‘He probably wants us to do a paternity blood test in some family dispute,’ she said evenly, ‘Still, it’s all grist to the mill, and we certainly can do with the money.’
It was not a paternity test, but was hardly a serial-killer case either, as the pathologist discovered later that day. He drove the ten miles to Lydney in his five-year-old Humber Hawk, the Severn estuary visible down on the right of the A48, which took most of the traffic from England into South Wales. It was a busy road, far too narrow, tortuous and built-up for the volume of traffic it had to bear, thought Pryor. With the rapid increase in manufacturing and trade generally since the war had ended, the infrastructure of the country was proving woefully inadequate. Big lorries lumbered past him almost in convoy and those in front held him up, many of the old trucks of pre-war vintage belching fumes from their worn engines. A decade after VE and VJ days, things were improving rapidly, but there was still a long way to go.
Lydney was a small industrial town, with a branch railway going up into the Forest of Dean to the few remaining coal mines that lurked in that strange and historic region. Richard drove into the long main street and eventually found Lethbridge, Moody and Savage above a building society office in the main street.
A middle-aged secretary showed him into a gloomy room where the senior partner of the firm with such a threatening name was waiting for him. Edward Lethbridge looked a typical provincial solicitor. He was a thin, desiccated man in a faded pinstripe suit, steel-rimmed glasses perched on his long nose. After a limp handshake and after a few platitudes about the hot weather, he came straight to the point.
‘We have a client who lives in Newnham, a few miles up the river from here. She’s an elderly lady by the name of Agnes Oldfield. We have done some work for her in recent years, as her nephew Anthony vanished three years ago and we have made strenuous efforts to trace him.’
The lawyer sank his chin to his chest so that he could look at Pryor over his glasses.
‘Last week, she read an account in the local paper of an inquest held by Dr Meredith on some human remains found near a reservoir up beyond Abergavenny. She is convinced that they belong to Anthony.’
Richard was rather at a loss. ‘If there was an inquest, then surely that settled it?’
Lethbridge smiled a secret smile, and shook his head.
‘The verdict was that the deceased was an Albert Barnes, but my client wishes to dispute this.’
‘Ah, a matter of identity. What do you want me to do? Review the papers, then examine the remains?’
The solicitor steepled his fingers, elbows on his desk, an old mahogany relic which looked as if it been bought by his great-grandfather.
‘The papers, certainly. However, there is a difficulty,’ he added ruefully. ‘The body, or what was left of it, was buried a fortnight ago.’
Richard felt deflated. Once a corpse was in the ground, he knew that it was a devil of a job to get permission to dig it up again.
‘The coroner has been good enough to release the inquest proceedings to me, as I persuaded him that Mrs Oldfield was a sufficiently interested party to allow her solicitor to have access to them.’
He opened a drawer in the cavernous desk and slid a thin folder across to the professor. ‘If you would care to take these away and study them, perhaps you could come up with some suggestions – even if it is only confirmation that Mrs Oldfield is barking up the wrong tree.’
Pryor took the file and opened it briefly to riffle through a few flimsy pages.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about the matter?’ he asked hopefully.
Edward Lethbridge shook his head. ‘Not really, doctor. If you decide to look into the case, then I suggest you talk to the lady herself. I would be happy to make an appointment for you. And there is, of course, Trevor Mitchell.’
‘Who’s Trevor Mitchell?’ asked the mystified pathologist.
‘A former detective superintendent who has set up as a private enquiry agent. He lives in St Brievals, not far from you. He does some work for me occasionally and I recommended him to Mrs Oldfield some time ago, to look into her nephew’s disappearance.’
After a rather diffident conversation about an hourly fee rate, Richard left, clutching the papers. He treated himself to a pot of tea and a Chelsea bun at a nearby café, resisting the temptation to open the file on the stained gingham-patterned oilcloth that covered the table. For a moment, he thought nostalgically of the eating house in River Valley Road in Singapore, where he used to call in for the best nasi goreng in the Colony, a savoury fried rice with which no Gloucestershire bun could hope to compete.
He drove slowly back to Chepstow in his comfortable saloon, which he had bought second-hand as soon as he arrived back in Britain. Driving down Castleford Hill, the steep gradient to the famous iron bridge over the swirling Wye, he looked up at the great castle on its crag above the river, one of the first the Normans had built to subdue the local Welsh. Though born in Merthyr Tydfil, he knew this area quite well, having stayed with his aunt many times, both as a schoolboy and later when a medical student in Cardiff. His years in the East had not diminished his love for his native Wales and he found that to be back again among these hills, valleys and castles was immensely satisfying. As the traffic lights on the bridge turned green, he patted the lawyer’s file on the seat alongside him, confident that this was the start of a new era in his life.
He drove complacently up through the winding streets of Chepstow and on to the valley road past the racecourse, relishing the breeze that came through the open window, as he looked down on the impressive ruins of Tintern Abbey, a mile or so down the valley from home, as he now termed it.
Back at Garth House, he passed Jimmy hacking away at the hedge, stripped to his waist in the heat. Parking the Humber in the open coach house alongside Angela’s smaller car, he walked to the back door and into the kitchen, calling for his partner as he went.
‘We’ve got a job, Angela! Got a moment?’
They sat at the table in the office and Richard opened the buff folder to display a few sheets of handwritten notes, together with a couple of official forms and several newspaper cuttings. Sian had sidled up to the door, unable to resist eavesdropping on their very first case, anxious to be accepted as part of the team. To her a professor was a very august person and she was determined to give Richard the respect he was due, but not to be intimidated. Anyway, she rather fancied him, this lean, tanned man from the East, a fact which Angela had already noticed.
Pryor explained to Angela the general outline offered by Edward Lethbridge and then began scanning the documents, before passing them to Angela. There was silence for ten minutes, until they had digested the relatively meagre information that was on offer.
‘This Mrs Barnes seems to have it all sewn up,’ commented Angela. ‘I wonder why Widow Oldfield is so intent on proving it was her nephew?’
‘The solicitor hinted that she was keen on his money, as it seems she was his only surviving relative,’ said Richard. ‘He was forty-five when he disappeared and was apparently very well-heeled from money left him by his parents. Unless she can get a declaration that he’s dead, she can never get probate and hopefully inherit.’
Typically, Angela wanted to rehearse the facts methodically. ‘The post-mortem report is a bit sketchy, but it seems that what was recovered was over half a skeleton, but minus the skull.’
‘The most useful part is missing, as far as identity goes,’ agreed Pryor. ‘No head, so no teeth to examine.’
‘Why wouldn’t it have a head? Animals?’