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

command of five or six thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told Robertson that he had met a man in Melbourne who had given him news that surprised him, but did not say what news. He had in his possession when he left Robertson exactly the luggage he brought with him when he came⁠—a stout portmanteau and a small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at Coolumbidgee.”

“That’s all,” said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the table. “And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here’s more startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage⁠—he promised, you know, to keep me posted in what went on in my absence. Here’s what he says:

“Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You’d better hurry back if you want material for tomorrow’s paper.”

Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up.

“Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. “I looked the trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1:20 to Paddington⁠—that’ll get me in before half-past four. I’ve an hour yet. Now, there’s another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That’s the photographer⁠—or a photographer. You remember I told you of the photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I’m calculating that that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took it⁠—if he’s alive and I can find him.”

Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat.

“There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, “and he’s been here for a good many years⁠—Cooper. I’ll take you to him⁠—it’s only a few doors away.”

Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper⁠—an elderly man.

“Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?” he asked, after Mr. Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to ask a few questions.

“Quite well, sir,” replied Mr. Cooper. “As well as if it had been yesterday.”

“Do you still happen to have a copy of it?” asked Spargo.

But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he laid it on his table before his callers.

“There you are, sir,” he said. “That’s the child!”

Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage. “Just as I thought,” he said. “That’s the same photograph we found in the leather box with the silver ticket. I’m obliged to you, Mr. Cooper. Now, there’s just one more question I want to ask. Did you ever supply any further copies of this photograph to anybody after the Maitland affair?⁠—that is; after the family had left the town?”

“Yes,” replied the photographer. “I supplied half a dozen copies to Miss Baylis, the child’s aunt, who, as a matter of fact, brought him here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, too,” he continued, beginning to turn over another old file. “I have it somewhere.”

Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo.

“That’s something I couldn’t have done!” he remarked. “As I told you, she’d disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after Maitland’s release.”

“Here you are,” said Mr. Cooper. “I sent six copies of that photograph to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester Square, Bayswater, W.”

Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he turned to the old gentleman with a smile.

“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that!” he exclaimed. “Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. I’m as certain of that as that I see your Town Hall there.”

“And what will you do next, sir?” enquired Mr. Quarterpage.

“Thank you⁠—as I do⁠—for all your kindness and assistance, and get off to town by this 1:20,” replied Spargo. “And I shan’t fail to let you know how things go on.”

“One moment,” said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, “do you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?”

“No!” answered Spargo with emphasis. “I don’t! And I think we’ve got a good deal to do before we find out who did.”

Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his journey to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his neighbours; it was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to something else than the theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so many days. But at Reading the newspaper boys were shouting the news of the arrest of a Member of Parliament, and Spargo, glancing out of the window, caught sight of a newspaper placard:

The Marbury Murder Case
Arrest of Mr. Aylmore

He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding it, found a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press news:

“Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o’clock this afternoon, on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned in the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June 21st last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington. He met Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the detective turned back.

“Well, so there you are!” he said. “I suppose you’ve heard the news?”

Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair.

“What led to it?” he asked abruptly. “There must have been something.”

“There was something,” he replied. “The thing⁠—stick, bludgeon, whatever you like to call it, some foreign article⁠—with which Marbury was struck down was found last night.”

“Well?” asked Spargo.

“It was proved