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

to be kept in their families forever⁠—nobody ever anticipated in those days that our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand race banquet⁠—at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody.”

“And when the race-meeting fell through?” asked Spargo. “What then?”

“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They were dealt with as I dealt with mine⁠—framed on velvet, and hung up⁠—or locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the ‘Dragon,’ that I could repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can. But here”⁠—the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence⁠—“here is a little volume of my own handwriting⁠—memoranda relating to Market Milcaster Races⁠—in which is a list of the original holders, together with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the second list, I could trace every ticket⁠—except the one you have in your purse.”

“Every one?” said Spargo, in some surprise.

“Every one! For as I told you,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “the families are either in the town (we’re a conservative people here in Market Milcaster and we don’t move far afield) or they’re just outside the town, or they’re not far away. I can’t conceive how the ticket you have⁠—and it’s genuine enough⁠—could ever get out of possession of one of these families, and⁠—”

“Perhaps,” suggested Spargo, “it never has been out of possession. I told you it was found in the lining of a box⁠—that box belonged to a dead man.”

“A dead man!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “A dead man! Who could⁠—ah! Perhaps⁠—perhaps I have an idea. Yes!⁠—an idea. I remember something now that I had never thought of.”

The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and turned over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. He pointed this out to Spargo.

“There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the race-meetings came to an end,” he said. “If you were acquainted with this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known inhabitants⁠—all, of course, burgesses. There’s mine, you see⁠—Quarterpage. There’s Lummis, there’s Kaye, there’s Skene, there’s Templeby⁠—the gentlemen you saw last night. All good old town names. They all are⁠—on this list. I know every family mentioned. The holders of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the tickets. Yes⁠—and now that I think of it, there’s only one man who held a ticket when this list was made about whom I don’t know anything⁠—at least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you’ve found must have been his. But I thought⁠—I thought somebody else had it!”

“And this man, sir? Who was he?” asked Spargo, intuitively conscious that he was coming to news. “Is his name there?”

The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names.

“There it is!” he said. “John Maitland.”

Spargo bent over the fine writing.

“Yes, John Maitland,” he observed. “And who was John Maitland?”

Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many drawers in an ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old newspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up.

“If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. Spargo,” he said, “you would have known who John Maitland was. For some time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place⁠—aye, and in this corner of the world. But⁠—aye, here it is⁠—the newspaper of October 5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’ll find in this old newspaper who John Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ve just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day’s business over with my son⁠—you take this newspaper out into the garden there with one of these cigars, and read what’ll you find in it, and when you’ve read that we’ll have some more talk.”

Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden.

XVIII An Old Newspaper

As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the middle page, headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar and settled down to read.

“Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions

“Trial of John Maitland

“The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the Recorder, Henry John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on the bench by the Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman Pettiford), the Vicar of Market Milcaster (the Rev. P. B. Clabberton, M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., Captain Murrill, J.P., and other magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded attendance of the public in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, ex-manager of the Market Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court were filled with the élite of the town and neighbourhood, including a considerable number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in the proceedings.

“The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the occasion of his last two official visits to Market Milcaster⁠—he referred to the fact that on both those occasions his