The Middle Temple Murder - J. S. Fletcher (reading women .TXT) 📗

“It’s five minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?”

“A word with him,” answered Spargo. “A mere word⁠—or two.”

He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the great object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it.

“Name it, my son,” commanded Starkey. “Try the Octoneumenoi very extra special. Two of ’em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?”

“I’ll think about being a member of this anteroom of the infernal regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a route-map of the way from Fleet Street,” answered Spargo, taking his glass. “Phew!⁠—what an atmosphere!”

“We’re considering a ventilating fan,” said Starkey. “I’m on the house committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. But Templeson, of the Bulletin⁠—you know Templeson⁠—he says what we want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard⁠—says no club is proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap⁠—secondhand dealer, don’t you know⁠—what has a beauty to dispose of in old Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You see⁠—”

“There is Crowfoot,” said Spargo. “Shout him over here, Starkey, before anybody else collars him.”

Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap; his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye.

“Hi, Crowfoot!” shouted Starkey above the din and babel. “Crowfoot, Crowfoot! Come over here, there’s a chap dying to see you!”

“Yes, that’s the way to get him, isn’t it?” said Spargo. “Here, I’ll get him myself.”

He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist.

“I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like a pandemonium.”

Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink.

“Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s companionable. What is it, Spargo?”

Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I should say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as any man writing about ’em?”

“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot.

“And old sporting matters?” said Spargo.

“Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden flash of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you know.”

“Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just now, anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with old sporting affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to be the only man I know of that could tell anything.”

“Yes⁠—what is it?” asked Crowfoot.

Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on Crowfoot’s outstretched palm.

“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked.

Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes⁠—he eagerly turned the silver ticket over.

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

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

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

“But what is it?” asked Spargo.

Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic device was almost worn away.

“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s what it is. One of the old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! Bless me!⁠—most interesting.”

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

“Market Milcaster,” replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket over and over, “is what the topographers call a decayed town in Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got gradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in June every year. It’s nearly forty years since that meeting fell through. I went to it often when I was a lad⁠—often!”

“And you say that’s a ticket for the stand?” asked Spargo.

“This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like to call ’em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses of the town,” answered Crowfoot. “It was, I remember, considered a great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its possessor⁠—for life, mind you!⁠—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on earth did you get this, Spargo?”

Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting it in his purse.

“I’m awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot,” he said, “The fact is,