He found himself preoccupied by eels. On the train into Paddington, in The Times, he read that students had disrupted an anti-vivisection meeting at the Westminster Central Hall, by releasing several containers of live eels that they’d smuggled in and throwing them among the crowd. People fled and the meeting was abandoned in chaos.
A release of eels – like a trampling of elephants – confirms the suspicion that there is only chaos. Our brains are in the habit of making patterns of events creating the illusion that there is some order in the universe, but there isn’t. As a species we’ve just got good at making patterns and the universe takes a long time, billions of years, to reveal its irrationality. Just because day has regularly followed night ever since humans 192started noticing, it’s no guarantee it will tomorrow. You can’t trust these things. Elephants could trample the sun or eels cause the earth to stand still in its orbit.
As soon as he got into the office, he telephoned Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the Home Office pathologist at Bart’s and got through to an assistant, who told him that Sir Bernard was away on business. Could he help at all?
Skelton asked whether it was correct that the fatal wound to Musgrave’s skull was definitely at the back rather than to one side. The assistant spent a couple of minutes looking out the notes, then came back to the phone and confirmed that it was indeed at the back.
‘Was another wound, or a lump of some sort visible at one side of the skull?’ Skelton asked.
‘There is a very distinctive lump at the side of the head visible in the photograph,’ the assistant said.
‘I wonder, could you arrange to have copies of the postmortem photographs sent over?’
Skelton put the phone down slightly disappointed. He knew it was extremely unlikely that an autopsy would mistake an old war wound for the results of a much more recent assault, but one lives in hope.
He rang Holland, the solicitor, in Bedford.
‘Do we have Musgrave’s medical records?’
‘Only for the past couple of years.’
‘Not his army medical records, then? He was apparently quite badly wounded.’
‘It’s difficult. The Auto-Vac-It people had him down 193as a lieutenant in the Prince of Wales Dragoons, but the Dragoons have no record of him at all.’
‘I met one of his lady friends. She seemed to think he was in the Hussars.’
‘I’ll get on to them.’
‘Although, maybe a cavalry regiment was one of his stories. I’d have thought that, since he’s from Coventry, it’s most likely he’d have been in the Royal Warwicks.’
‘I’ll give them a try, too.’
‘And he may, of course, have lied about his rank.’
‘Good point. I’ll chase it up.’
‘I’d be very grateful.’
Skelton stood and looked out of the window. The wind had caught a flour sack, or perhaps a pillowcase making it dance in midair like the ghost in a story that had terrified him at school. It started him thinking about elephants and eels again.
Justice was victim to the same nonsense, the same disorder. People convinced each other – and themselves – that, because of a certain chain of events, a sequence of cause and effect, this person must be innocent of the crime and this person guilty, but those chains and sequences were no more reliable than the elephants or the eels.
‘Are you all right old chap?’ Edgar asked, coming in with the morning post and the rest of the day’s business.
‘Absolutely fine.’
Eric, the idiot errand boy, close behind, managed to put the tea tray down with minimum spillage. Skelton spotted 194there were butter Osbornes among the biscuits – a good start to the day.
As Edgar had predicted, the Graphic’s ‘Man Who Refuses to Lose’ headline had brought the work pouring in. He was wrong about them all being marked at a thousand guineas, though. One of them – a convoluted matter of companies suing each other involving three countries and principles of law, which, like problems of differential calculus, you could hold in your mind for a moment, but look away and they were gone – was marked at fifteen hundred.
‘Could we pass on that one?’ Skelton asked.
‘But … fifteen hundred guineas.’
‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. At the moment, the misery is being more than adequately supplied by Anglo-American Abrasives, any more would be surplus to requirements. Isn’t there anything fun?’
‘Fun?’ Edgar said. ‘Well, I suppose that’d be toss up, between on the one hand M R C Oxenbergh versus P. J. Croft and, on the other hand, Jefferson, Graham & Co. Ltd. trading as ‘Ivory Enamelware’ versus Wilson and Bray Hygienic Porcelain of Wolverhampton. The first is about knickerbockers, the second lavatories.
‘What’s the lavatory one?’
‘Wilson and Bray have, over the past couple of years, been producing a range of products stamped with the words “Ivory White”. Jefferson, Graham & Co. Ltd. claim to have 195registered the word “Ivory” as a trademark in 1921. And are suing Wilson and Bray for infringement.’
‘And these are “Ivory White” lavatories, are they?’
‘Lavatories, sinks, baths.’
The schoolboy urge to say ‘lavatory’ loudly and frequently in court ran deep in Skelton.
‘That one’s good. What’s the knickerbocker one?’
‘Rather short notice, I’m afraid. Astley’s fallen prey to laryngitis.’ Astley was another barrister at 8 Foxton Row. ‘So, we’re doing what we can with his cases.’
‘When is it?’
‘Tomorrow. It’s not the sort of thing that would drag on, very straightforward brief. A Mr Croft ordered a pair of plus fours from Mr Oxenbergh, a tailor. When the plus fours were made, Mr Croft refused to pay for them claiming that they were not plus fours, as worn by outdoor gents and golfers, but knickerbockers, as worn by lady cyclists and schoolboys. So, Mr Oxenbergh is suing.’
