Grounds for Appeal

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Tell us what, missus?’ demanded the sergeant, seizing the moment.

  ‘About that ’orrible thing in the shed out the back,’ she grated. ‘I told him, he should have got rid of it down the council dump years ago.’

  Trevor Hartnell stepped towards Franklin and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Come on, Olly, show us where it is.’

  Muttering under his breath and giving his wife a poisonous glare as he passed her, the man led the way through the scullery, the floor piled with pans full of raw chipped potatoes. The back door opened into a small yard cluttered with junk, where a heap of coal lay next to a dog kennel, in which a grubby Alsatian was chained. The houses were all back to back, with no lane separating them from an identical street beyond. A dilapidated shed stood against the dividing wall, with a rusted car engine leaning against its side.

  With leaden feet, Olly took them to its door and went in first, throwing an empty potato sack with what he hoped was a nonchalant gesture over a pile of new-looking cartons of Gold Flake cigarettes which lay on a workbench. The rest of the space was filled with a chaotic collection of tools, discarded domestic items and assorted junk.

  ‘Go on, show them, Olly!’ shouted his wife, waving her knife dangerously as she stood behind the policemen, as they stood in the doorway.

  Reluctantly, he pulled aside a broken Ewbank carpet-sweeper, a gas-mask case and an ARP steel helmet.

  Beneath the pile of old newspapers below was a metal drum about a foot wide and eighteen inches high. The remnants of a label stuck on the lid alleged it contained cooking oil, but the sloshing sound when Olly dragged it out suggested that there was a more watery fluid inside.

  ‘What about possible prints?’ murmured the sergeant to his senior officer, as Franklin appeared to be about to pull off the lid. However, a shrill voice from Olly’s wife solved the problem.

  ‘You’re not opening that here!’ she shrieked. ‘I had nightmares for weeks last time I saw it. Take the bloody thing away!’

  Hartnell laid a hand again on Franklin’s sleeve.

  ‘Leave it to us,’ he said. ‘Better get your coat, Olly. You’re coming to the station with us. I’m afraid it’s your wife that will be doing the frying tonight!’

  They found an empty cell back at the station where they put the drum while Tom Rickman went to get a pair of rubber gloves from the scenes-of-crime bag that they kept in the CID room. The former publican was placed in an interview room and given a cup of station tea, while Hartnell and his sergeant decided what to do about investigating the container. They had carried it carefully to and from the car by holding the drum with fingertips under the rim that ran around the top, though Hartnell felt that probably so many people had handled the thing already, that fingerprints would not be all that important.

  Now they sat it on the bare bench that served as a bed in the cell and stared at it while deciding what to do.

  ‘Should we open it or wait for the forensic lab to come?’ asked Rickman.

  His boss was of a more impulsive nature, anxious to get on with matters.

  ‘We’ve got to have a look, Tom,’ he said decisively. ‘For all we know there may only be a dead cat inside – or even just a few pints of home brew!’

  The sloshing sound certainly confirmed that there was some sort of liquid in the container, which was obviously of some age, as its greenish paint was badly scratched and there were several small dents in the side. Rickman felt in his pocket for a large clasp knife and pulled out a blade like a screwdriver. With the DI holding the drum in his gloved hands, the sergeant levered off the lid, which was held on firmly, but not too tightly.

  ‘Phew, what the hell is that smell?’ demanded Hartnell, recoiling more from surprise than from nausea.

  ‘That’s methylated spirits, surely,’ replied Rickman, who ran a Scout Troop in his spare time and was used to lighting Primus stoves which were primed with the stuff.

  They looked into the drum, which was almost full of a murky, pale purple liquid. Beneath the surface was a layer of fabric, which looked like a coarse dishcloth.

  Cautiously, the inspector pushed it aside with his rubber-covered fingers and looked below the surface.

  ‘That’s hair, surely,’ muttered the sergeant, pointing at some floating black strands. Gingerly, Hartnell slid his hands down each side of the container and lifted the contents above the level of the fluid.

