 CHAPTER IX ADILA IN RARE STAMPS Buried and deep down, too, for many and many a year, repeated Mr Myers to eyeing his companions with keen glances, I consider that, gentlemen, a very remarkable remark, very remarkable. Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again, and began swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo, and with his knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo's journalistic instincts had been aroused, and that he was as keen as mustard to be off on a new scent. Remarkable, remarkable, Mr Myers! He assented. What do you say, Mr Spargo? Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myers had entered made a careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several seconds, then Spargo spoke. And what did you say to that? He asked quietly. Myers looked from his questioner to Rathbury, and Rathbury thought it time to enlighten the caller. I may as well tell you, Mr Myers, he said smilingly, that this is Mr Spargo of the Watchman. Mr Spargo wrote the article about the Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr Spargo, your gather, is deeply interested in this matter, and he and I, in our different capacities, are working together. So you understand? Myers regarded Spargo in a new light, and while he was so looking at him, Spargo repeated the question he had just put. I said, what did you say to that? Myers hesitated. Well, I don't think I said anything, he replied. Nothing that one might call material, you know. Didn't ask him what he meant, suggested Spargo. Oh no, not at all, replied Myers. Spargo got up abruptly from his chair. Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of, he said half sneeringly. You might have heard such a story. He paused, as if it were not worthwhile to continue, and turned to Rathbury, who was regarding him with amusement. Look here, Rathbury, he said. Is it possible to get that box opened? It'll have to be opened, answered Rathbury, rising. It's got to be opened. It probably contains the clue we want. I'm going to ask Mr. Myers here to go with me just now to take the first steps about having it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the matter through today, but at any rate, we'll have it done tomorrow morning. Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off, Spargo? You can, certain, that's all right, Rathbury. Now I'm off, and you'll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I'll do the same by you. And without further words, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly returned to the Watchman office. There the assistant, who had been told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade, met him with a business card. This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo, he said. He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, and he said that as he couldn't wait, perhaps you'd step round to his place when you came in. Spargo took the card and read, Mr. James Cridey, dealer in philatelic rarities, 2021, strand. Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, wondering why Mr. James Cridey could not, would not, or did not call himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so used plain English. He went up Fleet Street and soon found a shop indicated on the card, and his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might have been done by Mr. Cridey in the past at that establishment, there was to be none done there in the future by him, for there were newly printed bills in the window announcing that the place was to be set, and inside he found a short, portly elderly gentleman who was superintending the packing up and removal of the last of his stock. He turned a bright, inquiring eye on the journalist. Mr. Cridey, said Spargo, third-sane, sir, answered the philatelist, you are Mr. Spargo of the Watchman you called on me. Mr. Cridey opened the door of a tiny apartment at the rear of the very little shop, and motioned his caller to enter. He followed him in, and carefully closed the door. Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo, he said, genially, take a seat, sir, I'm all in confusion here, giving up business, you see, yes, I called on you. I think, having read the Watchman account of that Marbury affair, and having seen the murdered man's photograph in your columns, that I can give you a bit of information. Material? Our Spargo, Tessie? Mr. Cridey cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He cocked dryly. That's for you to decide when you've heard it, he said, and I should say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it's this. I kept open until yesterday, and everything as usual, you know, stuck in the window and so on, so that anybody who was passing would naturally have thought that the business was going on. Though, as a matter of fact, I'm retiring, retired, I did Mr. Cridey with a laugh last night. Now, but won't you take down what I've got to tell you? I'm taking it down, Arthur Spargo, every word in my head. Mr. Cridey laughed and rubbed his hands. Oh, he said, oh well, in my young days, journalists used to pull out pencil and notebook at the first opportunity, but you modern young man, just so, agreed Spargo, this information now. Well, said Mr. Cridey, we'll go on then. Yesterday afternoon the man described as Marbury came into my shop. He, what time, exact time, asked Spargo, to, to the very minute, by St. Clement Day Lane's clock. Answered Mr. Cridey, I'd swear, twenty affidavits on that point. He was precisely as you've described him, dressed, everything. I tell you, I knew his photo as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little box. What sort of box, asked Spargo, a queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box, a very miniature trunk, in fact, replied Mr. Cridey, about a foot square, the sort of thing you never see nowadays. It was very much worn, it attracted me for that very reason. He set it on the counter and looked at me. You're a dealer in stamps, rare stamps, he said. I am, I replied, of something here I'd like to show you, he said, unlocking the box. It's, stop a bit, said Spargo, where did he take the key from, with which he unlocked the box? It was one of several, which he carried on a split ring, and he took the bunch out of his left-hand trousers pocket, replied Mr. Cridey. Oh, I keep my eyes open, young gentleman. Well, he opened his box. It seemed to me to be full of papers. At any rate, there were a lot of legal-looking documents on the top, tied up with red tape. To show you how I noticed things, I saw that the papers were stained with age, and that the red tape was faded to a mere washed-out pink. Good, good, Merman Spargo, excellent, proceed, sir. He put his hand under the topmost papers and drew out an envelope, continued Mr. Cridey. From the envelope he produced an exceedingly rare, exceedingly valuable set of colonial stamps, the very first ever issued. I've just come from Australia, he said. I promised a young friend of mine out there to sell these stamps for him in London, and as I was passing this way I caught sight of your shop. Will you buy them, and how much will you give for them? Prompt, Mutter Spargo. He seemed to me the sort of man who doesn't waste words, agreed Mr. Cridey. Well, there was no doubt about the stamps, nor about their great value, but I had to explain to him that I was retiring from business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single deal, and that therefore I couldn't do anything. No matter, he says, I dare say there are lots of men in your line of trade. Perhaps you couldn't recommend me to a good firm. I could recommend you to a dozen extra good firms, I answered, but I can do better for you. I'll give you the name and address of a private buyer, who, I haven't at least doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from you, and will give you a big price. Write it down, he says, and thank you for your trouble. So I gave him a bit of advice as to the price he ought to get, and I wrote the name and address of the man I referred to on the back of one of my cards. Whose name and address are Spargo? Mr. Nicholas Cardelson. Two pill-cocks buildings, Middle Temple Lane, replied Mr. Cridey. Mr. Cardelson is one of the most enthusiastic and accomplished philatelists in Europe, and I knew he didn't possess that set of stamps. I know Mr. Cardelson, remarks Spargo. It was at the foot of his stairs that Marbury was found murdered. Just so, said Mr. Cridey, which makes me think that he was going to see Mr. Cardelstone when he was set upon, murdered, and robbed. Spargo looked fixedly at the retired stamp-dealer. What, going to see an elderly gentleman in his rooms in the temple, to offer to sell him philatelic rarities at past midnight, he said? I think not much. All right, replied Mr. Cridey. You think and argue on modern lines, which are, of course, highly superior. But how do you account for my having given Marbury Mr. Cardelstone's address, and for his having been found dead, murdered, at the foot of Cardelstone's stairs a few hours later? I don't account for it, said Spargo, I'm trying to. Mr. Cridey made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down for a moment, gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly offered him a cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of thanks, and smoked half-way through it before he spoke again. Yes, he said, I'm trying to account, and I shall account, and I much to blight to you, Mr. Cridey, for what you've told me. Now, then, may I ask you a question or two? A thousand, responded Mr. Cridey with great geniality. Very well. Did Marbury say he'd call on Cardelstone? He did, said he'd call as soon as he could, that day. Have you told Cardelstone what you've just told me? I have, but not until an hour ago, on my way back from your office, in fact, I met him in Fleet Street and told him. Had he received a call from Marbury? No, never heard of, or seen the man, at least never heard of him until he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, another philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could recognise it as any man they'd ever known, but they couldn't. I know they did, said Spargo, I saw him at the mortuary. Hmm, well, one more question. When Marbury left you, did he put those stamps in his box again as before? No, replied Mr. Coydey. He put them in his right-hand breast-pocket, and he locked up his old box and went off swinging it in his left hand. Spargo went away down Fleet Street, seeing nobody. He muttered to himself, and was still muttering when he got into his room at the office, and what he muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over again. Six hours. Six hours. Those six hours. Next morning the watchman came out with four leaded