Coffin said he knew Mr. Lathom quite well by sight, having met him from time to time in the public-house when having a friendly glass. He had never seen him in the Five-Acre Wood but once, and that was with Mr. Harrison, about a week before the latter’s death. His own work had lain in and about the Five-Acre during the first fortnight of October—he was employed by Mr. Carey—all this round here was Mr. Carey’s land—and he thought he should have seen Mr. Lathom if he had come there alone at any time.
Having thanked and rewarded Coffin, I made my way to The Shack. Except for the removal of the bedclothes and other objects required for the inquest it was exactly as it had been left at the time of the death. The broken bedstead, with its terrible witness to my poor father’s death-agony, still stood in a corner of the bedroom. Even Lathom’s painting materials lay huddled in a corner. I suppose he had forgotten to remove them. A few roughly-daubed canvases in oil contrasted strongly with my father’s delicate watercolours, of which I found a number put away in a drawer. Dust had gathered thickly everywhere.
I made a careful search on shelves and in drawers for any notes or papers that might throw light on my problem, but found nothing except a few bills and the last letter my father had received from me. There were one or two novels, a number of local guidebooks and botanical books of reference, and some artist’s catalogues. Delving among these, I at length came on a large-scale map of the district, with notes upon it in my father’s handwriting. He had apparently used it as a kind of botanical chart, marking on it the localities in which various plants and fungi were to be found. Five-Acre Wood was clearly shown, and upon it my father had made a small cross accompanied by the note “Amanita rubescens.” I looked for any mention of Amanita muscaria, but could see none; either my father had not found it in the district, or else he had concerned himself with edible varieties only.
One question, therefore, seemed clearly answered. My father had, without question, been gathering fungi for his supper on the 17th October, and the place where he had gathered them was a place in which he was accustomed to find Amanita rubescens.
I could find nothing further of any interest at The Shack, though I spent a whole day there. I passed the night at the inn, and next day departed to Bovey Tracey to check Lathom’s movements.
My first interview was with the taxi-driver. This man’s name is William Johnson and he lives in the High Street. He perfectly recollects having driven to Manaton on Thursday, 17th October, and taken Lathom to catch the 8:13. The circumstance had been strongly impressed upon his mind by the catastrophe that followed it so closely, and the fact that he had actually visited The Shack and seen the victim, only two days before the discovery of the body, has naturally made him a kind of local hero.
He is positive that my father and Lathom parted on the best of terms. They shook hands, and my father said: “Well, hope you have a good journey. See you back on Saturday. What train do you think you’ll catch?” Lathom answered that he wasn’t quite sure, and added: “Don’t wait up for me if I’m late.”
This answers one of our questions, and makes it quite clear that at least one person besides my father knew that Lathom was expected back on the Saturday.
My next question was, At what time had Lathom ordered his taxi? The man remembered this, too. A telephone message was put through to him from Manaton at about nine o’clock on the Wednesday evening. He can verify this, if necessary, by his order-book.
This is interesting. It makes it seem likely that Lathom only decided to make this trip to town at the last moment—in fact, after hearing my father express his intention of gathering Amanita rubescens the following day.
Finally, I inquired whether Johnson had actually seen Lathom get into the train. By a stroke of good fortune he was able to answer this question definitely. He had to put a parcel on the train for a printer at Bovey Tracey, and, while doing this, he had seen Lathom take his seat in a third-class smoker. As the train went out, Lathom leaned out of the window and shouted something to a porter—some question, he thought, about changing at Newton Abbot.
I hired this man’s taxi, which was a reasonably good one, and interviewed the railway staff at the three intermediate stations between Bovey Tracey and Newton Abbot. Here, as was natural, the men found some difficulty in remembering the events of three months ago. I could not find anybody who recollected seeing Lathom. In each place I asked for a name of anybody in the village who might be likely to have a car or motorcycle for hire, and went to see the proprietors of the vehicles, but without result. Nowhere could I find any record of such a transaction.
Newton Abbot is a larger place, and I anticipated difficulty. On the contrary, and greatly to my surprise, I got on to Lathom’s trail almost immediately. No sooner had I mentioned his name to the stationmaster than he said at once:
“Oh, yes, sir—that was the gentleman who lost a pocketbook last October. Did he ever find it?”
Taking this cue as it presented itself, I replied that he had not, and that, being in the neighbourhood, I had promised to call and ask about it.
“Well, sir,” said the stationmaster, “we made inquiries all down the line, and had several men out searching, but they never found it. They would have brought it to me if
