“The whiskey is all right,” I volunteered. “At least, we both had some about three or fours ago, without any ill effects.”
“That was rash of you,” said Dr. Hughes, with a sort of grim smile. “We’ll have to impound it, all the same.”
“The mushrooms are in here, doctor,” said Lathom, anxiously.
“Just a moment. I’ll finish here first.” He felt and flexed the body, and looked it over carefully. “Was this bed like this when you left him? No. Broken in a convulsion, probably. Yes. All right, Sergeant, you can carry on here. I shall want the body and these bedclothes taken down to the mortuary, just as they are. And any other utensils—”
Lathom pulled my arm. “Let’s clear out of this,” he urged. I stood my ground. Something—either inquisitiveness or the novelist’s greed for copy—impelled me to hang about and get in the way.
The doctor finished his investigations and covered the body up again.
“Now then,” he said, “that’s about all I can do for the moment. Where’s this saucepan you were telling me about? Oh, yes. Fungus of some sort, obviously, but I can’t say what by looking at it. That will all have to go to London, Sergeant. When the Superintendent comes he’ll see the things packed up. I’ll give you the address they’re to go to. Sir James Lubbock, the Home Office Analyst—here you are, and you’ll see they telephone him to expect them, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What will you do, Sergeant? Hold the fort here till they send down to relieve you?”
“Yes, sir. The Superintendent will be here very soon, sir, I expect. They’ve called him up.”