The Middle Temple Murder 3 – Fletcher · Verses Across
Literature · Detective Fiction
The Middle Temple Murder 3The Clue of the Cap
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Literature · Detective Fiction
The Middle Temple Murder 3
The Clue of the Cap
FletcherEnglish
Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves.
“Isn’t Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?” he suddenly asked.
“Number seven,” replied the official. “What’s your case—when’s it down?”
“I haven’t got a case,” said Spargo. “I’m a pressman—reporter, you know.”
The official stuck out a finger.
“Round the corner—first to your right—second on the left,” he said automatically. “You’ll find plenty of room—nothing much doing there this morning.”
He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors.
“Upon my honour!” he muttered. “Upon my honour, I really don’t know what I’ve come up here for. I’ve no business here.”
Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her burlesque speech: it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a hope of seeing this girl again—why, he could not then think.
Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted his hat. Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a question.
“Yes,” said Spargo. “I—the fact is, I remembered that you said you were coming up here, and I came after you. I want—when you’ve time—to have a talk, to ask you a few questions. About—this affair of the dead man, you know.”
Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm.
“Look here,” he said. “When this case of mine is over, I can give you as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me a favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery—round there, and up the stairs—and I’m a bit pressed for time—I’ve a solicitor waiting for me. You take them—there’s a good fellow; then, when the case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. Here—I’ll introduce you all—no ceremony. Miss Aylmore—Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr. Spargo—of the Watchman. Now, I’m off!” Breton turned on the instant; his gown whisked round a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at two smiling girls. He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years.
“That is very cool of Ronald,” observed the elder young lady. “Perhaps his scheme doesn’t fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo? Pray don’t—”
“Oh, it’s all right!” said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly stupid. “I’ve nothing to do. But—where did Mr. Breton say you wished to be taken?”
“Into the gallery of number seven court,” said the younger girl promptly. “Round this corner—I think I know the way.”
Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving that morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led the two young ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries from which idlers and specially-interested spectators may see and hear the proceedings which obtain in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks wherein justice is dispensed at the Law Courts. There was no one else in that gallery; the attendant in the corridor outside seemed to be vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter it, and he presently opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way down the stairs to meet him.
“Nothing much going on here this morning,” he whispered behind a raised hand. “But there’s a nice breach case in number five—get you three good seats there if you like.”
Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He had decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and her sister about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a lucky dog to be in possession of such a charming future wife and an equally charming sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss Jessie Aylmore’s side, and looked around him as if he were much awed by his surroundings.
“I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?” he whispered. “Is this really Mr. Breton’s first case?”
“His very first—all on his own responsibility, any way,” replied Spargo’s companion, smiling. “And he’s very nervous—and so’s my sister. Aren’t you, now, Evelyn?”
Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly.
“I suppose one’s always nervous about first appearances,” she said. “However, I think Ronald’s got plenty of confidence, and, as he says, it’s not much of a case: it isn’t even a jury case. I’m afraid you’ll find it dull, Mr. Spargo—it’s only something about a promissory note.”
“Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” replied Spargo, unconsciously falling back on a favourite formula. “I always like to hear lawyers—they manage to say such a lot about—about—”
“About nothing,” said Jessie Aylmore. “But there—so do gentlemen who write for the papers, don’t they?”
Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that point when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister’s attention to a man who had just entered the well of the court.
“Look, Jessie!” she observed. “There’s Mr. Elphick!”
Spargo looked down at the person indicated: an elderly, large-faced, smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wigged and gowned, was slowly making his way to a corner seat just outside that charmed inner sanctum wherein only King’s Counsel are permitted to sit. He dropped into this in a fashion which showed that he was one of those men who loved personal comfort; he bestowed his plump person at the most convenient angle and fitting a monocle in his right eye, glanced around him. There were a few of his professional brethren in his vicinity; there were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks in conversation with one or other of them; there were court officials. But the gentleman of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look and cast his eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. Thereupon he made a most gracious bow in their direction; his broad face beamed in a genial smile, and he waved a white hand.
“Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo?” enquired the younger Miss Aylmore.
“I rather think I’ve seen him, somewhere about the Temple,” answered Spargo. “In fact, I’m sure I have.”
“His chambers are in Paper Buildings,” said Jessie. “Sometimes he gives tea-parties in them. He is Ronald’s guardian, and preceptor, and mentor, and all that, and I suppose he’s dropped into this court to hear how his pupil goes on.”
“Here is Ronald,” whispered Miss Aylmore.
“And here,” said her sister, “is his lordship, looking very cross. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’re in for it.”
Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on beneath him. The case which young Breton presently opened was a commercial one, involving certain rights and properties in a promissory note; it seemed to the journalist that Breton dealt with it very well, showing himself master of the financial details, and speaking with readiness and assurance. He was much more interested in his companions, and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on how he could improve his further acquaintance when he awoke to the fact that the defence, realizing that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, and that Mr. Justice Borrow was already giving judgment in Ronald Breton’s favour.
In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two sisters.
“Very good—very good, indeed,” he said, absent-mindedly. “I thought he put his facts very clearly and concisely.”
Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elphick. He pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: Spargo gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, Spargo’s, connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke.
“This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the Watchman.” Breton said. “Mr. Elphick—Mr. Spargo. I was just telling Mr. Elphick, Spargo, that you saw this poor man soon after he was found.”
Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The elderly barrister took him—literally—by the button-hole.
“My dear sir!” he said. “You—saw this poor fellow? Lying dead—in the third entry down Middle Temple Lane? The third entry, eh?”
“Yes,” replied Spargo, simply. “I saw him. It was the third entry.”
“Singular!” said Mr. Elphick, musingly. “I know a man who lives in that house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton’s name and address in his pocket?”
Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick.
“Yes, that’s so,” he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton significantly, he added, “If you can give me those few minutes, now—?”
“Yes—yes!” responded Ronald Breton, nodding. “I understand. Evelyn—I’ll leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must go.”
Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more.
“My dear sir!” he said, eagerly. “Do you—do you think I could possibly see—the body?”
“It’s at the mortuary,” answered Spargo. “I don’t know what their regulations are.”
Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in the quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke.
“About what I wanted to say to you,” he said at last. “It was—this. I—well, I’ve always wanted, as a journalist, to have a real big murder case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it—thoroughly, first and last. And—I think you can help me.”
“How do you know that it is a murder case?” asked Breton quietly.
“It’s a murder case,” answered Spargo, stolidly. “I feel it. Instinct, perhaps. I’m going to ferret out the truth. And it seems to me—”
He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance.
“It seems to me,” he presently continued, “that the clue lies in that scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between you and—somebody else.”
“Possibly,” agreed Breton. “You want to find the somebody else?”
“I want you to help me to find the somebody else,” answered Spargo. “I believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don’t believe in police methods—much. By the by, I’m just going to meet Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?”
Breton ran into his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, left his gown and wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came out as they were stepping in.
“Oh!” he said. “Ah!—I’ve got what may be helpful, Mr. Spargo. I told you I’d sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter! Well, he’s just returned. The cap which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskie’s yesterday afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient Hotel.”
“Where is that?” asked Spargo.
“Waterloo district,” answered Rathbury. “A small house, I believe. Well, I’m going there. Are you coming?”
“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to come, too.”
“If I’m not in the way,” said Breton.
Rathbury laughed.
“Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper,” he observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver.
