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

on life severely. “Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye. “No, but here’s Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid.

Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish angle. The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies.

“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us. And there’s a symposium.”

“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man. “Grandpa’ll be here in a minute. We’ll start fair.”

The barmaid glanced out of the window.

“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she announced. “Shall I put the things on the table?”

“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man. “Have all in readiness.”

The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time, knowing that this was the venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight which were positively boyish.

Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety⁠—a middle-sized, sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease of life before him even at his age.

Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them⁠—the five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag. Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of anything but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past.

Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when she said that she believed she could write a history of Market Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a polite bow, said quietly:

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

XVII Mr. Quarterpage Harks Back

If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch⁠—the second of the evening⁠—or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble of conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing with great empressement to the ticket.

“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?”

“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a little with the matter. “You recognize it?”

“Know it! Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, and so does every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, young gentleman, in this town.”

“No,” replied Spargo. “Certainly not in this town. How should I get it in this town if I’m a stranger?”

“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage. “I cannot conceive how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those⁠—what shall we call them⁠—heirlooms?⁠—yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again⁠—Where did you get that, young gentleman?”

“Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you will tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure