According to the Evidence

by Bernard Knight

  Crippen lit up another Player’s Navy Cut, his preferred smoke.

  ‘The rest of his story followed what we thought all along. When he saw the fellow lying dead, his temper evaporated, he says. He didn’t want to bring down a murder hunt on the farm – and he didn’t particularly want to go to jail or even the gallows himself. So he decided to fake a hanging and hoisted Littleman up on a length of rope. He locked up the barn and went home. He has his own entrance and even staircase to his room in the farmhouse, as it used to be divided into two cottages, so no one was ever sure of his comings and goings.’

  ‘This must have been a long letter,’ observed Richard. ‘I suppose he wanted to clear up everything so that there would be no question of Aubrey or Jeff getting any blame.’

  ‘There were quite a few pages of it, yes. He ended by telling us that he couldn’t resist going down the barn well after midnight to check on the scene. Then he saw that the bruises on the man’s neck were all too obvious under the rope and that he would have to do something different. So he hauled him down, put the rope away and laid the body under the tractor wheel, which was already jacked up. Then he hit the blocks away with a post and closed up again.’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you, doc, he might have got away with it,’ said Nichols.

  ‘That’s flattering, sarge, but it was pretty obvious what had happened,’ said Richard deprecatingly. Even so, he felt gratified at the compliment. Pathologists rarely got thanks from their ‘patients’, not like his physician and surgeon colleagues, who were given bottles of whisky and chickens at Christmas!

  Two hours later the penultimate act in the sad drama was played out, the last one to be an inquest in a few weeks’ time. At the dismal mortuary behind Brecon Hospital, Richard Pryor confirmed all that was anticipated from the circumstances.

  The gunshot had not caused an exit wound on the back of the head, as the small cartridge from a four-ten had not had the power to send lead shot and gas through the thick bone of the upper spine and base of the skull and still have enough force to penetrate the back of the head.

  ‘Was it a contact wound, doctor?’ asked Nichols, airing his forensic knowledge gleaned from his inspector’s course.

  Pryor looked closely at the front of the neck, below the chin.

  ‘Yes, near enough, though there’s a bit of soot and burning at one side, so there was room around the muzzle for the gases to escape sideways. But pretty tight, all the same, as there’s a partial muzzle mark on the skin.’

  The coroner’s officer handed him the tape measure and Richard stretched it out from the wound down to the tip of the index fingers of each hand.

  ‘Thirty inches from muzzle to trigger, doc,’ quoted the constable from his notebook.

  ‘That’s OK, then, he could easily discharge it with these long arms.’

  When Richard opened up the body, he found ample evidence of the prostate problem, with secondary growths beginning in several bones. The interior of the neck and the base of the skull had been shredded by the shotgun blast, and the skull bones at the back of head were widely fractured.

  ‘I’ll save a few lead shots for the lab, just in case anyone ever wants to check that they are the same as the ones that would have been in the spent cartridge in the gun,’ he said.

  ‘Doubt we’ll need that, doc, but as you say, just as well to do things by the book,’ agreed Crippen.

  After he had sewn up the body and cleaned it as well as the basic facilities allowed, it was seven o’clock. After a decent wash in the hospital itself and a cup of tea and some sandwiches in the dining room, he was ready to set off for home in the advancing dusk.

  ‘Thanks for everything, doctor,’ said DI Crippen as the officers saw him off from the hospital car park. ‘We’ll see you again at the inquest, no doubt.’

  As he drove the Humber across country, he felt rather sorry that tonight he could not expect to be greeted by Moira with a good meal and a warm welcome.

  THIRTEEN

  Monday was a routine but busy day for all those in Garth House, except for Jimmy Jenkins, who mysteriously disappeared, as he often did. Richard knew that he gardened for other people in the valley and, given the minuscule weekly pay that he received, Pryor had no complaints as long as he did what was needed here. Sian was happy playing with a new EEL colorimeter that had arrived, which, though a relatively simple instrument for measuring colours from chemical reactions, added a few more analyses to their repertoire.

