According To The Evidence

TWENTY

Siân had accompanied Angela and Richard to the inquest in Brecon, so it was tacitly agreed that it was Moira’s turn to have an outing to the Assizes when her employers were warned for the ‘veterinary case’, as it became known in Garth House. As a former clerk in a local lawyer’s office, she was not unaware of the archaic system of solicitors, barristers and Queen’s Counsel, but she had never experienced the almost medieval rituals and costumes of the English legal establishment and looked forward to her day in court with almost adolescent expectation.

Richard had made another trip to Stow-on-the-Wold for a conference with George Lovesey and his junior counsel, Leonard Atkinson. Their colourful QC, Nathan Prideaux, had not been present as he was busy making a fortune in the London courts, but his junior was an able deputy.

‘Nathan will want another “con” with you on the day you go to Gloucester, Dr Pryor,’ he explained. ‘But I’m keeping him abreast of all the details we discuss here.’

As well as this visit to Stow, where all the evidence was gone through in minute detail yet again, the solicitor was on the telephone several times to Garth House. Richard sensed that he was very anxious about the outcome of the case, as he told the others over a coffee break a few days before the trial was due to start.

‘Lovesey says that it will hinge almost totally on the conflict between the medical evidence. Even though it’s admitted that Samuel Parker was having a long-term affair with another lady, virtually all the rest of the evidence is circumstantial and not very convincing.’

Angela put her cup down in its saucer, looking serious.

‘So it’s all down to the cause of death, then,’ she said soberly. ‘It’s a heavy responsibility for you, Richard, challenging the prosecution’s expert.’

He shrugged. ‘All I can do is tell the truth as I believe it, based on this research about potassium,’ he said. ‘I can only provide the bullets for Nathan Prideaux; it’s up to him to fire them as effectively as he can.’

The analogy with bullets reminded them all of the recent case in the Gulf, which ended in a sudden death. Another sudden death was a possibility if Richard’s hypothesis was not accepted, this time at the end of a hangman’s rope.

‘What will happen if you fail?’ asked Moira almost tremulously.

‘Our vet will be found guilty!’ he answered succinctly.

‘They won’t hang him, will they?’ asked Siân, a keen opponent of capital punishment.

Again her boss shrugged. ‘Unless Prideaux could plead for clemency by playing the mercy-killing card, it seems very likely. It couldn’t be an accident and it can’t be manslaughter, so there’s only murder left. Unless some powerful mitigating circumstances can be dredged up, then a death sentence is almost mandatory.’

‘The poor man!’ whispered Moira, looking quite upset.

‘If he did it, then he should be found guilty,’ said Siân, stubbornly. ‘Though he should be locked up, not thrown down a hole with a rope around his neck!’

Like the bullet analogy, this again recalled the Brecon farm murder, but Moira was casting around for some less awesome solution.

‘But what about manslaughter, doctor?’ she asked. ‘If she was already dying of cancer, surely that’s a factor.’

‘I’m not clear what’s murder and what’s manslaughter,’ added Siân.

Richard looked across at Angela. ‘These ladies certainly ask some difficult questions, don’t they?’ he complained, but he did his best to answer them.

‘Look, I’m not a lawyer, but as far as I know, murder is when someone in their right mind unlawfully kills another, with the intention to either kill or seriously injure them. The death must follow within a year and a day of the attack. It’s the intention that’s the crucial factor, because manslaughter is where the first person kills another during some unlawful or negligent act but did not intend that to happen. There are all sorts of caveats about the definitions, but that’s the general idea for simple folk like me!’

‘So if he did inject potassium chloride into his wife, there’s no way he could plead manslaughter, unless he was so off his head that he didn’t know what he was doing,’ supplemented Angela.

Richard was thankful that this explanation seemed to satisfy the two women, but they moved on to the logistics of the forthcoming trial.

‘What will happen when they come to argue over the medical evidence?’ asked Moira. ‘Do you take it in turns to put forward your points of view?’

Richard nodded. ‘The prosecution get first go, by calling their witnesses one after the other. The defence then cross-examine them and when the prosecution have finished, the defence have their turn.’ He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘At least, that’s the usual batting order, but George Lovesey hinted that, typically, Nathan Prideaux may make an application to the judge to call witnesses out of order. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.’

Moira looked at her boss with her big eyes. ‘Aren’t you nervous at having to stand up in an Assize Court in front of all those people and argue about things that might mean a man’s life?’

He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You get used to it – it happened often enough in Singapore; they get far more murders there than we do. The secret is not to chance your arm, just to stick to what you know without embroidering anything. If you don’t know the answer, just say so – not bluster or wriggle or exaggerate. If you do, the opposing counsel will nail you to the wall!’

He said this with the slightly uneasy feeling that this particular case would be stretching medical science to the limit. But with Moira looking at him as if he was God’s gift to jurisprudence, he thought that he had better look as confident as possible.

The following week the newspapers carried detailed accounts of the first day’s evidence from the Assizes in Gloucester, which had even attracted the notice of the national press. Like naughty vicars in the News of the World, a professional man such as a respectable veterinary surgeon became an object of prurient interest, especially when his neck was in jeopardy – particularly with the added bonus of a secret mistress in the background. The Garth House contingent were glad that the lady had not so far been named, as it seemed that both prosecution and defence, once both had admitted that such a woman existed, saw no particular advantage in identifying her.

The Gloucestershire Herald, which covered the whole county including Stow and nearby Eastbury, quite naturally carried the most detailed account, a blow-by-blow record of almost every word that was said in the courtroom. That Tuesday morning, Siân bought a copy in Chepstow and brought it to the house, where it was pored over at coffee time.

‘This opening speech they’ve printed,’ said Siân, jabbing her finger at the report of the first day’s proceedings. ‘Only the prosecution made one. That doesn’t seem fair to me.’

Angela, herself no stranger to the criminal courts, pacified the firebrand technician. ‘They get their turn later, after the witnesses have been heard.’

The papers reported the evidence of a number of people, some of whom seemed to have only a tenuous connection with the main issue, such as the farmer’s wife who made the phone call asking Samuel Parker to come and deal with the injured goat. More relevant was her husband, who described how the vet had arrived and given two injections into a vein of the animal, using the same syringe but two different fluids.

Then the District Nurse, Brenda Paxman, related how she had made a routine visit to Mrs Mary Parker in the late morning of that day. She had done her nursing duties of washing and bedmaking, then administered the first of two daily injections of morphine into the left arm. The patient was extremely drowsy, but certainly conscious and spoke a few words to her.

When asked in cross-examination, the nurse said that Mrs Parker’s condition was deteriorating from day to day but was not markedly different on that morning.

This was confirmed by the vet’s housekeeper, Mrs Cropley, who said that she gave her some warm milk from a feeding cup at breakfast time but could not coax her to eat anything. Her mistress, as she called her, spoke a few words to her, but she only wanted to fall back on the pillows and sleep, as she had done for the past week.

Nathan Prideaux confirmed with the housekeeper that Samuel Parker was most concerned and solicitous about his wife’s condition and spent much of his time when he was not working sitting by her bedside, often holding her hand.

The deceased woman’s sister, the pharmacist Sheila Lupin, was called next and, even through the dispassionate print of the newspaper, it was obvious that she had a quite different outlook on the situation.

‘She’s got it in for him alright!’ observed Siân as she read out the passage aloud for the others as they sat drinking their elevenses.

‘“Miss Lupin described how she had gone across to her sister’s house at about one o’clock, as she visited the sick woman several times a day. She found her unmoving in the bed, and there was a fresh injection mark on her forearm, from which a bead of blood was oozing. As she cleaned this off, she realized that her sister was dead and she then ran into the veterinary surgery to fetch the husband, who hurried to the sickroom and confirmed that his wife had passed away.”’

Further down the news report, Siân read out the part where the sister said that her suspicions were aroused when she saw a used syringe and containers of sodium Pentothal and potassium chloride lying on the examination table in the surgery. Being a pharmacist, she knew the significance of that combination and confronted her brother-in-law with the accusation, given that there was an injection mark on the arm still oozing blood and that there had been no sudden change in her sister’s condition that day to suggest that she had died of the disease from which she had been suffering for over a year.

‘What did he say to that?’ asked Moira, riveted by every word of the account.

