Where Death Delights

FOUR

It had been agreed that Sian need not come in on Saturdays unless there was something urgent going on, so when Richard returned with his samples on Friday afternoon, she busily began setting up her equipment for barbiturate analysis, with the promise to ‘get cracking’ first thing on Monday morning. Her enthusiasm was infectious, as she was almost ecstatic at having ‘her first case’, as she put it. Even the usually impassive Angela was smiling benignly at Richard’s news of more work and both the women were itching to know what the barrister in Swansea would have to say.

However, they had to wait over the weekend for it, as Pryor’s attempt to phone the chambers in Swansea where the coroner’s brother was based, produced only a message from a clerk that Peter Meredith had left for the weekend, but that he would get him to return the call on Monday.

The weather had cooled down but was still pleasant and with little else to occupy him over the fallow two days, Richard looked forward to ‘striding his own broad acres’, as he liked to think of his bit of land, as well as sorting out his office and his room upstairs. He was not by nature a very tidy person, unlike Angela who was almost obsessive about ‘a place for everything and everything in its place’, as his grandmother used to say. However, he made an effort, buoyed up by the hope that an increasing workload would make this the last chance he had of getting really organized. His workroom was on a back corner of the house, behind the room used for an office, and he had plans to have a doorway knocked through to save having to walk around the corridor and into the hall to get into the office.

After another scratch meal with Angela in the kitchen – this time more salad and a tin of John West salmon, followed by cheese and biscuits – he percolated some Kardomah coffee and took it into the ‘staff lounge’, as they grandly called it. This was the room between Angela’s office and the kitchen, entered by a door at the foot of the stairs.

Angela was relaxing in one of the large armchairs, part of the three-piece suite they had retained from his aunt’s furniture. The room was much as the old lady had left it, with a good, but faded carpet on the floor, a large sideboard against one wall and a stone Minster fireplace on the other.

‘Should be cosy enough in the winter,’ she said, as she poured coffee into two mugs on the small table in the centre. ‘As long as we can afford the coal! Heating this house will cost a fortune.’

‘I should think we could get wood easily enough around here, the whole valley is a forest,’ replied Richard, full of optimism today. ‘I’ll have to ask Jimmy, he’ll probably offer to cut down someone’s trees for us!’

They listened to the six o’clock news on the massive Marconi radiogram that had been part of the furnishings, but the details of the national rail strike and the disaster at the Le Mans motor race in which a crashed Mercedes had killed over eighty people, were too depressing and they switched it off.

‘No trains, but I think I’ll drive up to Berkshire in the morning to visit my parents,’ announced Angela. ‘I need to bring down some more of my things I’ve left with them since I left the flat.’

‘At least you can get a decent meal when you’re home,’ suggested Richard. ‘I wonder if we’ll get any replies from that advertisement?’

‘Hardly likely in a place as small as Tintern Parva,’ replied Angela. ‘I think you’ll have to put it in the local Monmouthshire paper to get any hope of a response.’

It turned out that she was wrong about this, for later that evening as she was sitting upstairs her room, enjoying the view of the sunlit valley through the bay window, she heard the distant ringing of their solitary telephone in the hall below.

It stopped after a few rings and a few moments later, there was a tentative tap on her door.

‘Are you decent?’ came Richard’s voice. Even in the short time they had inhabited the house, they had both become meticulous about respecting each other’s space and he normally kept well clear of Angela’s territory. The bathroom was a problem and he was determined to hive off part of the spare bedroom behind his, to have a second one constructed.

She went to the door and invited him in, motioning him to another chair opposite hers in the bay window. Because of the wonderful view, she used this front room as her lounge, again with remnants of the original furniture pressed into use. Her bedroom was the one behind and another project they had in mind was a connecting door, to save her having to go out on to the landing each time she wished to move from one room to the other.

‘I heard the phone, was that more business for us?’

He shook his head and gave her one of his impish grins.

‘Guess what? That was a reply to our card in the post office. It’s only been there a few hours!’