  Angela had come back from her weekend in a buoyant mood, which Siân and Moira put down to the shopping spree she told them about in Oxford on Saturday. Wartime austerity was rapidly fading, though it was only a couple of years since the end of rationing, and excursions to the big shops was now Angela’s main indulgence. When Richard returned from Chepstow mortuary later in the morning, he put his head around the laboratory door but retreated quickly when he heard a three-sided conversation about A-lines, pencil skirts and peplums.

  Back in the safety of his own room at the back of the house, he opened his notes and drew the telephone towards him.

  Dialling the overseas operator, he gave her the number of the medical faculty of the University of Cologne in western Germany. He had found the telephone number during his researches in the medical library in Cardiff, in a large directory of all European universities.

  The operator said there would be a delay of probably an hour, as on Monday mornings there was always heavy traffic on the lines. He settled back to write out rough drafts of the three post-mortems he had carried out earlier for Moira to type up. He thought again about getting one of the portable tape recorders that could be carried in a case, which would cut out the need for all this pen-pushing. He had heard that some operated off batteries, so they could even be used outdoors at scenes of crime or in mortuaries without mains electricity. He had done a post-mortem a month ago in a cemetery outhouse, where there was no light other than that coming through a small window.

  The phone rang about forty minutes later with his call – it must have been a slack Monday in the Federal Republic, he thought wryly. The first problem was language, as all he could manage was ‘Sprechen sie Englisch?’ There was some confused talking at the other end, then, ‘Ein moment, bitte’, and soon another voice came on the line, asking in excellent English whether she could help.

  ‘I would like to speak to Professor Wolfgang Braun in the Institute of Forensic Medicine, please,’ he asked gratefully.

  ‘Of course. I will put you through to his secretary,’ came the well-modulated voice. As he waited, he wondered how many switchboard operators in British universities could reply so effectively in German.

  Soon he was speaking to Braun’s secretary, who had adequate English, though not so good as the first lady. It turned out that the good professor had just gone to lunch, as Richard had not appreciated the one-hour time difference in Germany. However, the secretary gave him her direct line number to avoid the main university switchboard and asked him to call back in two hours’ time, presumably to allow Wolfgang Braun time for a good meal.

  He decided to brave the fashion debate and went into the laboratory to tell Angela that ‘the game’s afoot’, in true Sherlockian style. Moira had gone off to get their lunch ready and soon the quartet was in the kitchen, where the figure-conscious Siân was eating her salad sandwiches and Angela and Richard were tucking in to one of Moira’s specialities, a shepherd’s pie. Between mouthfuls, he told them of the outcome of the Ty Croes Farm affair, Moira staying back for a time from her usual return home for lunch and dog-walking to listen to the unhappy denouement.

  ‘The whole thing is tragic,’ she observed sadly. ‘All that grief and trouble in two families, just because of some drunken man’s lust!’

  Richard saw Angela slightly raise an eyebrow at him and knew she was referring to Moira’s strong sense of morality. He could have said that Betsan and Rhian needn’t have gone along with Tom’s importuning but decided to keep quiet and not contradi
ct Moira’s more puritanical feelings.

  ‘What will happen now?’ asked Siân.

  ‘There’ll have to be two inquests, I’m afraid,’ said Richard. ‘Hopefully, the coroner will try to keep much of the scandal out of the public eye, but he’ll have to show the notes to the jury, so I can’t see that the affair with the two wives can be kept quiet. The press will have a field day if they find out about it.’

  ‘What will the verdicts be, d’you think?’ asked Angela.

  ‘Has to be suicide in Mostyn Evans’ case. I’m not sure about Littleman,’ he replied. ‘I don’t see how a coroner’s jury could decide between murder and manslaughter with so little evidence available. Maybe “unlawful killing” would cover it, but Mostyn would have to be named as the perpetrator.’

