Colin Watson - Coffin Scarcely Used

Purbright had listened carefully; now he asked: “And what did your cousin think was significant about that?”

The constable flushed more deeply still. “The tale goes that it was holy water in that pot...But it doesn’t seem to make much sense. I only mentioned it, like, to the sergeant here...” He broke off.

“Jolly interesting little story, anyway,” said Purbright, rescuing Wilkinson from his embarrassment. “It helps to give us a picture of the fellow, which is more than I can get from the people who are supposed to have known him. You were quite right to tell us, constable.”

The trio made its way through the streets of the town without further conversation. Purbright liked staring about him when he was out and silently guessing the errands of such inhabitants as were not leaning against something. Love watched presentable young females from behind his disguise of pink-faced single-mindedness. As for Wilkinson, he ruminated on the inspector’s lack of ‘side’ and thought up ways of proclaiming it, with some small credit to himself, in the parade room later on.

One of the first things Purbright saw when he entered the police station was the unmistakable rear of Sergeant Malley, who was leaning over the reception counter to talk to the duty officer. In the centre of the serge acreage of his trousers seat was a round, white blemish. Purbright stopped and tapped his shoulder. “You seem to have sat on something,” he confided.

Malley’s hand stole searchingly down. Having peeled off what he could of the white substance, he stared at his fingers. “It’s one of those bloody marshmallows,” he announced.

“What bloody marshmallows?”

“The one’s from old Gwill’s pocket. It must have fallen on my chair when I was collecting his stuff together for Lintz to take away.”

“Oh,” said Purbright. He walked off to his own office.

Sergeant Love joined him. As there were now no girls to be regarded, he had allowed his face to resume its expression of slightly petulent innocence. Purbright looked upon it thoughtfully; he could never quite decide whether that cleanly shining feature properly belonged to a cherub or an idiot.

“Please give me”—the inspector had lifted the telephone—“the pathology block at the General. Doctor Heineman.” He leaned back against his desk and waited.

A mittel-European voice chimed brightly over the wire. “Mornink, inspector!”

“Good morning, doctor. Finished with that gentleman we asked you to look at?”

“But yes. You are requirink him back again?”

“What killed him?”

“Failure of heart, naturally. But before that there was asphyxia and before that shock from the electrics and nothing before that except joys and sorrows and delusions, dear chappie. A report I’m sendink you any minute. You must think I’ve somethink worse to do. I don’t play golf all day, you guess. How’s that funny little fellow that scrubs the face with carbolic or what? When’s he come and see us cuttink-up merchants again; that’s how he calls us, I know that. No, but I’m so busy now. Got what you wanted?”

“Stomach contents?”

“Ha, all sorts. Very jolly. Why?”

“Anything unusual?”

“Nothink corrodink, I should say. Want them done?”

“Not if you’re happy about the cause of death.”

“He was not poisoned. That I tell you. Shock and everything; that was it.”

“Very well, doctor. Oh, by the way...”

“Yes?”

“Did you notice anything about the mouth? Any trace of recent food?”

“But yes, yes...both teeth pieces, top and bottom, they are sticky—gummy, how is it? He would be eatink sweets, that fellow.”

“Soft, white sweets?”

“Exactly so.”

“Thank you, doctor. You’ll let me have the full report as soon as you can. The inquest will be adjourned, by the look of things; you needn’t bother to turn up tomorrow unless you hear.”

As Purbright put down the telephone, Love gave him a questioning look. “Why the morbid interest in diet?”

“Because,” said Purbright, “I have yet to find a man of Gwill’s age who can clamber up towers in the middle of the night with his mouth full of marshmallows. Because I have never encountered a suicide who has been in the mood for confectionery at the last moment. And because I cannot believe that any newspaper owner would be anxious, even in sudden insanity, to court the kind of publicity he has caused to be inflicted on others.”

“You don’t think he was electrocuted, then?”

“Oh, yes, he was. Heineman may imagine you wash your face in carbolic, but he doesn’t make mistakes with corpses. Anyway, there were signs of burning, I believe; we’ll know for sure when the P.M. report comes in.” He paused. “Have you ever had anything to do with the nephew?”

“George Lintz? I’ve run across him occasionally.”

“A close gentleman.”

Love shrugged. “Careful, certainly. Do you think he knows anything?”

“Hard to say. You might have a go at him. He resists the suave approach. Try your bike-without-lights manner.”

“What times do you want him to account for?”

“Last night from sixish until whatever time he says he went to bed. He is married, isn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“In that case, try her as well. See if she has the Lady Macbeth touch. Cocktail cabinet catalogues on the kitchen table: that sort of thing. Before you go, you might take a look at his statement to Malley. There are one or two other things I’d better tell you, although they amount to very little so far.” He described the interview with Lintz and his visit to The Aspens.

“Don’t you think there might be something behind the ghoulies and ghosties business?” Love suggested.

“I wouldn’t write it off,” Purbright replied. “Mrs Poole obviously believes in ‘the withering touch of tomb-escaped avenger’. She’s been frightened, undoubtedly, but she’ll not say by what or whom.”

“She may be a bit touched, of course.”

“Yes, but there are other tales than hers, apparently.”

Love pouted. “Will you get an adjournment tomorrow?”

“Oh, certainly. Not for long, though. Gwill was a fairly important fellow. There’ll be some pressure to have him put under without any unseemly inquiries. We shall have to produce a convincing argument within the next week or so.”

“There’s the point about the marshmallow, or whatever it was.”

Purbright waved his hand contemptuously. “I can just hear old Albert on that...‘Eatin’ sweets, was he, eh? And why not, eh? Better than drinkin’ himself silly.’ ”

The inspector’s opinion of Mr Albert Amblesby was well founded. Flaxborough’s coroner was an ancient of such obtuseness that the inquiries over which he presided were liable to deteriorate into ill-tempered games, with Mr Amblesby inventing new rules and breaking old ones, deriding what he couldn’t understand and generally playing hell until he could glare around his court and judge from the silence of the other angry, unhappy or bewildered contestants that he had won.

“You’d better ask Malley to come in. He might know something that will give us a lead.”

Love returned with the outsize Coroner’s Officer, breathing hard.

Sergeant Malley seemed pleased rather than surprised by Purbright’s suspicion. “Murder,” he observed, “wouldn’t half be a nice change.”

“What do you know about Gwill’s affairs?” Purbright asked him.

“Not a deal. He kept very much to himself. Rather a gloomy chap, I always thought. He was supposed to be carrying on with that Carobleat woman, you know. Not that that would have set anyone on fire, I expect. Anyway, not once her old man had upped and died. He had plenty of money, of course—Gwill, I mean. Or so they say.”