‘It says that this was strongly denied by Samuel Parker and they had a few strong words about it, but she was not satisfied. She later spoke personally to the doctor who was called, and he shared her concerns and reported the death to the coroner.’

Siân folded the paper up and laid it on the table. ‘That’s all there is for the first day. The judge isn’t sitting today: something about a series of applications in other cases to be dealt with.’

‘They don’t work very long hours in these courts, by the sound of it!’ said Moira in a disapproving tone.

‘It’s not that easy, running a court,’ countered Richard. ‘They can’t start too early each day, as witnesses have to get there, often from a distance. And the judge may not like starting to hear an important witness who may go on for a long time, if it’s towards the end of the day. Better to hear him out in one go.’

Siân nodded at this. ‘It said at the end of the report that the judge commented that the case turned heavily on the medical evidence and he didn’t want to start on that until tomorrow.’

She looked across at Richard. ‘So does that mean you’ll have to go up there in the morning, doctor?’

‘I don’t know yet, Siân,’ he replied. ‘No doubt they’ll call the GP first, then the hospital pathologist, then the Home Office chap – all prosecution witnesses. Normally, the defence can’t call their people until after the prosecution have finished, but I suspect that Nathan Prideaux will want me to sit behind him and listen to all the medical evidence the other side produce.’

Moira sat up at this. ‘Don’t forget you promised to take me this time, doctor!’ she said earnestly.

Angela made a face at Siân. ‘Looks as if you and I will be stuck here alone tomorrow, while these two go off enjoying themselves!’

Later that afternoon the expected call came from the solicitor in Stow, asking Richard to present himself at Gloucester Shire Hall at nine thirty in the morning. He was wanted well before the court began, as Nathan Prideaux wanted a last-minute conference about the vital medical evidence.

Soon after eight the next day, Moira was waiting in the kitchen for Richard to finish breakfast with Angela. Neither were hearty fry-up enthusiasts and usually cereal and toast were the starters for the day, so soon Moira was climbing into the passenger seat of the Humber and they were on their way.

‘We both look very professional today, don’t we?’ he said as they hauled up Tutshill, the steep slope into England on the other side of Chepstow Bridge. Richard wore his double-breasted pinstriped suit, which the women of Garth House had badgered him into buying instead of the belted tropical linens that Siân disparagingly called his ‘big-game-hunter outfit’.

Moira wore a business-style suit of charcoal grey with a prim white blouse – perhaps a little austere in these days of the New Look, but Richard thought she looked very smart.

‘It was my office outfit when I worked for the lawyer in Chepstow,’ she explained. ‘So I thought it was legal-looking enough for attending the Assizes!’

When they arrived in Gloucester, they found a parking space for the car in a lane off Bearland and walked through to Westgate Street, where the imposing Shire Hall was situated. Moira knew the city slightly, but the classical building with its four massive Ionic columns flanking the main entrance was new to her. She followed Richard inside with a feeling of awe and expectancy.

The hall was a hive of activity, people either hurrying across it or standing in groups talking. Police officers, clerks in schoolmaster gowns and barristers in wigs were mixed with members of the public who stood around uneasily, especially if they were jurors or witnesses, unsure of what lay before them this day.

Richard made his way across to a set of heavy varnished doors.

When he pushed through they found themselves in a small panelled antechamber like an airlock, with another door ahead, which took them into the court itself.

Moira gazed around the high chamber, a huge room panelled in dark wood. It was almost empty, and on the high platform at the front which stretched the width of the court, seven chairs stood unused. The largest one in the centre was directly below a huge gilt model of the Royal Arms.

‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to come in?’ she whispered to Richard as she trailed him down towards the front of the court, where three men and a woman stood talking.

‘I’ll get you tucked away somewhere where you can see what’s going on,’ he said reassuringly as he approached the group.

Two were in black robes, but they held their wigs in their hands, white tabs at the throat completing their archaic costumes. The other man was the rotund solicitor, George Lovesey, who came forward now to greet the pathologist.

‘Morning, Dr Pryor. We’ll be going to one of the small rooms in a moment to talk things over.’

Richard introduced Moira as his secretary and asked if she could be found a place in court. The portly lawyer shook her hand warmly, and Richard suspected that he still had an eye for an attractive woman.

‘Sit on the end of this row here, behind your boss,’ he said, indicating the third row of what looked to Moira like long church pews. ‘My own secretary will be alongside you when we get started.’ He nodded towards the middle-aged woman who was talking to the barristers. Moira settled herself on the padded bench and looked around the court, picking out the empty jury benches on her left and the witness box between it and the high palisade that stood below the judge’s domain.

Nathan Prideaux detached himself from the others and came forward to shake Richard’s hand. ‘Good to see you, doctor. We’ll go off and have a chat, shall we?’

Leaving Moira to absorb the atmosphere, Richard made his way out of the court with the barristers and solicitor, the secretary lugging several box-files under her arm. They went a few yards down a dark corridor to a small windowless room, furnished only with a table and some plain upright chairs. A couple of tin lids lay on the scarred tabletop to act as ashtrays, and as soon as they were all seated the QC lit up a small cheroot and promptly had a good cough.

He held out a hand to the secretary and, without prompting, she slid one of the files across the table to him.

‘Today, the prosecution are calling their four medical witnesses. They will have to rely almost totally on their evidence to get a conviction, as what they’ve led so far wouldn’t convince a monkey!’ he said disparagingly.

His junior, Leonard Atkinson, looked slightly less sanguine.

‘But if we can’t crack their expert evidence, we’re in the same boat. So it’s largely up to you, Dr Pryor.’

Nathan nodded ponderously. ‘Make or break, this looks like being one of the shortest murder trials of the year!’ he growled. ‘So I want you to sit right behind me, doctor. You know the drill; listen to every word they say – and if there’s the slightest chink in their evidence, I want you to let me know.’

He looked across at the secretary. ‘Mrs Armitage, make sure that Dr Pryor has plenty of sheets of paper so he can pass notes to me, please.’

He winked at Richard. ‘Nothing like the sound of a defence expert tearing paper to unnerve another medical man in the witness box! We need absolute rebuttal of their medical evidence, or we’re sunk. I can deal with all the other circumstantial stuff, but if we can’t torpedo Dr Angus Smythe, our client is going to be left in a very grave situation.’

‘So what’s the batting order, Mr Prideaux?’ asked Richard. ‘Are you going to pick Angus apart in cross-examination before I get to say my piece?’

The London QC gave a crafty smile. ‘That should be the normal procedure, as you well know. But I’m going to try to get the judge to let me defer my cross-examination until after I’ve called you, as you would be the next witness anyway. I think it would make a bigger impact on the judge and the jury if you blew his conclusions out of the water first and then I’ll come back and put him through the wringer.’

George Lovesey tapped his wristwatch and suggested that time was pressing, so the procession went back into court, where they found it far busier than when they had left it. The public benches were now almost filled, ushers and police officers were standing around and a gaggle of reporters were gossiping in the press benches on the right-hand side.

Richard Pryor went to sit with George Lovesey in the second row of pews, immediately behind the two defence barristers.

Behind him, the solicitor’s secretary slipped in to sit alongside Moira, a friendly woman who introduced herself to Moira as Doris and proceeded to explain various aspects of the procedure to her.

‘The defence team are on the left side of the benches, so the prosecutors are over there.’

She covertly pointed at another brace of bewigged barristers on the right side, with the acolytes from the Director of Public Prosecutions sitting behind them.

Both leading counsel had erected their small folding tables on the wide ledge in front of them, to hold their papers and give themselves something to either grip or lean on. The juniors had a collection of legal textbooks in front of them with bits of coloured paper marking relevant pages.

Moira watched as Nathan Prideaux flipped his wig on to his head with a practised gesture and shuffled over to have a word with his opponent, the prosecuting counsel. Rather to her surprise, they seemed to be cracking a joke together and she heard the words: ‘… a handicap of three and he still lost!’

Bemused by this strange system of English law where a man’s life hung on a contest between two apparent friends, she now saw another man in a wig and gown seat himself behind a table below the judge’s chair. The clerk of the court, an important cog in this elaborate drama, faced the courtroom, and almost on the stroke of ten thirty Moira heard a sudden susurration of whispers from the public gallery. Turning round, she saw that two prison officers had appeared in a box a few rows behind, one with a brass rail around it. Between them she saw the pale face of a man in a sober blue suit.

