Mr Burke (and a woman deputy would almost certainly have had to be appointed if there were women and girls in the school)… Mr Ronsonby shook his head at the very thought of it.
‘Margaret,’ he said to the secretary when he got back that afternoon, ‘I don’t believe those Greeks who are supposed to have visited his digs to collect Pythias’s effects have any foundation in fact.’
‘My husband tells me the pro has a nice set of secondhand golf-clubs to dispose of, but I don’t suppose there’s any connection,’ said Mrs Wirrell. ‘I expect he often has second-hand clubs for sale.’
‘You had better tell the Detective-Inspector, all the same. I didn’t know you knew that Pythias’s golf-clubs and clothes had gone from his lodgings.’
‘Well, I do take all the incoming calls, don’t I? — and that includes the calls from the police. Right, I’ll ring them.’
Her telephone message sent Routh on another wild-goose chase. Reason told him that the person who had obtained possession of the bag of golf-clubs would hardly have sold the contents to the professional of the local golf-course, who would probably recognise them and ask some awkward questions. It also seemed unlikely that Pythias himself would have sold the clubs locally if he were planning to leave the neighbourhood either with or without the money for the school journey.
Routh went along the next morning and found the pro in the little shop adjoining the club-house. He was cleaning a set of irons. He knew Routh as a club member, although as one who had little time to spare for the most fascinating and infuriating game in the world.
‘Well, well!’ said the pro. ‘There’s nobody here yet to give you a game, but I’ll play you nine holes if you like, Mr Routh.’
‘No, Joe, I haven’t come for a game. I’m here on duty.’
‘Nobody’s robbed my till and the secretary hasn’t complained of missing anything from the club-house, has he?’
‘Nothing like that. I hear you’ve got a second-hand set of clubs for sale.’
‘A very old-fashioned lot of junk they are, too! Wouldn’t suit a gentleman of your ability. Ought to be sold as museum pieces.’
‘They didn’t belong to Mr Pythias, then?’
‘Good Lord, no! Though, for the amount of golf he played, they might as well have done.’
‘Could I have a look at them?’
‘Why not?’ The pro put down the polishing rag he had been using and went to the back of the shop. ‘Here we are,’ he said, coming back with a tatty-looking golf-bag. ‘There’s nothing like a full set of clubs here and those there are must have come out of the ark, like I told you.’
‘What on earth possessed you to buy them?’
‘It wasn’t buy, it was barter. I gave half a dozen used golf balls for them. They’ll come in useful for Mr Turnbull. He collects antiques.’
‘And you’re sure they’ve never belonged to Mr Pythias?’
‘Quite sure. I sold him his set only a couple of years ago. I’d know them again anywhere.’
‘He seems to have been rather a quiet sort, so far as I know. Did he have any friends among the members here?’
‘News to me if he did. He seldom came here, and when he did come it was usually to have a round with me or go round on his own, unless one of a foursome hadn’t turned up and he was pressed to play. I don’t suppose I saw him here more than twice a month, if that. His set of clubs was almost as good as new.’
‘If it should ever come your way, will you let me know?’
‘Sure.’ The pro eyed Routh speculatively and added, ‘What’s the big mystery?’
‘Well, he seems to have walked out of his digs and hasn’t gone back to his job since Christmas. There’s a rumour that he’s ill, but we think he may also be short of money,’ said Routh, juggling with what might be either fact or fiction.
‘Woman trouble?’
‘It usually is.’ They laughed and parted.
‘It wasn’t worth following up,’ said Routh, when he met Bennett again. ‘I’m getting tired of shooting at dead ducks.’
‘I’ve got that letter Pythias wrote to Mrs Buxton last summer, sir. She didn’t want me to have it and said she wanted it back as soon as we’d done with it.’ He handed over the letter and Routh took out an envelope and laid it and the letter side by side.
‘Well, I’m no handwriting expert,’ he said, ‘but I can’t imagine that the same person wrote the inscription on this envelope which contained those cheques and this letter from Pythias. What’s your view?’
‘That’s a very pretty little drawing on the inside page of the letter, sir, isn’t it?’
‘Agreed. What about it?’
‘I wonder whether a man who can sketch as well as that wouldn’t be quite capable of disguisng his handwriting, sir.’
‘They say a real handwriting expert can’t be fooled, even if the subject chooses to print his letters instead of using ordinary handwriting, or writes with the hand he doesn’t ordinarily use. I’ll get the Super to dig up some expert for us.’
When the envelope and the letter came back, the expert opinion was that they could not both have been scripted by the same hand.
