The Middle Temple Murder. Joseph Smith Fletcher

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       Joseph Smith Fletcher

      The Middle Temple Murder

      Published by Good Press, 2020

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066072872

Table of Contents

       THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER

       HIS FIRST BRIEF

       THE CLUE OF THE CAP

       THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL

       SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE

       WITNESS TO A MEETING

       MR. AYLMORE

       THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT

       THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS

       THE LEATHER BOX

       MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED

       THE NEW WITNESS

       UNDER SUSPICION

       THE SILVER TICKET

       MARKET MILCASTER

       THE "YELLOW DRAGON"

       MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK

       AN OLD NEWSPAPER

       THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY

       MAITLAND alias MARBURY

       ARRESTED

       THE BLANK PAST

       MISS BAYLIS

       MOTHER GUTCH

       REVELATIONS

       STILL SILENT

       MR. ELPHICK'S CHAMBERS

       OF PROVED IDENTITY

       THE CLOSED DOORS

       REVELATION

       THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER

       THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN

       FORESTALLED

       THE WHIP HAND

       MYERST EXPLAINS

       THE FINAL TELEGRAM

      THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER

       Table of Contents

      Layout 2

      ​

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER

      As a rule, Spargo left the Watchman office at two o'clock. The paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, until two o'clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of St. Paul's.

      Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every night and every morning he walked to and from the Watchman office by the same route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He came to know several faces, especially amongst the ​police; he formed the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his pipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance, looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering. Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face.

      "What is it?" asked Spargo.

      Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and jacket.

      "He says," answered Driscoll, "him, there—the porter—that there's a man lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he's dead. Likewise, he thinks he's murdered."

      Spargo echoed the word.

      "But what makes him think that?" he asked, peeping with curiosity beyond Driscoll's burly form. "Why?"

      "He says there's blood about him," answered Driscoll. He turned