Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd,
1891, the sum of £4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers, the
Market Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to his
own use. The prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most acutely,
and who looked very pale and much worn, was represented by Mr. Charles
Doolittle, the well-known barrister of Kingshaven; Mr. Stephens, K.C.,
appeared on behalf of the prosecution.
“Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty.
“Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any
desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think,
had taken a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular
count in the indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound, in
the interests of justice, to set forth to the Court some particulars of
the defalcations which had arisen through the prisoner’s much lamented
dishonesty. He proposed to offer a clear and succinct account of the
matter. The prisoner, John Maitland, was the last of an old Market
Milcaster family—he was, in fact, he believed, with the exception of
his own infant son, the very last of the race. His father had been
manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself had entered the
service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he left the local
Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at the age of
thirty-two; he had therefore occupied this highest position of trust
for ten years. His directors had the fullest confidence in him; they
relied on his honesty and his honour; they gave him discretionary
powers such as no bank-manager, probably, ever enjoyed or held before.
In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all intents and purposes,
the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other words he was allowed
full control over everything, and given full licence to do what he
liked. Whether the directors were wise in extending such liberty to
even the most trusted servant, it was not for him (Mr. Stephens) to
say; it was some consolation, under the circumstances, to know that the
loss would fall upon the directors, inasmuch as they themselves held
nearly the whole of the shares. But he had to speak of the loss—of the
serious defalcations which Maitland had committed. The prisoner had
wisely pleaded guilty to the first count of the indictment. But there
were no less than seventeen counts in the indictment. He had pleaded
guilty to embezzling a sum of £4,875 odd. But the total amount of the
defalcations, comprised in the seventeen counts, was no less—it seemed
a most amazing sum!—than £221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the fact—the
banking company had been robbed of over two hundred thousand pounds by
the prisoner in the dock before a mere accident, the most trifling
chance, had revealed to the astounded directors that he was robbing
them at all. And the most serious feature of the whole case was that
not one penny of this money had been, or ever could be, recovered. He
believed that the prisoner’s learned counsel was about to urge upon the
Court that the prisoner himself had been tricked and deceived by
another man, unfortunately not before the Court—a man, he understood,
also well known in Market Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore
could not be called, but whether he was so tricked or deceived was no
excuse for his clever and wholesale robbing of his employers. He had
thought it necessary to put these facts—which would not be
denied—before the Court, in order that it might be known how heavy the
defalcations really had been, and that they should be considered in
dealing with the prisoner.
“The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part
of the vast sum concerned.
“Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the
remotest chance—the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting on
his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom he
had just made reference.
“Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few
words to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens
for the considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had
outlined the main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the
prisoner’s guilt. But, on prisoner’s behalf, he desired to tell the
true story as to how these things came to be. Until as recently as
three years previously the prisoner had never made the slightest
deviation from the straight path of integrity. Unfortunately for him,
and, he believed, for some others in Market Milcaster, there came to
the town three years before the present proceedings, a man named
Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a
stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible
manners, Chamberlayne attracted a good many people—amongst them his
unfortunate client. It was matter of common knowledge that Chamberlayne
had induced numerous persons in Market Milcaster to enter into
financial transactions with him; it was matter of common repute that
those transactions had not always turned out well for Chamberlayne’s
clients. Unhappily for himself, Maitland had great faith in
Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions with him in a large
way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was involved to
vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and his methods, he
had entrusted him with very large sums of money.
“The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was
to understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner’s own
money.
“Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred to
were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in
Chamberlayne that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and
that these sums would be repaid, and that a vast profit would result
from their use.
“The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put
the profit into his own pockets.
“Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the
two hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question,
Chamberlayne had had the immediate handling of at least two hundred
thousand, and he, the prisoner, had not the ghost of a notion as to
what Chamberlayne had done with it. Unfortunately for everybody, for
the bank, for some other people, and especially for his unhappy client,
Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as these proceedings were
instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible to trace
anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious
circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs.
“The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr.
Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder,
might think fit to pass.
“Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few remarks
as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the unfortunate man in
the dock was that until three years ago he had borne a most exemplary
character, and had never committed a dishonest action. It had been his
misfortune, his folly, to allow a plausible man to persuade him to
these acts of dishonesty. That man had been called to another account,
and the prisoner was left to bear the consequences of his association
with him. It seemed as if Chamberlayne had made away with the money for
his own purposes, and it might be that it would yet be recovered. He
would only ask the Court to remember the prisoner’s antecedents and his
previous good conduct, and to bear in mind that whatever his near
future might be he was, in a commercial sense, ruined for life.
“The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a single
word of valid excuse for Maitland’s conduct. Such dishonesty must be
punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go to penal
servitude for ten years.
“Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town
later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester.”
Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain
points in it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the
house—to see old Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY
“I perceive, sir,” said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the library,
“that you have read the account of the Maitland trial.”
“Twice,” replied Spargo.
“And you have come to the conclusion that—but what conclusion have you
come to?” asked Mr. Quarterpage.
“That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland’s property,” said
Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once.
“Just so,” agreed the old gentleman. “I think so—I can’t think anything
else. But I was under the impression that I could have accounted for
that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the other forty-nine.”
“Yes—and how?” asked Spargo.
Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a
decanter and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully
polished the glasses with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set
glasses and decanter on a table in the window, motioning Spargo to take
a chair in proximity thereto. He himself pulled up his own elbow-chair.
“We’ll take a glass of my old brown sherry,” he said. “Though I say it
as shouldn’t, as the saying goes, I don’t think you could find better
brown sherry than that from Land’s End to Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr.
Spargo—no, nor further north either, where they used to have good taste
in liquor in my young days! Well, here’s your good health, sir, and
I’ll tell you about Maitland.”
“I’m curious,” said Spargo. “And about more than Maitland. I want to
know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper report. I want
to know something about the man referred to so much—the stockbroker,
Chamberlayne.”
“Just so,” observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. “I thought that would
touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when
Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then
about two years old. The child’s mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss
Baylis, appeared on the scene—Maitland had married his wife from a
distance—and took possession of the child and of Maitland’s personal
effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, and
all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small
personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket.
And she may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she
took the child away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in
Market Milcaster. Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things
removed to Dartmoor, and there he served his term. There were people
who were very anxious to get hold of him when he came out—the bank
people, for they believed that he knew more about the disposition of
that money than he’d ever told, and they wanted to induce him to tell
what they hoped he knew—between ourselves, Mr. Spargo, they were going
to make it worth his while to tell.”
Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old
gentleman talked.
“Then they didn’t believe what his counsel said—that Chamberlayne got
all the money?” he asked.
Mr. Quarterpage laughed.
“No—nor anybody else!” he answered. “There was a strong idea in the
town—you’ll see why afterwards—that it was all a put-up job, and that
Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that there was a
nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the bank
people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special agent
to meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some
mistake arose—when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody’s
ever heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis
has.”
“Where does this Miss Baylis live?” asked Spargo.
“Well, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “She did live in
Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I
have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after
Maitland’s release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to
trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in
Brighton, she’d completely disappeared, with the child, five years
before. So there wasn’t a clue to Maitland. He served his time—made a
model prisoner—they did find that much out!—earned the maximum
remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there’s
a theory about him in this very town to this very day!”
“What?” asked Spargo.
“This. That he’s now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what he
got from the bank,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They say that the
sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the
child, she went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland,
and that he went off to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?”
“I suppose that was possible,” said Spargo.
“Quite possible, sir. But now,” continued the old gentleman,
replenishing the glasses, “now we come on to the Chamberlayne story.
It’s a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at
first sight, I’ll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions.
Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster—I don’t know from
where—in 1886—five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was then
about Maitland’s age—a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came as clerk
to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas’s place is
still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though
old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this
Chamberlayne; he made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old
Vallas paid him a rare good salary. He settled down in the town, and he
married a town girl, one of the Corkindales, the saddlers, when he’d
been here three years. Unfortunately she died in childbirth within a
year of their marriage. It was very soon after that that Chamberlayne
threw up his post at Vallas’s, and started business as a
stock-and-share broker. He’d been a saving man; he’d got a nice bit of
money with his wife; he always let it be known that he had money of his
own, and he started in a good way. He was a man of the most plausible
manners: he’d have coaxed butter out of a dog’s throat if he’d wanted
to. The moneyed men of the town believed in him—I believed in him
myself, Mr. Spargo—I’d many a transaction with him, and I never lost
aught by him—on the contrary, he did very well for me. He did well for
most of his clients—there were, of course, ups and downs, but on the
whole he satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, nobody
ever knew what was going on between him and Maitland.”
“I gather from this report,” said Spargo, “that everything came out
suddenly—unexpectedly?”
“That was so, sir,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Sudden? Unexpected? Aye,
as a crack of thunder on a fine winter’s day. Nobody had the ghost of a
notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected in the
town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can
assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on
that grand jury as I did—I was its foreman, sir,—and hear a man
sentenced that you’d regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!”
“How was the thing discovered?” asked Spargo, anxious to get at facts.
“In this way,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “The Market Milcaster Bank is
in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the
town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father,
a young Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a
shrewd, keen young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about
Maitland, and he insisted on the other partners consenting to a special
investigation, and on their making it suddenly. 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 wild-fire. 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!”
“Very sudden,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, sir, he came back in his
coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he’d spoken of
being back, there came a telegram here to say that he’d died very
suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his
brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler—you’ll find him down the
street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew
of Chamberlayne’s, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London,
and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that
telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne
had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he’d
died shortly afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and
friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn’t feel that
there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a
wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do. And
next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest
would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify
the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the
funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our
cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him
in it, with her.”
Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and
theories; he was taking everything in.
“Well,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “on the second day after that, they
brought Chamberlayne’s body down. Three of ’em came with it—Stephen
Chamberlayne, the doctor who’d been called in, and a solicitor.
Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As Chamberlayne
had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met the
body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of
us who had been clients of Chamberlayne’s were anxious to know how he
had come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne’s
account, our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet
him at the Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him
there when he arrived, and they had lunch together. After that, they
got to their business in a private room. Towards the end of the
afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly ill, and though they got a
doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The doctor said he’d a
diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the cause of his death,
so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told you.”
The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at
some reminiscence which occurred to him.
“Well,” he said, presently going on, “of course, on that came all the
Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne
had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely
certain that most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But
Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had left practically nothing. All that could
be traced was about three or four thousand pounds. He’d left everything
to his nephew, Stephen. There wasn’t a trace, a clue to the vast sums
with which Maitland had entrusted him. And then people began to talk,
and they said what some of them say to this very day!”
“What’s that?” asked Spargo.
Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm.
“That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted
with lead!” he answered.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MAITLAND _ALIAS_ MARBURY
This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in
Spargo’s mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his
imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his
informant, who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor’s surprise.
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Spargo at last, “that there are people
in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery which
is said to contain Chamberlayne’s body contains—lead?”
“Lots of ’em, my dear sir!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Lots of ’em! Go
out in the street and ask the first six men you meet, and I’ll go bail
that four out of the six believe it.”
“Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take
steps to make certain?” asked Spargo. “Why didn’t they get an order for
exhumation?”
“Because it was nobody’s particular business to do so,” answered Mr.
Quarterpage. “You don’t know country-town life, my dear sir. In towns
like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, but they’re
always slow to do anything. It’s a case of who’ll start first—of
initiative. And if they see it’s going to cost anything—then they’ll
have nothing to do with it.”
“But—the bank people?” suggested Spargo.
Mr. Quarterpage shook his head.
“They’re amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did die,” he
said. “They’re very old-fashioned, conservative-minded people, the
Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted the version of the
nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now I’ll tell you
something about those three. There was a man here in the town, a
gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper you’ve
got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and he
began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some good—what
do you call it?”
“I suppose he’d call it ‘copy,’” said Spargo.
“‘Copy’—that was his term,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Well, he took the
trouble to go to London to ask some quiet questions of the nephew,
Stephen. That was just twelve months after Chamberlayne had been
buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left England—months
before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they didn’t know
which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the doctor—couldn’t be
traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical Register. What do you
think of all that, Mr. Spargo?”
“I think,” answered Spargo, “that Market Milcaster folk are
considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired
into. The whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy.”
“Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody’s business,” said Mr. Quarterpage.
“The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, but it was no
good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is.”
“Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo, “what’s your own honest opinion?”
The old gentleman smiled.
“Ah!” he said. “I’ve often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I really have an
opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about the
whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it.
But we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old
silver ticket which you’ve got in your purse. Now——”
“No!” said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag of
his forefinger. “No! I think we’re coming nearer to it. Now you’ve
given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a lot,
and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I’m going to show you
something.”
And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph
of John Marbury—the original of the process-picture which he had had
made for the _Watchman_. He handed it over.
“Do you recognize that photograph as that of anybody you know?” he
asked. “Look at it well and closely.”
Mr. Quarterpage put on a special pair of spectacles and studied the
photograph from several points of view.
“No, sir,” he said at last with a shake of the head. “I don’t recognize
it at all.”
“Can’t see in it any resemblance to any man you’ve ever known?” asked
Spargo.
“No, sir, none!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “None whatever.”
“Very well,” said Spargo, laying the photograph on the table between
them. “Now, then, I want you to tell me what John Maitland was like
when you knew him. Also, I want you to describe Chamberlayne as he was
when he died, or was supposed to die. You remember them, of course,
quite well?”
Mr. Quarterpage got up and moved to the door.
“I can do better than that,” he said. “I can show you photographs of
both men as they were just before Maitland’s trial. I have a photograph
of a small group of Market Milcaster notabilities which was taken at a
municipal garden-party; Maitland and Chamberlayne are both in it. It’s
been put away in a cabinet in my drawing-room for many a long year, and
I’ve no doubt it’s as fresh as when it was taken.”
He left the room and presently returned with a large mounted photograph
which he laid on the table before his visitor.
“There you are, sir,” he said. “Quite fresh, you see—it must be getting
on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that it’s
been kept in. Now, that’s Maitland. And that’s Chamberlayne.”
Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an
ivy-covered wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange
masses of sitters. He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated
by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built
men about whom there was nothing very specially noticeable.
“Um!” he said, musingly. “Both bearded.”
“Yes, they both wore beards—full beards,” assented Mr. Quarterpage.
“And you see, they weren’t so much alike. But Maitland was a much
darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while
Chamberlayne’s were rather a bright blue.”
“The removal of a beard makes a great difference,” remarked Spargo. He
looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with
that of Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. “And twenty years
makes a difference, too,” he added musingly.
“To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir,” said the
old gentleman. “To others it makes none—I haven’t changed much, they
tell me, during the past twenty years. But I’ve known men change—age,
almost beyond recognition!—in five years. It depends, sir, on what they
go through.”
Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his
pockets, and looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to tell you what I’m after, Mr.
Quarterpage. I’m sure you’ve heard all about what’s known as the Middle
Temple Murder—the Marbury case?”
“Yes, I’ve read of it,” replied Mr. Quarterpage.
“Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the _Watchman_?” asked
Spargo.
Mr. Quarterpage shook his head.
“I’ve only read one newspaper, sir, since I was a young man,” he
replied. “I take the _Times_, sir—we always took it, aye, even in the
days when newspapers were taxed.”
“Very good,” said Spargo. “But perhaps I can tell you a little more
than you’ve read, for I’ve been working up that case ever since the
body of the man known as John Marbury was found. Now, if you’ll just
give me your attention, I’ll tell you the whole story from that moment
until—now.”
And Spargo, briefly, succinctly, re-told the story of the Marbury case
from the first instant of his own connection with it until the
discovery of the silver ticket, and Mr. Quarterpage listened in rapt
attention, nodding his head from time to time as the younger man made
his points.