‘Is that the vet?’ she whispered to Doris and got a nod in return. Any further exchange was stopped as a portly man dressed in a morning suit appeared alongside the judge’s chair up on the high dais and called out ‘All stand!’ in a voice that brooked no dispute. As everyone lumbered to their feet, he stood aside, and from a door behind the chairs Mr Justice Templeman appeared.

Though Moira had many times seen judges in photographs and films, the actual thing was much more impressive. A tall, lean figure with a severe face below a high forehead, he was resplendent in a scarlet gown with a black belt, cuffs and sash.

She had rather expected a long wig coming down to his collarbones, but his wiry grey hair was partly covered by the same compact headpiece as worn by the barristers below. More sinister was the square of black silk which he carried along with his gloves; she fervently hoped that this ‘black cap’ would not be needed and she mentally willed her employer to do all he could to save the life of the haggard man in the dock behind her.

The judge bowed to the counsel as a small procession followed him from the door hidden behind the large central chair. Moira was surprised to see two august-looking ladies shepherded in by two gentlemen. They wore expensive dresses and elaborate hats, their gloved hands clutching large handbags.

‘Who are they?’ she whispered to her friendly informant.

‘The wives of the High Sheriff and the Lord Lieutenant,’ hissed Doris Armitage. ‘Those are the chaps in the fancy outfits!’

One man wore breeches and a black velvet jacket with frilled lace at the throat, the other a dark blue military-style uniform with gold epaulettes and red collar-tabs. As the judge settled himself in the large central chair, the others seated themselves two on either side, at a slightly lower level.

When Mr Justice Templeman had arranged his pens, magnifying glass and notebooks before him, the clerk of the court rose and opened the proceedings, directing the ushers to bring in the jury. From another door in the panelling, a dozen men filed in self-consciously and took their places in the two rows of the jury box. The judge greeted them courteously and reminded them that they were still under the oath that they had sworn the previous day. Then he turned to the prosecuting counsel.

‘Mr Gordon, I believe you are ready to call your medical evidence today?’

Lewis Gordon, a tall, heavily built man with a rugged face, looked more like a retired rugby international than a Queen’s Counsel. He had a deep, sonorous voice to match. Rising to his feet, he grasped the front edges of his black silk gown.

‘Indeed, my lord, I have four doctors for the court to hear.

I first call Dr John Anthony Rogers.’

There was some creaking of doors as an usher went outside and returned with the regular family physician of the Parker household. He ascended the three steps into the darkly varnished witness box and stood looking slightly uneasy to be the subject of such public scrutiny.

The judge’s associate, who to Moira looked like a stage butler, stood up at the end of the upper bench to administer the oath.

‘Take the book in your right hand and repeat after me,’ he ordered. The GP, a benevolent-looking man of sixty, wearing large horn-rimmed glasses, held the battered Testament and spoke the well-known words which made him liable for a perjury charge if he strayed from the truth.

The evidence that the QC extracted from him was to the effect that, about eighteen months previously, Mary Parker had been diagnosed as having cancer of the pancreas and that there had been steady deterioration of her condition ever since, no effective treatment being available.

‘When did you last attend her, doctor?’ asked Lewis Gordon.

‘Four days before her death, sir. I usually went in on alternate days, though there was nothing I could really do, except check that she was getting sufficient painkillers and proper nursing care. Unfortunately, I was on holiday when she died.’

No one took him up on why he considered his absence ‘unfortunate’.

‘And was she any different on that last visit?’

Dr Rogers thought carefully, as he knew the significance of his reply, but had no thought other than to tell the truth as he saw it.

‘Not really. Her condition didn’t change much on a daily basis, but she was certainly worse than she had been a week or two earlier.’

‘But you had no reason to think that she would have died from the cancer four days later?’ persisted the barrister.

Again the careful doctor thought before he spoke. ‘No, but equally I had no reason to exclude that possibility. Patients in the terminal stages can die at any time.’

Gordon tried several more times, asking what was basically the same question in different ways, but Rogers stuck to his guns. Even though she was already partisan in this issue, Moira silently applauded him for his refusal to be pressurized into qualifying his opinion to suit the QC.

Gordon’s court sense soon told him that the judge would get restive if he persisted in his repetition and, knowing that he had obtained all he was likely to get from the family doctor, sat down to leave the field to his defence colleague.

‘Have you any questions for this witness, Mr Prideaux?’ asked Templeman.

Nathan rose slowly to his feet and wrapped his gown around his stomach as he leaned against his document stand.

‘I will be very brief, my lord.’ He turned to the witness box.

‘Dr Rogers, you indicated to my learned colleague just now that you had no reason to exclude the possibility that Mrs Parker might have died within days following your last visit. How strong would you rate the word “possibility”?’

Again the experienced GP hesitated before he replied. ‘I think it impossible to quantify, sir. I have been in practice for over thirty-five years and seen many patients die in similar circumstances. I think it virtually impossible to forecast when death will occur. In fact, I sometimes deprecate the too-dogmatic opinions of some of my colleagues, which can lead to distress for both patients and their relatives when their estimates prove markedly incorrect, in either direction.’

Nathan Prideaux nodded wisely, to emphasize to the jury what a sensible fellow this witness was. ‘So you were not surprised to hear that Mary Parker had died on that day?’

Dr Rogers shook his head. ‘Not at all, though I was sorry that it occurred when I was away on holiday – especially when I learned of the allegations that arose later.’

Prideaux shied away from this aspect, as it was outside this witness’s sphere of knowledge. He tried another tack. ‘So why, medically speaking, would you not be surprised that this patient or any other in similar circumstances might die suddenly and unexpectedly?’

John Rogers looked down at the front of the court through his thick glasses and saw what he correctly took to be a pathologist in the second row. ‘I expect you will get a more authoritative answer to that from other experts, sir, but as a mere family doctor I can say that a widespread cancer like that suffered by Mrs Parker can lead to a variety of fatal pathological events. She had secondary growths in her bones, her liver and her lungs. These could cause internal bleeding or clotting of the veins, which could cause sudden death by blocking the circulation in the lungs. Her liver impairment can reach a point where the whole chemistry of the body is irreparably damaged. But even apart from those specific problems, any patient with very severe disease of many kinds can just give up on life. We all have to die from something at some time – it used to be called “giving up the ghost”!’

Prideaux felt that this rather philosophical statement was an ideal point to leave with the jury and, being a canny advocate, he knew when to stop pushing.

He sat down with a sincere, ‘Thank you, doctor.’

The judge asked Gordon if he wished to re-examine, but the prosecution barrister politely declined. Mr Justice Templeman offered his own thanks to the family doctor and released him from any further attendance.

As the next witness was being called from outside the court, Moira whispered to her new friend from the solicitor’s office. ‘How did that go, do you think?’ she asked anxiously.

Mrs Armitage, who had attended many courts with her own boss, gave a little shrug. ‘Neither helped nor hindered, really. Probably more helpful than not,’ she said. ‘It’s the next chap who might be a problem.’

The ‘next chap’ was Dr Roger’s locum, the man who had been called to the vet’s house on the day of her death.

Moira took an instant dislike to Dr Austin Harrap-Johnson from the moment he strutted importantly down the side of the court to take his place in the witness box. Though rather short, he stood ramrod straight to take the oath, holding the New Testament dramatically high in the air. His voice was loud and imbued with a plummy accent that went well with the Old Harrovian tie that set off his immaculate pinstriped suit. His fair hair was Brylcreemed back from his round, pink face as he attentively faced the judge to respond to prosecuting counsel’s request to state his name and confirm that he was a registered medical practitioner.

‘I am a Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, a Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians and also hold the Licentiate in Medicine and Surgery of the Society of Apothecaries of London,’ he declared, inclining slightly towards the judge, as if to impress him with the notion that these qualifications were among the highest accolades in the British medical profession. In his seat on the second row of benches, Richard Pryor grinned to himself, as he knew that Mr Justice Templeman would be well aware that these ‘Conjoint’ qualifications and the LMSSA, though eminently respectable, were the basic requirements to get on the Medical Register. In fact, some medical students used them as a ‘safety net’ in case they failed the final examinations of their own universities.

