The Middle Temple Murder. Nigel Moss

the dead man, from whose face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head.

      ‘No!’ he said with decision. ‘Don’t know him—don’t know him from Adam. Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of.’

      Rathbury replaced the cloth.

      ‘I didn’t suppose you would,’ he remarked. ‘Well, I expect we must go on the usual lines. Somebody’ll identify him.’

      ‘You say he was murdered?’ said Breton. ‘Is that—certain?’

      Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse.

      ‘The back of his skull is smashed in,’ he said laconically. ‘The doctor says he must have been struck down from behind—and a fearful blow, too. I’m much obliged to you, Mr Breton.’

      ‘Oh, all right!’ said Breton. ‘Well, you know where to find me if you want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye—good-bye, Mr Spargo.’

      The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the journalist.

      ‘I didn’t expect anything from that,’ he remarked. ‘However, it was a thing to be done. You are going to write about this for your paper?’

      Spargo nodded.

      ‘Well,’ continued Rathbury, ‘I’ve sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter’s, where that cap came from, you know. We may get a bit of information from that quarter—it’s possible. If you like to meet me here at twelve o’clock I’ll tell you anything I’ve heard. Just now I’m going to get some breakfast.’

      ‘I’ll meet you here,’ said Spargo, ‘at twelve o’clock.’

      He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set off round another. He went to the Watchman office, wrote a few lines, which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out again. Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before he quite realised what he was doing he found himself turning into the Law Courts.

       CHAPTER III

       THE CLUE OF THE CAP

      HAVING no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves.

      ‘Isn’t Mr Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?’ he suddenly asked.

      ‘Number seven,’ replied the official. ‘What’s your case—when’s it down?’

      ‘I haven’t got a case,’ said Spargo. ‘I’m a pressman—reporter, you know.’

      The official stuck out a finger.

      ‘Round the corner—first to your right—second on the left,’ he said automatically. ‘You’ll find plenty of room—nothing much doing there this morning.’

      He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors.

      ‘Upon my honour!’ he muttered. ‘Upon my honour, I really don’t know what I’ve come up here for. I’ve no business here.’

      Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her burlesque speech: it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a hope of seeing this girl again—why, he could not then think.

      Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted his hat. Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a question.

      ‘Yes,’ said Spargo. ‘I—the fact is, I remembered that you said you were coming up here, and I came after you. I want—when you’ve time—to have a talk, to ask you a few questions. About—this affair of the dead man, you know.’

      Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm.

      ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘When this case of mine is over, I can give you as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me a favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery—round there, and up the stairs—and I’m a bit pressed for time—I’ve a solicitor waiting for me. You take them—there’s a good fellow; then, when the case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. Here—I’ll introduce you all—no ceremony. Miss Aylmore—Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr Spargo—of the Watchman. Now, I’m off!’ Breton turned on the instant; his gown whisked round a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at two smiling girls. He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years.

      ‘That is very cool of Ronald,’ observed the elder young lady. ‘Perhaps his scheme doesn’t fit in with yours, Mr Spargo? Pray don’t—’

      ‘Oh, it’s all right!’ said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly stupid. ‘I’ve nothing to do. But—where did Mr Breton say you wished to be taken?’

      ‘Into the gallery of number seven court,’ said the younger girl promptly. ‘Round this corner—I think I know the way.’

      Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving that morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led the two young ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries from which idlers and specially-interested spectators may see and hear the proceedings which obtain in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks wherein justice is dispensed at the Law Courts. There was no one else in that gallery; the attendant in the corridor outside seemed to be vastly amazed that anyone should wish to enter it, and he presently opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way down the stairs to meet him.

      ‘Nothing much going on here this morning,’ he whispered behind a raised hand. ‘But there’s a nice breach case in number five—get you three good seats there if you like.’

      Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He had decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and her sister about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a lucky dog to be in possession of such a charming future wife and an equally charming sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss Jessie Aylmore’s side, and looked around him as if he were much awed by his surroundings.

      ‘I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?’ he whispered. ‘Is this really Mr Breton’s first case?’

      ‘His very first—all on his own responsibility, anyway,’ replied Spargo’s companion, smiling. ‘And he’s very nervous—and so’s my sister. Aren’t you, now, Evelyn?’

      Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly.

      ‘I suppose one’s always nervous about first appearances,’ she said. ‘However, I think Ronald’s got plenty of confidence, and, as he says, it’s not much of a case: it isn’t even a jury case. I’m afraid you’ll find it dull, Mr Spargo—it’s only something about a promissory note.’

      ‘Oh, I’m all right, thank you,’ replied Spargo, unconsciously falling back on a favourite formula. ‘I always like to hear lawyers—they manage to say such a lot about—about—’