“And now, Mr. Quarterpage,” concluded Spargo, “this is the point I’ve
come to. I believe that the man who came to the Anglo-Orient Hotel as
John Marbury and who was undoubtedly murdered in Middle Temple Lane
that night, was John Maitland—I haven’t a doubt about it after learning
what you tell me about the silver ticket. I’ve found out a great deal
that’s valuable here, and I think I’m getting nearer to a solution of
the mystery. That is, of course, to find out who murdered John
Maitland, or Marbury. What you have told me about the Chamberlayne
affair has led me to think this—there may have been people, or a
person, in London, who was anxious to get Marbury, as we’ll call him,
out of the way, and who somehow encountered him that night—anxious to
silence him, I mean, because of the Chamberlayne affair. And I
wondered, as there is so much mystery about him, and as he won’t give
any account of himself, if this man Aylmore was really Chamberlayne.
Yes, I wondered that! But Aylmore’s a tall, finely-built man, quite six
feet in height, and his beard, though it’s now getting grizzled, has
been very dark, and Chamberlayne, you say, was a medium-sized, fair
man, with blue eyes.”
“That’s so, sir,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, a middling-sized man,
and fair—very fair. Deary me, Mr. Spargo!—this is a revelation. And you
really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury are one and the
same person?”
“I’m sure of it, now,” said Spargo. “I see it in this way. Maitland, on
his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped. At last he
comes back, evidently well-to-do. He’s murdered the very day of his
arrival. Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him—Aylmore
won’t tell all he knows; that’s flat. But Aylmore’s admitted that he
knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three
years ago. Now, where did Aylmore know him? He says in London. That’s a
vague term. He won’t say where—he won’t say anything definite—he won’t
even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those days. Do you recollect
anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see Maitland, Mr.
Quarterpage?”
“I don’t,” answered Mr. Quarterpage. “Maitland was a very quiet,
retiring fellow, sir: he was about the quietest man in the town. I
never remember that he had visitors; certainly I’ve no recollection of
such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him,
would be at that time.”
“Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?” asked Spargo.
Mr. Quarterpage laughed.
“Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have,” he said, “I’ll tell
you of something that occurred across there at the ‘Dragon’ only a few
months before the Maitland affair came out. There were some of us in
there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland came in with
Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up to
town next day—he was always to and fro—and we got talking about London.
And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed he was
about the only man of his age in England—and, of course, he meant of
his class and means—who’d never even seen London! And I don’t think he
ever went there between that time and his trial: in fact, I’m sure he
didn’t, for if he had, I should have heard of it.”
“Well, that’s queer,” remarked Spargo. “It’s very queer. For I’m
certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person. My theory
about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully planted
before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that
he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him;
and that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in
it all these years. Now——”
At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid
looked in at her master.
“There’s the boots from the ‘Dragon’ at the front door, sir,” she said.
“He’s brought two telegrams across from there for Mr. Spargo, thinking
he might like to have them at once.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ARRESTED
Spargo hurried out to the hall, took the two telegrams from the boots
of the “Dragon,” and, tearing open the envelopes, read the messages
hastily. He went back to Mr. Quarterpage.
“Here’s important news,” he said as he closed the library door and
resumed his seat. “I’ll read these telegrams to you, sir, and then we
can discuss them in the light of what we’ve been talking about this
morning. The first is from our office. I told you we sent over to
Australia for a full report about Marbury at the place he said he
hailed from—Coolumbidgee. That report’s just reached the _Watchman_,
and they’ve wired it on to me. It’s from the chief of police at
Coolumbidgee to the editor of the _Watchman_, London:—
“John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was
unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable
means and bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor,
Andrew Robertson, who is still here, and who says that Marbury never
told him anything about himself except that he had emigrated for health
reasons and was a widower. He mentioned that he had had a son who was
dead, and was now without relations. He lived a very quiet, steady life
on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. About six months
ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning told
Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of
some news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the
farm. Robertson bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and
Marbury shortly afterwards left for Melbourne. From what we could
gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was probably in command of five or six
thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told Robertson that he had met a
man in Melbourne who had given him news that surprised him, but did not
say what news. He had in his possession when he left Robertson exactly
the luggage he brought with him when he came—a stout portmanteau and a
small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at
Coolumbidgee.”
“That’s all,” said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the
table. “And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here’s more
startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that
I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage—he promised, you know, to keep me posted
in what went on in my absence. Here’s what he says:
“Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand.
Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You’d better hurry
back if you want material for to-morrow’s paper.”
Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman
glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up.
“Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. “I looked the
trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1.20
to Paddington—that’ll get me in before half-past four. I’ve an hour
yet. Now, there’s another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That’s
the photographer—or a photographer. You remember I told you of the
photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I’m calculating that
that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took
it—if he’s alive and I can find him.”
Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat.
“There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, “and he’s
been here for a good many years—Cooper. I’ll take you to him—it’s only
a few doors away.”
Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted.
He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper—an elderly man.
“Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the
bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?” he asked, after Mr.
Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to
ask a few questions.
“Quite well, sir,” replied Mr. Cooper. “As well as if it had been
yesterday.”
“Do you still happen to have a copy of it?” asked Spargo.
But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down
one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he
laid it on his table before his callers.
“There you are, sir,” he said. “That’s the child!”
Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “That’s the same photograph we found in
the leather box with the silver ticket. I’m obliged to you, Mr. Cooper.
Now, there’s just one more question I want to ask. Did you ever supply
any further copies of this photograph to anybody after the Maitland
affair?—that is; after the family had left the town?”
“Yes,” replied the photographer. “I supplied half a dozen copies to
Miss Baylis, the child’s aunt, who, as a matter of fact, brought him
here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, too,” he
continued, beginning to turn over another old file. “I have it
somewhere.”
Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo.
“That’s something I couldn’t have done!” he remarked. “As I told you,
she’d disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after
Maitland’s release.”
“Here you are,” said Mr. Cooper. “I sent six copies of that photograph
to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester
Square, Bayswater, W.”
Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for
his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he
turned to the old gentleman with a smile.
“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that!” he exclaimed.
“Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. I’m as certain
of that as that I see your Town Hall there.”
“And what will you do next, sir?” enquired Mr. Quarterpage.
“Thank you—as I do—for all your kindness and assistance, and get off to
town by this 1.20,” replied Spargo. “And I shan’t fail to let you know
how things go on.”
“One moment,” said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, “do
you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?”
“No!” answered Spargo with emphasis. “I don’t! And I think we’ve got a
good deal to do before we find out who did.”
Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his
journey to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his
neighbours; it was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to
something else than the theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so
many days. But at Reading the newspaper boys were shouting the news of
the arrest of a Member of Parliament, and Spargo, glancing out of the
window, caught sight of a newspaper placard:
THE MARBURY MURDER CASE
ARREST OF MR. AYLMORE
He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding
it, found a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press
news:
“Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o’clock this afternoon,
on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned in
the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June
21st last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten
o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington.
He met Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the
detective turned back.
“Well, so there you are!” he said. “I suppose you’ve heard the news?”
Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair.
“What led to it?” he asked abruptly. “There must have been something.”
“There was something,” he replied. “The thing—stick, bludgeon, whatever
you like to call it, some foreign article—with which Marbury was struck
down was found last night.”
“Well?” asked Spargo.
“It was proved to be Aylmore’s property,” answered Rathbury. “It was a
South American curio that he had in his rooms in Fountain Court.”
“Where was it found?” asked Spargo.
Rathbury laughed.
“He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever
he was!” he replied. “Do you know, it had been dropped into a
sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane—actually! Perhaps the murderer thought
it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of course,
it was bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday evening,
and it was quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for Aylmore as
having been in his rooms ever since she knew them.”
“What does Aylmore say about it?” asked Spargo. “I suppose he’s said
something?”
“Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought it from
South America with him,” announced Rathbury; “but that he doesn’t
remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks that it was
stolen from them.”
“Um!” said Spargo, musingly. “But—how do you know that was the thing
that Marbury was struck down with?”
Rathbury smiled grimly.
“There’s some of his hair on it—mixed with blood,” he answered. “No
doubt about that. Well—anything come of your jaunt westward?”
“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Lots!”
