Bernard Knight - Grounds for Appeal

‘This is getting to become a habit, buzzing off together to London for the night,’ he whispered. A few months earlier, they had gone up to deal with an exhumation for the War Office at the military hospital on Millbank.

‘We’re becoming creatures of habit,’ she responded. ‘Just like last time, I’m going to haunt Bond Street this afternoon, while you go to hit the library again at the Royal Society of Medicine!’

He grinned at her. ‘But we can’t go to see The Mousetrap this evening, because we did that last time.’

‘No, but you can treat me to a meal at a decent restaurant,’ she countered. ‘Then we’d better go back to the hotel and swot up our reports ready for tomorrow.’

Richard groaned. ‘I’ve been through them so often, I could recite them by heart! But you’re right, we have to do our best for poor Millie. We only get one shot at this.’

A few minutes later, the train plunged into the Severn Tunnel, the longest in Britain, and he felt Angela shudder.

‘I hate tunnels,’ she murmured. ‘I always feel as if I’m being buried alive.’

He felt a sudden urge to hold her hand until they emerged into daylight again, but the presence of other passengers inhibited him. Before they reached Swindon, he suggested coffee in the dining car, partly to be able to talk without being overheard. As they sat facing each other across a table, they discussed recent cases and the personalities in their little world of the Wye Valley.

‘Moira seems dead set on this law thing,’ observed Angela. ‘I don’t know how we’ll manage without her, but I’m glad she’s found something to aim for. She’s too young to just moulder away as a lonely widow.’

‘I’m making enquiries at the universities in Cardiff and Bristol, to see what’s on offer for someone like her,’ he replied. ‘She got good results years ago with her School Certificate and says she has her double-matric, so there shouldn’t be any problem in qualifying for admission. Getting some financial help would be the thing — there must be bursaries and scholarships for mature students.’

Angela smiled. ‘We’re like a couple of earnest parents, trying to do the best for our children!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be getting Sian to do a doctorate soon!’

‘Not just yet, though she’s damned good at chemistry. In fact, I’m hoping to get us some work from that private clinic in Newport. They often want blood sugars, ureas, glucose tolerance tests and other clinical stuff. Sian could do those standing on her head, if we get the kit for her.’

Again she smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘Who’s left for you to help up the ladder, Richard? Perhaps you could send Jimmy on an Advanced Driving Course — or perhaps over to Burgundy to learn viniculture!’

‘More likely he’d want to go to Evesham to learn how to grow bigger strawberries!’ said her partner ruefully. ‘Talking of viniculture, are we all set to go down to Chateau Dumas next week?’

Angela set down her GWR coffee cup and nodded. ‘All I need to take are some syringes, needles and oxalate tubes. A sample each from father, mother and the alleged son.’

‘Just as well you don’t need one from Victor Dumas. He’d probably chuck your syringe over the nearest hedge!’

‘It’s such a shame that this has caused such a rift in the family,’ she said sadly. ‘Madame told me that the presumed son from Canada is adamant that he doesn’t want any part of the inheritance. He says he has a good job and his foster parents in Montreal have told him that he will be their heir.’

Richard sighed at what seemed an intractable problem.

‘Obviously Victor doesn’t believe that. It has to be said that some confidence tricksters are very clever at covering all the angles.’

Angela poured more coffee for them from the pot on the tray, as their conversation drifted to other things.

‘Priscilla looked very happy with her new job,’ she observed. ‘I’ll bet she has half the red-blooded men in the university chasing her by now.’

‘Only half? Everyone from the Vice-Chancellor down will be setting their caps at her.’

Priscilla Chambers had called in at Garth House the previous week, on her way back to Aberystwyth from spending Christmas with her parents in Oxford. Breezing in from her MG roadster, she was her usual lively, flirtatious self as she hugged and kissed everyone and handed out belated Christmas presents. She reported that she was getting on famously with Eva Boross and that they had already started on the excavation of the ancient monastery up in the hills.

‘I’m glad she’s happy there,’ said Richard. ‘I must have a drive up to Aberystwyth one day and see how she’s getting on,’ he added mischievously.

Angela eyed him suspiciously. ‘Down boy!’ she said sternly. ‘Priscilla would eat you alive. Talking of Aberystwyth, have you heard if there’s been any progress on the bog investigation?’

He shook his head. ‘Not since before Christmas. I must give DI Thomas a ring when we get back. That’s the trouble with being a pathologist, you do your bit at the post-mortem, then everything goes quiet until the trial. And if they don’t charge anyone, then often that’s the last you ever hear of it.’

Angela agreed. ‘Same with many of our science cases. I used to learn more from the Daily Telegraph than I did from the police.’

‘Not like it is in detective novels and films! If you believed those, you’d think that it was the doctors who solved all the cases, not the coppers who do all the leg work.’

The train slowed for Swindon and they went back to the compartment to reclaim their seats. Angela turned to her Vogue magazine, anticipating seeing the real thing that afternoon in the famous shops of the West End. Richard knew how keen she was on fashion and wondered again how she managed to dress so elegantly on her salary, especially since she had left the security of the public service for the more uncertain rewards of private enterprise. He strongly suspected that her well-heeled family subsidized the contents of the expensive-looking carrier bags that she carried when she returned from her shopping expeditions.

When the train steamed into Paddington station, Richard carried their overnight cases into the Great Western Hotel through the entrance at the top of the platform and booked them in at the desk.

‘Here were are again, ready for another night of unbridled passion!’ he said facetiously as they went up in the lift.

His partner regarded him coolly, used to his flights of fancy. ‘Sure, Richard! You can have your unbridled passion in Room 321 and I’ll have mine in Room 334.’

Next morning, they caught the Circle Line from Paddington to the Temple and walked up Arundel Street to the Strand. The huge Victorian-Gothic extravaganza of the Royal Courts of Justice loomed in front of them and they plunged under the great entrance arch into the cold magnificence of the main hall, more like a cathedral than a court of law. It was Richard’s first visit, as he had never worked in London, but Angela had been there several times during her years at the Met Lab, though her usual stamping ground had been in the criminal courts of the Old Bailey.

She led him to the row of varnished notice boards in the centre, where the Order Papers for the day were pinned up.

‘Better see which court we’re in,’ she advised. ‘There are over a thousand rooms in this place!’

A search of the Order Papers told them that the Court of Criminal Appeal was hearing the case of Millicent Agnes Wilson in Court Six and after following the signs, they climbed a twisting stone stairway to a gallery that ran around the great hall at first-floor level.

Though the ground floor was milling with people, up here it was quiet, almost sepulchral. Everything seemed to be either gloomy grey stone or dark oak. The entrances to the courts were panelled doors leading into small vestibules, with an inner door opening into the court proper.