She leaned forward, as surprised as he had been.

‘Good God? Who was it, someone from the village?’

‘Yep, a lady called Moira Davison, lives just down the valley on the main road.’

‘Moira Davison? Sounds Scottish, maybe all she can cook is haggis!’ said Angela, facetiously.

‘She didn’t sound Scottish, she had a slight local accent. Said she can cook, but her main talent is secretarial work.’

Angela looked dubious. ‘Can she make beds and clean the house as well, I wonder?’

Richard shrugged. ‘We’ll find out on Monday. I suggested she came up here to see us in the afternoon. Hopefully, I’ll be down in Chepstow mortuary in the morning.’

They discussed the economics of the matter and decided to see if she would come for five days at four pounds a week, given that she seemed suitable.

‘What about income tax, national insurance and all that?’ asked Angela, as ever the practical one of the pair.

‘I’ll have to ask my accountant about that – when I get one,’ he said vaguely. ‘Until then, we can slip her a few quid on the quiet.’

Having committed themselves to the black economy, they had to wait until Monday to see what Mrs Moira Davison was like.

Left alone on Saturday morning, after Angela had left for Berkshire, Pryor decided to wash his car in the back yard, using a hosepipe, sponge and chamois leather.

He was very fond of the Humber, a handsome black saloon for which his father had stumped up the cost. Though five years old, it was as good as new and a great improvement on the pre-war Morris Ten he had had in Singapore. The car had survived the Japanese occupation but had been rapidly succumbing to rust in that humid climate.

When he had finished, he made himself a bacon and egg fry-up in the kitchen, washed down with a bottle of beer from Hancock’s brewery in Cardiff.

He fervently hoped that the ‘Scottish woman’ as Angela persisted in calling her, would want the job, as he was already fed up with this ‘indoor camping’, especially after the luxury of a houseboy and an amah in the house in Singapore. In fact, the thought of Angela relaxing after a good lunch at her parent’s place, made him suddenly decide to follow her example. Locking up, he drove off on a ninety-minute journey to Merthyr and arrived at his parents’ house in Cefn Coed in time for tea.

Though he had stayed with them after returning from Singapore, while waiting for Garth House to become available, they were delighted to see him. During his long years abroad, he had only managed two visits home and it was now pleasant for them to have him in the next county. By seven o’clock, he was slumped in an armchair, replete after a massive meal that his mother had cooked, telling them all the details of this first week in the new venture. His father had helped with the burden of financing it, buying him the car and a new binocular microscope, as well as some other equipment, so he was happy that his son seemed confident that this rather risky endeavour was going to succeed.

As the evening wore on, he gave in to his mother’s persuasion and decided to spend the night there, sleeping in his old room, where he had grown up until he went to university. After a morning lie-in and a large Sunday lunch, he drove back home and arrived around four o’clock. As he went into the large empty house, he was surprised to find that he missed Angela’s presence and was looking forward to her coming back that evening.

Sian had laboriously typed his two post-mortem reports before leaving on Friday and he went to his room at the back of the house to check through them. He signed the one which concluded that the cause of death was ‘myocardial infarction due to coronary thrombosis’, but that relating to the woman would have to wait until Sian did her analysis for barbiturates.

He was looking at the reports, typed on plain foolscap paper, and was contemplating having standard forms printed with their partnership names at the top, when he heard the phone ringing. It was in the hall, just outside his room and he answered to find that it was the coroner’s brother, Peter Meredith.

After some polite introductions, the Swansea barrister explained that he was involved only as a ‘go-between’ and the person seeking advice was a professional friend of his, Leonard Massey, QC, of the Middle Temple.

What Meredith had to say only strengthened the suspense, as Richard related with relish when Angela returned soon afterwards. He sat her in the staff lounge and brought in a tray of tea and biscuits from the kitchen.

‘A Queen’s Counsel looking for a pathologist down here in the sticks?’ she exclaimed. ‘But why? They’re coming out of the woodwork in London – Keith Simpson, Francis Camps, Donald Teare!’