“Good?” asked Rathbury.
“Extra good. I’ve found out who Marbury really was.”
“No! Really?”
“No doubt, to my mind. I’m certain of it.”
Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention.
“And who was he?” he asked.
“John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster,” replied Spargo. “Ex-bank
manager. Also ex-convict.”
“Ex-convict!”
“Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in
autumn, 1891, to ten years’ penal servitude, for embezzling the bank’s
money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his term
at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out.
That’s who Marbury was—Maitland. Dead—certain!”
Rathbury still stared at his caller.
“Go on!” he said. “Tell all about it, Spargo. Let’s hear every detail.
I’ll tell you all I know after. But what I know’s nothing to that.”
Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster,
and the detective listened with rapt attention.
“Yes,” he said at the end. “Yes—I don’t think there’s much doubt about
that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn’t it?”
Spargo yawned.
“Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there,” he said. “I haven’t so
much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all in
Aylmore.”
Rathbury nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “The thing to find out is—who is Aylmore, or who was
he, twenty years ago?”
“Your people haven’t found anything out, then?” asked Spargo.
“Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he
returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since,”
answered Rathbury, smiling. “They’ve no previous dates to go on. What
are you going to do next, Spargo?”
“Seek out that Miss Baylis,” replied Spargo.
“You think you could get something there?” asked Rathbury.
“Look here!” said Spargo. “I don’t believe for a second Aylmore killed
Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what I call
the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something—if she’s
alive. Well, now I’m going to report at the office. Keep in touch with
me, Rathbury.”
He went on then to the _Watchman_ office, and as he got out of his
taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore’s
daughters.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE BLANK PAST
Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the
elder girl hung back diffidently.
“May we speak to you?” said Jessie. “We have come on purpose to speak
to you. Evelyn didn’t want to come, but I made her come.”
Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both
to follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed
them in his easiest chairs before he addressed them.
“I’ve only just got back to town,” he said abruptly. “I was sorry to
hear the news about your father. That’s what’s brought you here, of
course. But—I’m afraid I can’t do much.”
“I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie,” said
Evelyn Aylmore. “What can he do to help us?”
Jessie shook her head impatiently.
“The _Watchman’s_ about the most powerful paper in London, isn’t it?”
she said. “And isn’t Mr. Spargo writing all these articles about the
Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!”
Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and
papers which had accumulated during his absence.
“To be absolutely frank with you,” he said, presently, “I don’t see how
anybody’s going to help, so long as your father keeps up that mystery
about the past.”
“That,” said Evelyn, quietly, “is exactly what Ronald says, Jessie. But
we can’t make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as innocent as
we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don’t know why he
wouldn’t answer the questions put to him at the inquest. And—we know no
more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have begged my father
to speak, he won’t say a word. We saw his danger: Ronald—Mr.
Breton—told us, and we implored him to tell everything he knew about
Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he had
anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and now——”
“And now he’s locked up,” said Spargo in his usual matter-of-fact
fashion. “Well, there are people who have to be saved from themselves,
you know. Perhaps you’ll have to save your father from the consequences
of his own—shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between ourselves,
how much do you know about your father’s—past?”
The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo.
“Nothing,” said the elder.
“Absolutely nothing!” said the younger.
“Answer a few plain questions,” said Spargo. “I’m not going to print
your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I’m only asking the
questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in
England?”
“None that we know of,” replied Evelyn.
“Nobody you could go to for information about the past?” asked Spargo.
“No—nobody!”
Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard.
“How old is your father?” he asked suddenly.
“He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago,” answered Evelyn.
“And how old are you, and how old is your sister?” demanded Spargo.
“I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen.”
“Where were you born?”
“Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San José province of
Argentina, north of Monte Video.”
“Your father was in business there?”
“He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There’s no secret
about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to
France—skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That’s how he made his
money.”
“You don’t know how long he’d been there when you were born?”
“No.”
“Was he married when he went out there?”
“No, he wasn’t. We do know that. He’s told us the circumstances of his
marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from England to
Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was like
himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to
Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each
other, and they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer
arrived.”
“And your mother is dead?”
“My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and
Jessie six, then.”
“And you came to England—how long after that?”
“Two years.”
“So that you’ve been in England ten years. And you know nothing
whatever of your father’s past beyond what you’ve told me?”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing.”
“Never heard him talk of—you see, according to your account, your
father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina.
He must have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never
heard him speak of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that
sort of thing?”
“I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to
his marriage,” replied Evelyn.
“I once asked him a question about his childhood.” said Jessie. “He
answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that he
had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything again.”
“So that it really comes to this,” remarked Spargo. “You know nothing
whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond
what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe?
That’s about it, isn’t it?”
“I should say that that is exactly it,” answered Evelyn.
“Just so,” said Spargo. “And therefore, as I told your sister the other
day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind
him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed
him in order to silence him. That isn’t my view. I not only believe
your father to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no
more than a child unborn of Marbury’s murder, and I’m doing my best to
find out who that murderer was. By the by, since you’ll see all about
it in tomorrow morning’s _Watchman_, I may as well tell you that I’ve
found out who Marbury really was. He——”
At this moment Spargo’s door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He
shook his head at sight of the two sisters.
“I thought I should find you here,” he said. “Jessie said she was
coming to see you, Spargo. I don’t know what good you can do—I don’t
see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My
God!—everything’s about as black as ever it can be. Mr. Aylmore—I’ve
just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and I have been with
him for an hour—is obstinate as ever—he will not tell more than he has
told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he won’t speak about that
knowledge of Marbury which he must have?”
“Oh, well!” said Spargo. “Perhaps we can give him some information
about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it’s not such a difficult
thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as I
was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who
Marbury really was.”
Breton started.
“You have? Without doubt?” he exclaimed.
“Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict.”
Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls
showed no sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received
the news with as much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury
was a famous musician. But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to
Spargo that he saw a sense of suspicion dawn in his eyes.
“Marbury—an ex-convict!” he exclaimed. “You mean that?”
“Read your _Watchman_ in the morning,” said Spargo. “You’ll find the
whole story there—I’m going to write it tonight when you people have
gone. It’ll make good reading.”
Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo’s hint and went away, Spargo
seeing them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their
father’s innocence and his determination to hunt down the real
criminal. Ronald Breton went down with them to the street and saw them
into a cab, but in another minute he was back in Spargo’s room as
Spargo had expected. He shut the door carefully behind him and turned
to Spargo with an eager face.
“I say, Spargo, is that really so?” he asked. “About Marbury being an
ex-convict?”
“That’s so, Breton. I’ve no more doubt about it than I have that I see
you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of
Market Milcaster, who got ten years’ penal servitude in 1891 for
embezzlement.”
“In 1891? Why—that’s just about the time that Aylmore says he knew
him!”
“Exactly. And—it just strikes me,” said Spargo, sitting down at his
desk and making a hurried note, “it just strikes me—didn’t Aylmore say
he knew Marbury in London?”
“Certainly,” replied Breton. “In London.”
“Um!” mused Spargo. “That’s queer, because Maitland had never been in
London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may have
done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to
South America long before that. Look here, Breton,” he continued,
aloud, “have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before
he’s brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?”
“Yes,” answered Breton. “I can see him with his solicitor.”
“Then listen,” said Spargo. “Tomorrow morning you’ll find the whole
story of how I proved Marbury’s identity with Maitland in the
_Watchman_. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore
as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he’s brought
up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters’ peace of
mind to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows
about Maitland twenty years ago. He should have done that at first.
Why, I was asking his daughters some questions before you came in—they
know absolutely nothing of their father’s history previous to the time
when they began to understand things! Don’t you see that Aylmore’s
career, previous to his return to England, is a blank past!”
“I know—I know!” said Breton. “Yes—although I’ve gone there a great
deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything earlier than his
Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on when he
went out there.”
“Thirty-seven or eight, at least,” remarked Spargo. “Well, Aylmore’s
more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his life
hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?”
“My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland,” answered
Breton. “We kept up the acquaintance after our return.”
“Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?” asked
Spargo.
“Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs
the thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of
little else,” said Breton.
“And their theory—”
“Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!” replied Breton. “Old
Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his
very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every
tenant of the Temple.”
“Longish business that,” observed Spargo. “Well, run away now, Breton—I
must write.”
“Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?” asked Breton as he moved
to the door. “It’s to be at ten-thirty.”
“No, I shan’t!” replied Spargo. “It’ll only be a remand, and I know
already just as much as I should hear there. I’ve got something much
more important to do. But you’ll remember what I asked of you—get
Aylmore to read my story in the _Watchman_, and beg him to speak out
and tell all he knows—all!”
And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: “All
he knows—all!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MISS BAYLIS
Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those
pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely
given up to the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and
boarding-house keeper. They are very pretentious, those squares, with
their many-storied houses, their stuccoed frontages, and their
pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent country folk, coming into
them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, take them to be the
residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live nowhere else but
in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the fact that
young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in
more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the
country folk to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but
others, more knowing, are aware that they are Swiss or German waiters
whose linen might be cleaner.
Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as
the door was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and
bacon, of fish and chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of
overcoats, wraps, and sticks in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid
to answer the bell. And presently, in answer to his enquiries, there
was the usual type of landlady confronting him, a more than middle-aged
person who desired to look younger, and made attempts in the way of
false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that somewhat air
and smile which in its wearer—under these circumstances—always means
that she is considering whether you will be able to cheat her or
whether she will be able to see you.
“You wish to see Miss Baylis?” said this person, examining Spargo
closely. “Miss Baylis does not often see anybody.”
“I hope,” said Spargo politely, “that Miss Baylis is not an invalid?”
“No, she’s not an invalid,” replied the landlady; “but she’s not as
young as she was, and she’s an objection to strangers. Is it anything I
can tell her?”
“No,” said Spargo. “But you can, if you please, take her a message from
me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to ask
her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I
should be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes.”
“Perhaps you will sit down,” said the landlady. She led Spargo into a
room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies,
evidently inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with
them and to amuse himself by watching them knit or sew or read the
papers, and he wondered if they always did these things every day, and
if they would go on doing them until a day would come when they would
do them no more, and he was beginning to feel very dreary when the door
opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after one sharp glance at her,
decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the common. And as
she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first glance
lengthen into a look of steady inspection.
The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable
appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in
height; she was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and
athletic. What at once struck Spargo about her face was the strange
contrast between her dark eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in
abundant coils round a well-shaped head, was of the most snowy
whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as were also the eyebrows
above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking firmness; the
jaw square and determined. And Spargo’s first thought on taking all
this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to be
a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an
unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract
anything out of those firmly-locked lips.
Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded
to order him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her
that he made a profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his
tongue.
“Mr. Spargo?” she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly suited
to her. “Of, I see, the _Watchman_? You wish to speak to me?”
Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which
they were standing.
“Open the casement, if you please,” she commanded him. “We will walk in
the garden. This is not private.”
Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened
window and he followed her. It was not until they had reached the
bottom of the garden that she spoke again.
“I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John
Maitland, of Market Milcaster?” she said. “Before you put it. I must
ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for
publication?”
“Not without your permission,” replied Spargo. “I should not think of
publishing anything you may tell me except with your express
permission.”
She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good
faith, and nodded her head.
“In that case,” she said, “what do you want to ask?”
“I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John
Maitland,” answered Spargo. “I suppose you read the newspapers and
possibly the _Watchman_, Miss Baylis?”
But Miss Baylis shook her head.
“I read no newspapers,” she said. “I have no interest in the affairs of
the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole
devotion to it.”
“Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury
case—a case of a man who was found murdered?” asked Spargo.
“I have not,” she answered. “I am not likely to hear such things.”
Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as
great nor as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and
that there actually are, even in London, people who can live quite
cheerfully without a newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went
on.
“Well,” he said, “I believe that the murdered man, known to the police
as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John Maitland.
In fact, Miss Baylis, I’m absolutely certain of it!”
He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern
companion to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign
of being impressed.
“I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo,” she said coldly. “It is no
surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a
thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible
disgrace on those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was
likely to die a bad man’s death.”
“I may ask you a few questions about him?” suggested Spargo in his most
insinuating manner.
“You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers,” she
replied. “But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being
John Maitland’s sister-in-law?”
“I found that out at Market Milcaster,” said Spargo. “The photographer
told me—Cooper.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed.
“The questions I want to ask are very simple,” said Spargo. “But your
answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to prison,
of course?”
Miss Baylis laughed—a laugh of scorn.
“Could I ever forget it?” she exclaimed.
“Did you ever visit him in prison?” asked Spargo.
“Visit him in prison!” she said indignantly. “Visits in prison are to
be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to scoundrels
who are hardened in their sin!”
“All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?”
“I saw him, for he forced himself upon me—I could not help myself. He
was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released.”
“What did he come for?” asked Spargo.
“To ask for his son—who had been in my charge,” she replied.
“That’s a thing I want to know about,” said Spargo. “Do you know what a
certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss
Baylis?—they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you
had a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went
to prison, you took the child away, first to Brighton, then
abroad—disappeared with him—and that you made a home ready for Maitland
when he came out. That’s what’s said by some people in Market
Milcaster.”
Miss Baylis’s stern lips curled.
“People in Market Milcaster!” she exclaimed. “All the people I ever
knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that
cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would
have seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have
given him a crust of dry bread!”
“You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man,” observed Spargo,
astonished at her vehemence.
“I had—and I have,” she answered. “He tricked my sister into a marriage
with him when he knew that she would rather have married an honest man
who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal cruelty; he
robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left us.”
“Ah!” said Spargo. “Well, so you say Maitland came to you, when he came
out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?”
“No—the boy was dead.”
“Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?”
Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh.
“I showed him the door!” she said.
“Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?” enquired
Spargo.
“I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. Spargo,”
she answered.
“Then, in short,” said Spargo, “you never heard of him again?”
“I never heard of him again,” she declared passionately, “and I only
hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was
Maitland!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MOTHER GUTCH
Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out
on his way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis,
when a new idea suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that
formidable lady.
“I’ve just thought of something else,” he said. “I told you that I’m
certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad end—murdered.”
“And I’ve told you,” she replied scornfully, “that in my opinion no end
could be too bad for him.”
“Just so—I understand you,” said Spargo. “But I didn’t tell you that he
was not only murdered but robbed—robbed of probably a good deal.
There’s good reason to believe that he had securities, bank notes,
loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of a large amount.
He’d several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, in New South
Wales, where he’d lived quietly for some years.”
Miss Baylis smiled sourly.
“What’s all this to me?” she asked.
“Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be
recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be
somebody who’s entitled to the lot. It’s worth having, Miss Baylis, and
there’s strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn up.”
This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its
effect with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as
scornful as ever.
“I say again what’s all that to me?” she exclaimed.
“Well, but hadn’t the dead boy any relatives on his father’s side?”
asked Spargo. “I know you’re his aunt on the mother’s side, and as
you’re indifferent perhaps, I can find some on the other side. It’s
very easy to find all these things out, you know.”
Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and
majestic fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the
interview was distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and
glared at the young journalist.
“Easy to find all these things out?” she repeated.
Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He
was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose.
“Oh, easy enough!” he said. “I could find out all about Maitland’s
family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!”
Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. “How?” she
demanded.
“I’ll tell you,” said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. “It is, of course,
the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life. I
suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and
you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die,
Miss Baylis?”
But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house.
“I shall tell you nothing more,” she said angrily. “I’ve told you too
much already, and I believe all you’re here for is to get some news for
your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you this—when Maitland went to
prison his child would have been defenceless but for me; he’d have had
to go to the workhouse but for me; he hadn’t a single relation in the
world but me, on either father’s or mother’s side. And even at my age,
old woman as I am, I’d rather beg my bread in the street, I’d rather
starve and die, than touch a penny piece that had come from John
Maitland! That’s all.”