Responding to further questions from the QC, Harrap-Johnson confirmed that he had acted as Dr Rogers’ locum for three weeks at the material time and that he had attended Mrs Mary Parker during that period.

‘And were you called urgently to the Parker household on April the seventh this year?’

‘I was indeed – but unfortunately the patient was deceased when I arrived, and all I could do was to confirm the fact of death.’

The young doctor spoke with a degree of gravitas that suggested he was used to attending the deathbeds of royalty.

‘You say that you confirmed the fact of death, doctor,’ said Lewis Gordon, tugging his black gown more closely across his chest. ‘But did you not certify the cause of death?’

Harrap-Johnson shook his head gravely. ‘I did not, sir. I felt unable to do so for several reasons.’

‘And what were they?’

‘First, although I was of course fully aware of Mrs Parker’s serious medical condition, I had seen her only two days previously and considered then that she was in no immediate danger of dying. Her notes compiled by Dr Rogers indicated that her condition had not deteriorated since his last visit.’

‘And the second reason?’

‘When I attended the house, I was met by the dead lady’s sister, Miss Lupin, who immediately conveyed her concerns about the nature of the death. She told me that she was a qualified pharmacist and that she suspected that her sister had been given an injection of a toxic substance.’

At this, the murmur of excitement that came from the public seats was almost palpable and the judge looked up sharply, a frown of annoyance on his face.

Lewis Gordon pressed on with his questions.

‘This must have come as something of a surprise to you, doctor?’

Harrap-Johnson managed to give the impression that such events were not uncommon in his practice and that he could take them in his stride. ‘Well, it was rather! But I was already uneasy about finding the lady dead so unexpectedly.’

‘What happened next?’

‘After I had done all I could at the bedside and confirmed that there was nothing to be done by the way of resuscitation, Miss Lupin insisted on taking me through to the veterinary clinic, where she showed me a large syringe still containing some liquid, a bottle labelled as potassium chloride and a carton of vials of sodium Pentothal.’

‘Was the defendant present when you arrived at the house?’

‘Not at first, sir. The housekeeper who admitted me said that Mr Parker was very shocked and was in the sitting room where she had given him strong tea, while he telephoned a funeral director to start making arrangements.’

‘So he was not present when his sister-in-law expressed her concerns about the nature of the death?’

‘No, but before I left I naturally sought him out to express my condolences and to tell him that I feared I was not in a position to provide a death certificate.’

‘How did he respond to that?’ asked Lewis Gordon.

For the first time, the locum doctor looked a little uncomfortable, and Moira wondered if there had been some strong opinions exchanged at the time.

‘Mr Parker expressed surprise and consternation at my inability to certify the death, especially when I said that I had no option but to inform the coroner.’

‘Did you mention the suspicions of Miss Lupin at that point?’

‘I did not. I thought it was not my place to do so; that aspect was up to the coroner.’

‘So the possibility of some sort of poisoning was not mentioned?’

Harrap-Johnson again looked uneasy, and Moira thought he might be recalling some terse words from the veterinary surgeon.

‘Not by me, but Mr Parker raised the allegations of his sister-in-law and forcefully rejected them.’

The prosecutor did not want to go further down this path and backtracked in order to get further details. This was boring stuff, and Moira could almost feel the restlessness of the court in having sheered away from more the dramatic revelations.

When he came to the end of these more mundane matters, the judge offered Nathan Prideaux the opportunity to cross-examine, which he accepted with an almost casual grace.

Leaning with one elbow on his little table, he started by investigating Austin Harrap-Johnson, rather than the facts of the case. ‘Doctor, how long have you been qualified?’

The young man frowned; this was not what he expected – he was here to show off his forensic acumen to the court.

‘Three years – and ten months,’ he added defensively.

‘How have you been employed during that time?’

Again Harrap-Johnson looked nonplussed.

‘Employed? Well, as soon as I qualified I became a house surgeon at Guy’s and then a house physician at the Royal Berkshire Hospital. Then I was called up for National Service for two years as a doctor in the Royal Army Medical Corps. Eastbury was my first locum after returning to civilian practice.’

‘What were your duties in the army, doctor?’

‘I was a Regimental Medical Officer to the Coldstream Guards. At first with the rank of lieutenant, then captain.’

Richard again grinned to himself – he knew that RMO postings to the posh regiments usually went to those with double-barrelled names who had been to Eton, Harrow or Marlborough.

The defence counsel nodded complacently. ‘I assume that most of those in a Guards regiment were pretty fit chaps, eh?’

Mystified, Harrap-Johnson agreed. ‘Most of my work was dealing with injuries of various types.’

‘So you have had little experience of middle-aged ladies dying of cancer?’

The discomfited doctor huffed and puffed a little, but had to agree. ‘But of course I had spent a year in two large hospitals before that – and as a student I had been trained in the full range of disease process.’

‘But had you even managed a case of terminal pancreatic carcinoma before?’

Harrap-Johnson, for all his pomposity, was an honest young man and had sworn to tell the truth, so he agreed he had not.

‘And had you ever seen a patient with that awful disease?’ pursued Prideaux relentlessly.

The locum wriggled a little, saying that a case had been demonstrated by a consultant at Guy’s and that he had seen other types of advanced cancer.

‘So doctor, it comes to this, doesn’t it?’ concluded the QC. ‘You have no personal experience of how and when a sufferer from terminal cancer of the pancreas might die. It’s right, isn’t it, that if Miss Sheila Lupin had not made her allegations about the possibility of a fatal injection, you would have taken your pad of certificates from your black bag and signed one on the spot?’

Harrap-Johnson pulled himself up in a last-ditch expression of defiance. ‘I don’t know about that. I was still not happy about the case.’

Nathan Prideaux gripped each side of his table and jutted his head forward towards the witness box. ‘But why not? You were quite entitled to certify, under the law which states that if a doctor has attended a patient within the previous four-teen days before death, excluding the final visit, he is entitled to issue a certificate. You fulfilled those criteria and were also locum to Dr Rogers, who had been treating Mrs Parker for many years, let alone fourteen days!’

Deflated, Austin Harrap-Johnson mumbled something and attracted the notice of the judge, who glared at him over his half-moon spectacles.

‘Doctor, please speak up! The jury need to hear what you have to say.’

Chastised, the doctor flushed and repeated what he had muttered. ‘I said that I was playing safe, my lord, given that I had only seen the lady on one previous visit.’

Prideaux gave something suspiciously like a snort as he came to his last question. ‘Come along, doctor! I put it to you that if Miss Sheila Lupin had not made the initial accusation to you that her sister had been poisoned, you would have been happy to issue a certificate – instead of dashing off to the coroner with this hearsay claim?’

As the flustered locum made a final half-hearted denial, Prideaux barked, ‘No further questions, my lord,’ and sat down with a flourish that suggested that the whole issue must now surely be settled.

The prosecuting barrister declined an invitation to re-examine, and Mr Justice Templeman released the witness from further involvement. Harrap-Johnson descended from the box and walked out, covered in less glory that he had expected. Moira’s initial feelings had changed to sympathy as he looked embarrassed and deflated.

‘That went better for us, didn’t it?’ she whispered to Mrs Armitage, who nodded then looked at her wristwatch. ‘I expect we’ll just about get the next witness in before lunch. That lot up there are keen on their food at the judge’s lodgings.’

She nodded at the five august personages sitting up on the high bench – Moira irreverently thought that they looked like the characters in a Punch and Judy show, dressed in their colourful outfits.

This time, no witness was called from outside the court, but when Lewis Gordon called his name an elderly man, who was sitting at the end of the second bench furthest from Richard Pryor, rose to his feet and went towards the witness box. Moira knew from her reading of all the papers that had come to Garth House that he must be the local coroner’s pathologist. He was a thin, dried-up man of at least seventy years of age, his dark suit hanging on him, his shirt collar too large for his leathery neck.

After taking the oath, he said in a faintly foreign accent that he was Dr Rupert Stein and that he was a semi-retired doctor, now living in Stratford-upon-Avon. Moira decided that he must be a pre-war immigrant from somewhere in Central Europe.

Rupert Stein haltingly explained that he had retired from his hospital post as a pathologist seven years earlier, but still did post-mortems for several coroners in the Cotswold region. One of these post-mortems was on Mrs Mary Parker, though his tone suggested that he now wished he had kept well clear of such a controversial case.

