Death of an Expert Witness (19 page)

“And you stayed working in your lab until the call came?”

“That’s right. My SO went out and got me a couple of beef and chutney sandwiches and I ate them at my desk. Bob phoned at eight-fifteen to say that they were running a bit ahead of time and that I’d better come over. The lads were dressed and were proposing to have a beer in the Moonraker. The hall hasn’t a licence, so all the audience get in the
interval is coffee or tea served by the Mothers’ Union. I left the Lab at, I suppose, about eight-twenty.”

“You say here that Lorrimer was alive then as far as you know?”

“We know that he was alive twenty-five minutes later, if his dad is right about the telephone call. But actually I think I saw him. I went out of the front door because that’s the only exit but I had to go round the back to the garages to get my car. The light was on then in the Biology Department and I saw a figure in a white coat move briefly across the window. I can’t swear that it was Lorrimer. I can only say that it never occurred to me at the time that it wasn’t. And I knew, of course, that he must be in the building. He was responsible for locking up and he was excessively tedious about security. He wouldn’t have left without checking on all the departments, including Document Examination.”

“How was the front door locked?”

“Only with the Yale and a single bolt. That’s what I expected. I let myself out.”

“What happened when you got to the hall?”

“To explain that I’ll have to describe the architectural oddities of the place. It was put up cheaply five years ago by the village builder and the committee thought they’d save money by not employing an architect. They merely told the chap that they wanted a rectangular hall with a stage and two dressing rooms and lavatories at one end, and a reception hall, cloakroom and a room for refreshments at the other. It was built by Harry Gotobed and his sons. Harry is a pillar of the chapel and a model of Nonconformist rectitude. He doesn’t hold with the theatre, amateur or otherwise, and I think they had some difficulty in persuading him even to build a stage. But he certainly didn’t intend to have any communicating door between
the male and female dressing rooms. As a result what we’ve got is a stage with two rooms behind, each with its separate lavatory. There’s an exit at each side into the graveyard, and two doors on to the stage, but there’s literally no common space behind the stage. As a result the men dress in the right-hand dressing room and come on to the stage from the prompt side, and the women from the left. Anyone who wants to enter from the opposite side has to leave the dressing room, scurry in their costume and probably in the rain through the graveyard and, if they don’t trip over a gravestone, break their ankle, or fall into an open grave, finally make a triumphant, if damp, appearance on the proper side.”

Suddenly he threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter, then recovered himself and said: “Sorry, poor taste. It’s just that I was remembering last year’s performance by the dramatic society. They’d chosen one of those dated domestic comedies where the characters spend most of their time in evening dress making snappy small talk. Young Bridie Corrigan from the general store played the maid. Scurrying through the churchyard she thought she saw old Maggie Gotobed’s ghost. She made her entrance screaming, cap awry, but remembered her part sufficiently to gasp: ‘Holy Mother of God, dinner is served!’ Whereat the cast trooped dutifully off stage, the men to one side and the women to the other. Our hall adds considerably to the interest of the performances I can tell you.”

“So you went to the right-hand dressing room?”

“That’s right. It was a complete shambles. The cast have to hang up their outdoor coats as well as keeping the costumes there. There’s a row of coat hooks and a bench down the middle of the room, one rather small mirror and space for two people only to make up simultaneously. The single handbasin is in the lavatory. Well, no doubt you’ll be looking at the place
for yourself. Last night it was chaotic with outdoor coats, costumes, boxes and props piled on the bench and overflowing on to the floor. The hobby-horse costume was hanging on one of the pegs, so I put it on.”

“There was no one there when you arrived?”

“No one in the room, but I could hear someone in the lavatory. I knew that most of the troupe were over at the Moonraker. When I had got myself into the costume the lavatory door opened and Harry Sprogg, he’s a member of the troupe, came out. He was wearing his costume.”

Massingham made a note of the name: Harry Sprogg.

Dalgliesh asked: “Did you speak?”

“I didn’t. He said something about being glad I’d made it and that the chaps were over at the Moonraker. He said he was just going to dig them out. He’s the only teetotaller of the party so I suppose that’s why he didn’t go over with them. He left and I followed him out into the cemetery.”

“Without having spoken to him?”

“I can’t remember that I said anything. We were only together for about a couple of seconds. I followed him out because the dressing room was stuffy—actually it stank—and the costume was extraordinarily heavy and hot. I thought I’d wait outside where I could join the boys when they came across from the pub. And that’s what I did.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean there was no one there. Vision’s a bit restricted through the headpiece. If someone had been standing motionless in the graveyard I could easily have missed him. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”

“How long were you there?”

“Less than five minutes. I galumphed around a bit and tried a few trial snaps of the jaw and whisks of the tail. It must
have looked daft if anyone was watching. There’s a particularly repulsive memorial there, a marble angel with an expression of nauseating piety and a hand pointed upwards. I pranced around that once or twice and snapped my jaws at its asinine face. God knows why! Perhaps it was the joint effect of moonlight and the place itself. Then I saw the chaps coming across the graveyard from the Moonraker and joined up with them.”

“Did you say anything then?”

“I may have said good evening or hello, but I don’t think so. They wouldn’t have recognized my voice through the headpiece anyway. I raised the front right-hand hoof and made a mock obeisance and then tagged on behind. We went into the dressing room together. We could hear the audience settling into their seats, and then the stage manager put his head in and said ‘Right, boys.’ Then the six dancers went on, and I could hear the violin strike up, the stamping of feet and the jangling of bells. Then the music changed and that was the signal for me to join them and do my bit. Part of the act was to go down the steps from the stage and frolic among the audience. It seemed to go down well enough to judge by the girlish shrieks, but if you’re thinking of asking whether anyone recognized me, I shouldn’t bother. I don’t see how they could have.”

“But after the performance?”

“No one saw me after the performance. We came tumbling down the steps from the stage into the dressing room, but the applause went on. Then I realized with considerable horror that some fools in the audience were calling out ‘encore.’ The lads in green needed no second invitation and they were up the stairs again like a troop of parched navvies who’d just been told that the bar’s open. I took the view that my agreement with Bill Martin covered one performance, not including an encore, and that I’d made enough of a fool of myself for one
evening. So when the fiddle struck up and the stamping began I got out of the costume, hung it back on the nail, and made off. As far as I know no one saw me leave and there was no one in the car park when I unlocked my car. I was at home before ten and my wife can vouch for that if you’re interested. But I don’t suppose you are.”

“It would be more helpful if you could find someone to vouch for you between eight forty-five and midnight.”

“I know. Maddening, isn’t it? If I’d known someone was proposing to murder Lorrimer during the evening I’d have taken good care not to put the headpiece on until the second before we went on stage. It’s a pity the beast’s head is so large. It’s supported, as you’ll discover, from the wearer’s shoulders and doesn’t actually touch the head or face. If it did you might find a hair or some biological evidence that I’d actually worn the thing. And prints are no good. I handled it at the rehearsals and so did a dozen other people. The whole incident is an example to me of the folly of indulging in good nature. If I’d only told old Bill just what he could do with his blasted hobby-horse I should have been home, and, quite literally, dry before eight o’clock with a nice cosy alibi at the Panton Arms for the rest of the evening.”

Dalgliesh ended the interview by asking about the missing white coat.

“It’s a fairly distinctive design. I’ve got half a dozen of them, all inherited from my father. The other five are in the linen cupboard here, if you want to have a look at them. They’re waisted, in very heavy white linen, buttoning high to the neck with crested Royal Army Dental Corps buttons. Oh, and they’ve got no pockets. The old man thought pockets were unhygienic.”

Massingham thought that a coat already stained with Lorrimer’s blood might be seen by a murderer as a particularly useful protective garment. Echoing his thought, Middlemass
said: “If it is found again I don’t think I could say with certainty exactly what bloodstains resulted from our punch-up. There was one patch about four inches by two on the right shoulder, but there may have been other splashes. But presumably the serologists would be able to give you some idea of the comparative age of the stains.”