‘Who’s the solicitor?’
‘Harding.’
They both knew Harding. Excellent chap.
‘And prosecuting?’
‘Luckhurst.’
They both knew Luckhurst, too. Dim. Plodding.
Skelton took the brief and turned the pages. There weren’t many of them. ‘And the case revolves around the exact differences between the plus four and the knickerbocker?’
‘Exactly.’ 196
‘And what is the difference between the plus four and the knickerbocker?’
‘As far as I can make it out it’s a matter of the overhang.’
‘Do we have an expert witness?’
‘Harding’s conjured up a chap from Tautz.’
‘What’s Tautz?’
‘A shop. Specialises in hunting and sporting wear. There’s an advertisement there somewhere.’
Skelton found a press cutting and read, ‘Breeches and jodhpurs, side or astride.’
‘That’s the one. Prosecution’s got a chap who writes for The Tailor and Cutter.’
‘Who’s up?’
‘Mr Justice Tomlinson.’
They both knew Tomlinson as well; a man who gave the lie to the phrase ‘sober as a judge’.
‘Should be all right.’
Skelton handed the brief back to Edgar who, shuffling it with the other papers, spilt a little tea on it. He took out a perfectly ironed handkerchief to dab it up.
On the rare occasions that Mrs Bartram ironed handkerchiefs, the edges always came out corrugated. Edgar’s hems were flat. Probably flatter than they’d been when the handkerchief was brand new.
‘Does Mrs Stewart pin hankies to the ironing board, too?’ Skelton asked.
‘I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised,’ Edgar said. There was a hint of acid in his voice. 197
‘Oh, dear,’ Skelton said. ‘Do I detect a note of disenchantment?’
‘It’s the cocktail cabinet.’
‘The Czech cubist cocktail cabinet?’
‘In the rosewood and bird’s-eye maple, yes. I’m afraid Mrs Stewart has taken against it. She said it would harbour inaccessible dust.’
‘In the crevices. I did suspect there might be a problem.’
‘If it comes down to “either that cabinet goes or I do” – and, the way she’s been talking about it, it may well come to that – I shan’t know which way to turn.’
‘Surely life without Mrs Stewart would be worse than life without your cocktail cabinet?’
‘It is an extraordinarily beautiful cocktail cabinet.’
Skelton gave Edgar another moment to mourn, then drained his tea and said, ‘What’s next?’
‘Rex versus Michael Mullen’,’ Edgar said. ‘A safe was taken, intact, from a jeweller’s shop and discovered, some days later, still intact and unopened, hidden in bushes beside a canal towpath, by a man walking his dog. The police—’
‘Where is this?’
‘Hayes.’
‘Middlesex?’
Edgar nodded and continued. ‘The police, knowing that the thief would return to open his treasure, left the safe where it was, but kept a covert watch on it. Early the following morning they saw Mr Mullen approaching the safe carrying a bag clanking with tools, apprehended him, and, finding the 198bag was full of drills, crowbars and explosives – just the stuff you might use to break into a safe – made their arrest.’
‘And what did Mr Mullen say?’
‘He said he was on his way to remove a tree stump in a friend’s garden. When, however, the friend was questioned, while acknowledging that he did, indeed, have a tree stump in his garden that he’d like to have removed, denied ever having requested Mr Mullen to do the job.’
‘And what did Mr Mullen say to that?’
‘He said he wanted to surprise him,’ Edgar said.
‘And does Mr Mullen have previous convictions?’
‘A little shoplifting some years ago, but nothing of any significance.’
‘Does he have any history of stump removal?’
‘Not specifically. General building.’
‘There you are, then. Poor innocent chap walking along the towpath early in the morning off to do his pal a favour, out spring the bobbies and accuse him of all sorts when the only evidence is a bag full of drills and crowbars.’
‘And explosives.’
‘You might use explosives to blow up a tree trunk, mightn’t you?’
‘I’ve never considered the matter,’ Edgar said.
‘I bet Mr Glazier has, though.’
Producing Mr Glazier, from Lower Dunworth, possible murderer of Harold Musgrave, with his face patch and hook hand as an expert witness would be enough to put the wind up any jury and most judges. It was a racing certainty that 199he’d blown up trees in his time – in fact, hadn’t he mentioned that during the war he’d blown up forests. He might even have photographs to show.
Edgar could see the attraction too. ‘I’ll write to him, shall I?’ He stood to put the selected briefs on Skelton’s desk.
‘Have you seen the backs of your trousers?’ Skelton said.
Edgar turned and lifted a leg to look.
‘What about them? Have I sat in something?’
‘You’ve been sat in that chair all morning and there’s not a trace of concertinaing. Razor-sharp crease and the rest smooth as sheet steel. She’s worth a dozen cocktail cabinets, you know that, don’t you?’
Edgar didn’t reply immediately but busied himself with the papers for a minute or two before blurting, ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned.’