‘Well,’ Routh went on, ‘that’s beside the point, sir. Anyway, I asked the lad when he had last seen Pythias. He said it must have been on the Thursday, the day before Pythias took himself off. “I came home a bit early on the Thursday to get washed and changed because I was taking a girl out that evening,” he said, “and I believe I remember hearing Pythias asking Ma Buxton what there was going to be for supper. He was always a bit finicky about what he ate and, if he hadn’t been the ground-floor tenant and very quiet and soft-spoken as well, it’s my belief that Ma would have told him to leave if he wasn’t satisfied with the food. She is very proud of her catering.” ’
‘So none of them could tell you anything useful?’ said the Detective-Superintendent.
‘Not really, sir. Peters, in reply to my question as to how he got on with Pythias, said, “I suppose he had the most stable job of any of the residents except myself, and I respected him accordingly. It is almost impossible to get a teacher or a prominent member of the town-hall staff dismissed, whereas all the other tenants were, to some extent, vulnerable.” ’
‘I picked him up on this, sir, and asked him whether he had any reason to suppose that Mr Pythias was in danger of being dismissed from his teaching post and so had chosen to leave of his own accord before that happened, but Peters was emphatic in declaring that he had no reason for thinking anything of the kind.
‘ “I have the confidence of the chairman of the education committee,” he said, “and there has never been a word of criticism against his teaching or his discipline.” I asked him whether there was a woman mixed up in the disappearance. He said one never knew about that sort of thing, but that, so far as he knew, Pythias seldom went out in the evenings and was never absent from his digs except for taking an occasional holiday abroad. “It was news to me when I heard he had friends to stay with at Christmas,” he said, “and I only heard that after he left here.” ’
‘What about the Buxtons?’ asked the Detective-Superintendent. ‘Buxton is a van driver for those furniture dealers in the high street, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right, sir. I’ve been round there. They’ve nothing against Buxton. Been working for them for the past six years. He told me that he leaves his van at the warehouse most evenings, but on Fridays he parks it in his own drive so that he can get away first thing on Saturday morning and get through his work by midday so as to get to football. He’s a Southampton fan and never misses a home match.’
‘So his van was probably parked in his own drive on the evening when Pythias walked off. What did any of the others have to say?’
‘Nothing which seemed of any importance or help, sir. Except for Rattock, they declare they were not at home when Pythias left and all he can say is that he thinks he heard the front door slam at round about seven o’clock, but, of course, that need not have been Pythias leaving. I pressed him, but he declared he had seen nothing of Pythias that Friday evening. “As I’ve told you,” he said, “my aunt provides a high tea on Fridays for those who come in. Not everybody does, you see, so she has ascertained at breakfast who she is to expect and who not. She is a very hard-working, capable woman and the digs here are excellent. If you get the opportunity, I wish you would tell her I said so.”
‘ “Are you behind with your rent, then, Mr Rattock?” I asked him. “Do you want me to butter her up?”
‘ “Dear me! How cynical you policement are! Of course I’m not behind with my rent — well, only a week, and we’re allowed one week’s grace unless my aunt has a strong reason for wanting to get rid of anybody.’
‘ “So you saw Pythias neither come nor go on that Friday evening?” I said.
‘ “I may have heard the front door slam at about seven, as I’ve already told you,” he said, “but that need not have been Pythias, as you and I have agreed. It could have been one of the others coming in or going out, couldn’t it?” ’
Routh emphasised there had been nothing more to be obtained from the lodgers, though there still remained the Buxtons themselves.
‘If only Ronsonby would come out with what he really thinks, which is that Pythias has skipped with the journey money, we should know where we are,’ Routh said to Sergeant Bennett.
‘It’s a very unlikely thing for a schoolmaster to do, sir, especially one as well established as Pythias seems to have been. Do we know what the money would have mounted up to?’
‘More or less. It’s a package tour by air both ways and the cheap fares operate until the end of June. Ronsonby says that the adult fares are a hundred and fifty-three and the boys have to pay eighty. Thirteen adult fares are in question, as three of the six masters go free. Ten parents are going and sixty boys. Working that out, Pythias seems to have had something round about seven thousand pounds in his briefcase that Friday evening.’
‘Nice sugar, sir, but surely not worth risking his job and his pension for, unless he had a very urgent need to lay his hands on some ready cash. So far, we’ve no evidence that he had such a need. You seem to have lined up one or two people who might be glad of a bit of extra money, sir, and I don’t only mean the chap who occupies the attic.’
‘You’re right there. Then there’s Buxton himself. A van driver has opportunities, if you know what I mean, that are denied to the nine-to-five office blokes. All those jokes about the milkman apply equally well to any long-distance driver. I was told at the furniture dealers that they deliver as far away as Yorkshire and Durham, or anywhere else on the English mainland if they get an order for goods or a removal. There must be lots of nights when Buxton doesn’t sleep at home.’
‘That would apply equally well to the chap who travels in household appliances, sir.’
‘Yes, and he is a fellow who has to keep two homes going. Somehow I have a feeling that there’s something more credible behind the disappearance of Pythias than that he’s absconded with the money. On the face of it, he and Peters are the last among those tenants who rather desperately need some extra cash.’
The interview with Buxton took place at the police station. Routh arranged this as a piece of gamesmanship, hoping to alarm the man into admitting something which might be of use to the police, for Routh had come to the conclusion that a crime had been committed and that Pythias was the victim not the perpetrator of it.
He admitted to himself that, in the face of such evidence as he had, this was an illogical conclusion, but, although he had never been called upon before to investigate a serious crime, he had become adept at summing up the petty criminals who had been brought to his notice and he already distrusted Rattock, Buxton and Durswell and had taken a personal dislike (which he did his best to discount) to the rather unctuous Peters of the town-hall staff.
Buxton turned up at the police station in the blustering mood which Routh had expected and expressed himself freely.
‘Look, what the hell is all this?’ he said. ‘My employers aren’t going to like me having to come here, you know. I got my job to think about. My job’s depending on my good name. I got a reputation to keep up, haven’t I?’
‘Just a few questions which I didn’t want to ask in front of your wife,’ said Routh.
‘Oh, like that, is it? Well, let me tell you, Mr Inspector Nosey, as I don’t have no women in bed on the sly. I got another chap on the van with me, haven’t I? Have to, with beds and wardrobes and sideboards and God knows what to lug about. You ask my mate. You ask Bill Watts what I gets up to when we’re on the road. Go on, you ask him.’
Routh got nothing helpful and went back to the house to see Durswell. Mrs Buxton greeted him without joy and asked when this persecution of the innocent was going to cease. Yes, Durswell was in, as it happened. She took Routh up to his room. The commercial traveller cordially invited him to have a drink. Routh politely refused and put his first question.