columns of up-to-date news about the Marbury case, and right across the top of the four ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring. Who saw John Marbury between 3.15 p.m. and 9.15 p.m. on the day preceding his murder? CHAPTER X Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline would bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he kept to himself, that a good many thousands of human beings must have set eyes on John Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in that headline was certain. The problem was, what particular owner or owners of a pair or of many pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why should they remember him? Walters and his wife had reason to remember him. Pridere had reason to remember him. So had Meist, so had William Webster. But between a quarter-past three when he left the London and Universal safe deposit, and a quarter-past nine when he sat down by Webster's side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody seemed to have any recollection of him, except Mr. Fiskey, the Hatter, and he only remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable cloth cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day nobody had come forward with any recollection of him. He must have gone west from seeing Meist, because he bought his cap at Fiskey's. He must eventually have gone south-west, because he turned up at Westminster. But where else did he go? What did he do? To whom did he speak? No answer came to these questions. That shows, observed young Mr. Ronald Bretton, lazing an hour away in Spargo's room at the Watchman, at that particular hour which is neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busymen do nothing. That shows how a chap can go about London, as if he were merely an ant that had strayed into another ant heap, and his own. Nobody notices. You'd better go and read up a little elementary entomology, Bretton, said Spargo. I don't know much about it myself, but I have a pretty good idea that when an ant walks into the highways and byways of a colony to which he doesn't belong, he doesn't survive his intrusion very many seconds. Well, you know what I mean, said Bretton. London's an ant heap, isn't it? One human ant, more or less, doesn't count. This man Marbury must have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. He'd ride on a bus, almost certain. He'd get into a taxi cab. I think that's much more certain because it would be a novelty to him. He'd want some tea. Anyway, he'd be sure to want a drink, and he'd turn in somewhere to get one or the other. He'd buy things in shops. These colonials always do. He'd go somewhere to get his dinner. He'd, but what's the use of enumeration in this case? A mere piling up of platitudes, answered Spargo. What I mean is, continued Bretton, the piles of people must have seen him, and yet it's now hours and hours since your paper came out this morning, and nobody's come forward to tell anything. And when you come to think of it, why should they? Who'd remember an ordinary man in a grey-tweed suit? An ordinary man in a grey-tweed suit, repeated Spargo. Good line. You haven't any copyright in it, remember? It would make a good cross-heading. Bretton laughed. You're a queer chap, Spargo, he said. Seriously, do you think you're getting any nearer anything? Getting nearer something with everything that's done, Spargo answered. You can't start on a business like this without evolving something out of it. You know? Well, said Bretton, to me there's not so much mystery in it. Mr. Aylmurls explained the reason why my address was found on the body. Criedy, the stamp-man, has explained. Spargo suddenly looked up. What? He said sharply. Why, the reason of Marbury's being found where he was found, replied Bretton. Of course, I see it all. Marbury was mooning around Fleet Street. He slipped into Middle-Temple Lane, late as it was, just to see where old Cardal Stone hangs out, and he was set upon and done for. The thing's plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did it. Yes, that's it, agreed Spargo. That's it. He turned over the leaves of the diary which lay on his desk. By the by, he said, looking up with some interest, the adjourned inquest is at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. Are you going? I shall certainly go, answered Bretton. What's more, I'm going to take Miss Aylmurl and her sister, as the gruesome details were over at the first sitting, and as there'll be nothing but this new evidence tomorrow, and as they'd never been in a coroner's court. Mr. Aylmurl be the principal witness tomorrow, interrupted Spargo. I suppose he'll be able to tell a lot more than he told me. I don't see that there's much more to tell, he said, but he added with a sly laugh. I suppose you want some more group copy, eh? Spargo glanced at his watch, rose and picked up his hat. I'll tell you what I want, he said, I want to know who John Marbury was. That would make group copy, who he was twenty, twenty-five, forty years ago, eh? What do you think Mr. Aylmurl can tell, asked Bretton. Mr. Aylmurl, answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, is the only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John Marbury in the past. But he didn't tell me much, perhaps he'll tell the coroner and his jury more. Now, I'm off Bretton, I've an appointment. And leaving Bretton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped into a taxi cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. Well, said Spargo, as he sprang out, how is it? It's all right, answered Rathbury. You can be present, I got the necessary permission. As there are no relations known, there'll only be one or two officials and you, and the safe deposit people, and myself. Come on, it's about time. It sounds, observed Spargo, like an exhumation. Rathbury laughed. Well, we're certainly going to dig up a dead man's secrets, he said. At least we may be going to do so. In my opinion, Mr. Spargo, we'll find some clue in this leather box. Spargo made no answer. They entered the office to be shown into a room where already assembled Mr. Meist, a gentleman who turned out to be the chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had spoken. And in another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that the company possessed duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper authorization having been received from the proper authorities, those present would now proceed to the safe recently tenanted by the late Mr. John Marbury, and take from it the property which he himself had deposited there, a small leather box, which they would afterwards bring to that room and cause to be opened in each other's presence. It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and bars before he and his fellow processionists came to the safe so recently rented by the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased. And at first sight of it, he saw that it was so small an affair that it seemed ludicrous to imagine that it could contain anything of any importance. In fact, it looked to be no more than a plain wooden locker, one amongst many in a small strong room. It reminded Spargo irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had kept his personal belongings and the jammed hearts, sausage rolls, and heartbakes smuggled in from the tuck shop. Marbury's name had been newly painted upon it. The paint was scarcely dry, but when the wooden door, the front door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly opened by the chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and expectations still leapt in the bosoms of the beholders. The duplicate key, Mr. Meist, if you please, commanded the chairman, the duplicate key. Meist, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a curious-looking key. The chairman lifted his hand as if he were about to christen a battleship. The steel door swung slowly back, and there, in a two-foot square cavity, lay the leather box. It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary's room, that the procession became more funeral-like than ever. First walked the chairman, abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary authorization from the all-powerful quarter. Then came Meist, carrying the box, followed two other gentlemen, both legal-lights, charged with watching official and police-inchests. Rathbury and Spargo brought up the rear. He whispered something of his notions to the detective. Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. Let's hope we're going to see something, he said. In the secretary's room a man waited, who touched his forelock respectfully, as the heads of the procession entered. Meist set the box on the table. The man made a musical jingle of keys. The other members of the procession gathered round. Rathbury naturally possessed no key to this box, announced the chairman in grave tones. It becomes our duty to employ professional assistance in opening it. Jobson? He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with a lacquerity. He examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye. It was easy to see that he was anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters, Spargo looked at the box. It was pretty much what it had been described to him as being, a small square box of old cow-hide, very strongly made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a handle projecting from the lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden away somewhere for many a long day. There was a click, a spring, Jobson stepped back. That's it, if you please, sir, he said. The chairman motioned to the high official. If you would be good enough to open the box, sir, he said, our duty is now concluded. As the high official laid his hand on the lid, the other men gathered round with craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted. Somebody sighed deeply, and Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer. The box was empty. Empty as anything that can be empty is empty, thought Spargo. There was literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of a plain, time-worn little receptacle lined out with old-fashioned chint stuff such as our mid-Victorian forefathers were familiar with, and containing nothing. God bless my soul, exclaimed the chairman. This is, dear me, why there is nothing in the box. That, remarked the high official dryly, appears to be obvious. The chairman looked at the secretary. I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Meist, he said, with a half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of an exceptionally fine treat. Valuable! Meist coughed. I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin, he answered. The late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of great value to him. He never permitted it out of his hand until he placed it in the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest value. Could we understand from the evidence of Mr. Crydear, given to the Watchman newspaper, that it was full of papers and other articles, said the chairman. Crydear saw papers in it about an hour before it was brought here. Meist spread out his hands. I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin, he answered. I know nothing more. But why should a man deposit an empty box, began the chairman? I— The high official interposed. That the box is empty is certain, he observed. Did you ever handle it yourself, Mr. Meist? Meist smiled in a superior fashion. I have already observed, Sir, that from the time that his cease entered this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he rented, the box was never out of his hands, he replied. Then there was silence. That last the high official turned to the chairman. Very well, he said, we've made the inquiry. Rathbury take the box away with you and lock it up at the yard. Sir Svago went out with Rathbury and the box, and saw excellent, if mystifying material for the article which had already become the daily feature of his paper. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher. It seemed to Svago as he sat listening to the proceedings at the adjourned in quest next day, that the whole story of what was now world famous, as the Middle Temple murder case, was being reiterated before him for the thousandth time. There was not a detail of the story with which he had not become familiar to fullness. The first proceeding before the coroner had been of a merely formal nature. These were thorough and exhaustive. The representative of the crown, and twelve good men and true of the city of London, were there to hear and to find out, and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John Marbury came by his death. And although he knew all about it, Svago found himself tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and noting how each successive witness contributed as it were a chapter to the story. The story itself ran quite easily, naturally, consecutively. You could make it in sections, and Svago sitting merely to listen made them. 1. The Temple Porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the body. 2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death. The man had been struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow, from some heavy instrument, and had died immediately. 3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was examined, nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of grey paper. 4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man's new fashionable cloth cap, bought at Fiskey's well-known shop in the West End, he chased Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District. 5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the Anglo-Orient Hotel and of his doings while he was in and about there. 6. The purser of the SS Womborino proved that Marbury sailed from Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved himself like any other well-regulated passenger and left the Womborino at Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the last day of his life in just the ordinary manner. 7. Mr. Cridea gave evidence of his wrong contra with Marbury in the matter of the stamps. 8. Mr. Myers told of Marbury's visit to the safe deposit and further proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official examination, to be empty. 9. William Webster retold the story of his encounter with Marbury in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing the meeting between him and the gentleman whom he, Webster, now knew to be Mr. Elmore, a Member of Parliament. All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Elmore MP in the witness box, and Spargo knew and felt that it was the appearance for which the crowded court was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and realistic specials in the Watchman, everybody there had already become well and thoroughly acquainted with the mass of evidence, represented by the nine witnesses who had been in the box before Mr. Elmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with the facts which Mr. Elmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview at the club, which Ronald Bretton arranged. Why then the extraordinary interest which the Member of Parliament's appearance aroused? For everybody was extraordinarily interested, from the coroner downwards to the last man who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the public gallery. All who were there wanted to hear and see the man who met Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his hotel with him, hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the hotel with him for a stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo knew well why the interest was so keen. He knew that Elmore was the only man who could tell the court anything really pertinent about Marbury, who he was, what he was after, what his life had been. He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the witness-box, a tall, handsome, perfectly groomed man whose beard was only slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a well-drilled soldier, who carried about him an air of conscious power. Elmore's two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite Spargo, with Ronald Bretton in attendance upon them. Spargo had encountered their glance as they entered the court, and they had given him a friendly nod and smile. He had watched them from time to time. It was plain to him that they regarded the whole affair as a novel sort of entertainment. They might have been idlerous in some eastern bazaar, listening to the unfolding of many tales from the professional tale-tellers. Now as their father entered the box, Spargo looked at them again. He saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in their cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes. All that they feel, he thought, is a bit of extra excitement at the idea that their father is mixed up in his delightful mystery. Well, now how much is he mixed up? And he turned to the witness-box, and from that moment never took his eyes off the man who now stood in it, for Spargo had ideas about the witness which he was anxious to develop. The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr. Elmore's evidence were disappointed. Elmore, having been sworn and asked a question or two by the coroner, requested permission to tell, in his own way, what he knew of the dead man and of this sad affair. And having received that permission he went on in a calm, unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told Spargo. It sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many years ago. He had lost sight of him for, well, quite twenty years. He had met him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on the evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice, having no particular duty and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn. He had gone back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, and remained awhile with him in his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had afterwards gone out with him. He had given him the advice he wanted. They had strolled across Waterloo Bridge. Shortly afterwards they had parted. That was all he knew. The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already. It had been in print under a big headline in the Watchman. Airemore had now told it again. Having told it, he seemed to consider that his next step was to leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory question or two from the coroner and the foreman of the jury, he made a motion as if to step down. But Spargo, who had been aware since the beginning of the inquiry of the presence of a certain eminent council who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in that gentleman's direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his well-known, apparently indifferent fashion, fixed his monocle in his right eye, and glanced at the tall figure in the witness-box. The fun is going to begin, mattered Spargo. The Treasury representative looked from Airemore to the coroner and made a jerky bow, from the coroner to Airemore, and straightened himself. He looked like a man who is going to ask indifferent questions about the state of the weather, or how Smith's wife was last time you heard of her, or if stops are likely to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this man before, and he knew many signs of his invoice and manner and glance. I want to ask you a few questions, Mr Airemore, about your acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some time ago, began the suave, seemingly careless voice. A considerable time ago, answered Airemore. How long, roughly speaking? I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years. Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way you have described to us. Never ever heard from him? No, ever heard of him? No. But when you met, you knew each other at once. Well, almost at once. Almost at once. Then I take it you were very well known to each other, twenty or twenty-two years ago. We were, yes, well known to each other. Close friends. I said we were acquaintances. Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time? His name? It was Marbury. Marbury, the same name. Where did you know him? I, oh, here in London. What was he? Do you mean what was his occupation? What was his occupation? I believe he was concerned in financial matters. Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him? Well, yes, on occasions. What was his business address in London? I can't remember that. What was his private address? That I never knew. Where did you transact your business with him? Well, we met now and then. Where? What place? Office, resort. I can't remember particular places. Sometimes in the city. In the city. Where in the city? Mansion house or Lombard Street? Or St Paul's Churchyard? Or the Old Bailey? Or where? I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange. Oh, was he a member of that institution? Not that I know of. Were you? Certainly not. What were the dealings that you had with him? Financial dealings, small ones. How long did your acquaintance ship with him last? What period did it extend over? I should say about six months to nine months. No more? Certainly no more. It was quite a slight acquaintance ship then. Oh, quite. And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for over 20 years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him. Well, I was willing to do him a good turn. I was interested in what he told me the other evening. I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or two. You are a public man and the facts about the lives of public men are more or less public property. You are represented in this work of popular reference as coming to this country in 1902 from Argentina, where you made a considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that you were in London acquainted with Mr Marbury about the years, say, 1890 to 1892. Did you then leave England soon after knowing Marbury? I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892. I am not sure which. We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr Aylmore. We want to solve the important question. Who is, who was John Marbury and how did he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who knows anything about him. What was your business before you left England? I was interested in financial affairs, like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business? In London, of course. At what address? For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His brow had flushed, his moustache had begun to twitch, and now he squared his shoulders and faced his questioner defiantly. I resent these questions about my private affairs, he snapped out. Possibly, but I must put them, I repeat my last question, and I refuse to answer it. Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you were telling us of, when you knew John Marbury? I refuse to answer that question also. The Treasury Council sat down and looked at the coroner. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12 The New Witness The voice of the coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, wrote the silence. He was addressing the witness. I am sure, Mr. Aylmore, he said, there is no wish to trouble you with unnecessary questions, but we are here to get at the truth of this matter of John Marbury's death, and as you are the only witness we have had who knew him personally. Aylmore turned impatiently to the coroner. I have every wish to respect your authority, sir, he exclaimed, and I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when I met him the other evening, but I resent being questioned on my private affairs of twenty years ago. I very much resent it. Any question that is really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that seem to me wholly foreign to the scope of this inquiry. The Treasury Council rose again, his manner had become of the quietest, and Spargo again became keenly attentive. Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore, which will not yield him offence, he remarked dryly. He turned once more to the witness regarding him as if with interest. Can you tell us of any person now living who knew Marbury in London at the time under discussion, twenty to twenty-two or three years ago, he asked. Aylmore shook his head angrily. No, I can't, he replied. And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at that time who knew you both. Possibly at that time, but when I returned to England, my business and my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don't know of anybody who knew Marbury then, anybody. The Council turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him. Spargo saw the clerk make a side-long motion of his head towards the door of the court. The Council looked again at the witness. One more question. You told the court a little time since that you parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of Waterloo Bridge, at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve. About that time. And at that place? Yes. That is all I want to ask you, Mr Aylmore. Just now, said the Council. He turned to the coroner. I'm going to ask you, sir, at this point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence of the police authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important nature, and I think that this is the stage at which it ought to be given to you and the jury. If you will be pleased to direct that David Lyell be called. Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had sat behind the Treasury Council make his way there. There came into view, I should buy the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident young man, evidently a Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being called, stepped jauntly and readily into the place which the Member of Parliament just vacated. He took the oath, Scotch fashion, with the same readiness, and turned easily to the Treasury Council. And Spargo, glancing quickly round, saw that the Court was breathless with anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new witness was going to tell something, which related to the evidence just given by Elmore. Your name is David Lyell. That is my name, sir. And you reside at 23 Cumbrae Side Kilmarnock, Scotland. I do. What are you, Mr Lyell? Traveller, sir, for the firm of Mesa Stevenson, Robertson and Souter Distillers of Kilmarnock. Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally. They do. Once every six weeks, I go to Paris. On the evening of June 21st last, when you were in London on your way to Paris, I was. I believe you stayed at De Caesars Hotel at the Blackfriars End of the embankment. I did. It's handy for the continental trains. About half past eleven, or a little later that evening, did you go along the embankment on the Temple Garden Side for a walk? I did, sir. I'm a bad sleeper, and it's a habit of mine to take a walk of half an hour or so, last thing before I go to bed. How far did you walk? As far as Waterloo Bridge. Always on the Temple Side? Just so, sir, straight along on that side. Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody you knew? Yes, Mr Elmore, the Member of Parliament. Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder's head was averted, the younger was staring at the witness steadily, and Bretton was nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining silk hat. Mr Elmore, the Member of Parliament. Repeated the council's swar of clear tones. Oh, and how did you come to recognise Mr Elmore, Member of Parliament? Well, sir, in this way. At home, I'm the Secretary of our Liberal Ward Club. And last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to arrange with the Principal Speakers. I got Mr Elmore to come and speak, and naturally I met him several times in London and in Scotland. So that you knew him quite well? Oh, yes, sir. Do you see him now, Mr Lyell? Lyell smiled and half turned in the box. Why, of course, he answered, There is Mr Elmore. There is Mr Elmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr Elmore close to Waterloo Bridge. How close? Well, to be exact. Mr Elmore came down the steps from the bridge onto the embankment. Alone? No. Who was with him? A man, sir. Did you know the man? No. But seeing who he was with, I took a good look at him. I haven't forgotten his face. You haven't forgotten his face. Mr Lyell, has anything recalled that face to you within this last day or two? Yes, sir, indeed. What? The picture of the man they say was murdered, John Marbury. You're sure of that? I'm as certain, sir, as at my name's what it is. It is your belief that Mr Elmore, when you met him, was accompanied by the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury. It is, sir. Very well. Now, having seen Mr Elmore and his companion, what did you do? Oh, I just turned and walked after them. You walked after them? They were going eastward then. They were walking by the way. I'd come. You followed them, eastward. I did. I was going back to the hotel, you see. What were they doing? Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir. How far did you follow them? I followed them until they came to the embankment lodge of Middle Temple Lane, sir. And then, weister, they turned in there, and I went straight on to the Kaiser's and to my bed. There was a deeper silence in court at that moment, than at any other period of the long day, and it grew deeper when the quiet, keen voice put the next question. You swear on your oath that you saw Mr Elmore take his companion into the temple by the embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the occasion in question? I do. I could swear no other, sir. Can you tell us as near as possible what time that would be? Yes, it was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve. The Treasury Council nodded to the coroner, and the coroner, after a whispered conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the witness. You have only just given this information to the police, I understand, he said. Yes, sir, I have been in Paris and in Amiens, and only returned by this morning's boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the papers, the English papers, and seen the dead man's photographs, I determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland Yard as soon as I got to London this morning. Nobody else wanted to ask Mr David Lyell any questions, and he stepped down. And Mr Elmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the coroner's attention. May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir, he began? Uh, the Treasury Council was on his feet, this time stern and implacable. I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr Elmore in the box, and that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or even to answer questions, he said. And before you allow him to make any explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness, whom I wish to interpose at this stage. That witness is… Mr Elmore turned almost angrily to the coroner. After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be heard at once, he said with emphasis. As matters stand at present, it looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury. Whereas if I am allowed to make an explanation, I must respectfully ask that before Mr Elmore is allowed to make any explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard, said the Treasury Council sternly. There are weighty reasons. I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr Elmore, if you wish to give an explanation, said the coroner. He turned to the Council. Who is this other witness, he asked. Elmore stepped back, and Spargo noticed that the younger of his two daughters was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no distrust of her father in her face. She was anxious. She too slowly turned to the next witness. This man was the porter of the embankment lodge of Middle Temple Lane. The Treasury Council put a straight question to him at once. You see that gentleman, he said, pointing to Elmore. Do you know him as an inmate of the temple? The man's stare detail more evidently confused. Why, certainly, sir, he answered quite well, sir. Very good. And now what name do you know him by? The man grew evidently more bewildered. Name, sir. Why, Mr Anderson, sir, he replied. Mr Anderson. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13 Under Suspicion A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed court, as this man in the witness box gave this answer. It signified many things, that there were people present who had expected some such dramatic development, that there were others present who had not, that the answer itself was only a prelude to further developments. And Spargo, looking narrowly about him, saw that the answer had aroused different feelings in Elmore's two daughters. The elder one had dropped her face until it was quite hidden. The younger was sitting bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine bewilderment. And, for the first time, Elmore made no response to her. But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no stopping the Treasury Council now. He was going to get at some truth in his own merciless fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the coroner, had whispered a word to the solicitor who sat close by him, and now he turned again to the witness. So you know that gentleman, make sure now, as Mr Anderson, an inmate of the temple? Yes, sir. You don't know him by any other name? No, sir, I don't. No, sir, I don't. How long have you known him by that name? I should say two or three years, sir. See him go in and out regularly? No, sir, not regularly. How often, then? Now and then, sir, perhaps once a week. Tell us what you know of Mr Anderson's goings in and out? Well, sir, I might see him two nights running. Then I might not see him again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir. You say nights. Do I understand that you never see Mr Anderson except at night? Yes, sir. I've never seen him except at night. Always about the same time, sir. What time? Just about midnight, sir. Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June the 21st to 22nd? I do, sir. Did you see Mr Anderson enter then? Yes, sir, just after 12. Was he alone? No, sir. There was another gentleman with him. Remember anything about that other gentleman? Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through that the other gentleman had grey clothes on. Had grey clothes on? You didn't see his face? Not to remember it, sir. I don't remember anything but what I told you, sir. That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they'd pass through? Straight up the lane, sir. Do you know where Mr Anderson's rooms in the temple are? Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court. Now, on that night in question, did Mr Anderson leave again by your lodge? No, sir. You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple Lane next morning? I did, sir. Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit? No, sir, I didn't. He never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen who live in the temple bring friends in late of nights. I never gave the matter any particular thought. Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to come here? No, sir, never to anybody. And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but Mr Anderson? No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson. The coroner glanced at the council. I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr Elmore to give the explanation he offered a few minutes ago, he said. Do you suggest anything? I suggest, sir, that if Mr Elmore desires to give any explanation, he should return to the witness box and submit himself to examination again on his oaths. replied the council. The matter is in your hands. The coroner turned to Elmore. Do you object to that? he asked. Elmore stepped boldly forward and into the box. I object to nothing, he said in clear tones, except to being asked to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you like arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will answer them so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me questions about matters of twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or not as I see fit. And I may as well say that I will take all the consequences of my silence or my speech. The Treasury Council rose again. Very well, Mr Elmore, he said. I will put certain questions to you. You heard the evidence of David Liel. I did. Was that quite true as regards yourself? Quite true. Absolutely true. And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true? Equally true. Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning before these witnesses came on the scene was not true. No, I do not. Most emphatically I do not. It was true. True. You told me on oath that you parted from John Marbury on Waterloo Bridge. Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the Anglo-Orient Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly afterwards we parted. I did not say where we parted. I see there is a shorthand writer here who is taking everything down. Ask him if that is not exactly what I said. A reference to the stenographer proved Elmore to be right, and the Treasury Council showed plain annoyance. Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open streets after crossing Waterloo Bridge, he said. Now Elmore smiled. I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten any more than I am for your understanding, he said, with a sneer. I said what I now repeat. Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, and shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth. Indeed, perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth, since you have admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely correct. Perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did part. I will, willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain Court. Then, to reiterate, it was you who took Marbury into the temple that night. It was certainly I who took Marbury into the temple that night. There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here, at any rate, was fat, solid, substantial fat, and Spargo began to see a possible course of events which he had not anticipated. That is a candid admission, Mr Elmore. I suppose you see a certain danger to yourself in making it. I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it. Very good. Why did you not make it before? For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for the purpose of this inquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I asked to be allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation. As soon as Mr Lyle had left this box, I was not allowed to do so. I am willing to make it now. Make it then. It is simply this, said Elmore, turning to the coroner. I have found it convenient during the past three years to rent a simple set of chambers in the temple where I could occasionally, very occasionally as a rule, go late at night. I also found it convenient, for my own reasons, with which I think no one has anything to do, to rent those chambers under the name of Mr Anderson. It was to my chambers that Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight with which we are dealing. He was not in then more than five minutes at the very outside. I parted from him at my outer door, and I understood that he would leave the temple by the way we had entered, and would drive or walk straight back to his hotel. That is the whole truth. I wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told all this at first. I had reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered necessary, that I parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after midnight. What reasons were, or are they, which prevented you from telling all this at first, asked the Treasury Council? Reasons which are private to me? Will you tell them to the Court? No. Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in Fountain Court, which you tenant under the name of Anderson? Yes, to fetch a document which I had in my keeping and had kept for him for twenty years or more. A document of importance? A very great importance. He would have had it on him when he was, as we believe he was, murdered and robbed. He had it on him when he left me. Will you tell us what it was? Certainly not. In fact, you won't tell us any more than you choose to tell. I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night. Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told this Court? That I shall not answer. Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this Court more about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years ago? I also declined to answer that. The Treasury Council made a little movement of his shoulders and turned to the coroner. I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this inquiry, he said quietly. For a week, I sent in the coroner, turning to the jury. The crowd surged out of the Court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming, spectators, witnesses, jury men, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all mixed up together, and Spargo elbowing his own way out, and busily reckoning up the value of the new complexions put on everything by the day's work, suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he found himself gazing at Jesse Elmore. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This lip of ox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 14 The Silver Ticket With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl aside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a quiet by-street. He looked down at her as she stood recovering her breath. Yes, he said quietly. Jesse Elmore looked up at him, smiling faintly. I want to speak to you, she said. I must speak to you. Yes, said Spargo, but the others, your sister, Bratton, I let them on purpose to speak to you, she answered. They knew I did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself. Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with him. Tea, he said, is what you want. I know a queer old-fashioned place close by here, where you can get the best china tea in London. Come and have some. Jesse Elmore smiled and followed her guide obediently, and Spargo said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, his fingers playing fan-less tunes outside, until he had installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her. You won't, he said, to talk to me about your father. Yes, she answered, I do. Why? asked Spargo. The girl gave him a searching look. Ronald Bratton says you're the man who's written all those special articles in the Watchman about the Marbury case, she answered. Are you? I am, said Spargo. Then you're a man of great influence, she went on. You can stir the public mind. Mr. Spargo, what are you going to write about my father and today's proceedings? Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He seized without ceremony upon a piece of the hot-buttered tea-cake, and bit a great lump out of it. Frankly, he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, frankly, I don't know, I don't know yet, but I'll tell you this, it's best to be candid. I shouldn't allow myself to be prejudiced or biased in making up my conclusions by anything that you may say to me, understand? Jesse Elmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners. I'm not wanting to prejudice or bias you, she said. All I want is that you should be very sure before you say anything. Now be sure, said Spargo. Don't bother, is the tea all right? Beautiful, she answered with a smile that made Spargo look at her again. Delightful, Mr. Spargo, tell me, what did you think about what just happened? Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea. Look here, he said suddenly. I'm no great hand at talking. I can write pretty decently when I have a good story to tell, but I don't talk an awful lot because I can never express what I mean, unless I've got a pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. When I write my article this evening, I'll get all these things marshalled in proper form and I shall write clearly about them. But I'll tell you one thing I do think. I wish your father had made a clean breast of things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told everything when he first went into that box. Why? she asked. Because he's now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion around himself. People will think, heaven knows what they'll think. They already know that he knows more about Marbury than he'll tell that. But does he? she interrupted quickly. Do you think he does? Yes, said Spargo with emphasis. I do, a lot more, if he had only been explicit at first. However, he wasn't. Now it's done, as things stand. Look here, does it strike you that your father is in a very serious position? Serious, she exclaimed. Dangerous, here's the fact. He's admitted that he took Marbury to his rooms in the temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury's found robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off. Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him, for the sake of robbing him of whatever he had on him? She laughed scornfully. My father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo. Maybe, answered Spargo, but millionaires have been known to murder men who held secrets. Secrets, she exclaimed. Have some more tea, said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. Look here, this way it is. The theory that people, some people, will build up, I won't say that it hasn't suggested it's us to me, is this. There's some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship, connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty-odd years ago, must be. There's some mystery about your father's life twenty-odd years ago, must be, or else he'd have answered those questions. Very well, ha-ha, says the general public, now we have it. Marbury, says the general public, was a man who had a hold on Elmore. He turned up, Elmore trapped him into the temple, killed him to preserve his own secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as a blind. Nay? People will say that, she exclaimed. Cock sure, they're saying it. Her childhood dozen of them say it in more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course they'll say it. Why, what else could they say? For a moment Jesse Elmore sat, looking silently into her teacup. Then she turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new interest in what remained of the teacakes. Is that what you're going to say in your article tonight? She asked quietly. No, replied Spargo promptly. It isn't. I'm going to sit on the fence tonight. Besides, the cases subdued he say. All I'm going to do is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest. The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on Spargo's big fist. Is it what you think? She asked in a low voice. Anna, bright, no, exclaimed Spargo. It isn't. It isn't. I don't think it. I think there's a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of Marbury's death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot about Marbury that he won't tell. But I'm certain sure that he neither killed Marbury, nor knows anything whatever about his death. And I'm out to clear this mystery up and mean to do it. Nothing will make me more glad than to clear your father. I say, do have some more teacake. We'll have fresh ones and fresh tea. No, thank you, she said smiling, and thank you for what you just said. I'm going now, Mr. Spargo. You've done me good. Oh, rot, exclaimed Spargo. Nothing, nothing. I just told you what I'm thinking. You must go. He saw her into a taxi cab presently, and when she had gone, stood vacantly staring after the cab, until a hand clapped him smartly on the shoulder. Turning, he found raspberry grinning at him. All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you, he said. Well, it's a pleasant change to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Look here. Are you going to start your writing just now? I'm not going to start my writing, as you call it, until after I've dined at seven o'clock and given myself time to digest my modest dinner. Answered Spargo, what is it? Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box, said Rathbury. I've got it in my room, and I'd like to examine it for myself. Come on. The thing's empty. Said Spargo. There might be a false bottom in it, remarked Rathbury. One never knows. Here, jump into this. He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi cab and following. Bade the driver go straight to the yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and himself into the drab visage-droom in which the journalists had seen him before. What do you think of today's doing, Spargo? He asked as he proceeded to unlock a cupboard. I think, said Spargo, that some of you fellows must have had your ears set to tingling. That's so, assented Rathbury. Of course, the next thing'll be to find out all about the Mr. Elmore of 20 years since. When a man won't tell you where he lived 20 years ago, what he was exactly doing, what his precise relationship with another man was, why, then, you've just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at work on the life history of Stephen Elmore Esquire MP already. You bet. Well, now, Spargo, here's the famous box. The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which he had been searching and placed it on the desk. Spargo threw back the lid and looked inside, measuring the inner capacity against the exterior lines. No false bottom in that, Rathbury, he said. There's just the outer leather case and the inner lining of this old bed-hanging stuff, and that's all. There's no room for any false bottom or anything of that sort, do you see? Rathbury also sized up the box's capacity. Looks like it, he said disappointedly. Well, what about the lid, then? I remember there was an old box like this in my grandmother's farmhouse where I was reared. There was a pocket in the lid. Let's see if there's anything of the sort here. He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the tips of his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a sharp exclamation. By George Spargo, he said, I don't know about any pocket, but there's something under this lining. Feels like, here, you feel, there, and there. Spargo put a finger on the places indicated. Yes, that's so, he agreed. Feels like two cards, a large and a small one, and the small one's harder than the other. Better cut that lining out, Rathbury. That, remarked Rathbury, producing a pen knife, is just what I'm going to do. We'll cut along this seam. He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining of the lid and, looking into the pocket that's made, drew out two objects which he dropped on his blotching pad. A child's photograph, he said, glancing at one of them. But what on earth is that? The object to which he pointed was a small oblong piece of thin, much-worn silver about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat of arms, almost obliterated by rubbing. On the other, similarly worn down by friction, was the figure of a horse. That's a curious object, remarked Spargo, picking it up. I never saw anything like that before. What can it be? Don't know. I never saw anything of the sort either, said Rathbury. Some old token, I should say. This photo. Ah, you see the photographer's name and address have been torn away or broken off. There's nothing left but just two letters of what's apparently been the name of the town, see? E-R. That's all there is. Portrait of a baby, eh? Spargo gave what might have been called in anybody else but him, a casual glance at the baby's portrait. He picked up the silver ticket again and turned it over and over. Look here, Rathbury, he said. Let me take this silver thing. I know where I can find out what it is. At least I think I do. All right, agreed the detective. But take the greatest care of it and don't tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. No connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember? All right, said Spargo. Trust me. He put the silver ticket in his pocket and went back to the office, wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his article that evening and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street intent on seeking peculiar information. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15 Market Milkaster The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view, when he turned out of the Watchman office, lay well hidden from ordinary sight and knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts, the like of which is not elsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of course, a club. Otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of congenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends and acquaintances to gather round you. You register yourselves under a name of your own choosing. You take a house and furnish it according to your means and your taste. You comply with the very easy letter of the law. And there you are. Keep within that easy letter and you can do what you please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a small paradise of your owner of this description than to lounge about Fleet Street bars. The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the Octonuminoe, who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and Greek was a dark mystery. There it was, however, on a tiny brass plate you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow, that it seemed as if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a small court with high walls around you and a smell of printer's ink in your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper, crates of printing material, jars of printing ink. After falling over a few of these, you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After a lot of twisting and turning, you came to the very top of the house and found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself in a small entrissole, somewhat artistically painted. The whole and sole work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of lumber and paint pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you saw the brass plate and its fearful name and beneath it the formal legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on. And if you were a member, you went in, and if you weren't a member, you tinkled an electric bell and asked to see a member, if you knew one. Spargo, a young man, was not a member, but he knew many members and he tinkled the bell and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a young gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly hair that would have done credit to Antonus, came forth in due course and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled. Had we known you were coming, said Mr. Starkey, we'd have had a brass band on the stairs. I want to come in, remarked Spargo. Sure, said Mr. Starkey, that's what you've come for. Well, stand out of the way then and let's get in, said Spargo. Look here, he continued when they had penetrated into a small vestibule. Doesn't old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every night? Every night is true as the clock, my son Spargo. Crowfoot puts his nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily column wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects of their spotting or winner tomorrow, answered Mr. Starkey. It's five minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him? A word with him, answered Spargo, a mere word, or two. He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the greater object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a small bar. Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. Name it, my son, commanded Starkey. Try the octonumenoid very extra-special, two of them, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo. I'll think about being a member of this anti-room of the Infernal Regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a root-map of the way from Fleet Street, answered Spargo, taking his glass. Phew! What an atmosphere! We're considering a ventilating fan, said Starkey. I'm on the House Committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. But Templeton, of the Bulletin, you know Templeton, he says what we want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard, says no club is proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap, second-hand dealer, don't you know, what has a beauty to dispose of in old Sheffield Plate. If you were on our House Committee, Spargo, old man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or for the ventilating fan? You see. There is Crowfoot, said Spargo. Shouts him over here, Starkey, before anybody else collars him. Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier. A big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and beneath a prominent nose. A pair of keen blue eyes looked out from beneath a tussled mass of quinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap. His attire was a carelessly put-on Norfolk suit of brown tweed. He looked half unkempt, half groomed, but knotted at the collar of his flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive cricket clubs in the world. And everybody knew that in his day there were have been a mighty figure in the public eye. Hi, Crowfoot, shouted Starkey among the din and babble. Crowfoot, Crowfoot, come over here. There's a chap dying to see you. Yes, that's the way to get him, isn't it, said Spargo. Here I'll get him myself. He went across the room and greeted the old sporting journalists. Not a quiet word with you, he said. This place is like a pandemonium. Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. Always is this time, he said, but it's companionable. What is it, Spargo? Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. I should say, he said, that you know as much about sporting matters as any man writing about it. Well, I think you might say it with truth, answered Crowfoot. And old sporting matters, said Spargo. Yes, and old sporting matters, replied the other with a sudden flash of the eye. Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you know. Well, there's something that's interesting me greatly just now anyway, said Spargo, and I believe it's got to do with old and I came to you for information about it, believing you to be the only man I know of that could tell anything. Yes, what is it? asked Crowfoot. Spargo drew out an envelope and took from it the carefully wrapped up silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on Crowfoot's outstretched palm. Can you tell me what that is? he asked. Another sudden flash came into Crowfoot's eyes. He eagerly turned the silver ticket over. God bless my soul! he exclaimed. Why did you get this? Never mind just now, replied Spargo. You know what it is. Certainly I know what it is, but I've not seen one of these things for Lord knows how many years. Makes me feel something like a young again, said Crowfoot. Quite a young one. But what is it? Spargo. Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic device was almost worn away. It's one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at Market Milcaster, answered Crowfoot. That's what it is. One of the old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There on the obverse figure of a running horse. Oh yes, that's what it is. Bless me, most interesting. Where's Market Milcaster, inquired Spargo? Don't know it. Market Milcaster, replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket over and over, is what the topographers call a decayed town in Elmsshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it ended up. There used to be a famous race meeting there in June every year. It's nearly forty years since that meeting fell through. I went to it often when I was a lad, often. And you say that's a ticket for the stand? Oh, Spargo. This is one of fifty silver tickets or passes or whatever you like to call them, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses of the town, answered Crowfoot. I remember, considered a great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its possessor, for life, mind you, to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race dinner. Where on earth did you get this, Spargo? Spargo took the ticket and carefully rewrapped it, this time putting it in his purse. I'm awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot, he said. I know where I got it just now, but I'll promise you that I will tell you and all about it too, as soon as my tongue's free to do so. A mystery, eh? suggested Crowfoot. Considerable, answered Spargo. Don't mention to anyone that I showed it to you. You shall know everything eventually. All right, my boy, all right, said Crowfoot. I'd have things turned up, isn't it? Now I'll wager anything, half a dozen of these old things outside Market Milkaster itself. As I said, there were only fifty and they were all in possession of burgesses. They were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I've been in Market Milkaster myself since the races were given up and I've seen these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces and oh yes. Spargo caught it an ocean. How'd you get to Market Milkaster? He asked. Paddington, replied Crowfoot. It's a goodish way. I wonder, said Spargo, if there's any old sporting man there who would remember things, anything about this ticket, for instance. Old sporting man, exclaimed Crowfoot. He got. But no, he must be dead. Anyhow, if he isn't dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. Old Ben Quarterpage. He was an auctioneer in the town and a rare sportsman. I must go down there, said Spargo. I'll see if he's alive. Then if you go down, suggested Crowfoot, go to the old yellow dragon in the high street. It's a fine old place. Quarterpage's place of business and his private house were exactly opposite the dragon. But I'm afraid you'll find him dead. It's five and twenty years since I was milk-caster and he was an old bird then. Let's see now. If old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he'll be ninety years of age. Well, I've known men of ninety who were spry enough. Even in my bitter experience, said Spargo, I know one now, my own grandfather. Well, the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I'll tell you all about it some day. Have another drink, suggested Crowfoot. But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said. He still had something to do. And he got himself away from the Upton Humanoid, in spite of Sparky, who wished to start a general debate on the wisest way of expending the club's ready money balance and went back to the Watchman. And there he sought the presence of the editor, and in spite of the fact that it was the busiest hour of the night, he was hesitant with him for the extraordinary space of ten minutes. And after that Spargo went home and fell into bed. But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at Paddington, suitcase in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market Milcaster. And in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an old-fashioned bedroom, looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And there, right opposite him, he saw an ancient house, old brick, ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was the name, Benjamin Quarterpage. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16 The Yellow Dragon Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey in that old-fashioned, lavender-scented bedroom, visit his mind in further speculations of his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He had no particularly clear plan. The one thing he was certain of was that in the old leather box which the man whom he knew as John Marbury had deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he and Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets of Market Milcaster racecourse and that he, Spargo, had come to Market Milcaster with the full approval of his editor in an endeavour to trace it. How was he going to set about this difficult task? The first thing said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie is to have a look round. That will be no long job. For he had already seen as he approached the town and as he drove from the station to the Yellow Dragon Hotel that Market Milcaster was a very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide thoroughfare, the High Street, with small streets leading from it on either side. In the High Street seemed to be everything that the town could show the ancient parish church, the town hall, the Market Cross, the principal houses and shops, the bridge beneath which ran the river whereupon ships had once come up to the town before it's mouth four miles away became impassibly silted up. It was a bright, clean little town, but there were few signs of trade in it and Spargo had been quick to notice that in the Yellow Dragon a big, rambling old hostelory reminiscent of the old coaching days there seemed to be little doing. He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee room immediately on his arrival. The coffee room was big enough to accommodate 150 people, but beyond himself an old gentleman and his daughter, evidently tourists, two young men talking golf and a man who looked like an artist and an unmistakable honeymooning couple. There was no one in it. There was little traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo's windows, little passage of people to and fro on the sidewalks. Here a countryman drove a lazy cow as lazily along. There a farmer in his light carts at idly chatting with an apron to tradesmen who had come out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything lay the quiet of the sunlight of the summer afternoon and through the open windows stole a faint sweet scent of the new moan hay lying in the meadows outside the old houses. Veritable sleepy hollow mused Spargo. Let's go down and see if there's anybody to talk to. Great Scott! To think that I was in the poisonous atmosphere of the Octone Humanoid only 16 hours ago. Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally landed in the wide stone paved hall of the old hotel and with a short instinct turned into the bar parlor which he had noticed when he entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable bow window department looking out upon the high street and with furnished and ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country town hotels. There were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards which had certainly been made a century before and seemed likely to endure for a century or two longer. There were old prints of the road and the chase painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats. There were foxes' masks on the wall and a monster pike in a glass case on a side table. There were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and an antique snuff box set between them. Also there was a small old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room and a new-fashioned young woman seated behind it who was yawning over a piece of fancy needlework and looked at Spargo when he entered, as Andromeda may have looked at Perseus when he made a rival at her rock and Spargo, treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany it, noted the look and dropped into the newest chair. This, he remarked, eyeing the damsel with inquiry appears to me to be a very quiet place. Quiet! exclaimed the lady. Quiet! That, continued Spargo, is precisely what I observed. Quiet! I see that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude thus far that the place is undoubtedly quiet. The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a new specimen and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and coming out into the room took a chair near his own. It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here, she remarked. It's about all that one ever does see. Then many, asked Spargo, do the inhabitants die much of unination? The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. Oh, you're joking, she said. It's well you can, nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number. Back numbers make pleasant reading at times, murmured Spargo, and the back waters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in this town, then, he added in a louder voice. Nothing, replied his companion. It's fast asleep. I came here from Birmingham and I didn't know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months. Ah, said Spargo, what you are suffering from is dullness. You must have an antidote. Dullness, exclaimed the damsel. That's the right word for market milkaster. There's just a few regular old customers dropping here of a morning between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in, perhaps during the afternoon. Then at night a lot of old fogies sit round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times indeed. If they want in market milkaster is new times. Spargo pricked up his ears. Well, but it's rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old times. He said, I love it. Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here, remarked the barmaid. Looking to-night any time after eight o'clock and if you don't know more about the history of market milkaster by ten than you did when you sat down. You must be death. They come and drop in here every night regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that they couldn't go to bed unless they told each other stories about old days which I should think they've heard a thousand times already. Very old man, asked Spargo. The fusillas replied the lady. This old Mr. Quarterpage crossed the way there, the auctioneer, but he doesn't do any business now. They say he's ninety, though I'm sure you wouldn't take him for more than seventy. Mr. Lummis further down the street. He's eighty-one. And Mr. Skeen and Mr. Kaye, their regular patriarchs. I've sat here and listened to them till I believe I could write a history of market milkaster since the year one. I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation, said Spargo. He chatted a while longer in the fashion calculated to cheer the barmaid's spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town until seven o'clock, the dragon's hour for dinner. There were no more people in the big coffee room than there had been at lunch and Spargo was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the bar parlour where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred party in which the old townsman had been reported to him to sit. And mind you don't sit in one of their chairs, said the barmaid, warningly. They all have their own special chairs and their special pipes there on that rack and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if anybody touched pipe or chair. But you're all right there and you'll hear all they've got to say. To Spargo, who have never seen anything of the sort before and who, 24 hours previously would have believed the thing impossible the proceedings of that evening in the bar parlour of the yellow dragon at market milkaster were like a sudden transference to the 18th century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the high street an old gentleman walked in and the barmaid, catching Spargo's eye gave him a glance which showed that the play was about to begin. Good evening, Mr. K, said the barmaid, your first tonight. Evening, said Mr. K and took a seat. Scowled around him silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman clad in rusty black clothes with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe of grey whisker and of a luminous black neck cloth folded several times round his neck and by the expression of his countenance was inclined to look on life severely. Nobody been in yet, asked Mr. K. No, but here's Mr. Lamis and Mr. Skeen, replied the barmaid. Two more old gentlemen entered the bar parlor. Of these one was a little dapper-figured man clad in clothes of an eminently sporting cut and a very loud pattern. He sported a bright blue necktie, a flower in his lapel and a tall white hat which he wore at a rakish angle. The other was a big portly bearded man with a false daffy and swagger and a rakish eye who chapped the barmaid as he entered and gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed to meet them and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies. Well, he said, here's three of us and there's a symposium. Wait a bit, wait a bit, said the dapper-little man, Grandpa will be here in a minute. We'll start fair. The barmaid glanced out of the window. There's Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now, she announced. Shall I put the things on the table? I put them on, my dear, put them on, commanded the fat man. Have all in readiness. The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, set out upon it a fine old punch-ball and the various ingredients for making punch, a box of cigars and an old leaden tobacco-box and she had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening's discourse when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time knowing that this was the venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage of whom Crowfoot had told him he took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight which were positively boyish. Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety, a middle-sized, dirtyly built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, clear-eyed and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was ruddy, as a sun-warmed pippin. His hair was still only silvered. His hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whip-cord were smart and jaunty. His neckerchief was gay as if he had been going to a fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease of life before him even at his age. Spargo in his corner sat fascinated while the old gentleman began their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them. The five had the end of the bar parlor to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony. When it was ladled out each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag. Other folk came and went. The old gentleman were oblivious of anything but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer andched a dally in the presence of the barmaid. Such looked with awe at the patriarchs. As for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past. Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when she said that she believed she could write a history of market milk-aster since the year one. After discussing the weather, the local events of the day and various personal matters the old fellows got to reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of racing days at market milk-aster and at that Spargo determined on a bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the silver ticket from his purse he laid it, the heraldic device uppermost with the arm of his hand and approaching the group with a polite bow said quietly Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that? End of chapter 16