‘On the day following the death, you performed an examination at the request of the local coroner. Did you know the full circumstances of the death before you began?’

‘Only in the broadest terms. I had wondered why the death of a sufferer from advanced cancer, under medical care for many months, should have been reported to the coroner.’

The old doctor’s voice was as dry as his appearance, but he seemed perfectly alert and competent as he dealt with the questions.

‘And what were these “broadest terms”, doctor?’

Dr Stein frowned and looked uncomfortable for the first time.

‘The coroner’s officer told me that a close relative had made an allegation that the deceased may have been given an injection of potassium chloride shortly before death. On hearing this, I considered declining to proceed with my examination, as I am not experienced in forensic procedures, but as the medical history seemed so strongly in favour of the cancer as the cause of death, I decided to carry on. I felt that any doubt could be resolved later.’

Junior counsel then led the pathologist through his post-mortem report, detailing all the relevant findings. These amounted to a catalogue of the effects of the malignant tumour in the abdomen, which had spread widely to many of the major organs and to the bones.

‘Was there any additional condition that may have precipitated sudden death, doctor? Such as haemorrhage or thrombosis?’

Rupert Stein shook his head. ‘No, I found nothing of that nature.’

‘Was there anything that could have substantiated this allegation of an injection of potassium chloride?’

Again the pathologist answered in the negative, but added a caveat. ‘Of course, I would not expect any signs of that. Potassium chloride stops the heart; there are no visible manifestations.’

‘There was a fresh injection mark on the arm, was there not?’

‘Yes, but she was being given frequent intravenous morphine,’ countered the doctor. ‘There were injection marks on both arms, of varying ages.’

The prosecution barrister did his best to bring the questioning to an advantageous conclusion.

‘So the situation is this, is it not? You found no sudden pathological event that could have caused sudden death and you had no evidence to exclude potassium poisoning?’

The old pathologist looked steadily down at the advocate. ‘That’s true, but equally I had no evidence to confirm or even suspect potassium toxicity, especially in the presence of very advanced cancer.’

The barrister sat down and Nathan Prideaux rose to his feet at the judge’s invitation.

‘Dr Stein, you have really already answered all the questions I had for you, but just to summarize: this was an examination that was rather sprung on you, was it not?’

‘Looking back, I suppose I should have told the coroner that I would have preferred him to have sought a forensic opinion. But at the time the attitude of the coroner’s officer was that this allegation was not to be taken all that seriously. It was the day following the death and I understand that investigations had not got very far by that time.’

Prideaux nodded understandingly.

‘You took no blood samples for analysis to check for potassium?’

‘It would have been pointless. Potassium is a natural constituent of the body and leaks out rapidly from the cells into the blood after death.’

‘Then, doctor, the situation surely is this – you did a post-mortem on a lady with very advanced cancer and found no objective evidence whatsoever that this was not the sole cause of death. Do you agree?’

When the pathologist accepted this, the defence QC had one last question.

‘You may not be a forensic pathologist, but you have been an experienced hospital consultant for many years and must have seen many cases of advanced cancer. Given the medical history of this lady and in the light of your own findings, have you any reason to think that the cancer could not have killed her?’

When the doctor gave a firm ‘No’ as his answer, Prideaux gathered his gown about him and sat down with a confident thump.

Behind him, Richard Pryor, who so far had not had occasion to tear up any paper for notes, could almost hear the rumble of stomachs on the judge’s bench. Sure enough, Mr Justice Templeman began gathering up his pens and notebooks as he declared a recess for luncheon. After warning the jury that they must not speak to anyone about the case, he announced resumption at two o’clock and the whole court dutifully stood as he led his colourful procession out of the court.

Much as Moira liked Doris and appreciated her whispered explanations, she was eager to talk to Richard to hear how he thought the case was going. In spite of the life-and-death seriousness of the matter, she was as partisan over the case as if she was rooting for Wales in a rugby international.

As soon as the court broke up, she waited for him to have a quick word with the defence lawyers until he caught up with her at the door of the court.

‘Let’s go and get something to eat first,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘We’ve got almost an hour and a half before the big guns come on this afternoon!’

He grinned at her, and she suddenly felt that she was in danger of falling in love with him. Ignoring a couple of greasy spoons, he steered her into a hotel in Westgate Street where they were settled at a corner table of the dining room. It was an old-fashioned establishment, which seemed a throwback to the thirties or even the twenties, with dark furniture and a waitress in a cap and apron. However, the menu looked acceptable. Before they started talking about the case, Moira ordered Brown Windsor soup followed by a beef casserole, while Richard chose lamb and mixed veg after his soup.

‘So how do think it went,’ she asked anxiously as he poured glasses of water for them both, studiously avoiding any alcohol.

‘As good as can be expected,’ he replied. ‘But this is the calm before the storm. So far all the prosecution have is the accusations of that poisonous sister-in-law. The rest of the evidence is neutral – doesn’t prove or disprove that she died of either cancer or potassium chloride.’

‘So it all rests on Dr Angus Smythe this afternoon – and, of course, you!’

‘Battle of the giants!’ he said cheerfully, which made her shake her head in wonder.

‘I don’t know how you can be so calm about it, with probably the life of that poor man in your hands!’

Richard shrugged as the waitress approached with their soup.

‘Maybe he did it, maybe he didn’t, but that’s not my concern. All I can do is state the scientific evidence as I see it. It’s up to the jury to decide who they want to believe.’

‘Do you think they’ll understand this chemical business?’ asked Moira, picking up her spoon.

‘I’ll do my best to put it in plain language – and no doubt Nathan Prideaux will rub it in as hard as he can.’

In spite of her apprehensions, Moira enjoyed her meal, and Richard Pryor’s appetite seemed unaffected by the prospect of him taking centre stage in an hour or two. Over the coffee that followed a Pear Helene, they talked about the court and the various personalities, Moira being fascinated by the grim theatre of it all. She seemed particularly taken by the fact that the wives of the High Sheriff and the Lord Lieutenant wanted to attend such events.

‘Never turn down a free lunch, Moira! That’s their motto, part of the perks of public office.’

She wanted to know why Dr Harrap-Johnson and Dr Rogers had not been allowed to sit in court, unlike Dr Stein and Richard himself.

‘Because they were witnesses to fact, being directly involved in the care of Mrs Parker. Theoretically, if they sat in court and heard other evidence from the other witnesses, they might be influenced by it.’

‘So what about you?’ she demanded.

‘The pathologists are classed as expert witnesses, there to offer opinions, as well as fact. You’ll see Angus Smythe sitting there when we get back. We’re supposed to be indifferent to anything other than the scientific facts of the issues. Actually, the distinction is a bit blurred, as you heard the other two doctors being asked about whether Mrs Parker could have died of her cancer, which is really an opinion.’

He grinned at her again. ‘There are higher rates of pay for expert witnesses, but I doubt that young Lochinvar-Johnson or even Dr Rogers will hold out for a rise!’

At half past one they walked back to the Shire Hall, in case the QC wanted a quick conference again, and by the time the court reconvened they were sitting back in their places. This time, as Richard had prophesied, a new face was present on the further end of the second bench. Dr Angus Smythe, a Home Office pathologist from Oxford, was a burly Scotsman with a big red face and short, fair hair showing a hint of ginger. During lunch, Richard had said that he was a competent pathologist, though inclined to resent contradiction, being quite dogmatic in his opinions, sometimes unwilling to accept another view.

‘Fancies himself as another Sir Bernard Spilsbury, that allegedly infallible operator who dominated the business for forty years.’ Moira was not sure if Richard’s criticism was a touch of sour grapes, though she thought this would be foreign to his nature.

The butler appeared and, as the court rose, the now well-fed quartet followed the judge into their places. After the jury and the defendant had been settled, Lewis Gordon rose from his bench to call his last witness.

Angus Smythe stumped to the witness box and took the oath in a loud, gruff voice with a pronounced Scots accent. After it had been established that he was a consultant pathologist at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford and was on the Home Office list of approved forensic pathologists, the prosecuting QC cut straight to the chase.

‘Dr Smythe, you were asked by the coroner for North Gloucestershire to carry out a second post-mortem on the body of Mrs Mary Parker, were you not?’

