No Winding Sheet by Gladys Mitchell

Author:Gladys Mitchell [Mitchell, Gladys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

9

Self-Appointed Sleuth

Apart from the medical and pathological evidence which came out at the inquest, there was plenty to confirm that the body was indeed that of Mr. Pythias. For one thing, his empty briefcase, found beside the body, was identified by three members of the staff separately and there was enough unrotted material which was clothing the corpse for it to be recognised as part of the suit which Pythias had been wearing on what had proved to be his last day as a schoolmaster.

The chief constable and the detective-superintendent now superseded Routh in the enquiry, and the detective-inspector was obliged to place himself under their orders. As he had some knowledge of her household, his first assignment was to question Mrs. Buxton and take her yet again through her story, including her description of the two visitors who had collected Pythias’s property.

“Look, do you want me to have a breakdown?” she demanded tearfully. “How can I help what wicked men do?”

“You can’t, but you can help us and you must,” said Routh, not unsympathetically. “Tell me once more about these astrakhan and musquash-coat people who called here for Mr. Pythias’s things. They may be his murderers, you know. On the face of it, we think they were.”

At this she rallied, sniffed, dried her tears, and said, “I’ve told you all about ’em I can, haven’t I? Come to think of it, though, my nevvy, him on the top floor, he see ’em, too, and, being an artist and them being togged up like they were, he made a sketch of ’em and give it to me. I can show it you if you like.”

“I don’t know why you haven’t shown it to me before,” said Routh. “It could be valuable corroborative evidence.”

“What of?”

“That these people really did call here, of course.”

“Did you doubt my word on it, then? Oh, well, who supposes the police to be gentlemen?”

“We can’t afford to be, love. Show me this picture of yours.”

The two of them were in her ground-floor room, the room next to that which had been rented by Pythias. She went to a table drawer and took out a rolled-up sheet of cartridge paper. The sketch was crude and looked as though it had been done hastily, but it certainly bore out Mrs. Buxton’s description of the two strangers.

“I’d like to hang on to this for a bit,” said Routh. “It may help us. Identification, you know.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, “and to the letter poor Mr. Pythias writ me. I don’t want them sort of unhappy memories of him now.”

Routh’s next assignment—and he was not altogether sorry to have his work laid out for him instead of having to chart a course for himself—was to trace, if he could, the clothes and golf-clubs which Mrs. Buxton’s visitors had collected from the lodgings. The inference was that they must have been very quick to get rid of the things before the news broke that the body had been discovered. If he could find out who had bought them, he stood a good chance of getting a description of the vendors.

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