Nigel Moss - The Middle Temple Murder

‘Well, he seemed taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he stared at the man. Then they shook hands. And then, after they’d spoken a few words together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I never saw no more of ’em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that picture in it, I said to myself “That’s the man I sat next to in that there hall at the House of Commons!” Oh, there’s no doubt of it, sir!’

‘And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey beard?’ suggested Spargo. ‘Could you recognise him from that?’

‘Make no doubt of it, sir,’ answered Mr Webster. ‘I observed him particular.’

Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes.

‘Come here, if you please, Mr Webster,’ he said.

The farmer went across the room.

‘There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of Commons here,’ said Spargo. ‘Now, pick out the one you saw. Take your time—and be sure.’

He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton.

‘There!’ he whispered. ‘Getting nearer—a bit nearer—eh?’

‘To what?’ asked Breton. ‘I don’t see—’

A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton’s remark.

‘This is him, sir!’ answered Mr Webster. ‘That’s the gentleman—know him anywhere!’

The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby finger to a photograph, beneath which was written:

Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P. for Brookminster .

SPARGO, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere glance at the photograph to which Mr Webster was pointing.

‘Oh!’ he said. ‘That he?’

‘That’s the gentleman, sir,’ replied Webster. ‘Done to the life, that is. No difficulty in recognising of that, Mr Spargo.’

‘You’re absolutely sure?’ demanded Spargo. ‘There are a lot of men in the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards are grey.’

But Webster wagged his head.

‘That’s him, sir!’ he repeated. ‘I’m as sure of that as I am that my name’s William Webster. That’s the man I saw talking to him whose picture you’ve got in your paper. Can’t say no more, sir.’

‘Very good,’ said Spargo. ‘I’m much obliged to you. I’ll see Mr Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr Webster. How long do you remain in town?’

‘My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be there for another week,’ answered the farmer. ‘Hope I’ve been of some use, Mr Spargo. As I says to my wife—’

Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits.

‘There!—what did I tell you?’ he said. ‘Didn’t I say I should get some news? There it is.’

Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Yes, I say, Spargo!’

‘Well?’

‘Mr Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.’

‘Quite aware of it. Didn’t you introduce me to his daughters—only yesterday?’

‘But—how did you know they were his daughters?’

Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk.

‘Instinct—intuition,’ he answered. ‘However, never mind that, just now. Well—I’ve found something out. Marbury—if that is the dead man’s real name, and anyway, it’s all we know him by—was in the company of Mr Aylmore that night. Good!’

‘What are you going to do about it?’ asked Breton.

‘Do? See Mr Aylmore, of course.’

He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk.

‘Look here,’ said Breton. ‘I know where Mr Aylmore is always to be found at twelve o’clock. At the A. and P.—the Atlantic and Pacific Club, you know, in St James’s. If you like, I’ll go with you.’

Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Eleven o’clock, now. I’ve something to do. I’ll meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon.’

‘I’ll be there,’ agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand on it, turned. ‘What do you expect from—from what we’ve just heard?’ he asked.

Spargo shrugged his shoulders.

‘Wait—until we hear what Mr Aylmore has to say,’ he answered. ‘I suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.’

Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to mutter to himself.

‘Good God!’ he says. ‘Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one of the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much observation. Ah!—and why should Mr Stephen Aylmore be recognised as Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort? Now, who is Mr Stephen Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?’