Smythe agreed and there was a brief confirmation of dates and places connected with the autopsy.

‘Why was this unusual procedure requested?’

‘Because neither the locum GP nor the coroner’s pathologist were willing to offer a cause of death, due to certain allegations that had been made by a relative,’ was the bluff response.

More questions elicited that he had been informed of the nature of these allegations and of the contents of the used syringe and the two containers found in the veterinary surgery.

‘And what was the result of your examination of the body, doctor? Were you able to determine the cause of death?’

The Scotsman gripped the edges of the witness box as if he intended to tear it apart.

‘I reviewed the dissections made by Dr Stein and agreed with all his findings. This did not assist me in arriving at a cause of death, so I took a variety of samples for examination back at my own laboratory.’

‘Did you perform these investigations yourself?’ asked the QC.

‘I did some of the analyses, and the rest were performed by my technicians under my direct supervision. The results led me to an unequivocal opinion as to the cause of death, which was cardiac failure due to the intravenous injection of potassium chloride.’

There was an excited buzz of murmuring from the public gallery, and the pencils of the reporters scurried across their notebooks.

‘In plain language, can you explain what led you to this conclusion?’ asked Lewis Gordon.

‘The samples I took included blood, urine and the fluid extracted from the eyeballs, called “vitreous humour”,’ explained Smythe. ‘I ran analyses for barbiturates, as there was a vial of sodium Pentothal recovered from the premises, but none was discovered. There was a substantial amount of morphine in the blood, consistent with the painkilling use of that drug, but it was not in a lethal range. As to potassium, it was useless to seek it in the blood, as that substance leaches from the cells after death and a high value would be meaningless, even if extraneous potassium had been injected.’

‘So how did you arrive at your conclusion that an excess of potassium had been administered?’ asked Gordon, though he knew the answer full well.

‘I said that the blood is useless because of rapid contamination from potassium in the body cells – but there is a place in the body which is insulated from this effect, where potassium remains at the same level as during life. This closed-off place is the fluid within the eyeball – and I found very high concentrations of that substance in the samples I took from both eyes.’

Again sibilant murmurs ran around the court, causing the judge’s head to jerk up in disapproval.

‘You are sure about this, doctor? Absolutely sure?’ asked the prosecuting counsel, wishing to fix the vital point in the minds of the jury.

‘I am in no doubt at all, sir,’ grunted Angus. He shuffled some papers on the edge in front of him and stabbed a big finger at one page.

‘The normal potassium level during life is about twenty milligrams in each hundred cubic centimetres, but my analyses revealed an average of no less than fifty-eight!’

He looked up and glared at the jury defiantly. ‘The tests were run in duplicate on the fluid from both eyes and all four results were within the expected limits of analytical error.’

He tapped his papers together into a neat sheaf and waved them at the court. ‘There can be no doubt at all that high potassium level – three times the normal amount – could only have been attained by a considerable amount of the substance being injected into the bloodstream, thus finding its way into the eye fluid.’

Just to seal the fact in the minds of the jury, Lewis Gordon added a supplementary question. ‘You say that the only way potassium could get into the eyeballs would be from an injection. Do you exclude any other means, such as taking potassium by mouth?’

‘Absolutely!’ snapped the pathologist. ‘Potassium is present in all kinds of food, especially fruit. It is even given as a medicine for bladder and kidney infections, but it is selectively absorbed and excreted, and its concentration in the blood is regulated within a very tight range, so that it could never reach these very high levels that I found in the eye fluid.’

‘How does potassium chloride cause death, Dr Smythe?’

‘It poisons muscles, causing irregularity of contraction. The most immediate effect is on the heart muscle, disturbing the rhythm of its beat.’

The prosecuting barrister pursued these matters in more detail, to emphasize the serious and indeed lethal effects of the substance. He led Angus Smythe to confirm that death from an injection of a large amount of strong potassium chloride solution would kill within minutes.

‘That is why vets use it to put down animals,’ he said gruffly. ‘They usually precede it with an injection of Pentothal or some other barbiturate, to literally put the animal to sleep, as the effects of potassium, though very rapid, can be distressing as the heart fails.’

Final questions elicited the fact that Dr Smythe discounted the presence of the advanced cancer as the cause of death. ‘There were no catastrophic complications, like an internal haemorrhage or a pulmonary embolism – that’s a clot passing to the lungs. And given the potassium findings, there is no need to invoke the general effects of cancer, advanced though that was.’

Lewis Gordon spent a few more minutes questioning the dogmatic Scotsman, though what he was really doing was covertly going over the same ground, intent on impressing on the jury that this was the crux of the evidence, that Mrs Mary Parker was virtually awash with potassium, which could only have been the sole cause of death. He pressed this point as far as he dared, until he sensed that the judge was beginning to get restive with his attempts at repetition.

‘That is the prosecution case, my lord. I am calling no other witnesses,’ he said, with an air of finality that suggested that nothing else was required for a guilty verdict.

Mr Justice Templeman peered down over his glasses at the defence counsel.

‘You wish to cross-examine, Mr Prideaux?’

Nathan rose to his feet and smiled almost ingratiatingly at the judge.

‘I do indeed, my lord, but I would like to crave your indulgence concerning the order in which we proceed.’

Templeman looked suspiciously at the Queen’s Counsel, who continued. ‘As your lordship must be very well aware, the whole thrust of the prosecution case lies with the evidence of this witness. It would greatly facilitate my cross-examination – and indeed the course of justice – if I could call my only witness first, so that the evidence of Dr Smythe could be put into context with that of my expert.’

There followed some minutes of complicated legal argument, before which the jury were led out and Angus Smythe, looking irritated at the delay, stood down from the witness box to sit at a nearby empty chair. The judge and the two leading counsel engaged in an almost private debate, phrases such as ‘natural justice’, ‘facilitating proper understanding’ and ‘outwith normal criminal procedure’ were bandied about.

‘What’s going on?’ Moira whispered to Doris. ‘Why have the jury been chucked out?’

‘This is all a bit irregular, as the prosecution normally have to finish completely before the defence have their turn,’ murmured the lawyer’s secretary. ‘The jury mustn’t be influenced by any goings-on that might affect their verdict.’

However, they soon returned, shuffling back to their places, as it seemed that with the judge’s acquiescence the prosecution barrister had shrugged his agreement to Nathan’s request.

Templeman turned to the jury to soothe them.

‘That was nothing to do with the facts of the case, gentlemen, it was a legal discussion about a procedural matter.’ He nodded at Prideaux and, pleased with his manoeuvre, the defence counsel called Richard Pryor to the box. Moira watched with mixed excitement, pride and foreboding as her hero mounted the steps, took the oath and identified himself in response to Nathan’s questions.

‘Dr Pryor, for how long have you been a pathologist?’

‘About sixteen years. I began before the war, then I was a Senior Specialist in Pathology in the army until 1946.’

‘And since then, you have been a full-time forensic pathologist?’

‘Yes, I was Professor of Forensic Medicine in the University of Singapore until last year, when I entered private practice in that speciality, recently being appointed to the Home Office list.’

Richard said all this in a matter-of-fact way, free from any hint of aggrandizement. Nathan leaned forward against his table, as if reaching out to the witness.

‘You were engaged by the defendant’s solicitor to review the medical evidence in this case, doctor. You have heard what Dr Smythe said, what do you say in response?’

Richard faced the jury, paused and then began speaking with careful deliberation. ‘Much of what my colleague said would have been perfectly true according to generally held medical and physiological knowledge – until recently.’

‘Which implies that you feel it is no longer correct?’ prompted Prideaux.

‘There is very recent and still-ongoing research from several parts of the world which reveals a fundamental flaw in Dr Smythe’s interpretation of his findings concerning potassium in the eye fluids, on which this case largely rests.’

Down in the well of the court, Angus’s red face became even ruddier, but he had had his say for the moment.

‘As part of my review of the evidence, I discovered that several pathologists have independently done research in Germany, Denmark and the United States, which shows incontrovertibly that the potassium level in the eye fluid rises progressively after death – to a lesser extent than blood, but still unrelated to externally administered potassium.’

Nathan held up a sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘Are these copies of publication drafts and personal responses to your enquiries by those researchers?’