  ‘A sad business!’ said Moira again. Richard thought that she was a genuinely sympathetic soul, perhaps a little too sensitive to be working in such a morbid trade as forensic medicine.

  For dessert, they had junket, something Richard had not tasted since he was a child at home. The strawberry-flavoured milk, solidified with rennet, was new to Angela and she was not sure whether she liked it or not. Coffee soon took the taste away and they sat talking until Richard looked at his watch.

  ‘Time to talk to Herr Professor!’ he declared and went back to his room. Again there was a half-hour delay in getting connected, but eventually he was speaking to the secretary and then to the scientist himself.

  Thankfully, Wolfgang Braun spoke good English, though heavily laced with a Bavarian accent. Richard explained who he was and what his problem was in the case of the veterinary surgeon.

  ‘I heard you speak in Brussels and wondered whether you had published any of your research yet?’ he asked.

  Braun seemed very interested and rather pleased that someone was taking notice of his work.

  ‘I have accumulated a lot of data but have not yet made it ready for publication,’ he confessed. ‘I have a draft of the paper but need some statistical work done on the results and am waiting for a colleague in the Department of Mathematics to supply that.’

  He also told Richard that several other people were working on the same idea, and that he was in contact with them. One was in Chicago, another in Minnesota and both agreed with the general principles of the new idea but had varying experimental results.

  Richard groaned to himself at the thought of trying to reach researchers in the middle of the United States, but Wolfgang Braun added: ‘There is also another man in Denmark, who, since I read that paper at Brussels, has been working on the same problem.’

  Richard spoke to him for another ten minutes, jotting down the names and addresses of the contacts Braun had mentioned.

  ‘If necessary, professor, would you be willing to write a short statement for production in court? Our lawyers would arrange that, and I’m sure there would be an expert fee attached for your trouble.’

  Again Braun, well used to legal processes, readily agreed, and they parted verbal company in a friendly manner. As soon as he had put the phone down, Richard looked up the number of the solicitor in Stow-on-the-Wold and dialled again. When he was put through to George Lovesey, he told him of his success in contacting Professor Braun.

  ‘He’s agreed to make a formal statement about his research concerning potassium – and he’s given me further contacts of other researchers.’

  ‘I’ll get on to a law firm who organize affidavits abroad and get them to send a German advocate to see him,’ replied Lovesey. ‘The trial is only about a fortnight away now, so it will all have to be done by telex and telegram, apart from the actual deposition for court, which will have to be sent by courier or express mail. Anyway, that’s our problem. Who are these other people?’

  ‘I’m afraid two of them are in the States – the other is in Denmark. Do you want me to contact them as well?’

  ‘Yes, we always need a belt-and-braces approach, doctor! Don’t worry about the cost – compared with Prideaux’s fees, that will be chicken feed.’

  Richard dictated the phone number and address for Wolfgang Braun and told him who the other three experts were.

  ‘Thankfully, one of our office staff downstairs is German; she married a British officer at the end of the war. I can get her to sort out any language problems when we do our telephoning and the like. Can’t help with Danish, but I’m sure most people there speak English.’

  ‘Got anyone in your office who speaks American?’ said Richard facetiously, but thankfully George Lovesey laughed down the phone.

  ‘You’re on your own there, doctor. Best of luck!’

  Though Braun had given Richard the addresses of the other researchers, he had no telephone numbers for them and thought this was more a job for the patient Moira. He called her into his room and explained the problem.

  ‘Perhaps you could try the British Council or even the US Embassy in London. Someone must have the phone details of these institutions. There’s an international directory of universities, so try one of the college libraries.’

  As she was leaving the room, full of enthusiasm for this novel task, he called after her. ‘Moira, make sure you ask the operator for the cost of each call – otherwise we’ll be bankrupt before I can claim it back from the lawyers!’

  Moira spent almost an hour on the telephone, cajoling various librarians and consular staff into giving her contact numbers for the three institutions where the overseas researchers were situated. She returned in triumph to wave the list at Richard and receive his sincere praise for her efforts.