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. But he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he
immediately turned on his heel without so much as a glance at the
privet hedge, and went across the garden and through the house, and let
himself out at the door. And at the next corner of the square he met a
policeman and asked him if he knew where the “King of Madagascar” was.
“First to the right, second to the left,” answered the policeman
tersely. “You can’t miss it anywhere round there—it’s a landmark.”
And Spargo found the landmark—a great, square-built tavern—easily, and
he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and
intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its
suggestions of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an
old woman and leered at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize
how dreadful old age may be.
Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was
dressed respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her
bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good. But her face was
evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle;
the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked. Spargo felt a
sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear
what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt.
“Well?” he said, almost roughly. “Well?”
“Well, young man, there you are,” said his new acquaintance. “Let us go
inside, young man; there’s a quiet little place where a lady can sit
and take her drop of gin—I’ll show you. And if you’re good to me, I’ll
tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now.
But you’ll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man? Old
ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little
comforts.”
Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within;
the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at
her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which
was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her
curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little
of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest
which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw
a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew
clearer with every sound she made.
“Ah, young man!” she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that
made Spargo long to get up and fly. “I wanted that! It’s done me good.
When I’ve finished that, you’ll pay for another for me—and perhaps
another? They’ll do me still more good. And you’ll give me a little
matter of money, won’t you, young man?”
“Not till I know what I’m giving it for,” replied Spargo.
“You’ll be giving it because I’m going to tell you that if it’s made
worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about
Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I’m not going to tell you that
now, young man—I’m sure you don’t carry in your pocket what I shall
want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I’m only going to show
you that I have the secret. Eh?”
“Who are you?” asked Spargo.
The woman leered and chuckled. “What are you going to give me, young
man?” she asked.
Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two
half-sovereigns.
“Look here,” he said, showing his companion the coins, “if you can tell
me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, now.
And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!”
The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand.
“But let me hold one of those, young man!” she implored. “Let me hold
one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I
hold one of them. Let me—there’s a good young gentleman.”
Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate,
whatever it might be.
“You won’t get the other unless you tell something,” he said. “Who are
you, anyway?”
The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the
half-sovereign, grinned horribly.
“At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother Gutch,”
she answered; “but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and once upon a
time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I went
to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came
to live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to
bring me with her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?”
“Heaven knows!” answered Spargo.
“Because I’ve got a hold on her, young man—I’ve got a secret of hers,”
continued Mother Gutch. “She’d be scared to death if she knew I’d been
behind that hedge and had heard what she said to you, and she’d be more
than scared if she knew that you and I were here, talking. But she’s
grown hard and near with me, and she won’t give me a penny to get a
drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a right to her
little comforts, and if you’ll buy the secret, young man, I’ll split on
her, there and then, when you pay the money.”
“Before I talk about buying any secret,” said Spargo, “you’ll have to
prove to me that you’ve a secret to sell that’s worth my buying.”
“And I will prove it!” said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. “Touch
the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I’ll tell you. Now,”
she went on, more quietly—Spargo noticed that the more she drank, the
more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain strength
and her whole appearance to be improved—“now, you came to her to find
out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, didn’t
you?”
“Well?” demanded Spargo.
“And about that boy of his?” she continued.
“You heard all that was said,” answered Spargo. “I’m waiting to hear
what you have to say.”
But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her
questions:
“And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that
she told him the boy was dead, didn’t she?” she went on.
“Well?” said Spargo despairingly. “She did. What then?”
Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled
knowingly. “What then?” she chuckled. “All lies, young man, the boy
isn’t dead—any more than I am. And my secret is—”
“Well?” demanded Spargo impatiently. “What is it?”
“This!” answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, “I
know what she did with him!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
REVELATIONS
Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his
journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since
entering the “King of Madagascar,” that he was going to hear anything
material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared that
this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of
extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of
getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother
Gutch’s unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only
saw in her somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her
eagerly.
“You say that John Maitland’s son didn’t die!” he exclaimed.
“The boy did not die,” replied Mother Gutch.
“And that you know where he is?” asked Spargo.
Mother Gutch shook her head.
“I didn’t say that I know where he is, young man,” she replied. “I said
I knew what she did with him.”
“What, then?” demanded Spargo.
Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and
favoured Spargo with a look.
“That’s the secret, young man,” she said. “I’m willing to sell that
secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three drops of cold
gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, when I
was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret’s worth
something.”
Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an
unexpected result of it.
“Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland’s boy,” continued Mother
Gutch, “and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. That’s plain
language, young man.”
Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could
this wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret
which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple
Murder? Well, it would be a fine thing for the _Watchman_ if the
clearing up of everything came through one of its men. And the
_Watchman_ was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying
out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent money like water on
much less serious matters than this.
“How much do you want for your secret?” he suddenly asked, turning to
his companion.
Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really
wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan
had become; he did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver
and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite
form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed and quickened them;
secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most
extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of
her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke.
“Well, young man,” she said, “having considered matters, and having a
right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to have
would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid
weekly—none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and punctual,
every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient to the
parties concerned—but punctual and regular. I know a good many ladies
in my sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it’s a great comfort to
have ’em paid weekly.”
It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her
weekly dole on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be
Monday or Saturday, but that, after all, was no concern of his, so he
came back to first principles.
“Even now you haven’t said how much,” he remarked.
“Three pound a week,” replied Mother Gutch. “And cheap, too!”
Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might—might!—lead to
something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to
death within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was
nothing to the _Watchman_. He glanced at his watch. At that hour—for
the next hour—the great man of the _Watchman_ would be at the office.
He jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert.
“Here, I’ll take you to see my principals,” he said. “We’ll run along
in a taxi-cab.”
“With all the pleasure in the world, young man,” replied Mother Gutch;
“when you’ve given me that other half-sovereign. As for principals, I’d
far rather talk business with masters than with men—though I mean no
disrespect to you.”
Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over the second
half-sovereign, and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. But when
that came round he had to wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a third glass
of gin and purchased a flask of the same beverage to put in her pocket.
At last he got her off, and in due course to the _Watchman_ office,
where the hall-porter and the messenger boys stared at her in
amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, and he got
her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the presence
of the mighty.
What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the
fortunes and workings of the _Watchman_ he never knew. It was probably
fortunate for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the
facts of the Middle Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an
advantage in securing the revelations of which Spargo had got the
conditional promise. At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room,
intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with the lady he had locked up
there.
Spargo’s room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was
soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and
editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before
going into any further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing
with her until something could be done to find out what likelihood of
truth there was in her, but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his
own shrewd fashion, took his two companions out of the room.
“We’ll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms,” he said.
“She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest
importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as
Spargo says, she’ll probably drink herself to death in about as short a
time as possible. Come back—let’s hear her story.” So they returned to
the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by
which the proprietor of the _Watchman_ bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch
the sum of three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the
insertion of the words “every Saturday morning, punctual and regular”)
and then Mrs. Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch
settled herself to do so, and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for
word.
“Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a
monkey’s tail nor so short as a Manx cat’s, gentlemen,” said Mrs.
Gutch; “but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland
affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane
Baylis at Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and
close to the sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and
had saved a nice bit, and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a
little fortune left her by her father, as was at one time a publican
here in London, she had a good lump of money. And all that money was in
this here Maitland’s hands, every penny. I very well remember the day
when the news came about that affair of Maitland robbing the bank. Miss
Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw it in the paper, and
before she’d seen it an hour she was off to Market Milcaster. I went up
to the station with her, and she told me then before she got in the
train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her
sister’s, his wife’s, too, and that she feared all would be lost.”
“Mrs. Maitland was then dead,” observed Spargo without looking up from
his writing-block.
“She was, young man, and a good thing, too,” continued Mrs. Gutch.
“Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly
a week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with her—which
was Maitland’s. And she told me that night that she’d lost every penny
she had in the world, and that her sister’s money, what ought to have
been the child’s, was gone, too, and she said her say about Maitland.
