He began going through the items, one by one, keeping the explanation rather superficial, as he knew he would have to do it all again in more detail when they met the ‘silk’ — a lawyer’s name for a Queen’s Counsel, because of the gown he wore.
‘The easiest one to contradict is post-mortem lividity, or “death staining” as it used to be called. In fact, the modern name is hypostasis, not that a new name makes it any more useful.’
‘I see Claridge doesn’t actually claim that this lividity points to the one-hour time window that’s relevant?’ Miss Forbes pointed out.
‘No, he just says it’s consistent with that time of death. What he doesn’t say — and the defence didn’t ask him — was that it would also be consistent with death far outside that time bracket. And that’s the situation with the other criteria. They could all be correct, but they could also be hopelessly wrong.’
Miss Forbes seemed intent on being a devil’s advocate, as well as one for Millie Wilson — which was quite right, as the opposition would be asking the same questions of Doctor Pryor.
‘But Doctor Claridge said in his evidence that he took all those criteria into account together, in coming to his conclusion as to the time of death.’
Richard’s laugh was a sardonic bark. ‘Adding four lousy methods together still makes one lousy conclusion,’ he replied. ‘The answer doesn’t get better by its multiplicity.’
‘So that applies to rigor mortis as well, I presume?’ asked the solicitor.
‘Rigor is marginally better than lividity, but that’s not saying much. Claridge saw the body in the mortuary; he wasn’t even called to the scene. It had been dead since sometime the previous night when he examined it at two o’clock in the afternoon. There’s no chance of pinning the time of death to within an hour after that delay.’
‘You said that temperature is the best means of timing the death, doctor,’ said Penelope Forbes. ‘The pathologist here seemed to rely most heavily on that.’
Richard Pryor shrugged in dismissal. ‘It could have helped a lot more, but the whole examination was poorly carried out. No one thought of taking the temperature at the scene, when the body was found. It was almost another seven hours before the temperature of the body was measured. The body was never weighed in the mortuary, so we don’t know what his body mass was, which affects the cooling rate.’
Angela smiled at her partner, who was getting more voluble as he argued his case, gesturing with his hands, his unruly brown hair tossing about.
‘So you’ve rubbished three of his criteria! What about the state of his stomach contents?’
Richard subsided a little, but shook his head dismissively. ‘Another fairy tale, if you’re looking for accuracy. There are so many variables, there’s not a chance of settling on the true time many hours later. When I was in Singapore, I did a little research on this, in cases where it was known what time the dead person last ate. Comparing that time with what was in the stomach was too random to be of any use in evidence — and certainly not beyond reasonable doubt!’
For another half-hour they bandied the matter around, Richard giving his reasons why he felt it impossible to restrict the time of death to the time when Millie was back in the house in St Paul’s.
‘Of course she could have killed him in that half-hour, there’s no denying that,’ he said in conclusion. ‘But equally, he could have died in the many hours after she left the house — and this medical evidence is so nebulous that it can’t exclude that possibility.’
The junior counsel nodded her understanding of his argument and repeated what Moira had said back in Tintern.
‘Of course, it’s not up to the defence to prove that a person didn’t commit an offence. The onus is on the prosecution to prove they did!’ She sighed. ‘But often it doesn’t seem to work that way with juries. Especially when there’s such a poor defence effort — they didn’t even call any medical witness to try to challenge what Doctor Claridge was saying. I think they felt this was such an obvious case that it wasn’t worth putting themselves to much trouble.’
Miss Forbes turned over a few pages in her file.
‘It’s fortunate that the plea in mitigation impressed the judge, over the assaults which Millie suffered from Arthur Shaw, especially during that fateful hour — otherwise she would have been hanged by now, instead of getting life imprisonment.’
She turned to Angela. ‘Now, Doctor Bray, tell me about these bloodstains.’
EIGHT
Oscar Stanton turned into the Crown Hotel, on the corner of Station Street in central Birmingham. It was near New Street Station and was convenient for those of his friends who travelled in from the suburbs for their regular dose of nostalgia. About eight retired reporters met for a few pints on the last Friday of the month, chewing over old times and reporting who amongst the newspaper fraternity of the city was sick or dead since the last session. They used an alcove off the main lounge, where a large table was covered in their glasses, half-eaten ham rolls, overflowing ashtrays and packets of crisps. Around their fourth pint or double Scotch, Oscar turned his pebble lenses on to the man sitting next to him.
‘Brian, I was talking to a chap the other day, he’s a CID man from Wales. He was telling me about some old corpse they’d dug up there recently, one without a head. It reminded me of that yarn that Piggy Donovan used to trot out years ago, about some pub that was alleged to have a bloke’s head hidden in a pot.’
The old reporter, ten years senior to Oscar, took a long swallow from his tankard before answering.
‘I vaguely remember something about it, soon after the war. But Piggy was such a lush, you couldn’t depend on half he said — or what he wrote in his copy!’
‘He’s been dead these past five years, has Piggy,’ said Oscar. ‘Anybody else who might recall anything about it?’
Brian used a slight lull in the conversation around the big table to call across to a member on the other side.
‘Duncan, you’re the last one here to cover crime on the Post. Ever hear a yarn about some preserved head kept in one of the pubs?’
Duncan MacKenzie was a few years younger and only recently retired from the Birmingham Post, the city’s major newspaper. A thin man with an aristocratic goatee sticking out from his chin like a spike, he was a hard drinker, his lined face displaying many prominent veins, even more marked on his nose. He considered the question carefully, before replying.
‘That story was going the rounds many years ago, I remember. Some connection with the gangs up in Winson Green. The coppers looked into it, but nothing more came of it.’
Another man, well into his seventies, spoke up from Oscar’s left. ‘I remember that, too. Piggy Donovan was carrying on about it. He said he was going to write a piece as a feature, then he suddenly went quiet. I think he’d been got at by someone.’
‘You reckon it was up in Winson Green?’ asked Oscar, hopefully. To his surprise, the old man nodded.
‘Yes, he reckoned it was in the cellar of the Barley Mow, near Black Patch Park. A tough area, especially in those days.’
‘It’s pretty tough still,’ said Duncan MacKenzie. ‘But the Barley Mow has long gone. They demolished that part a few years back — and not before time.’
Oscar felt let down, as it had looked hopeful when some of the others had confirmed the rumour. ‘Any idea what it was all about? Did anyone you know actually see this thing?’
There were grimaces and shaking of heads, but no hard information.
‘Something to do with the gangs in that area,’ ventured MacKenzie. ‘During the war, there was all sorts of graft going on there, apart from the usual robbery and violence. Black-market dealing, mainly, on a wholesale basis. And plenty of bribery and corruption — the police and the council were accused of it every now and then.’