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Middle Temple Murder

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<h2>CHAPTER TWO HIS FIRST BRIEF</h2> Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. “I know this man,” he said. The inspector showed new interest. “What, Mr. Breton?” he asked. “Yes. I’m on the Watchman, you know, sub-editor. I took an article from him the other day—article on ‘Ideal Sites for Campers-Out.’ He came to the office about it. So this was in the dead man’s pocket?” “Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand: I wasn’t present myself. It’s not much, but it may afford some clue to identity.” Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It seemed to him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in clubs; it had been torn roughly from the sheet. “What,” he asked meditatively, “what will you do about getting this man identified?” The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, usual thing, I suppose. There’ll be publicity, you know. I suppose you’ll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh? Then there’ll be the others. And we shall put out the usual notice. Somebody will come forward to identify—sure to. And—” A man came into the office—a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a stroll, and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his desk, at the same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper which Spargo had just laid down. “I’ll go along to King’s Bench Walk and see Mr. Breton,” he observed, looking at his watch. “It’s just about ten—I daresay he’ll be there now.” “I’m going there, too,” remarked Spargo, but as if speaking to himself. “Yes, I’ll go there.” The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The inspector nodded at Spargo. “Journalist,” he said, “Mr. Spargo of the Watchman. Mr. Spargo was there when the body was found. And he knows Mr. Breton.” Then he nodded from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. “This is Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, from the Yard,” he said to Spargo. “He’s come to take charge of this case.” “Oh?” said Spargo blankly. “I see—what,” he went on, with sudden abruptness, “what shall you do about Breton?” “Get him to come and look at the body,” replied Rathbury. “He may know the man and he mayn’t. Anyway, his name and address are here, aren’t they?” “Come along,” said Spargo. “I’ll walk there with you.” Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor Street; his companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed that he was by nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until the two were climbing the old balustrated staircase of the house in King’s Bench Walk in which Ronald Breton’s chambers were somewhere situate that Spargo spoke. “Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on him?” he asked, suddenly turning on the detective. “I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that question, Mr. Spargo,” replied Rathbury, with a smile. “Yes,” said Spargo, dreamily. “I suppose so. He might have had—nothing on him, eh?” The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were printed. “We don’t know anything yet, sir,” he observed, “except that Mr. Breton is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn’t long since he was eating his dinner.” “Oh, he’s young—he’s quite young,” said Spargo. “I should say he’s about four-and-twenty. I’ve met him only—” At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down the staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing—presently masculine laughter mingled with the lighter feminine. “Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway,” said Rathbury. “Mr. Breton’s chambers, too. And the door’s open.” The outer oak door of Ronald Breton’s chambers stood thrown wide; the inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the detective obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton’s rooms. There, against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied up with pink tape, and black-framed pictures of famous legal notabilities, they saw a pretty, vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a chair, wigged and gowned, and flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, to the amusement of a young man who had his back to the door, and of another girl who leant confidentially against his shoulder. “I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury—I put it to you with confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, perhaps brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your consciences do my client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, the—the—” “Think of some more adjectives!” exclaimed the young man. “Hot and strong ’uns—pile ’em up. That’s what they like—they—Hullo!” This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the proceedings the detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his head round its edge. Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the chair, jumped hastily down; the other young lady withdrew from the young man’s protecting arm; there was a feminine giggle and a feminine swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into an inner room, and Mr. Ronald Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet the interrupter. “Come in, come in!” he exclaimed hastily. “I—” Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a look of surprise. “Oh—Mr. Spargo?” he said. “How do you do?—we—I—we were just having a lark—I’m off to court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. Spargo?” He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and turned again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The detective, on his part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, perfectly groomed, and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the impression from these matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young men who may take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He turned and glanced at the journalist. “How do you do?” said Spargo slowly. “I—the fact is, I came here with Mr. Rathbury. He—wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant Rathbury—of New Scotland Yard.” Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a lesson. But he was watching the young barrister’s face. And Breton turned to the detective with a look of surprise. “Oh!” he said. “You wish—” Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. “I wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton,” he said. “This morning, about a quarter to three, a man—elderly man—was found dead in Middle Temple Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo here—he was present when the body was found.” “Soon after,” corrected Spargo. “A few minutes after.” “When this body was examined at the mortuary,” continued Rathbury, in his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, “nothing was found that could lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It’s got your name and address on it, Mr. Breton. See?” Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted brows. “By Jove!” he muttered. “So it has; that’s queer. What’s he like, this man?” Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. “Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?” he said. “It’s close by.” “Well—I—the fact is, I’ve got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow’s court,” Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. “But it won’t be called until after eleven. Will—” “Plenty of time, sir,” said Rathbury; “it won’t take you ten minutes to go round and back again—a look will do. You don’t recognize this handwriting, I suppose?” Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, intently. “No!” he answered. “I don’t. I don’t know it at all—I can’t think, of course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional services, you know,” he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; “but, three—three o’clock in the morning, eh?” “The doctor,” observed Rathbury, “the doctor thinks he had been dead about two and a half hours.” Breton turned to the inner door. “I’ll—I’ll just tell these ladies I’m going out for a quarter of an hour,” he said. “They’re going over to the court with me—I got my first brief yesterday,” he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right and left at his visitors. “It’s nothing much—small case—but I promised my fiancée and her sister that they should be present, you know. A moment.” He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. “Well, come on,” said Breton. “Let’s go straight there.” The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to the side of 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 realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the Law Courts. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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