However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have seen better. And
very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for ten years, her
and me talked about things. ‘What’s the use,’ says I to her, ‘of your
letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking after it as you
do, and educating it, and so on?’ I says. ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘’Tisn’t
yours,’ I says, ‘you haven’t no right to it,’ I says. ‘As soon as ever
its father comes out,’ says I,’ he’ll come and claim it, and you can’t
do nothing to stop him.’ Well, gentlemen, if you’ll believe me, never
did I see a woman look as she did when I says all that. And she up and
swore that Maitland should never see or touch the child again—not under
no circumstances whatever.”
Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask,
with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed,
presently, apparently refreshed.
“Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland’s taking the child away
from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times
about it, always saying the same thing—that Maitland should never have
him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers
about it, and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and
a day or two afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a
lawyer, and he stopped a day or two, and he came again and again, until
one day she came to me, and she says, ‘You don’t know who that
gentleman is that’s come so much lately?’ she says. ‘Not I,’ I says,
‘unless he’s after you.’ ‘After me!’ she says, tossing her head:
‘That’s the gentleman that ought to have married my poor sister if that
scoundrel Maitland hadn’t tricked her into throwing him over!’ ‘You
don’t say so!’ I says. ‘Then by rights he ought to have been the
child’s pa!’ ‘He’s going to be a father to the boy,’ she says. ‘He’s
going to take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a
gentleman of him,’ she says, ‘for his mother’s sake.’ ‘Mercy on us!’
says I. ‘What’ll Maitland say when he comes for him?’ ‘Maitland’ll
never come for him,’ she says, ‘for I’m going to leave here, and the
boy’ll be gone before then. This is all being done,’ she says, ‘so that
the child’ll never know his father’s shame—he’ll never know who his
father was.’ And true enough, the boy was taken away, but Maitland came
before she’d gone, and she told him the child was dead, and I never see
a man so cut up. However, it wasn’t no concern of mine. And so there’s
so much of the secret, gentlemen, and I would like to know if I ain’t
giving good value.”
“Very good,” said the proprietor. “Go on.” But Spargo intervened.
“Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy away?” he
asked.
“Yes, I did,” replied Mrs. Gutch. “Of course I did. Which it was
Elphick.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
STILL SILENT
Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that
made Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her
nerves to be none of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of
them with angry malevolence.
“Don’t do that again, young man!” she exclaimed sharply. “I can’t
a-bear to be jumped out of my skin, and it’s bad manners. I observed
that the gentleman’s name was Elphick.”
Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor—a
glance which came near to being a wink.
“Just so—Elphick,” he said. “A law gentleman I think you said, Mrs.
Gutch?”
“I said,” answered Mrs. Gutch, “as how he looked like a lawyer
gentleman. And since you’re so particular, young man, though I wasn’t
addressing you but your principals, he was a lawyer gentleman. One of
the sort that wears wigs and gowns—ain’t I seen his picture in Jane
Baylis’s room at the boarding-house where you saw her this morning?”
“Elderly man?” asked Spargo.
“Elderly he will be now,” replied the informant; “but when he took the
boy away he was a middle-aged man. About his age,” she added, pointing
to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the
proprietor desire to laugh unconsumedly; “and not so very unlike him
neither, being one as had no hair on his face.”
“Ah!” said Spargo. “And where did this Mr. Elphick take the boy, Mrs.
Gutch?”
But Mrs. Gutch shook her head.
“Ain’t no idea,” she said. “He took him. Then, as I told you, Maitland
came, and Jane Baylis told him that the boy was dead. And after that
she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight tongue.
Once or twice I asked her, and she says, ‘Never you mind,’ she says;
‘he’s all right for life, if he lives to be as old as Methusalem.’ And
she never said more, and I never said more. But,” continued Mrs. Gutch,
whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears away, “she’s
treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a little comfort
such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two of you
a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I,
‘Now’s the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam!’ And I hope I
done it.”
Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head
slightly. He meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted
from Mother Gutch.
“What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here?” he asked.
“You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you like.”
“Which I shall be obliged for, young man,” said Mrs. Gutch, “and
likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every
Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a
Friday, whichever is agreeable to you gentlemen. And having my first
week in my purse, and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes
and go to a friend of mine where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the
dust of my feet off against Jane Baylis and where I’ve been living with
her.”
“Yes, but, Mrs. Gutch,” said Spargo, with some anxiety, “if you go back
there tonight, you’ll be very careful not to tell Miss Baylis that
you’ve been here and told us all this?”
Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed.
“Young man,” she said, “you mean well, but you ain’t used to dealing
with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I like. I
wouldn’t tell Jane Baylis my affairs—my new affairs, gentlemen, thanks
to you—not for two annuities, paid twice a week!”
“Take Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then
come to my room,” said the editor. “And don’t you forget, Mrs.
Gutch—keep a quiet tongue in your head—no more talk—or there’ll be no
annuities on Saturday mornings.”
So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier’s department and paid her
her first week’s money, and he got her a taxi-cab, and paid for it, and
saw her depart, and then he went to the editor’s room, strangely
thoughtful. The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they
stopped when Spargo entered and looked at him eagerly. “I think we’ve
done it,” said Spargo quietly.
“What, precisely, have we found out?” asked the editor.
“A great deal more than I’d anticipated,” answered Spargo, “and I don’t
know what fields it doesn’t open out. If you look back, you’ll remember
that the only thing found on Marbury’s body was a scrap of grey paper
on which was a name and address—Ronald Breton, King’s Bench Walk.”
“Well?”
“Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit—I have accepted two
or three articles of his for our literary page.”
“Well?”
“Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of
Aylmore, the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street
today with the murder of Marbury.”
“I know. Well, what then, Spargo?”
“But the most important matter,” continued Spargo, speaking very
deliberately, “is this—that is, taking that old woman’s statement to be
true, as I personally believe it is—that Breton, as he has told me
himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a guardian.
That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister.”
The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore
the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the
same conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a
sharp interrogation: “You think then——”
Spargo nodded.
“I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is
the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking,” he answered.
The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace
the room.
“If that’s so,” he said, “if that’s so, the mystery deepens. What do
you propose to do, Spargo?”
“I think,” said Spargo, slowly, “I think that without telling him
anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and
get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse
for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands—”
“Yes, yes!” said the proprietor, waving a hand. “Leave it entirely in
Spargo’s hands.”
“Keep me informed,” said the editor. “Do what you think. It strikes me
you’re on the track.”
Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still
faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the
reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up
that morning. There was nothing new; the authorities had merely asked
for another remand. So far as the reporter knew, Aylmore had said
nothing fresh to anybody.
Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton’s chambers. He
found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking
unusually grave and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from
his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into
an inner room.
“I say, Spargo!” he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair.
“This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you told
me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?”
“To get him to tell all?—Yes,” said Spargo.
Breton shook his head.
“Stratton—his solicitor, you know—and I saw him this morning before the
police-court proceedings,” he continued. “I told him of my talk with
you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been to
the _Watchman_ office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your
advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private
feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence
against him; how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth
at once; how he had certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion
against himself; how, as the evidence stands at present, any jury could
scarcely do less than convict him. And it was all no good, Spargo!”
“He won’t say anything?”
“He’ll say no more. He was adamant. ‘I told the entire truth in respect
to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the
inquest,’ he said, over and over again, ‘and I shall say nothing
further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man
on such evidence as that, let it!’ And he persisted in that until we
left him. Spargo, I don’t know what’s to be done.”
“And nothing happened at the police-court?”
“Nothing—another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he was
removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark—‘If you all want to
prove me innocent,’ he said, ‘find the guilty man.’”
“Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that,” said
Spargo.
“Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?” exclaimed
Breton. “Are you any nearer—is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the
slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?”
Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while,
apparently thinking.
“Was Rathbury in court?” he suddenly asked.
“He was,” replied Breton. “He was there with two or three other men who
I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in
Aylmore.”
“If I don’t see Rathbury tonight I’ll see him in the morning,” said
Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, sat down
again. “Look here,” he continued, “I don’t know how this thing stands
in law, but would it be a very weak case against Aylmore if the
prosecution couldn’t show some motive for his killing Marbury?”
