Late on Thursday afternoon, Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the Home Office pathologist, had issued a revised report saying that he had read through the newly emerged medical records and, upon re-examining the body, had discovered no evidence of a previously broken arm or ribs and, most notably, no evidence of a shrapnel wound to the left side of the head. He therefore declared a case of mistaken identity. The corpse was not that of Harold Musgrave.
The press were informed. Chester Monroe was peeved that the scoop wasn’t his exclusive but kept his nose to the grindstone up to the Graphic’s deadline. As well as the front page – ‘Blazing Corpse Not Musgrave’ (he’d wanted ‘A Corpse of Mistaken Identity’ but had 240been overruled by the editor) – he had two follow-ups on the inside pages: ‘Who is the Mystery Man?’ and ‘Where is Musgrave?’
It was a fine opportunity for extravagant conjecture.
Musgrave could have been attacked by an aggrieved husband or lover and, in the resulting struggle, delivered a fatal blow to his assailant, then, half-maddened by the horror of what he had done, set fire to the car, run away, and had been in hiding ever since.
Or, in order to escape his debts and commitments, Musgrave had withdrawn his money, found some unwitting victim who vaguely resembled him, killed him in order to fake his own death and had run off with one of the more favoured members of his ‘harem’ to start a new life, perhaps in South America or the Far East.
Or – the two-corpse theory – a desperate bandit had killed Musgrave, left his body concealed somewhere, stolen the car, then made some elementary error, perhaps with the choke, which had flooded the car with petrol such that a single spark was enough to set it alight.
Or, Musgrave, as he had often intimated, was working on business of national importance. He had captured a foreign agent, killed him, burnt the evidence so that people would assume that the corpse was him, then assumed the foreign agent’s identity in order more effectively to foil a gang of similar agents plotting to assassinate the King and key members of the government.
And so on. 241
Meanwhile, in Bedford, arrangements were made for the release of Tommy Prosser.
There were a couple of reporters waiting for Skelton as he got out of the taxi at the Old Bailey, one of whom, Brougham, who worked for the Daily Herald, he knew slightly.
‘Do you think Musgrave could have killed the man in the car, Mr Skelton?’ Brougham asked
‘It’s not my concern now, is it? I was instructed to defend Tommy Prosser. All charges against Mr Prosser have now been dropped. He’s being released from prison, I think today, so that’s the end of my involvement with the matter.’
‘Who do you think the corpse might be?’
‘I don’t have the faintest idea. I’m sure the proper authorities are doing their best to find out.’
‘Where do you think Harold Musgrave is now?’
‘Ooh, is that him over there?’
Brougham looked and, while his back was turned, Skelton skipped into the courthouse.
Jefferson, Graham & Co. Ltd. trading as ‘Ivory Enamelware’ versus Wilson and Bray Hygienic Porcelain of Wolverhampton turned out to be a damp squib. Before the trial even properly began, the judge and prosecution counsel became entangled in a discussion about whether ‘Ivory White’ had been registered using the terms of registration specified in the 1905 act and whether that registration was encompassed by Part A or Part B of the 1919 act, and whether the dispute was 242about the actual words ‘Ivory White’ or the words together with the script with which they were written. This went on for most of the day at the end of which the judge adjourned the case until such time as the various matters at stake could be more exactly defined with the result that Skelton only got to say ‘lavatory’ twice.
Skelton and Edgar went for tea at Kemble’s, and Rose, who’d been waiting at court with paperwork that needed Skelton’s signature, was invited to join them.
‘Just for a minute, though.’
They ordered sandwiches, savouries and cakes. Skelton got on with signing what needed to be signed and checking over what needed to be checked over while Rose toyed listlessly with a devilled egg.
After a while, she excused herself and went to the Ladies’ Room.
‘Is she ill, d’you think?’ Edgar asked.
‘She does seem to have lost her bubble.’
‘Heartache, I believe, can be as debilitating as typhoid.’
‘Did a doctor say that?’
‘No.’
Rose came back and Kenneth, the proprietor, brought over the cakes.
