The Middle Temple Murder, J. S. Fletcher [best books to read for knowledge .txt] 📗

whatever he may have done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to South America long before that. Look here, Breton,” he continued, aloud, “have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before he’s brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?”

“Yes,” answered Breton. “I can see him with his solicitor.”

“Then listen,” said Spargo. “Tomorrow morning you’ll find the whole story of how I proved Marbury’s identity with Maitland in the Watchman. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he’s brought up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters’ peace of mind to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows about Maitland twenty years ago. He should have done that at first. Why, I was asking his daughters some questions before you came in⁠—they know absolutely nothing of their father’s history previous to the time when they began to understand things! Don’t you see that Aylmore’s career, previous to his return to England, is a blank past!”

“I know⁠—I know!” said Breton. “Yes⁠—although I’ve gone there a great deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything earlier than his Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on when he went out there.”

“Thirty-seven or eight, at least,” remarked Spargo. “Well, Aylmore’s more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his life hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?”

“My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland,” answered Breton. “We kept up the acquaintance after our return.”

“Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?” asked Spargo.

“Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs the thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of little else,” said Breton.

“And their theory⁠—”

“Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!” replied Breton. “Old Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every tenant of the Temple.”

“Longish business that,” observed Spargo. “Well, run away now, Breton⁠—I must write.”

“Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?” asked Breton as he moved to the door. “It’s to be at ten-thirty.”

“No, I shan’t!” replied Spargo. “It’ll only be a remand, and I know already just as much as I should hear there. I’ve got something much more important to do. But you’ll remember what I asked of you⁠—get Aylmore to read my story in the Watchman, and beg him to speak out and tell all he knows⁠—all!”

And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: “All he knows⁠—all!”

XXIII Miss Baylis

Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely given up to the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and boardinghouse keeper. They are very pretentious, those squares, with their many-storied houses, their stuccoed frontages, and their pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent country folk, coming into them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, take them to be the residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live nowhere else but in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the fact that young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the country folk to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but others, more knowing, are aware that they are Swiss or German waiters whose linen might be cleaner.

Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as the door was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and bacon, of fish and chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of overcoats, wraps, and sticks in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid to answer the bell. And presently, in answer to his enquiries, there was the usual type of landlady confronting him, a more than middle-aged person who desired to look younger, and made attempts in the way of false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that somewhat air and smile which in its wearer⁠—under these circumstances⁠—always means that she is considering whether you will be able to cheat her or whether she will be able to see you.

“You wish to see Miss Baylis?” said this person, examining Spargo closely. “Miss Baylis does not often see anybody.”

“I hope,” said Spargo politely, “that Miss Baylis is not an invalid?”

“No, she’s not an invalid,” replied the landlady; “but she’s not as young as she was, and she’s an objection to strangers. Is it anything I can tell her?”

“No,” said Spargo. “But you can, if you please, take her a message from me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to ask her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I should be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes.”

“Perhaps you will sit down,” said the landlady. She led Spargo into a room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies, evidently inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with them and to amuse himself by watching them knit or sew or read the papers, and he wondered if they always did these things every day, and if they would go on doing them until a day would come when they would do them no more, and he was beginning to feel very dreary when the door opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after one sharp glance at her, decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the common. And as she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first glance lengthen into