  ‘Jesus, it’s horrible!’ he muttered, echoing Mrs Franklin’s opinion, as he held a human head between his fingers. It felt hard, like a motor tyre, and the colour was a washed-out grey. The features were like those of a shop-window dummy, apart from the eye sockets, which had sunk back under the collapsed lids.

  The two detectives stared at it for a long moment, then Hartnell let it subside back into the liquid, where the black hair again swirled under the surface.

  ‘Anyone you know?’ asked Rickman, only half-joking.

  His inspector put the metal lid back on the drum and, peeling off his gloves, made for the door.

  ‘Let’s have a few words with Olly,’ he said grimly. As they went out of the cell corridor towards the interview room, he told the custody sergeant to lock the cell door and let no one inside without his permission.

  ‘Right, Olly, let’s be having you,’ he snapped, as they entered the room where the flabby ex-publican was sitting at the table, smoking a Player’s Navy Cut.

  He looked up owlishly at Hartnell, trying to paste a look of innocence on his coarse features.

  ‘Look, I don’t know nothing about that thing. It was in the cellar at the Barley Mow, then got took to the White Rose when I was moved, along with a load of other stuff. When I got kicked out of there, everything was just dumped in my shed.’

  ‘Tell that to the Marines!’ sneered the sergeant. ‘Your missus knew damn well what was in the drum.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. Some blokes left it with me in the Barley Mow years ago,’ said Olly stubbornly.

  The two officers sat down heavily opposite the man, where Tom Rickman ostentatiously took out his notebook as his DI began the interview.

  ‘Olly, you’re in deep shit already, so don’t dig yourself in any deeper.’

  ‘But I ain’t done nothing!’ said Franklin in an aggrieved tone.

  Hartnell extemporized as to the nature of the offences, as he was not sure himself what they were.

  ‘You have concealed knowledge of a death, you have obstructed the coroner in the furtherance of his inquest and you have offended against the Death Registration and Burial Acts – and are probably an accessory to a felony, perhaps a murder!’

  Franklin’s usually red face blanched and beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead as he realized the implications of what he could be charged with.

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know nothing about it!’ he croaked.

  ‘Come off it, Olly! How did this head come to be in your possession? Who gave it you and why? And who is it, anyway?’

  The former innkeeper looked wildly about the room, as if either looking for escape or someone to help him in this sudden crisis. ‘Why you asking me all this, after all these years?’ he moaned.

  ‘Because the rest of this bloke may have turned up, that’s why!’ snapped the inspector. ‘Now stop messing me about and answer the questions. Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, guv! I swear to God that’s true. It was already in the pub when I took over. I was in the Merchant Navy until forty-six and when I went to the Barley Mow, that drum was already there. It must have been there when the previous licensee ran the place.’

  ‘Who was that?’ demanded Rickman.

  ‘Fred Mansell – but he’s been dead for years.’

  Hartnell looked at his sergeant, then murmured into his ear. ‘I think this is getting too heavy for us. Better kick it upstairs for now, see how the brass want to play it.’

  He turned to Franklin, whose shaking fingers were groping for another cigarette.

  ‘Right, Olly. For star
ters, you’re going to be charged with concealing a death, so you’ll be locked up for tonight, until it’s decided tomorrow what’s to be done with you. We’ll notify your wife; maybe she can bring in some fish and chips for you!’

  THIRTEEN

  On Saturday morning, Richard Pryor was alone in Garth House, with Angela gone to Berkshire, Sian at home and even Moira having a day off to go shopping in Newport.

  She had left him a ham salad for his lunch in the old Kelvin refrigerator and he ate this quite early, as he wanted to get off to his appointment at the vineyard, forty miles away.

  Picking up the A48 at Chepstow, he drove on it through Newport and Cardiff to the small country town of Cowbridge, an old Roman station twelve miles west of the capital city. It was now the market town of the lush Vale of Glamorgan, which lay between the hills of north Glamorgan and the sea. Here he followed the instructions given to him by Louis Dumas, supplemented by one of his one-inch Ordnance Survey maps. Richard loved maps and atlases, being happy to pore over them for hours as if he was reading a novel.