  ‘It’s that seductive voice of yours, Moira – who could resist it!’ he said, success making him a little flirtatious. She flushed, but looked even more pleased with herself. ‘Now I’ve got more work for you! See if you can track down these chaps at those places, so that I can have a few words with them.’

  Moira looked at her little wristwatch. ‘It’s gone four o’clock here. That means that office people in Denmark will probably have gone home, given the hour’s time difference.’

  ‘Right, let’s try first thing in the morning. What about America?’

  Moira did some calculations in her head. ‘The middle part of the USA must be about eight hours behind us, so it’s only about seven in the morning there.’

  She made for the door with a purposeful air. ‘I’ll get on with making something for your and Dr Bray’s supper, then I’ll start phoning at about five o’clock. I don’t mind staying on for as long as it takes.’

  Moira eventually went home at about eight, after serving a mixed grill to ‘her two doctors’, as she had come to think of Richard and Angela. As they sat at the kitchen table, enjoying an unusually lavish dinner for their evening meal, Richard told his partner of his transatlantic conversations.

  ‘Got both of them, thanks to Moira. She was like a terrier with a rat – wouldn’t take no for an answer until she got hold of the right people.’

  ‘And did you get anything useful?’

  ‘Yes, both had been working on this potassium in the eye fluid idea since they heard Wolfgang Braun speak at that conference in Brussels.’

  ‘They must have been there like us, among the hundreds who attended,’ said Angela rather pensively. It was that congress that changed her life, as meeting Richard there had brought her down to Wales from London.

  ‘Well, like Braun, they’ve collected a lot of raw data but not published it yet, though Gerald Stoddart in Chicago has a draft ready to send off to a journal. He’s going send a copy to us by express mail today. It should get here within a few days.’

  ‘What about the chap in Minnesota?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s Donald Kaufmann. He’s been doing the eye as part of a much wider study of body fluids, but the general trend is the same in the vitreous as Stoddart and Braun.’

  ‘Are their results the same?’

  Richard shrugged. ‘Not numerically, though perhaps their methods are different. But the general thrust is similar, which is all that
I need. They’re working towards solving a specific problem, but we only want to show that the previously accepted assumptions have been wrong.’

  They discussed this until their plates were empty and they had gone on to tackle the apple tart that Moira had left for them.

  Forgoing tea or coffee for a celebratory gin and tonic in Angela’s sitting room, she asked what would be the next move.

  ‘I’ve got to get the solicitor to contact these two men tomorrow and get them to agree to make a sworn deposition, just like Braun.’

  ‘Will they come in time for the trial?’

  ‘I know the gist of what they will say and can write that into my advice to the lawyers. The Americans can send their statements by telegram or teleprinter, so that we’ll know what they’re going to say. Then if the actual signed documents are sent by express airmail, they should arrive in time for production in court.’

  ‘It all sounds one hell of a rush, but it seems the only chance this vet has of avoiding conviction. Anything else you have to do for him?’

  Richard nodded. ‘Find an eminent physiologist to confirm the other branch of our defence. That should be easier and a lot nearer than these foreign parts!’

  He sat back contentedly after topping up their glasses. Angela was in her favourite place on the settee, having kicked off her shoes and drawn up her legs elegantly on to the cushions.

  ‘That was a good meal tonight – beats our usual cold ham and salad. I don’t know what we’d do without Moira to look after us,’ he said.

  Angela looked across at him with a slight smile on her face. ‘You seem to be getting quite attached to the peerless Moira, Richard! I’m beginning to think that you have designs on her.’

  She spoke lightly, but he thought he detected a touch of irony in her voice.

  ‘Nonsense, she’s years younger than me,’ he protested. ‘And still grieving for her husband. It’s obvious how fond she was of him.’

  ‘We all have to move on, Richard. You after your divorce, me after that swine jilted me – and Moira will have to do the same.’