After years in the big city, she knew all about the forensic scene there, but Richard shook his head as he poured her a cup of tea.

‘This isn’t to do with one of his trials up there,’ he said. ‘This is personal, for the dead woman involved is his daughter. It seems that he wants a second autopsy – and the first one was done in Swansea.’

His partner raised her elegant eyebrows. ‘So what was wrong with the first one? How did she die, anyway?’

Pryor offered her the plate of Peek Frean’s shortcakes, and took one himself after she declined.

‘Peter Meredith didn’t know much about it himself, but said that it was reported to the coroner and that it was said to be a drowning in the sea.’

‘So where do we go from here?’ asked Angela, sipping her tea.

‘I told Meredith that I was happy to give any help I could, so he’s ringing his QC pal with our phone number. He should be contacting me tomorrow to give me more information.’

‘Roll on tomorrow!’ said the scientist gaily. ‘This could be the start of something big, as they say in Hollywood! Getting the lawyers to put your name about will do us no harm at all. Tomorrow might be a memorable day, especially if the Scottish lady comes up trumps!’

It was to be an eventful day, one way and another.

Sian was in early and with Angela supervising, set about the barbiturate analysis. Though the scientist was primarily a biologist, an expert in blood, semen and anything botanical or zoological that had a forensic angle, she had been about the Metropolitan Police Laboratory for so many years that many of the other techniques had rubbed off on her. Sian had worked mainly in the clinical chemistry section of her hospital laboratory and had been studying for an external degree in biochemistry for the past year, going on half-day release to the Technical College, a practice which her new employers had willingly agreed to continue.

While they worked away together, Richard had a call from John Christie to say that there were two more post-mortems waiting at the Chepstow mortuary, so by ten o’clock, he was down in the ancient town sited just above the point where the Wye emptied into the Severn.

Though the mortuary was in yet another council yard, it was slightly more modern and a little larger, with a small office for the attendant partitioned off from the outer room. This worthy was a small man, with a very large, bald head and prominent projecting ears like jug handles. He advanced on Richard to solemnly shake hands, his almost childlike features wreathed in smiles.

‘I’m Solomon Evans, doctor – everyone calls me Solly.’

In spite of his smooth, guileless face, Richard thought he must have been about fifty, and it soon became apparent that he was a little backward, except when it came to collecting his tip for each post-mortem. John Christie, who had arrived before Richard, gave him a conspiratorial wink over Solly’s head.

‘This chap does the best skull-sawing you ever came across, doctor,’ he said, which caused the little man to give a beaming smile.

The two cases were already in the post-mortem room, which was a little more elaborate than Monmouth, with a long metal draining board attached to the sink and a proper wash-hand basin. There was even a small desk for writing notes and an electric heater fixed high on the wall.

The coroner’s officer related the histories, one of which was a body recovered from the river, the other was another sudden collapse in the street. By the time Pryor had dealt with the examination of the bodily organs of the latter, Solly had opened the scalp and with a handsaw, meticulously removed the calvarium, the bowel-shaped top of the skull. This exposed the dura, the thick membrane over the brain.

‘Never seen him accidentally cut through that, in all the times I’ve been here,’ said Christie, giving Pryor another wink.

‘If I ever damage that, I’ll not take my tip from you, Doctor,’ promised the little man solemnly.

The presumed drowning took longer to deal with, as the pathologist found no classical signs, which was not unusual, especially as from the state of the body, it must have been in the water for several days. However, there was no other obvious cause of death, but Pryor collected blood and urine samples, as well as some tissue blocks in small pots of formaldehyde, to take back to Garth House.

The deceased had been identified as a fifty-year-old man from the town, last seen outside a public house on the previous Wednesday night, in an advanced state of inebriation.

‘He was a well-known drunk, Doctor,’ said Christie.

‘Been run over twice when he was in his cups, and I reckon this time he wandered down to the quayside and fell in. Been washing up and down with the tide ever since, until he got caught in an old tree trunk.’