  He turned off at the solitary traffic lights in Cowbridge and meandered through a few lanes until he came to the tiny village of St Mary Church, not far from the huge RAF station at St Athan. On a narrow lane beyond the village, he found a gateway in a high hedge with a discreet notice proclaiming ‘Saint Illtyd’s Vineyard’, named after the fifth-century founder of the first monastic ‘university’ at Llantwit Major, a few miles away on the coast.

  Driving in through the open gate, a gravel track took him to a nicely renovated farmhouse, with extensive outbuildings visible behind. He stopped on a wide turning area in front of the house and was greeted by a friendly golden retriever which ambled out of the open front door, wagging its tail as it came to have its neck patted. The dog was followed by a slim man in his mid-fifties. He wore a tweed suit with a waistcoat and a paisley-pattern cravat at his throat, his silver-grey hair covered with a matching tweed cap. Richard thought he looked very much the gentleman farmer, perhaps more typical of the Home Counties than South Wales. However, as soon as he spoke, his French origins were clear, though his English was perfect – perhaps too perfect for a native Briton.

  ‘Doctor Pryor, welcome to my house. It is a pleasure to meet you.’ He extended his hand and shook it warmly.

  ‘We get very few vine enthusiasts here, though hopefully the number will increase as more people like yourself see the light!’

  He escorted Richard into the house, where he introduced his wife as they settled themselves in an elegant sitting room. Emily Dumas was a small, neat woman, some years younger than her husband, even though her hair was quite white. Dressed in a dark blue dress with a prim lace collar, she was the epitome of a quiet, respectable housewife, yet somehow Richard felt that there was deep sadness in the eyes of both her and her husband. He sensed that they shared some deep unhappiness, but it was none of his business to probe.

  After some polite small-talk about the improving weather, their amiable dog and the imminent approach of Christmas, Madame Dumas vanished, then returned with a tray bearing biscuits and coffee in exquisite Limoges crockery.

  ‘We’ll give you taste of good Welsh wine before you leave,’ promised the husband. ‘But have this before I take you on a tour of the estate.’

  As they sat and enjoyed the coffee, Richard learned that they had lived in the house for twelve years, the vines having been planted the year after their arrival.

  ‘Only half an acre to start with, as it was very difficult to find any vine stock during the war. We scoured market gardens to get enough, until the war ended and we could import from France,’ explained Louis.

  Emily Dumas took up the story.

  ‘We came to Britain at the fall of France in 1940, as my husband was a senior staff-officer in the army and we escaped to London with Charles de Gaulle,’ she explained. ‘Louis worked at the Free French headquarters in Carlton Terrace, but unfortunately fell ill two years later.’

  ‘It was a recurrence of a tropical disease I suffered when we were in Indo-China in the thirties,’ explained her husband. ‘But I was invalided out of the army in forty-three and we ended up here soon afterwards.’

  At this, Richard caught a covert glance between the man and wife, which obviously had some private significance. Then briskly, Louis Dumas stood up, full of affability, and suggested that they go outside to talk about viniculture. The next hour was a fascinating one for the pathologist, who forgot all about headless bodies and lethal stab wounds during the Frenchman’s lucid explanation of the secrets of vine-growing and winemaking. What Richard really learned was the extent of his ignorance, confirming Jimmy Jenkins’ contempt for trying to become an expert by reading books. In the winter sunshine, they toured the acres of vines, now bare of leaves and looking like desiccated twigs as they clung to the wires that supported them.

  ‘It’s hard to believe that in a few months, these will spring back to life and by next autumn will be loaded with fruit,’ enthused Dumas. ‘We are the first to try winemaking in Wales since the twenties, when the last vines were grubbed up not far from here.’

  When Richard sought encouragement that viniculture was a practical proposition in Wales, Louis Dumas reminded him that in the past, a great deal of wine had been made all over southern Britain, by both the Romans and the monasteries.

