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

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 wildfire. 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,