Richard finished his work, washed his hands and made some notes, then did the financial business with the coroner’s officer, handing over an additional half-crown per case to Solly. He was back at the house in time for lunch, such as it was, but before that, he handed over his samples to the two women.

‘We need a blood and urine alcohol and perhaps you’d have a look for diatoms, Angela? There was too much post-mortem change to be definite about drowning.’

The biologist held up the pots containing the lung tissue.

‘There’s a lot of argument in the journals about whether the diatom test is reliable, but we’ll give it a try again,’ she said dubiously.

Sian was itching to break into the conversation. ‘Stacks of barbiturate in that lady, Doctor Pryor!’ she said proudly. ‘The system worked fine on our first try-out, the report’s on your desk.’

Richard was careful to congratulate the young woman, as he wanted to encourage her keenness and she went off beaming, anxious to set up her Widmark system for alcohol analysis.

‘Any calls from that chap in London?’ he asked Angela, as they made their way to the kitchen to rustle up something to eat.

‘Nothing so far – nor any sign of the Scottish lady,’ as she persisted in calling the potential applicant.

‘We did say in the afternoon, so let’s keep our fingers crossed,’ said Richard, as he rooted in the old fridge.

Pushing aside a sealed box of blood-grouping sera, he pulled out a bowl of tomatoes, a washed lettuce and a cucumber, while Angela put plates, cutlery and mugs on the table.

‘I have visions of her as a big, fat woman with a double chin and her hair rolled into a head band, like they did during the war,’ she said.

‘I don’t give a damn what she looks like as long as she can clean, make beds and cook something,’ replied Pryor. ‘I wonder if she can make Chinese fried rice?’ he added, wistfully.

Sian came in with her tin box of sandwiches and a bottle of Corona orangeade, a change from her usual Tizer. Angela opened a tin of Spam, which they ate with salad and some fresh bread from the village bakery, followed by part of a Lyon’s Swiss roll. Just as they were finishing and thinking of making tea, the phone rang outside.

‘Perhaps that’s him!’ exclaimed Sian, whom Angela had told about the mysterious Swansea case. Richard hurried out and was gone for about five minutes, leaving the two women waiting impatiently for news.

He returned and sat down in maddeningly slow motion.

‘Well, was it him?’ demanded Angela.

‘Yep, we’ve got another job, by the looks of it. It will mean a bit of travelling.’

He gave them the gist of his conversation with Leonard Massey, whose married daughter had been found dead in the sea off a rocky part of the Gower coast over a week ago. She had been swimming alone and was presumed to have drowned, which was confirmed by a coroner’s post-mortem.

‘An inquest was opened a couple of days later and a burial order issued, the full inquest to take place at a later date,’ said Pryor.

‘So where do we come into it?’ asked Angela.

‘Massey wants a second post-mortem, as he’s not satisfied with the circumstances. He was a bit cagey about telling me more on the phone, but he’s coming down to Swansea tomorrow to see the coroner and suggests I meet him there afterwards for a conference.’

‘Business is looking up!’ commented Angela. ‘I had a call this morning from a solicitor in Bristol wanting two more paternity tests.’

A distant knock on the front door reverberated through the empty hall and Sian jumped up to answer it.

‘Probably your new Scottish charlady,’ she said as she left the room.

‘Better see her in the office, hadn’t we?’ suggested Richard. By the time they reached the door opposite, Sian had let the new arrival in and led her down to the waiting pair, who took her into the office.

Richard introduced himself and the other two women and settled her on to one of the three hard chairs in the sparsely furnished room. He glanced across at Angela and a lift of his eyebrows conveyed his feelings. Far from being the fat, motherly figure she had anticipated, Moira Davison was an attractive brunette of about thirty, her slim figure neatly dressed in a cream summer suit over a pale blue blouse, the long slim skirt suggestive of the current ‘H-line’ fashion. Her black hair was cut in a page-boy style with a straight fringe above her blue eyes.