Breton smiled.
“There’s no necessity to prove motive in murder,” he said. “But I’ll
tell you what, Spargo—if the prosecution can show that Aylmore had a
motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that it was to
Aylmore’s advantage to silence him—why, then, I don’t think he’s a
chance.”
“I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has
been shown.”
“I know of none.”
Spargo rose and moved to the door.
“Well, I’m off,” he said. Then, as if he suddenly recollected
something, he turned back. “Oh, by the by,” he said, “isn’t your
guardian, Mr. Elphick, a big authority on philately?”
“One of the biggest. Awful enthusiast.”
“Do you think he’d tell me a bit about those Australian stamps which
Marbury showed to Criedir, the dealer?”
“Certain, he would—delighted. Here”—and Breton scribbled a few words on
a card—“there’s his address and a word from me. I’ll tell you when you
can always find him in, five nights out of seven—at nine o’clock, after
he’s dined. I’d go with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore’s. The
two girls are in terrible trouble.”
“Give them a message from me,” said Spargo as they went out together.
“Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS
Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o’clock,
asking himself over and over again two questions—the first, how much
does Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him?
The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a
generation of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was
full of stairs and passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the
exact number of the set of chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander
about in what was a deserted building. So wandering, he suddenly heard
steps, firm, decisive steps coming up a staircase which he himself had
just climbed. He looked over the banisters down into the hollow
beneath. And there, marching up resolutely, was the figure of a tall,
veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realized, with a sharp quickening of
his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof
with Miss Baylis.
Spargo’s mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew, from his
extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that
Miss Baylis had come to see Mr. Elphick—come, of course, to tell Mr.
Elphick that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was
on the track of the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it
before, for he had been busily engaged since the departure of Mother
Gutch; but, naturally, Miss Baylis and Mr. Elphick would keep in
communication with each other. At any rate, here she was, and her
destination was, surely, Elphick’s chambers. And the question for him,
Spargo, was—what to do?
What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense,
where he was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman
did not look up. But Miss Baylis neither looked up nor down: she
reached a landing, turned along a corridor with decision, and marched
forward. A moment later Spargo heard a sharp double knock on a door: a
moment after that he heard a door heavily shut; he knew then that Miss
Baylis had sought and gained admittance—somewhere.
To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the
landing which Miss Baylis had just left. There was no one about—he had
not, in fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he
went along the corridor into which he had seen Miss Baylis turn. He
knew that all the doors in that house were double ones, and that the
outer oak in each was solid and substantial enough to be sound proof.
Yet, as men will under such circumstances, he walked softly; he said to
himself, smiling at the thought, that he would be sure to start if
somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But no hand opened any door,
and at last he came to the end of the corridor and found himself
confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters on a
black ground, Mr. Elphick’s Chambers.
Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back
as quietly as he had come. There was a window half-way along the
corridor from which, he had noticed as he came along, one could catch a
glimpse of the Embankment and the Thames; to this he withdrew, and
leaning on the sill looked out and considered matters. Should he go
and—if he could gain admittance—beard these two conspirators? Should he
wait until the woman came out and let her see that he was on the track?
Should he hide again until she went, and then see Elphick alone?
In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things
slide for the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river
and the brown sails, and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten
minutes went by—twenty minutes—nothing happened. Then, as half-past
nine struck from all the neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a
second cigarette, marched straight down the corridor and knocked boldly
at Mr. Elphick’s door.
Greatly to Spargo’s surprise, the door was opened before there was any
necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a
benevolent, yet somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and
placid face, stood Mr. Elphick, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled
smoking jacket over his dress shirt, and a short pipe in his hand.
Spargo was taken aback: Mr. Elphick apparently was not. He held the
door well open, and motioned the journalist to enter.
“Come in, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “I was expecting you. Walk forward into
my sitting-room.”
Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an ante-room
into a handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In
spite of the fact that it was still very little past midsummer there
was a cheery fire in the grate, and on a table set near a roomy
arm-chair was set such creature comforts as a spirit-case, a syphon, a
tumbler, and a novel—from which things Spargo argued that Mr. Elphick
had been taking his ease since his dinner. But in another armchair on
the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding figure of Miss
Baylis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She neither spoke
nor moved when Spargo entered: she did not even look at him. And Spargo
stood staring at her until Mr. Elphick, having closed his doors,
touched him on the elbow, and motioned him courteously to a seat.
“Yes, I was expecting you, Mr. Spargo,” he said, as he resumed his own
chair. “I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up
your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages
of which you saw me, you will remember, at the mortuary. But since Miss
Baylis told me, twenty minutes ago, that you had been to her this
morning I felt sure that it would not be more than a few hours before
you would come to me.”
“Why, Mr. Elphick, should you suppose that I should come to you at
all?” asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits.
“Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner
unexplored,” replied Mr. Elphick. “The curiosity of the modern pressman
is insatiable.”
Spargo stiffened.
“I have no curiosity, Mr. Elphick,” he said. “I am charged by my paper
to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found
in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer, and——”
Mr. Elphick laughed slightly and waved his hand.
“My good young gentleman!” he said. “You exaggerate your own
importance. I don’t approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In
your own case you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John
Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and
you have been trying to frighten Miss Baylis here into——”
Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him
which, when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused
now. He looked the old barrister full in the face.
“Mr. Elphick,” he said, “you are evidently unaware of all that I know.
So I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, and I
will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs
of what I know, and, if you will trouble yourself to read the
_Watchman_ tomorrow morning, then you, too, will know.”
“Dear me—dear me!” said Mr. Elphick, banteringly. “We are so used to
ultra-sensational stories from the _Watchman_ that—but I am a curious
and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so perhaps you will tell me
in a word what it is you do know, eh?”
Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table
and looked the old barrister straight in the face.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will tell you what I know beyond doubt. I
know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without
doubt, John Maitland, of Market Milcaster, and that Ronald Breton is
his son, whom you took from that woman!”
If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in
which Mr. Elphick had treated it he could not have been afforded a more
ample one than that offered to him by the old barrister’s reception of
this news. Mr. Elphick’s face not only fell, but changed; his
expression of almost sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly
resembling abject terror; he dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair,
recovered himself, gripped the chair’s arms, and stared at Spargo as if
the young man had suddenly announced to him that in another minute he
must be led to instant execution. And Spargo, quick to see his
advantage, followed it up.
“That is what I know, Mr. Elphick, and if I choose, all the world shall
know it tomorrow morning!” he said firmly. “Ronald Breton is the son of
the murdered man, and Ronald Breton is engaged to be married to the
daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is
not matter of suspicion, or of idea, or of conjecture, it is
fact—fact!”
Mr. Elphick slowly turned his face to Miss Baylis. He gasped out a few
words.
“You—did—not—tell—me—this!”
Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she, too, was white to the
lips and as frightened as the man.
“I—didn’t know!” she muttered. “He didn’t tell me. He only told me this
morning what—what I’ve told you.”
Spargo picked up his hat.
“Good-night, Mr. Elphick,” he said.
But before he could reach the door the old barrister had leapt from his
chair and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at
him. He knew then that for some reason or other he had given Mr.
Septimus Elphick a thoroughly bad fright.
“Well?” he growled.
“My dear young gentleman!” implored Mr. Elphick. “Don’t go! I’ll—I’ll
do anything for you if you won’t go away to print that. I’ll—I’ll give
you a thousand pounds!”
Spargo shook him off.
“That’s enough!” he snarled. “Now, I am off! What, you’d try to bribe
me?”
Mr. Elphick wrung his hands.
“I didn’t mean that—indeed I didn’t!” he almost wailed. “I—I don’t know
what I meant. Stay, young gentleman, stay a little, and let us—let us
talk. Let me have a word with you—as many words as you please. I
implore you!”
Spargo made a fine pretence of hesitation.
“If I stay,” he said, at last, “it will only be on the strict condition
that you answer—and answer truly—whatever questions I like to ask you.
Otherwise——”
He made another move to the door, and again Mr. Elphick laid beseeching
hands on him.