With this rather empty threat, they watched as the warder pushed the convict out through the door opposite. When it had closed behind him, Hartnell turned to his sergeant with a scowl.
‘That bastard knows more than he’s letting on! We need to find some of the old Doyle gang to see if we can sweat a bit more out of them.’
They went off to the station, only a few hundred yards away, to report their meagre findings to the top brass at headquarters.
Next day, the forensic routines down in the Wye Valley were going on as usual. Christmas was fast approaching, now little over a week away. Angela was planning to have a full week at home in Berkshire, family gatherings having become more important now that there was always the fear of another stroke hovering above her mother. Richard had promised to spend a couple of days with his parents in Merthyr, though he had also agreed to stand in as Home Office pathologist for the Gloucester police over the holiday period, as their local man wanted to take his wife and three children up to their grandparents in Derby for Christmas.
The autopsy rate was having its usual festive period surge, as unfortunately it was always a bad time for both suicides and road traffic accidents. Richard was busy every day at Monmouth and Chepstow mortuaries and had several forays down to Newport for ‘Section Eight’ cases, the shorthand for road deaths where it was possible that a charge of ‘causing death by dangerous driving’ might be brought by the police. It was usual to ask a Home Office man to deal with these, as the hospital pathologists who did the routine coroner’s cases were never keen to get involved in potential criminal cases, partly because they disliked being called to the Magistrates and Assize courts.
Sian was consequently busy with her alcohol estimations, both with post-mortem bloods and with some defence cases where the accused was seeking to contest the clinical diagnosis over ‘unfit to drive’ by a police surgeon. All in all, the Garth House partnership was thriving, as their reputation spread by word of mouth, cases coming in from a wide area in Wales, the West and the adjacent part of the Midlands. Angela’s paternity testing was flourishing, but there was still not enough income to warrant considering an increase in staff.
On that cold but sunny day, they were all in the kitchen, taking a rest from their labours at the afternoon tea-break, when they heard a car zoom up the steep drive and stop in the yard with an impatient squeal of brakes. Richard, who knew most of the vehicles that called here by the sound of their engines, did not recognize this one and stood up to look through the window.
‘It’s an MG-TC,’ he exclaimed, looking out at a small low-slung sports car. It was bright red, with a black fabric hood hoisted against the blustery weather. ‘Who do we know who has one of those?’
He was soon given the answer, as a shapely leg emerged from the driver’s door, followed by the rest of Priscilla Chambers’ shapely body, swathed in a heavy car coat, her auburn hair half-hidden by a colourful Hermes silk scarf.
By now they had all seen her. ‘It’s Pris, what on earth is she doing here in a car?’ exclaimed Angela, as they all moved towards the back door to greet her.
She hugged them all and gave Richard a full-blown kiss on the lips that made his toes tingle.
‘I’m frozen,’ she cried gaily. ‘That car’s great, but I need a new hood, there’s a gale blowing through it!’
After she had been plied with hot tea and biscuits, she told them her news.
‘Thank God for your dismembered body, Richard,’ she began. ‘I’ve got a job already, thanks to digging in that blasted bog!’
She explained that having hit it off so well with the Hungarian archaeologist, Doctor Boross had phoned her a week ago and asked if she would be interested in a temporary lectureship in her department at the university in Aberystwyth.
‘It’s for a year in the first instance and has cropped up as they’ve got a rescue dig on an old abbey,’ she explained. They all pressed their congratulations on her and wanted more details.
‘Have you got the job actually in the bag?’ asked the more cautious Angela.
‘Eva Boross was quite definite about it, said my experience was just right for the post,’ answered Priscilla happily. ‘I’m on my way down there now for a formal interview tomorrow afternoon.’
‘What’s with the car, then?’ enquired Richard, looking out of the window again at the MG, which was one of the first models manufactured after the end of the war and which was looking its age a little.
‘I decided I couldn’t survive down in the wilds without transport,’ replied the ebullient redhead. ‘It’s a bit of a banger at seven years old, but it was cheap and it goes well.’
‘You can’t drive down to Cardiganshire tonight,’ protested Moira. ‘It’ll be dark in an hour or so. You must stay with me tonight and set off first thing in the morning.’
After some token protestations, Priscilla gladly accepted and then Richard stepped in to trump Moira.
‘We need to celebrate this, folks,’ he said amiably. ‘I’ll treat you all to a meal down in the village.’
Work was abandoned for the rest of the afternoon, as Priscilla was brought up to date on happenings in Garth House, especially the news that the head of her bog body had been found in Birmingham.
Richard went out for a good look at her ‘new’ car, admiring what was under the bonnet and assuring Priscilla that a good garage in Aberystwyth could work wonders on its rather shabby appearance.
That evening, they went again to the hotel in Tintern Parva, though Jimmy was not with them this time as he had gone off on one of his mysterious absences, which Richard suspected was some form of organized poaching.
The meal was excellent and they all talked about the delights of leaving rationing and shortages behind.
‘It only seems yesterday that we were living on dried egg powder and Spam,’ said Angela.
‘And the kids had concentrated orange juice and cod-liver oil and malt shoved down their throats every day,’ laughed Sian.
‘You were all healthier for it, though,’ claimed Richard, until he was shouted down for spending much of the war in Ceylon, where he was accused of living on the fat of the land in an officer’s mess.
Over coffee, they wanted to know more about Priscilla’s new job. ‘What’s this abbey business?’ asked Moira.
‘Apparently, approval has just come through for the flooding of a valley up in the hills, for a new reservoir to supply the Midlands. The ruins of a Cistercian abbey will be submerged, along with a large monastic cemetery, so there’s a rush to exhume the burials and record anything of historical interest.’
‘That won’t be popular with the locals,’ prophesied Richard. ‘You’d better get yourself a steel helmet in case there’s a riot!’
‘It’s a year’s appointment, you said?’ asked Angela.
‘Yes, it also carries a temporary lectureship, and if I’m a good girl and don’t offend too many people, Doctor Boross says it may well be extended.’
Everyone was happy for Priscilla, including Richard. As he looked at her across the table, he saw a beautiful, extrovert woman, warm-natured and, as far as he knew, unattached. It occurred to him that Aberystwyth was only a few hours’ drive away, easily accessible for a weekend trip. Then his eyes moved to Angela, cool, elegant and highly intelligent, with so much in common with him professionally — and living under the same roof. As he picked up his cup to drain the last of the coffee, he saw Moira looking at him and felt that she was well aware of his appraisal of the two other women. He winked at her, wondering what was going through her mind and received a conspiratorial smile in return.
The Birmingham coroner telephoned Richard the following day, to let him know that he had arranged for the head to be X-rayed in one of the hospitals and that the radiologist had confirmed that the skull did indeed show the presence of Albers-Schonberg disease.