‘That was a quick response to my rather amateurish advert!’ began Richard, wanting to keep the interview informal.

Moira Davison smiled, lighting up her almost elfin features. ‘I happened to be in the shop soon after Mr Follet put the card in his window,’ she replied. ‘It was a sudden impulse, I’m afraid, but I’m quite serious about it. It’s time that I got on with my life again.’

Angela took up this rather cryptic remark.

‘I presume it’s “Mrs” Davison? So why do you want to work here? I assume you’re local, as you saw the advert in the post office.’

Moira nodded. ‘I’m a neighbour, really. I live in the second house down, just around the bend between here and the village. I lost my husband three years ago and I’ve been rather withdrawn since then. But as I say, it’s time to pull myself together now and I felt this might the stimulus I’ve been waiting for.’

She sat primly on the hard chair, holding a cream handbag on her lap, with a pair of light gloves resting on top. Richard liked the fact that she had taken the trouble to dress and behave professionally when seeking a job, even though she lived virtually next door.

He explained the set-up at Garth House and their need for someone who would help both with the office work and with keeping the establishment afloat from the point of view of food and creature comforts.

‘Quite honestly, I’m not very domesticated,’ admitted Angela. ‘We can’t go on living out of tins and on fry-ups!’

‘I take it you can cook something better than that?’ added Richard, almost wistfully.

Mrs Davison gave another smile. ‘I think so, my mother was a very good cook and she taught me a lot. I managed to feed my late husband for a few years without him complaining!’

They both were reluctant to ask about her married life, but she seemed to sense this.

‘Keith was an industrial chemist, working in a factory in Lydney. Three years ago there was a explosion and he was killed.’

She seemed quite composed about the tragedy and went on to volunteer some more relevant information.

‘I was brought up in Chepstow and after leaving school, did a year in a secretarial college in Newport. Then I went to work in a solicitor’s office until we moved here about seven years ago, so I can type and do the usual office routines, like filing and simple accounting.’

Angela caught Richard’s eye and got a slight nod in reply. ‘Sounds just what we need,’ she said. ‘I know my partner is more concerned with his creature comforts, but your office skills would be welcome, especially as you used to work in a solicitor’s office.’

‘I know many of the lawyers in this area, from having to phone and write to them,’ agreed the brunette. ‘I’d love to have the chance of a trial period, if that would suit you.’

They got down to more details of just what they wanted her to do, the hours required and the salary. Richard called Sian back in to meet Moira and he could see from her covert amusement that she felt as he did about Angela’s hopelessly wrong forecast of what ‘the Scottish lady’ would be like.

‘We’ve also got another staff member,’ said Richard. ‘Mr Jenkins does the garden and odd jobs, but I expect you already know of him?’

Moira laughed. ‘Jimmy Jenkins? Everybody for miles knows Jimmy. I heard that he had attached himself to you, just as he did for your aunt. Jimmy’s fine, as long as you keep him on a short lead and don’t let him talk you into anything daft!’

They soon agreed on terms for a month’s trial, Moira coming from nine until four o’clock, five days a week.

‘I’ll make a cooked lunch every day, then put something ready for your supper,’ she suggested. ‘Weekends are a bit more difficult, but we’ll work something out.’

Moira saw no reason why she shouldn’t start next day and they gave her a quick tour of the house to get an idea what she was letting herself in for. Richard saw her to the front door and even offered to drive her home, but she said it was barely five minutes walk away.

‘Well what do think of that?’ he asked, when he came back to the others in the office.

‘Watch yourself, doctor, a pretty widow like that will wrap you round her little finger!’ warned Sian, with a grin. ‘But if she can type better than me, I’m all for it!’

He turned to Angela. ‘What about you, will she do?’

The biologist tapped her chin thoughtfully with a long forefinger.

‘She seems just what we need, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating – perhaps literally here. Let’s see how the first month goes.’

