CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK
If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen's bowl of punch--the second ofthe evening--or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, hecould scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wroughtupon them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babbleof conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another tookhis cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he wassucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to theinterrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in hisoutstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, towhom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointingwith great _empressement_ to the ticket.
"Young gentleman!" he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremblea little, "young gentleman, where did you get that?"
"You know what it is, then?" asked Spargo, willing to dally a littlewith the matter. "You recognize it?"
"Know it! Recognize it!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, and so doesevery gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are astranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think,young gentleman, in this town."
"No," replied Spargo. "Certainly not in this town. How should I get itin this town if I'm a stranger?"
"Quite true, quite true!" murmured Mr. Quarterpage. "I cannot conceivehow any person in the town who is in possession of one of those--whatshall we call them--heirlooms?--yes, heirlooms of antiquity, couldpossibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again--Wheredid you get that, young gentleman?"
"Before I tell you that," answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silentsign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, "perhaps you willtell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished,much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearingsof somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse.But--what is it?"
The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneousgrunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke.
"It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster,young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privilegesin respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, nowunfortunately a thing of the past," he added. "Fifty--aye,forty!--years ago, to be in possession of one of those ticketswas--was--"
"A grand thing!" said one of the old gentlemen.
"Mr. Lummis is right," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It was a grand thing--avery grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured--are treasured.And yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir--"
Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short.
"I found this ticket--under mysterious circumstances--in London," heanswered. "I want to trace it. I want to know who its original ownerwas. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster."
Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces.
"Wonderful!" he said. "Wonderful! He found this ticket--one of ourfamous fifty--in London, and under mysterious circumstances. He wantsto trace it--he wants to know to whom it belonged! That is why he hascome to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I appeal toyou if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened inMarket Milcaster for--I don't know how many years?"
There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybodylooking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy thewhole town.
"But--why?" he asked, showing great surprise. "Why?"
"Why?" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "Why? He asks--why? Because, younggentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends ofmine, too, every man jack of 'em, to hear that any one of our fiftytickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty familiesto whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, mostunexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any MarketMilcaster family."
"No, I'm not," admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that until theprevious evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but hewisely refrained. "No, I'm certainly not," he added.
Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe.
"I believe," he said, "I believe that if the evening were not drawingto a close--it is already within a few minutes of our departure, younggentleman--I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory,give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when therace-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!"
"I'm sure you could!" asserted the little man in the loud suit. "Neverwas such a memory as yours, never!"
"Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters," said thefat man. "Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia."
"My memory is good," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It's the greatest blessingI have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, with alittle thought. And what's more, nearly every one of those fiftyfamilies is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, orif not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make outhow this young gentleman--from London, did you say, sir?"
"From London," answered Spargo.
"This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one ofour tickets," continued Mr. Quarterpage. "It is--wonderful! But I tellyou what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour tobreakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing booksand papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder ofthat ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage--BenjaminQuarterpage--and I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly oppositethis inn, and my breakfast hour is nine o'clock sharp, and I shall bidyou heartily welcome!"
Spargo made his best bow.
"Sir," he said, "I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and Ishall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment."
Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himselfin an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gaywith summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior,to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior--a pleasant gentleman of sixty, alwaysreferred to by his father as something quite juvenile--and to MissQuarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly thanher brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all thechoice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh androsy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old aman who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such avigorous and healthy appetite.
Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo's possessionof the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr.Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who hadjudged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and hadexhibited a letter with which the editor of the _Watchman_ hadfurnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties hehad discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made nomention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr.Quarterpage's revelations would lead him.
"You have no idea, Mr. Spargo," said the old gentleman, when, breakfastover, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in whichwere abundant evidences of the host's taste in sporting matters; "youhave no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of oneof those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed andjust as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, mydear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in theyear 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whosegreat-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty weredistributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be keptin their families for ever--nobody ever anticipated in those days thatour race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried greatprivileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male andfemale, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holderhimself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grandrace banquet--at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself hasbeen present in the good old days. Consequ
ently, as you see, to be theholder of a silver ticket was to be somebody."
"And when the race-meeting fell through?" asked Spargo. "What then?"
"Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them asheirlooms, to be taken great care of," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "Theywere dealt with as I dealt with mine--framed on velvet, and hung up--orlocked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest careof it. Now, I said last night, over there at the 'Dragon,' that I couldrepeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can.But here"--the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it aparchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence--"here is alittle volume of my own handwriting--memoranda relating to MarketMilcaster Races--in which is a list of the original holders, togetherwith another list showing who held the tickets when the races weregiven up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through thesecond list, I could trace every ticket--except the one you have inyour purse."
"Every one?" said Spargo, in some surprise.
"Every one! For as I told you," continued Mr. Quarterpage, "thefamilies are either in the town (we're a conservative people here inMarket Milcaster and we don't move far afield) or they're just outsidethe town, or they're not far away. I can't conceive how the ticket youhave--and it's genuine enough--could ever get out of possession of oneof these families, and--"
"Perhaps," suggested Spargo, "it never has been out of possession. Itold you it was found in the lining of a box--that box belonged to adead man."
"A dead man!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "A dead man! Who could--ah!Perhaps--perhaps I have an idea. Yes!--an idea. I remember somethingnow that I had never thought of."
The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, andturned over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names.He pointed this out to Spargo.
"There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time therace-meetings came to an end," he said. "If you were acquainted withthis town you would know that those are the names of our best-knowninhabitants--all, of course, burgesses. There's mine, yousee--Quarterpage. There's Lummis, there's Kaye, there's Skene, there'sTempleby--the gentlemen you saw last night. All good old town names.They all are--on this list. I know every family mentioned. The holdersof that time are many of them dead; but their successors have thetickets. Yes--and now that I think of it, there's only one man who helda ticket when this list was made about whom I don't know anything--atleast, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you've found musthave been his. But I thought--I thought somebody else had it!"
"And this man, sir? Who was he?" asked Spargo, intuitively consciousthat he was coming to news. "Is his name there?"
The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names.
"There it is!" he said. "John Maitland."
Spargo bent over the fine writing.
"Yes, John Maitland," he observed. "And who was John Maitland?"
Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the manydrawers in an ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of oldnewspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up.
"If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr.Spargo," he said, "you would have known who John Maitland was. For sometime, sir, he was the best-known man in the place--aye, and in thiscorner of the world. But--aye, here it is--the newspaper of October5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you'll find in this old newspaper who JohnMaitland was, and all about him. Now, I'll tell you what to do. I'vejust got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day's businessover with my son--you take this newspaper out into the garden therewith one of these cigars, and read what'll you find in it, and whenyou've read that we'll have some more talk."
Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden.
The Middle Temple Murder Page 17
