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

stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure instinct turned into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was furnished and ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town hotels. There were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which had certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; there were foxes’ masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and an antique snuffbox set between them. Also there was a small, old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo, treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair.

“This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, “appears to me to be a very quiet place.”

“Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. “Quiet?”

“That,” continued Spargo, “is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, that the place is undoubtedly quiet.”

The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and coming out into the room took a chair near his own.

“It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked. “It’s about all that one ever does see.”

“Are there many?” asked Spargo. “Do the inhabitants die much of inanition?”

The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection.

“Oh, you’re joking!” she said. “It’s well you can. Nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number.”

“Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured Spargo. “And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in this town, then?” he added in a louder voice.

“Nothing!” replied his companion. “It’s fast asleep. I came here from Birmingham, and I didn’t know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months.”

“Ah!” said Spargo. “What you are suffering from is dullness. You must have an antidote.”

“Dullness!” exclaimed the damsel. “That’s the right word for Market Milcaster. There’s just a few regular old customers drop in here of a morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in⁠—perhaps during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed!⁠—what they want in Market Milcaster is new times.”

Spargo pricked up his ears.

“Well, but it’s rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old times,” he said. “I love it!”

“Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked the barmaid. “Look in tonight any time after eight o’clock, and if you don’t know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that they couldn’t go to bed unless they’ve told each other stories about old days which I should think they’ve heard a thousand times already!”

“Very old men?” asked Spargo.

“Methuselahs,” replied the lady. “There’s old Mr. Quarterpage, across the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn’t do any business now⁠—they say he’s ninety, though I’m sure you wouldn’t take him for more than seventy. And there’s Mr. Lummis, further down the street⁠—he’s eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye⁠—they’re regular patriarchs. I’ve sat here and listened to them till I believe I could write a history of Market Milcaster since the year One.”

“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” said Spargo.

He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the barmaid’s spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town until seven o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner. There were no more people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit.

“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the barmaid, warningly. “They all have their own special chairs and their special pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if anybody touched pipe or chair. But you’re all right there, and you’ll hear all they’ve got to say.”

To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo’s eye, gave him a glance which showed that the play was about to begin.

“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid. “You’re first tonight.”

“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined to look