The Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher (good books for 7th graders TXT) 📕

news is all over the place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear that news like everybody else. But it was remembered, and often remarked upon afterwards, that from the moment of Maitland’s arrest nobody in Market Milcaster ever had speech with Chamberlayne again. After his wife’s death he’d taken to spending an hour or so of an evening across there at the ‘Dragon,’ where you saw me and my friends last night, but on that night he didn’t go to the ‘Dragon.’ And next morning he caught the eight o’clock train to London. He happened to remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. But Chamberlayne didn’t come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn’t come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back it was in a coffin!”

“Dead?” exclaimed Spargo. “That was sudden!”

“Very sudden,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, sir, he came back in his coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he’d spoken of being back, there came a telegram here to say that he’d died very suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler⁠—you’ll find him down the street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew of Chamberlayne’s, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he’d died shortly afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn’t feel that there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do. And next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him in it, with her.”

Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and theories; he was taking everything in.

“Well,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “on the second day after that, they brought Chamberlayne’s body down. Three of ’em came with it⁠—Stephen Chamberlayne, the doctor who’d been called in, and a solicitor. Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As Chamberlayne had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met the body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of us who had been clients of Chamberlayne’s were anxious to know how he had come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne’s account, our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet him at the Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him there when he arrived, and they had lunch together. After that, they got to their business in a private room. Towards the end of the afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly ill, and though they got a doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The doctor said he’d a diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the cause of his death, so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told you.”

The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at some reminiscence which occurred to him.

“Well,” he said, presently going on, “of course, on that came all the Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely certain that most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had left practically nothing. All that could be traced was about three or four thousand pounds. He’d left everything to his nephew, Stephen. There wasn’t a trace, a clue to the vast sums with which Maitland had entrusted him. And then people began to talk, and they said what some of them say to this very day!”

“What’s that?” asked Spargo.

Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm.

“That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted with lead!” he answered.

XX Maitland Alias Marbury

This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in Spargo’s mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his informant, who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor’s surprise.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Spargo at last, “that there are people in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery which is said to contain Chamberlayne’s body contains⁠—lead?”

“Lots of ’em, my dear sir!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Lots of ’em! Go out in the street and ask the first six men you meet, and I’ll go bail that four out of the six believe it.”

“Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take steps to make certain?” asked Spargo. “Why didn’t they get an order for exhumation?”

“Because it was nobody’s particular business to do so,” answered Mr. Quarterpage. “You don’t know country-town life, my dear sir. In towns like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, but they’re always slow to do anything. It’s a case of who’ll start first⁠—of initiative. And if they see it’s going to cost anything⁠—then they’ll have nothing to do with it.”

“But⁠—the bank people?” suggested Spargo.

Mr. Quarterpage shook his head.

“They’re amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did die,” he said. “They’re very old-fashioned, conservative-minded people, the Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted the version of the nephew, and the doctor, and