Richard nodded, lifting his own copies briefly from the shelf in front of him. ‘Yes, I contacted Professor Braun of Cologne, Dr Stoddart in Chicago and Dr Kaufmann in Minnesota. They all kindly sent me the results of their work.’

The judge made a gesture and an usher took the papers from Prideaux and handed them up to the bench.

‘I have a number of carbon copies of all this work, my lord. No doubt my learned friend and his expert would like to see them. I also have spare copies for the jury, if you feel they would derive sufficient understanding from what is undoubtedly a very technical subject.’

There was a delay while papers were being handed around the court. Angus Smythe was given a set as he squatted on his chair, and there was a long silence as everyone scanned the flimsy carbons. After about ten minutes, with the court beginning to get restive, Prideaux began speaking again.

‘Dr Pryor, could you just summarize, in a way comprehensible to us laymen, the import of this work? First, can you tell me why this research was done in various parts of the world? Surely there has not been a global epidemic of potassium homicides?’

Richard risked a grin, in spite of the fraught circumstances.

‘Not at all, sir! This was done for a totally different purpose. Estimating the time since death is a very important forensic problem, because of alibis and the like. Most methods are notoriously inaccurate, but these gentlemen discovered the fact that potassium in the eyeball fluid rises progressively after death. They have been trying to use this as a measure of time since death by making a graph of potassium level against the number of hours – or indeed days – that have elapsed since death.’

‘So what is the relevance to this case, doctor?’

‘The second post-mortem on Mrs Parker was not carried out by Dr Smythe until the third day after death. Though the results of the three researchers are not identical, it is patently obvious that the concentration of potassium found by Dr Smythe is well within the expected levels for that period of time, some seventy-eight hours. So the interpretation that this level must have been due to the injection of extraneous potassium is now quite unacceptable.’

Nathan Prideaux wanted to nail this idea down firmly in the minds of the jury, who by now were looking bemused at this sudden turn of events.

‘Dr Smythe claimed that the eye fluid is immune from the changes after death that make the blood levels of potassium useless. What do you say to that?’

‘I’m afraid it’s just not true. This was assumed, but until now no one has actually investigated it. Admittedly, it is much slower than in the rest of the body, but this new research shows that potassium leaks out of the cells in the retina – the inner lining of the eye that allows vision – and this is why they hope it will provide a new method of determining the time of death.’

Richard Pryor, at Nathan’s request, went on to quote facts and figures from the research papers to consolidate what he was claiming, while the judge, barristers and prosecution expert followed it on the documents they had been given. From the glazed look on the faces of some of the jury, it was obvious that they had no idea of what he was talking about, but soon Prideaux put them out of their misery by diverting on to a new tack.

‘Dr Pryor, I think you also have a second reason for disputing Dr Smythe’s conclusions?’

‘Indeed, though I admit that I, too, was unaware of it until I began researching all aspects of potassium and eye fluid. Unlike the new discoveries in Germany and America, apparently this has been known to physiologists and biochemists for a long time. I’m afraid it’s a problem with all sciences, that there is so much knowledge available, but it tends to be kept in separate boxes, until someone actively seeks it out.’

‘And what was in this particular box, doctor?’

‘Dr Smythe quite correctly said that death occurs very rapidly on injection of strong potassium chloride solution – which is the allegation in this case. The heart stops very quickly, perhaps not instantly, but within a few moments. That is why it is used by vets to dispatch animals.’

‘And what is the significance of that?’ asked the QC.

‘When substances such as potassium are injected into the bloodstream, it takes up to three hours for the substance to reach its maximum concentration in the eye fluid. This “equilibration” as it is called, cannot proceed if the heart has stopped, as there is no circulation to drive the substance around the body to reach the eyeball. So if an injection of potassium is sufficient to cause rapid death, there is no way that this extraneous amount can get into the eye fluid! Any rise in potassium must therefore be due to post-mortem leakage from the cells in the retina.’

He lifted up another document from his collection. ‘Though I said this has been known for years, I sought advice from clinical biochemist Professor Lucius Zigmond of St George’s Hospital in London, who is an expert in what are called “electrolytes” such as potassium. He has provided a statement in which this delay in equilibration is positively confirmed, and which is also contained in a number of standard textbooks.’

This statement was again handed around the court as a sheaf of carbon copies, the sworn original going to the judge for his inspection.

Nathan Prideaux took over again and asked the judge to accept all these papers as sworn evidence, entering them with exhibit numbers into the trial record.

There now seemed to be a hiatus in which the whole court was holding its breath, waiting to see what was to happen next in this drama.

Mr Justice Templeman finished reading the last of these documents, then looked down at both the leading counsel. ‘Where does this leave us now, gentlemen?’ he asked evenly. ‘Do you want to cross-examine Dr Pryor first, Mr Gordon? Or do you wish to have Dr Smythe back in the witness box, Mr Prideaux?’

The prosecuting counsel shook his head almost helplessly as he declined the invitation. He would dearly like to have had the chance to discuss this turn of events with his expert, but once any witness began giving evidence no communication was allowed between him and counsel.

‘If it pleases your lordship,’ replied Nathan, in the traditionally obsequious language of the courts, ‘I would like to hear Dr Smythe’s reaction to these propositions.’

There was a general shuffling about, as Richard came down to sit on Angus’s chair, while the Scot hauled himself back up into the witness box. As they did so, the two prosecuting barristers engaged in an animated, muttered discussion, while their defence counterparts sat back impassively until the judge invited Prideaux to begin his cross-examination.

‘Dr Smythe, you have heard what Dr Pryor had to say and you have seen the various sworn statements of the other forensic experts. Is there anything in them which you do not accept or wish to dispute?’

Richard, sitting below the high witness box, fully expected the fiery Angus to begin a staunch counter-attack and was amazed when the man from Oxford immediately capitulated, contradicting his reputation for doggedly fighting off any opposition to his opinions.

‘I have no option but to agree with all Dr Pryor’s propositions,’ said Angus. ‘These are reports from reputable scientists – in fact I know of Dr Stoddart from other work. The publications have been accepted by well-known international medical journals. I did not know of this new work – and I very much doubt if the majority of my colleagues know of it. The delay in equilibration seems to be a long-accepted fact, but again I confess that it had never come to my knowledge, as I had never had occasion to seek it out.’

He nodded an acknowledgement down to Richard Pryor.

‘I can only compliment Dr Pryor on such a diligent search of recent research and literature, and I unreservedly accept the conclusions which he has put forward. I withdraw my previous interpretation, which I now admit to being erroneous.’

Amid another buzz of excitement in the court, Nathan Prideaux turned to the judge.

‘My lord, at this juncture I would like to make a submission to you.’

Doris hissed in Moira’s ear. ‘He’s going to ask the judge to consider directing the jury to return a verdict of not guilty.’

But for once, Doris was wrong, as Mr Justice Templeman held up a hand towards the defence counsel.

‘I think, Mr Prideaux, that will not be necessary. I am sure that Mr Gordon will not contest the fact that his witness has withdrawn virtually all his expert opinion which goes to the heart of this case. In my view, there is nothing left that can go to the jury for their decision. I therefore intend discharging the jury and also discharging the defendant forthwith.’

That evening Siân stayed behind to greet the victor, Moira having been unable to resist ringing Garth House from a phone box near the Shire hall with the news of the collapse of the prosecution case.

When they returned, an impromptu celebratory party was held in the staffroom, with a couple of bottles of Lutomer Riesling and a flagon of Buckley’s Ale for Jimmy, who came in from the garden for the occasion. Moira related the dramatic scenes in Gloucester and extolled the triumphant success of Richard in the witness box.

‘I should have let you go to the Brecon inquest and gone to the Assizes instead,’ said Siân, wistfully.

Richard was as diplomatic as usual. ‘Next time, Siân! There’ll be plenty more opportunities, now that our reputation is spreading!’

He held up his glass in a toast. ‘To our team, folks! I just fired the shots in the witness box, but you all were involved – everyone played a part! Angela is the brains and keeps me from the worst of my wild excesses, Siân is our queen of the laboratory and without Moira we’d not only starve but wouldn’t have any reports to flash around. And Jimmy calms me down, hoeing weeds from my vines, as well as nagging me about bloody strawberries!’