  ‘That was until the climate changed for the worse in the later Middle Ages, and of course, Henry the Eighth abolished the monasteries, who were the main producers,’ he explained. ‘There was then a hiatus for centuries until the Marquis of Bute, one of the richest men in the world, thanks to Welsh coal, started a vineyard in the late nineteenth century at Castle Coch, near Cardiff. He even sent his head gardener to France to learn the secrets, though I don’t understand how he could benefit much, as he didn’t understand French! The marquis’s son planted two more vineyards in the Vale, one at St Quentin’s, just a few miles from here. They made quite a lot of wine for a few years, producing twelve thousand bottles in 1893, being the only commercial vineyard in Britain at that time. But alas, they gave up soon after the Great War.’

  ‘Why was that, if they were making a decent vintage?’ asked Richard, eager to learn all he could, even if only to confound Jimmy’s pessimism.

  ‘It was too expensive to compete with imports,’ replied Louis. ‘And they chose the wrong grape variety for this cooler, wetter climate, as their Gamay Noir was better suited to Burgundy. They should have stuck to a white wine, rather than attempt to make a good red.’

  As they walked towards the end of the first row of vines, Richard saw a figure ahead of them, bending over the wires. He wore green dungarees under a brown leather jacket and had a pair of strong secateurs in one hand.

  ‘That’s my son Victor, checking on the ties, ready for the winter gales,’ said his father.

  As they came up to him, Richard saw a tall young man in his early twenties, who straightened up when they approached. He had an angular face with a marked cleft chin and prominent cheekbones.

  ‘Victor, this is Doctor Pryor, who I told you about. He’s going to join the ranks of the Welsh wine makers.’

  The younger man shook hands and gave Richard a pleasant smile.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it! Then the ranks will consist of two of us!’ he said heartily. He had none of the accent of his parents, though Richard realized that he must have been born in France before the war.

  They chatted for a few moments, Victor explaining what he was doing. The vines had recently been pruned after the leaf fall, but needed tidying up and securing while dormant.

  He walked back with them towards the outbuildings where the wine was made and Richard’s head began to spin as he assimilated information of the double-Guyot training system, varieties of grape and the basic principles of making the wine once the grapes had been grown.

  ‘Did you grow up in a winemaking area of France?’ he asked Louis, when he had a chance to get a word in.

  ‘I di
d indeed. My family came from the Loire region where the conditions are not all that unlike Britain. My father was a winemaker, but as I left to join the army when I was eighteen, I had to relearn the trade when we came here.’

  From various bits of information, Richard gathered that the family still had land in France and that though the vineyard here was successful, it was far from being their only means of support. In fact, from the furnishings and many fine paintings and ornaments in the house, he felt that they were more than comfortably off. He wondered why they had chosen to remain in Britain after the war, when they could have made wine more easily in their native country. It was none of his business and he was not a nosy person by nature, though the thought occurred to him that perhaps there were political issues involved, as General de Gaulle was a controversial figure.

  The next hour was spent blissfully in the outbuildings, where Louis had his equipment and the storage for his wines. Though some of the vats, presses and other arcane machinery looked old, the place was almost clinically clean.

  ‘I brought most of this over from France later,’ said Louis, with a sweep of his hand around the sheds. Though becoming bewildered with an overload of information from both father and son, Richard listened to the explanations of all the processes with fascination, determined that in a year or two, he would be doing the same thing on a much smaller scale.

  The high point was a wine tasting in a small room which was almost a laboratory. Emily Dumas came out to join them with a plate of plain biscuits, so that they could enjoy several different wines from the previous year’s vintage.

  ‘Of course, we only make white,’ said Victor. ‘As I said, I don’t think this climate is the right one for reds.’

  It was almost dusk when, reluctantly, Richard left them, happy that his afternoon had been so pleasant and informative. As he drove home through the dark lanes and then the busier main roads, he felt that his odd, almost obsessional interest in vines had been greatly strengthened, in spite of the rather pitying way in which his friends and colleagues seemed to humour him over the idea.