Grounds for Appeal by Bernard Knight

stimulated by the hanging of a woman, Ruth Ellis, earlier in the year.
    Richard rose and started back to his office to read the file. ‘Better start seeing if we can do anything to help this unfortunate lady – though of course, she might be guilty anyway. We mustn’t prejudge these things.’
    He winked at Sian as he left.

SEVEN
    O n the following Saturday afternoon, when Sian had gone home to Chepstow and Moira had returned to her house and little dog just down the road, the three doctors assembled in Angela’s sitting room in the front of the house. It was a typical Welsh autumn day outside, a cold drizzle under grey skies, so Richard had no urge to go out and play with his embryonic vineyard on the hillside behind the house.
    Instead, he sat with Angela and Priscilla on the old but comfortable three-piece suite that had been Aunt Gladys’s pride and joy, to talk about the case that he had brought from Bristol. The main issue was medical, but there was the matter of the blood stains to consider and, in any case, he valued the general forensic acumen of the two women, who between them had a good many years’ experience.
    Though Priscilla said she would be leaving them at the end of the month to return to London and look for a job, she was happy to join in the discussion. Her digs in Tintern Parva were comfortable enough but she didn’t particularly fancy spending a wet Saturday afternoon alone there. Richard had talked about getting a television set for Garth House, but so far nothing had materialized. They had agreed to go up to Monmouth that evening for a meal in one of the hotels, but for now, kicking around a forensic problem seemed the best option.
    â€˜I’ve read through all that file,’ he said, pointing at the thick cardboard folder that lay on the low table in front of them. ‘Most of it is circumstantial stuff and umpteen witness statements, all of no real interest to us, apart from timings. You’re welcome to dredge though it, but the only two aspects that seem relevant to us are the time of death and these blood spots on Millie’s sleeve.’
    â€˜Were the convicted woman and the dead man of different blood groups?’ asked Angela.
    â€˜Yes, she was A-Rhesus positive, Shaw was O-positive, both very common groups. The Home Office lab in Bristol did the tests, so I doubt we can fault them.’
    â€˜How good is the prosecution medical evidence on the time of death?’ asked Priscilla, cutting to the core of the matter.
    â€˜In one word, lousy! It’s the old story of doctors who think they are Sherlock Holmes, instead of sticking to what can be proven. Their pathologist gives the time of death to within limits of one hour – which conveniently is the same hour in which Millicent Shaw’s alibi fails.’
    â€˜Who was he, this doctor?’ queried Angela, snug on the settee with her elegant legs curled under her.
    â€˜Anthony Claridge, a hospital pathologist from Gloucester. He was standing in for the regular chap in Bristol, who was on holiday.’
    â€˜Never heard of him,’ said Angela. ‘Do you know him, Richard?’
    â€˜I’ve met him in passing at a meeting of the Forensic Medicine Society. An old chap, must be about retiring age, I would think. Seemed a bit full of his own importance.’
    He opened the file and took out a couple of pages covered in his own writing, notes he had made while reading through all the evidence.
    â€˜Doctor Claridge wheels out all the old traditional stuff about estimating the time since death, most of which is incapable of proof. But with little better to put in its place, lawyers and judges are happy to go along with what’s in the old textbooks, most of which just copy from other books and previous editions, without any critical evaluation of its accuracy.’
    Angela smiled at him, rather fondly.
    â€˜You always get hot under the collar over this, don’t