, but such lights were few and far between. Even as he looked some of them twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and Bretton were presently to be alone with the night. How far, he asked Bretton as they walked away from this station. We'd better discuss matters, answered Bretton. The place is in a narrow valley called Fostale, some six or seven miles away across these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish for. It's half past nine now, Spargo. I reckon it will take us a good two and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now the question is, do we go straight there, or do we put up for the night? There's an inn here at this junction. There's a moor cock in a mile or so along the road which we must take before the turn off to the moorland and the fells. It's going to be a black night. Look at those masses of black cloud gathering there, and possibly a wet one, and we've no waterproofs. But it's for you to say I'm going for whatever you like. Do you know the way, asked Spargo? I've been the way, in the daytime I could go straight ahead. I remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find my way. But it's rough walking. We'll go straight there, said Spargo, every minute's precious. But can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale first? Good idea. We'll call in at the moor cock. Now then, while we're on this firm road, step it out lively. The moor cock was almost deserted at that hour. There was scarcely a soul in it when the two travellers turned into its dimly lighted parlor. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at Bretton. Come our way again then, sir, he remarked with a sudden grin of recognition. Ah, you remember me, said Bretton. I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year, replied the landlord. I hear they're here again. Tom Summers was coming across that way this morning, and said he'd seen them up at the little cottage. Going to join him, I reckon, sir. Bretton kicked Spargo under the table. Yes, we're going to have a day or two with them, he answered, just to get a breath of your moorland air. Well, you'll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen, said the landlord. There's going to be a storm, and it's a stiffish way to make out at this time of night. Oh, we'll manage, said Bretton nonchalantly. I know the way, and we're not afraid of a wet skin. The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle, folded his arms and scratched his elbows. There was a gentleman, London gentleman, by his tongue, came in here this afternoon, and asked the way to Fostale, he observed. He'll be there long since. He'd have daylight for his walk. Happen he's one of your party. He asked where the old gentleman's little cottage was. Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. One of their friends, perhaps, answered Bretton. What was he like? The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was conscious of the fact. Well, a darkish, serious face, gentlemen, he said. Stranger hereabouts at all events were a grey suit, something like your friend's here. Yes, he took some bread and cheese with him when he heard what a long way it was. Wise man remarked Bretton. He hastily finished his own bread and cheese and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. Come on, he said, let's be stepping. Outside in the almost tangible darkness Bretton clutched Spargo's arm. Who's the man? he said. Can you think, Spargo? Can't, answered Spargo. I was trying to while that chap was talking. But somebody that's got in before us. Not Rathbury, anyhow. He's not serious faced. Heavens, Bretton, however, are you going to find your way in this darkness? You'll see presently. We'll follow the road a little, then we'll turn up the fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see great Chanel fell and lovely seat. They're both well over two thousand feet and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear between them. But I warn you, Spargo, it's stiff going. Go ahead, said Spargo. It's the first time in my life I ever did anything of this sort, but we're going on if it takes us all night. I couldn't sleep in any bed now that I've heard there's somebody ahead of us. Go first, old chap, and I'll follow. Bretton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work. But when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell side, by what was obviously no more than a sheep track, Spargo's troubles began. It seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare. All he saw was magnified and heightened. The darkening sky above, the faint outlines of the towering hills, the gaunt spectres of fur and pine, the figure of Bretton forging solidly and surely ahead. Now the ground was soft and spongy under his feet. Now it was stony and rugged. More than once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on Bretton, outlined against the sky and following doggedly in his footsteps. Was there no other way than this, he asked after a long interval of silence. Do you mean to say those two, Elphic and Cardelstone, would take this way? There is another way down the valley by Thwaith Bridge and Hardraw, answer Bretton, but it's miles and miles round. This is a straight cut across country, and in daylight it's a delightful walk. But at night, gag, here's the rain, Spargo. The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey night was blotted out. Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a vast solitude and was being gradually drowned. But Bretton, whose sight was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation, dragged his companion into the shelter of a group of rocks. He laughed a little as they huddled closely together. This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet Street, Spargo, he said. You would come on, you know. I'm going on if we go through cataracts and floods, answered Spargo. I might have been induced to stop at the Moorcock overnight if we hadn't heard of that chap in front. If he's after those two, he's somebody who knows something. What I can't make out is who he can be. Nor I, said Bretton, I can't think of anybody who knows of this retreat. But has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside yourself may have been investigating? Possible, replied Spargo, one never knows. I only wish we'd been a few hours earlier, for I wanted to have the first word with those two. The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come, just as suddenly the heavens cleared, and going forward to the top of the ridge, which they were then crossing, Bretton pointed an arm to something shining far away below them. You see that, he said. That's a sheet of water lying between us and Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it, drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down into Fostale under lovely seat. There's a good two hours and a half stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it? Spargo set his teeth. Go on, he said. Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing his shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo yearning for the London lights, the well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi cab, even the humble omnibus, plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him that they had walked for ages and had traversed the whole continent of mountains and valley, when at last Bretton, holding on the summer of a windswept ridge, laid one hand on his companion's shoulder and pointed downward with the other. There, he said, there! Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away at what seemed to him to be a considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a light, a mere spark of a light. That's the cottage, said Bretton. Later it is, you see, they're up, and here's the roughest bit of the journey. It'll take me all my time to find the track across the moor, Spargo, so step carefully after me. There are bogs and holes here about. Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the guiding light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the ground. Always, when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer to it, and now, when they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that he found himself in one of the loneliest places he had ever been capable of imagining, so lonely and desolate a spot he had certainly never seen. In the dim light he could see a narrow, crawling stream, making its way down over rocks and stones from the high ground of Great Shunner Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, on the edge of the moorland, a horseshoe-like formation of ground was backed by a ring of fur and pine. Beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small building of grey stone, which stood as if it had been originally built by some shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more than one story in height, but of some length, a considerable part of it was hidden by shrubs and brushwood, and from one uncurtained, blindless window the light of a lamp shone boldly into the fading darkness without. Bretton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream. We've got to get across there, Spargo, he said, but as we're already soaked to the knee it doesn't matter about getting another wetting. Have you any idea how long we've been walking? Hours, days, years, replied Spargo. I should say quite four hours, said Bretton, in that case it's well past two o'clock and the light will be breaking in another hour or so. Now once across this stream what shall we do? What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course. Wait a bit, no need to startle them. By the fact they've got a light, I take it that they're up. Look there. As he spoke a figure crossed the window passing between it and the light. That's not Elfvik, not yet Cardelstone, said Spargo. They're medium-heighted men, that's a tallish man. Then it's the man the landlord of the Moorcock told us about, said Bretton. Now look here, I know every inch of this place. When we're across, let me go up to the cottage and I'll take an observation through that window and see who's inside. Come on. He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of boulders made a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet went up the bank to the cottage. Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past the shrubs and undergrowth, until he came to a great bush which stood between the lighted window and the projecting porch of the cottage. He lingered in the shadow of this bush for a but a short moment, then came swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His hand fell on Spargo's arm with a clutch of nervous excitement. Spargo, he whispered, who on earth do you think the other man is? End of chapter 33.