Privately, her instincts were rather similar to Sian’s. The woman was too damned good-looking for her liking, with such an impressionable fellow like Richard around. Though Angela had no designs whatever on her partner, there was an almost primeval hint of competition when a new attractive woman came on the scene.

Her ruminations were cut short by the telephone ringing again and after answering it, Sian returned to tell Pryor that the Lydney solicitor was on the line.

‘Doctor, I’ve had a talk with Trevor Mitchell,’ announced the dry voice of Edward Lethbridge. ‘He’s been up to Ledbury to see Mrs Barnes. In fact, he said he’s been back to the town to have a nose around and he thinks there’s possibly some grounds for doubting her positive identification of her husband’s remains.’

Richard was intrigued by Mitchell’s quick results.

‘How much doubt must there be before the coroner might consider an exhumation?’ he asked the lawyer. ‘Because without that, I can’t really do anything for you.’

‘We will need a lot more than Mitchell’s suspicions. I wanted to ask you if you think looking at Albert Barnes’s medical notes would be of any possible help?’

Richard frowned at the telephone. ‘I didn’t know he had any medical records. It’s the first I’ve heard of them.’

‘No, his wife saw fit to forget to mention them. He had an accident at work a few years ago, according to one of his friends that Mitchell tracked down in a Ledbury public house. He worked as a platelayer on the railway and was knocked down by a wagon during shunting. Nothing very serious, but enough to send him to Hereford County Hospital for a night.’

Pryor considered this for a moment.

‘I’m not sure what we might learn from them, depends on what injuries he had. But unless we look, we’ll never know.’

‘Exactly, but of course we’d need his wife’s consent to have a view of them.’

‘Would she give it, d’you think?’ asked Pryor.

‘She probably wouldn’t want to, but it would look fishy if she refused. Anyway, that’s my concern, I just wanted to know if you thought it worth the trouble.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it would be. But what did Trevor Mitchell find that raised these doubts?’

‘I think he’d better explain himself, Doctor. As you know, he lives not far from you and he suggested he called to talk to you about it later today.’

Things were certainly livening up, thought Richard, as he went back to the laboratory, where both women were now busy with their tasks. Angela was squatting on a stool in front of their fume cupboard, a big glass cabinet with a sliding door in the front like a sash window. An extractor fan sucked noxious fumes out through a vent into the old chimney, which was just as well, as she was carefully pouring concentrated nitric acid into a small beaker containing bits of lung from the Chepstow drowning. Evil yellow fumes were wreathing up towards the fan, which would become worse when she began heating the horrid mixture over a Bunsen burner.

Pryor stood behind her and told her of the call from Lethbridge.

‘Trevor Mitchell’s coming over sometime today. It’ll be good for you to meet him, he might well bring more trade our way.’

He wandered over towards Sian’s side of the room, where she had her chemical and analytical equipment.

Though what she was being asked to do in a forensic context was different to the hospital routines to which she had been accustomed, the techniques of handling materials and instruments were similar. With Angela’s help and a good selection of technical manuals on the shelf, they could get by for now, though anything complex would have to be sent away, down to the nearest Home Office Forensic Science laboratory in Cardiff or off to some specialist commercial outfit.

‘I’m running that blood and urine you brought in, for alcohol,’ she explained. ‘Angela said she had a call from a defence lawyer wanting a urine sample tested in a road traffic case, so maybe we can work up some business in that direction?’

He nodded, wishing that the government would get on with bringing in a fixed maximum blood level for drivers, rather than relying on clinical testing by police surgeons of ability to drive. Apart from issues of road safety, it would be healthy for his bank balance, as many arrested drivers would want a second analysis as a check.

Feeling at a loose end – and rather redundant with the two women working away at something to which he couldn’t contribute – he went to his room and started to read the most recent issue of the British Medical Journal.

It was four o’clock before Mitchell arrived and this coincided nicely with a tea break. After introducing him to his colleagues and showing him the laboratory, they sat in the staff room over Typhoo Tips and Peek Freans, while the former detective superintendent told them about his findings in Ledbury.