‘I wonder if I might ask a question of a somewhat personal nature, Mr Hobbes?’ he asked.
‘As long as it’s not too personal,’ Edgar said.
‘I was just having a word with Tony at the cloakroom and 243he says, when he took your coat, he couldn’t help noticing your trousers. He takes a lot of pride in his appearance, of course, because he’s French. And he was wondering where you get them pressed.’
‘My housekeeper does it.’ Edgar explained about the pinning and – no, as far as he knew, no starch, glue or wax was involved in the process. ‘She invariably presses them while I’m out and tends to keep her professional secrets closely guarded. But if I do ever find out, I promise you and Tony will be the first to know.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Hobbes. Can I just mention that the apricot baskets might be a bit cloying after the egg and anchovy? I’ll bring over some coffee meringues just in case. No extra charge.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Kenneth,’ Skelton said.
Edgar looked around. Kemble’s, being so close to Drury Lane, Aldwych and the Strand, attracted a theatrical clientele and Edgar, a keen theatregoer, enjoyed star-spotting.
‘Is that Ivy Close? Don’t look.’
They didn’t need to. The mirrors did the looking for them.
‘Who’s Ivy Close?’ Skelton asked.
‘In the green crêpe with Chinese embroidery. Before the war the Daily Mirror hailed her as the world’s most beautiful woman. She must be forty if she’s a day, but you’d never know it would you? Oh, Lord.’
‘What?’
‘Coming through the door.’ 244
Skelton switched his attention to a mirror that covered the door and saw Chester Monroe approaching. His overcoat seemed to be yellow, his hat a lurid shade of green and his shoes shone with many colours, like shot silk.
‘Who is he?’ Rose asked.
‘The reporter who does all the awful stories in the Daily Graphic.’
‘Mr Skelton, Mr Hobbes,’ Monroe said, grinning. ‘One of the lads at Foxton Row said I might find you here.’
‘Which one?’ Edgar asked.
‘Ooh, dear. Wasn’t he supposed to say?’ Monroe swung off his overcoat in a practised gesture, pulled a chair from an adjacent table and turned it back to front before sitting down to give the impression that though he was at their table he wasn’t actually joining them.
Rose had not encountered Monroe before and her expression, as she examined his check suit in a strange bronze fabric, his striped shirt with pointed collar, his garish tie, and his disconcerting shoes tightened into a horrified pout.
‘In his defence,’ Monroe continued, ‘I can vouch for the fact that he didn’t yield the information easily. Cost me a tosheroon and two tickets for Will Hay at the Holborn Empire.’
‘Mr Skelton, after a difficult day in court, is entitled to a little privacy,’ Edgar said.
‘Of course he is. Stands to reason. And that’s why I’m going to come straight to the point. And the point is, in one word, Musgrave.’ 245
Skelton stirred his tea and didn’t bother looking up. ‘What about him?’
‘Where is he? And who is the mystery corpse?’
‘As I explained to the Daily Herald this morning,’ Skelton said, ‘I was instructed to defend Tommy Prosser. Now that charges against Mr Prosser have been dropped, I no longer have any interest in the matter.’
‘My readers do, though. The mistaken identity is the best twist the story could possibly have had. If it hadn’t really happened, I might have been tempted to make it up. And the “Where is Musgrave?”, “Who is the Mystery Corpse?”, is solid gold. As attention-grabbers go, it really does take the biscuit.’
‘As I say…’
‘In Writing for Newspapers, John Spencer Meyer of the University of South Dakota, makes two crucial points. When you’ve got a good story, first – what we’ve been doing very successfully – you have to keep it running. Second, you haven’t got a story at all – doesn’t matter whether it’s politics, crime, human interest – you haven’t got a story until you’ve got a hero and a villain. Well, we had our villain, didn’t we? Or rather we had several possible villains. Was it Tommy Prosser, one of Musgrave’s harem, or one of their husbands, boyfriends or fathers or was it … and I can’t tell you how proud I was of this one – Lawrence of Arabia? We had our villain. And we also had our hero, “The Man Who Refuses to Lose”.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Skelton said.