Amid the celebrations and good humour, two pairs of eyes viewed Richard Glanville Pryor speculatively, as both Angela Bray and Moira Davison wondered what the next six months might bring. But fate was not willing to wait that long – indeed, it was the very next morning that the settled routine of Garth House was upset.

‘There’s a personal call on the line for you, Dr Bray,’ said Moira, calling through from the office to where Angela sat at her bench.

As Angela came through to pick up the phone, Moira tactfully moved into the laboratory to be out of earshot and hovered over Siân in the biochemistry section.

‘It must be her father,’ she murmured to the technician. ‘He asked to speak to his daughter.’

Siân looked up in concern. ‘Neither of her parents has ever rung here before. I hope it’s not bad news.’

They waited for Angela to finish her call and come back into the lab, but after a few minutes they heard the phone go down and her heels clicking away down the corridor.

‘She’s gone down to Richard’s room,’ whispered Moira. ‘I wonder what’s going on.’

Ten minutes went by before both Angela and Richard came back to speak to them.

‘Unfortunate news, I’m afraid,’ said Richard gravely. ‘We’re going to have to do without Dr Bray for a while.’

Angela, looking pale and strained, explained the problem. ‘My mother has had a stroke. It’s not life-threatening, thank God, but she’s lost her speech and is partly paralysed down one side. I’ll have to go home to stay with her for a while. My poor father is hopeless at looking after himself, let alone a sick wife. Just to complicate matters, my sister’s just gone to New York on a three-month design course, so I’ve drawn the short straw, I’m afraid.’

The two other women clustered around full of sympathy and commiseration, asking if there was anything they could do to help.

‘You’ll have to go home straight away,’ said Richard. ‘Don’t worry about things here, we’ll cope somehow.’

He offered to drive her to Berkshire, but Angela said she was fine to drive herself.

‘I’ll just finish this batch of bloods,’ she said, waving a hand towards her bench. ‘Then I’ll pack a suitcase and be on my way. With luck, my mother will recover quickly and I’ll soon be able to get back.’

Within two hours she had gone in her little white Renault, leaving the house and its occupants strangely forlorn.

‘How are we going to deal with her cases, Dr Pryor?’ asked Siân over a consoling cup of coffee. ‘There’s no problem with your post-mortems, and I can handle the histology and the chemistry, but I haven’t much idea of these paternity tests and bloodstains that she does.’

‘Depends on how long she’s likely to be up in Berkshire,’ observed Moira. ‘If it’s only a few days or a week, I suppose things can wait until she gets back. But if it’s going to be a lot longer…’ There was a silence as her voice tailed off.

‘Haven’t they got a housekeeper or something?’ asked Siân. ‘They must be pretty well off, all that business with breeding horses and the like.’

‘I’m sure they’ll get in a private nurse,’ said the ever-practical Moira. ‘But it’s not the same as having your own daughter, at least in the early stages. Pity her sister is abroad just when she’s needed.’

Richard was philosophical about the crisis. ‘Nothing we can do or even plan for until we hear how long Angela is likely to be away. She did mention to me, before she left, that she might know of a former colleague of hers who might be available as a locum. But let’s not cross our bridges until we come to them, eh?’

When the phone rang later that evening it sounded ominous to Richard, now alone in the large, empty house. It was Angela, reporting that her mother, though in no danger, was very incapacitated. She had been taken to hospital in Reading the previous night, but later in the day a consultant advised her husband to have her back at home, as there was little they could do for her, except wait for the expected gradual improvement.

Their family doctor had arranged for a nurse to come in twice a day, and their daily woman from the village had agreed to increase the number of hours she put in and to add cooking skills to her duties.

‘But I’m rather saddled with organizing things and keeping Mother company,’ admitted Angela. ‘My father is great with horses but clueless when it comes to anything inside the house.’

Richard took this as a coded message that his partner was going to be stuck a hundred miles away for some time to come. ‘You must stay there for as long as you’re needed,’ he reassured her. ‘We’ll cope somehow. I’ll just have to divert any serological requests to one of the university departments in London or Scotland who’ve got the proper facilities.’

Privately, he was quite anxious, as Angela had built up quite a clientele among solicitors in respect of paternity tests and other biological investigations. It brought in an appreciable part of their income, and to be deprived of it just when the Garth House consultancy was beginning to take off was a serious blow. However, his partner had a glimmer of hope to offer him.

‘There’s no way I can get back within a month or so, Richard, but remember that I mentioned the possibility of finding a good locum for us?’

Angela went on to say that she had already made a phone call to locate the person she had in mind. ‘She wasn’t there, but I’ve left a message and hopefully she’ll call me back very soon.’

‘Who is this Good Samaritan?’ he asked.

Angela explained that several years ago she had had a junior colleague in the Metropolitan Police Laboratory, doing the same work as herself. ‘She’s called Priscilla Chambers. Has a London degree in physical anthropology and worked in the Natural History Museum for a bit, but then took a master’s in serology and came to the Met Lab for a few years.’

Richard pricked up his ears at the mention of anthropology – a useful speciality when it came to identifying skeletal material. ‘Why might she be available as a locum?’ he asked.

‘Priscilla left the Met about three years ago, as prospects of promotion were grounded by budget cuts, as I well know! She took a job in a forensic institute in Australia but came back about six months ago.’

Angela paused. ‘I think she had a bad experience with a man – another broken engagement,’ she added rather bitterly. ‘We forensic biologists seem to be prone to that sort of thing!’

‘Is she free at the moment, then?’ he enquired.

‘She’s been doing short-term work at a couple of archaeological digs, but at the moment she’s “resting”, as they say in the theatre!’

Before she rang off, Angela promised to let him know as soon as she had contacted her former colleague, leaving Richard to tramp up the stairs in the echoing house, wondering what a former museum employee and itinerant archaeologist might look like – a mannish suit and rimless glasses, or long straggly hair and projecting teeth?

He gave the news to Moira and Siân next day and they all anxiously awaited another call from Angela Bray. Like Richard the previous evening, the two women wondered what any new locum would be like, if she materialized.

‘Why can’t Dr Bray find us a handsome young man instead?’ said Siân wistfully. ‘All these biologists seem to be women!’

It was almost the end of the week before Angela rang Richard again. Her mother had slightly improved in that she could speak a little in a slurred way, but her arm and leg showed no sign of recovering, so there was no chance that Angela could leave her.

Her main news was that she had tracked down Priscilla Chambers and in principle the lady was quite keen to help out on a temporary basis. Richard and Angela agreed on a salary regime for the locum, Angela insisting on paying most of it from her share of the profits of the partnership.

‘She can come down next Monday, Richard, and start immediately on a one-month agreement if she likes the look of the place. She doesn’t have a car, but she can use the train.’

‘Where can she stay? In that bed and breakfast you were in down in the village?’

‘That’s up to her, I suppose. She could use my rooms in the house, but that would cause another scandal in the valley!’

When Richard relayed this to Siân and Moira, they were relieved to hear that someone could take over Angela’s work, but rather apprehensive at a stranger invading the cosy little world of Garth House.

‘I’d better check with Mrs Evans that she’s got a vacancy at her B &B,’ said the efficient Moira.

‘Dr Bray mentioned that she could stay here in her rooms upstairs,’ said Richard mischievously.

This went down like a lead balloon with the two women, and Moira went straight off to telephone the lady who ran the bed and breakfast in Tintern Parva.

Angela rang again on Sunday evening to say that Miss Chambers intended catching the twelve o’clock express from Paddington next day. Richard offered to drive to Newport Station to pick her up, and just after two o’clock Siân and Moira heard the Humber roll up the drive and stop in the yard.

They hurried to the back door in time to see Richard opening the passenger door, from which a shapely pair of nylon-clad legs emerged, followed by a willowy redhead of about thirty.

With Richard grinning like a Cheshire cat behind her, she advanced towards them, elegant in a slim A-line suit under a swinging green topcoat, a tiny hat on her auburn curls.

Miss Chambers pulled off a glove and held out a hand, her perfectly made-up features breaking into a smile.

‘Hello, I’m Priscilla! What a lovely place you have here.’

As the two residents went out to meet her, Siân whispered in Moira’s ear, ‘My God, she’s gorgeous!’

‘When Angela gets back,’ hissed Moira, ‘I’m going to kill her!’