There were still plenty of pre-war cars about, but now the sleeker Fords, Austins and Vauxhalls abounded, with foreign cars like her own Renault becoming too common to be curiosities any longer.
For Siân, the Wye Valley appeared all too soon, and after the last few miles down the side of the river from Monmouth, they finally pulled into the yard at Garth House satisfied with a day away from their usual routine.
EIGHTEEN
An early start on Tuesday took Richard and Angela to Newport Station, from where the Red Dragon hurried them eastwards. As he had little doubt that the two War Office bureaucrats always travelled first class, he again overcame his Welsh parsimony and settled his partner and himself in a similar coach on the London train.
Angela, with the prospect of half a day parading around Bond Street, was dressed in a very smart A-line suit of pale blue under a long swing-backed coat of a darker blue, with a matching pillbox hat. Richard appreciated her elegance, but hoped that the suitcase he had carried for her contained something more suitable for attending an exhumation. He had another reason for being glad that she looked so good, as he intended to surprise her by taking her to a theatre and a good meal that evening.
After they had left their overnight cases at the Great Western Royal Hotel at the end of Paddington’s huge station, they took the Tube to Oxford Circus. Here they parted company, Angela heading to the shops and Richard saying that he would walk up to the Royal Society of Medicine and then to BMA House in Tavistock Square However, he diverted somewhat, going to West Street, off Charing Cross Road, where he managed to get two tickets at the Ambassadors Theatre for that night’s performance of Agatha Christie’s Mousetrap. It had already been running for three years, and some time ago, during a coffee break at Garth House, Angela had expressed a desire to see it before its run ended.
They had arranged to meet back at the hotel at five o’clock, and Richard found his partner sitting in the foyer lounge with a tray of tea and pastries. Alongside her low armchair were several expensive-looking carrier bags, though the names on them meant nothing to him except to suggest that Angela had just spent a lot of money.
‘Have you checked on our rooms?’ he asked as she poured him tea. When they had arrived that morning, the rooms were not ready for them and they had left their cases with the porter.
Angela smiled at him mischievously.
‘You maligned Moira’s intentions to keep us apart, Richard. We’ve got adjoining rooms!’
Richard smiled back rather weakly at her, not knowing how to take this. ‘Jolly good! What do you think we should do to pass the evening?’
Handing him the plate of rather sickly-looking cakes, she suggested a cinema, if there was a decent film to be found.
‘Oh, no, we’re not!’ he announced with a hint of triumph. He dipped into his inner pocket and waved a pair of theatre tickets at her. ‘We’re going to see The Mousetrap, and then I’m taking you for a decent meal! It’s time to celebrate six months of hard work and the success of our partnership.’
The play was as enjoyable as they had expected, including the exhortation of the management not to divulge the final twist, so as not to spoil the surprise for other prospective patrons.
After the show, Richard’s other surprise was to take Angela to Shaftesbury Avenue for a meal in a Chinese restaurant, a novelty for her and a bit of nostalgia for him, after all his years in Singapore. Though there had been a couple of Chinese restaurants in London for many years, they were still unknown to most people. Angela tackled king prawns in oyster sauce and sweet-and-sour chicken with some trepidation, abandoning chopsticks for a fork, in spite of Richard’s attempts at rapid tuition. However, she enjoyed the new experience, and a bottle of Italian white wine helped to make the occasion go with a swing.
It was late when they took a taxi back to Paddington. Both feeling pleased with life, she slipped an arm through his as they lolled in the back of the big Austin.
‘Thank you, Richard, that was a really lovely evening,’ she said. ‘You’re a nice old chap, aren’t you?’
He was not sure how to take this and wondered if he should put an arm around her shoulders, but a sudden lurch of the taxi as the driver decided not to jump the traffic lights in Edgware Road spoiled the moment and soon they were at the hotel.
On the first floor, they stopped outside their bedroom doors, which were side by side. After a couple of gins and half a bottle of wine, Angela fumbled a little with her key and her partner came to help in finding the keyhole. As the door opened, she grinned up at him in the dim light.
‘Somehow seems a bit naughty, this!’ she giggled. ‘Staying in a London hotel, in adjacent rooms!’ He avoided reminding her that they had slept almost every night for the last six months alone in an otherwise empty house, and bent to give her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. She hesitated in the open doorway, then responded with a full kiss on his lips, before slipping inside and, with a whispered ‘Goodnight, Richard, and thanks again for a lovely time!’, she firmly closed the door.
He stood for moment looking at the blank panels and then with a sigh hauled out his own key and went to bed.
The Queen Alexandra Military Hospital was squeezed into one of the most densely built-up areas of London, on the north side of a rectangle of roads that abutted on to Millbank, not far from the Houses of Parliament. A classical red-brick building on Bulinca Street, it faced the Tate Gallery, on the other side of which was the Royal Army Medical College. As a taxi dropped Angela and Richard on Millbank next morning, his nostalgia was stimulated once again as he looked back at the RAMC Officers’ Mess on the corner of Atterbury Street, where he had spent some weeks during the war before being posted abroad. He still remembered the Blitz and the fire-watching duty that occupied many of the nights.
They walked around the block to the hospital and when Richard enquired at the porter’s lodge to introduce themselves, a staff sergeant shepherded them towards a nearby side room.
‘Colonel Bannerman wants a word with you, sir, before you go to the mortuary.’
He opened the door and ushered them into a bare interview room, normally used for talking to relatives of patients in the hospital. Bannerman was sitting at a table and rose as they entered, greeting them both and shaking hands.
‘I wanted a quick chat before we start, doctors,’ he said. ‘Since we last spoke, the lawyer for the wife has engaged a medical expert and wants him to attend the examination.’
Richard nodded. This was the usual procedure in criminal cases, where the defence could engage their own expert to either attend the first autopsy or perform one of his own later, as he had done on a number of occasions.
‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘And who is he?’
‘A surgeon, apparently, not a pathologist,’ replied Bannerman. ‘He’s waiting in the mortuary for us, a chap named Lorimer. It seems he’s a general surgeon from Farnborough Hospital, down in the direction where the widow lives.’
‘Do we know what his opinion is on the case?’ asked Pryor. ‘I presume he’s seen the same material as I have – the photographs and the background story?’
The War Office man fished in his black document case and pulled out a thin folder, which he handed to Richard. ‘Their solicitor sent me a copy of Lorimer’s report. It’s quite short, if you want to look at it before meeting him.’
Pryor sat on the edge of the table and scanned through the two stapled pages. ‘I see he was a doctor in the RAF towards the end of the war,’ he observed. ‘I’m not sure they saw a great many bullet wounds from small arms.’