‘I want you to stay with the case, Mr Skelton. My readers 246want you to stay with the case. My editor wants you to stay with the case.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a barrister and – how many times do I have to say this? – I no longer have any involvement with the case. I’m sure the police are doing all they can to find Mr Musgrave and to establish the identity of the deceased. Go and talk to them.’
‘My editor’s prepared to pay £2,000 plus any expenses incurred.’
‘That’s a preposterous sum,’ Skelton said. ‘To whom, for what?’
‘To you, if you’ll stay on the case.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and I suspect that you and your editor have even less idea. Barristers don’t go round looking for missing persons. As I say, get on to the police – or hire a private detective. Aubrey Duncan, I’m sure, would be more than happy to recommend a competent private detective who’d be willing to move heaven and earth for £2,000. The whole notion is utterly out of the question. There’s nothing more to say.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr Skelton,’ Monroe said.
‘It has nothing to do with feelings. It’s just facts.’
‘Well … if you change your mind …’ Monroe said, and like a conjuror, produced a visiting card from thin air and left it on the table, ‘…you know where to find me.’
‘Ridiculous man,’ Skelton said, when he’d left.
Edgar was looking at the card wistfully. 247
Skelton sighed. ‘What?’
‘I know how you hate all this sort of thing but …’
‘No. Edgar. Please. Do not for another second entertain the thoughts I fear you are entertaining.’
‘The Hannah Dryden case pretty much doubled your fees overnight. The “Man Who Refuses to Lose” had you so inundated you could cherry-pick whatever case took your fancy. And if you feel there are ethical questions to be considered, I’m sure you know of several charities that could do some marvellous work with £2,000.’
‘Edgar … I’m close to my wits’ end here. I shouldn’t have to say this … I neither have the time, the resources nor the know-how to track down Harold Musgrave, and as for finding out the identity of the dead man – I don’t think anybody knows how you’d go about that.’
‘I do,’ Rose said. Skelton and Edgar had almost forgotten she was there. ‘Mr Goodyear might know, anyway.’
It took them a moment to remember that Mr Goodyear was Rose’s covert and possibly illusory inamorato, Vernon.
‘He’s doing a research project at the University of Heidelberg in Germany,’ Rose continued.
‘Yes, we know all about that, but—’
‘Do you remember, I told you about Professor Forsch, one of Vernon’s colleagues at Heidelberg?’
‘Remind me.’
‘And how he’s extending the Bertillon anthropometrical system to encompass some of Kollman and Buchly’s work on facial measurement.’ 248
‘How does this …?’
‘The technique essentially is to take a human skull and, using these tables of measurements and comparisons that Kollman and Buchly have compiled, reconstruct a likeness of the skull’s owner when they were alive and had flesh on the bones. Professor Forsch’s main interest is forensic, but he’s also collaborated with the archaeology department working on skulls found at the Heuneburg excavation and produced drawings of what ancient Celts might actually have looked like.’
‘And who can say they’re accurate?’
‘From bones long buried in the trenches, he also reconstructed the faces of soldiers killed in the war, and his drawings matched army records and could be recognised by relatives so that names could be put on headstones.’
‘It is, as you say, very impressive work, Rose, and I’m sure the police will be very interested, but, as I’ve said, it really is none of our business any more.’
Though every fibre of his being rebelled against it, Skelton was eventually persuaded to accept Monroe’s offer by Edgar’s sentimentality.
‘Rose could go,’ the clerk said, as they walked back to Foxton Row. ‘We could send her over there, to Germany. The Daily Graphic would cover her expenses. She and Vernon could spend some time, thrown together as it were, and … at least something might get settled.’
Skelton knew he was beaten but pretended to ignore his 249clerk and watched a man painting some railings.
‘It always takes a lot more work than you’d imagine, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘You’d think they’d have invented a brush that can do the front, back and sides of a railing all in one go, up and down once and move on to the next.’