If the coat were ever found, thought Dalgliesh. It wouldn’t be an easy thing to destroy completely. But the murderer, if he had taken it, would have had all night to dispose of the evidence. He asked: “And you dropped this particular coat in the soiled-linen basket in the men’s washroom immediately after the quarrel?”

“I meant to, but then I thought better of it. The stain wasn’t large and the sleeves were perfectly clean. I put it on again and dropped it in the soiled-linen basket when I washed before leaving the Lab.”

“Do you remember what washbasin you used?”

“The first one, nearest the door.”

“Was the basin clean?”

If Middlemass were surprised by the question, he concealed it. “As clean as it ever is after a day’s use. I wash fairly vigorously so it was clean enough when I left. And so was I.”

The picture came into Massingham’s mind with startling clarity: Middlemass in his blood-spattered coat bending low over the washbasin, both taps running full on, the water swirling and gurgling down the waste pipe, water stained pink with Lorrimer’s blood. But what about the timing? If old Lorrimer really had spoken to his son at 8.45 then Middlemass must be in the clear, at least for the first part of the evening. And then he pictured another scene: Lorrimer’s sprawled body, the raucous ring of the telephone. Middlemass’s gloved hand slowly lifting the receiver. But could old Lorrimer really mistake another voice for that of his son?

When the Document Examiner had left Massingham said: “At least he has one person to corroborate his story. Dr. Howarth saw the hobby-horse prancing round the angel memorial in the churchyard. They’ve hardly had opportunity this morning to concoct that story together. And I don’t see how else Howarth could have known about it.”

Dalgliesh said: “Unless they concocted the story in the graveyard last night. Or unless it was Howarth, not Middlemass, who was inside that hobby-horse.”

“I didn’t like him, and I was frightened of him, but I didn’t kill him. I know everyone will think that I did, but it’s not true. I couldn’t kill anyone or anything; not an animal, let alone a man.”

Clifford Bradley had stood up fairly well to the long wait for questioning. He wasn’t incoherent. He had tried to behave with dignity. But he had brought into the room with him the sour contagion of fear, that most difficult of all emotions to hide. His whole body twitched with it; the restless hands clasping and unclasping in his lap, the shuddering mouth, the anxious blinking eyes. He was not an impressive figure, and fear had made him pitiable. He would make an ineffective murderer, thought Massingham. Watching him, he felt some of the instinctive shame of the healthy in the presence of the diseased. It was easy to imagine him retching over that washbasin, vomiting up his guilt and terror. It was less easy to envisage him tearing out the page of the notebook, destroying the white coat, organizing that early morning telephone call to Mrs. Bidwell.

Dalgliesh said mildly: “No one is accusing you. You’re familiar enough with Judge’s Rules to know that we wouldn’t be talking like this if I were about to caution you. You say that you didn’t kill him. Have you any idea who did?”

“No. Why should I have? I don’t know anything about him. All I know is that I was at home with my wife last night. My mother-in-law came to supper and I saw her off on the seven forty-five bus to Ely. Then I went straight home, and I was home all the evening. My mother-in-law telephoned about nine o’clock to say that she’d reached home safely. She didn’t speak to me because I was having a bath. My wife told her that. But Sue can confirm that, except for taking her mother to the bus, I was home all the evening.”

Bradley admitted that he hadn’t known that old Mr. Lorrimer’s hospital admission had been postponed. He thought he had been in the washroom when the old man’s call came through. But he knew nothing of the early telephone call to Mrs. Bidwell, the missing page from Lorrimer’s notebook, or Paul Middlemass’s missing white coat. Asked about his supper on Wednesday night, he said that they had eaten curry made with tinned beef, together with rice and tinned peas. Afterwards there had been a trifle which, he explained defensively, had been made with stale cake and custard. Massingham suppressed a shudder as he made a careful note of these details. He was glad when Dalgliesh said that Bradley could go. There seemed nothing else of importance to be learned from him in his present state; nothing more to be learned, indeed, from anyone at the Laboratory. He was fretting to see Lorrimer’s house, Lorrimer’s next of kin.