‘The story was bit “iffy” from the start,’ he said.

‘Molly Barnes said her husband was a keen fisherman, but the chaps I spoke to in the pub said they’d never heard of him going fishing.’

‘There was no fishing rod found near the body?’ asked Angela.

‘No, and what’s more, there’s no fishing allowed in that reservoir. So if Albert went there, it was for something else.’

‘How is he supposed to have got there?’ asked Sian, determined not to be left out of the team.

‘On his pushbike, that’s something his pals in the Red Lion confirmed,’ said Trevor. ‘He was a keen cyclist, apparently. Often at weekends, he used to go off on his own into the country, probably to get away from his wife!’

‘But the bike has never been found?’ asked Angela.

‘No, but it’s not easy to identify cycles, maybe a long way from home – and they get pinched all the time.’

‘Perhaps he had a lady friend somewhere and he’s done a runner with her,’ suggested Richard.

‘With a sharp-mouthed wife like Molly, I wouldn’t be surprised – though he didn’t take any of his clothes or possessions, according to her.’

‘If you can believe anything she says,’ muttered Sian, darkly. She had already decided the wife was guilty.

‘What else has raised your suspicions?’ asked Pryor.

‘I had a quick look at that wedding ring that she showed me so reluctantly. When I got home, I checked the hall marks, it was assayed in Birmingham in 1931, which is a bit odd, as they weren’t married until 1941.’

‘I’ll bet she’ll have an answer for that,’ said Sian.

‘She’ll say it was second-hand, they couldn’t afford a new one.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘Or say they had to get wed quickly when he was on leave during the war. But it’s still odd, like the wristwatch.’

‘What about it?’ asked Angela.

‘It was an expensive one, an Omega. His missus spun me some tale about him getting it during the war in Germany for a packet of Woodbines.’

‘Is there a problem about that?’ asked Angela.

Trevor emptied his cup and Sian poured him another.

‘I called in at a jeweller’s when I was in Gloucester this morning. I showed him a photo of the watch that was taken for the coroner’s inquest. The jeweller said that model wasn’t made until 1950, so the story about getting it in the war was phoney. It’s worth a fair bit of money, too, though I don’t think Mrs B realizes that. Albert was only a railway worker, so where did he get a valuable Omega?’

‘It’s suspicious, but doesn’t sink her story,’ said Richard. ‘The ring could have been second-hand – and he may have got the watch by some underhand means and not wanted to tell her. Perhaps he stole it or won it in a poker game?’

The former police officer nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose so. But why didn’t she tell me that he had been to hospital, when I asked her about his health? I spoke to his mates in the pub and they recalled that he had been hit by something at work and had concussion and a leg injury.’

‘Edward Lethbridge wants me to have a look at his hospital notes,’ said Pryor. ‘I’m not sure that they can help, but you never know.’

‘Lethbridge is going to have a word with Brian Meredith, but I can’t see him doing anything about an exhumation unless we come up with something a good bit stronger.’

‘Do you know where the remains are buried?’ asked Pryor.

‘In the council cemetery at Ledbury. They’ve only been down a few weeks.’

Sian listened with fascination. This was better than a hospital lab, with its endless routine blood sugars, ureas and fractional test meals. She never thought she’d hear someone ask ‘Do you know where the remains are buried?’

As Mitchell was leaving, Richard speculated on what Agnes Oldfield would make of the developments.

‘She’ll be proclaiming to the world that it was her nephew, jumping the gun before we’ve got any further,’ replied Trevor. ‘I hope Lethbridge will keep it to himself for now, but I suppose he’ll have to prove to her that he’s earning the fee she’s paying him.’

He drove off in the direction of St Brievals and left Pryor wondering what the next day might bring – hopefully, a decent meal prepared by their new employee. Then the memory of the trim and elegant Moira with her big blue eyes and black fringe momentarily overshadowed his obsession with his stomach.