The Middle Temple Murder

As a rule, Spargo left the Watchman office at two o’clock. The paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, until two o’clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of St. Paul’s.

Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every night and every morning he walked to and from the Watchman office by the same route⁠—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street.

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 the old sportsman’s eyes⁠—he eagerly turned the silver ticket over.

“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”

“Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it is?”

“Certainly I know what it is! But⁠—Gad! I’ve not seen one of these things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young ’un!”

“But what is it?” asked 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, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! Bless me!⁠—most interesting.”

“Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. “Don’t know it.”

Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when she said that she believed she could write a history of Market Milcaster 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 Milcaster. 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, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a polite bow, said quietly:

“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?”

And Maitland was caught before he had a chance. But we’re talking about Chamberlayne.”

“Yes, about Chamberlayne,” agreed Spargo.

“Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening,” continued Mr. Quarterpage. “Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town like wildfire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time⁠—aye, and had been for years⁠—a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don’t think there could have been more surprise if we’d heard that the Vicar had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all over the place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear that news like everybody else. But it was remembered, and often remarked upon afterwards, that from the moment of Maitland’s arrest nobody in Market Milcaster ever had speech with Chamberlayne again. After his wife’s death he’d taken to spending an hour or so of an evening across there at the ‘Dragon,’ where you saw me and my friends last night, but on that night he didn’t go to the ‘Dragon.’ And next morning he caught the eight o’clock train to London. He happened to remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. But Chamberlayne didn’t come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn’t come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back it was in a coffin!”

“Dead?” exclaimed Spargo. “That was sudden!”

Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, she marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing no other way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling sound in the shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a queer, cracked, horrible voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said distinctly and yet in a whisper:

“Young man!”

Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick and bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he saw a nondescript shape behind. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Somebody listening?”

There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the cracked, husky voice spoke again.

“Young man, don’t you move or look as if you were talking to anybody. Do you know where the ‘King of Madagascar’ public-house is in this quarter of the town, young man?”

“No!” answered Spargo. “Certainly not!”

“Well, anybody’ll tell you when you get outside, young man,” continued the queer voice of the unseen person. “Go there, and wait at the corner by the ‘King of Madagascar,’ and I’ll come there to you at the end of half an hour. Then I’ll tell you something, young man⁠—I’ll tell you something. Now run away, young man, run away to the ‘King of Madagascar’⁠—I’m coming!”

The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel queer.