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.
