underwear under his trousers. The frock coat is fine worsted but his pants are a really coarse twill. You can bet they didn’t get dressed like that on their own.”
“The clothes are as valuable as the lovers themselves,” Shelagh Hubbard observed.
“I doubt they would have agreed,” said Morgan.
Shelagh Hubbard smiled enigmatically.
“And the bodies?” he asked. “They’ll be examined and recorded and then shelved, I suppose.”
“We really should get back to work.”
“What are we looking for?” he asked.
“We? Anything at all. The cause or causes of death. They might have died separately. You could help us track down their identities, Detective. Not that it really matters, but it might give us insight into why they were killed. I doubt we’ll ever know by whom.”
“It matters. Without names, they’re generic,” Morgan observed. “Without a story, they’re artifacts.”
“I think you’d make a better poet than professor,” said Joleen.
“Thank you,” said Morgan.
“We’re looking for anomalies,” explained Shelagh Hubbard. “Discovery through difference: what is out of place, what distinguishes these individuals from others, who are they now? As bodies, they’re generic, yes, but as artifacts they are a present phenomenon, one which we need to study, Mr. Morgan.”
“Sorry. Carry on, by all means. I’ll just take a peak in the box.”
“Those are the heads. I think it would be better if you left them alone for now. We need to examine them in laboratory conditions.”
“We’re in a laboratory,” he said as he lifted the top off the box. The heads had been carefully arranged side by side, protected from sliding about during transportation by a black, velvety material that bunched up between them. He instinctively reached down to suppress the material so that they could seem more together.
Shelagh Hubbard placed her hand on his arm, trying to draw him back. “These must be considered scientific specimens. If you don’t mind.”
“I do, actually.” He pulled away. Unsure whether he was joking or trying somehow to restore a little of their lost humanity to the dead, he said, “The least we could do is set the box up on its side so they can observe what they’re missing.” He could hear Joleen suppress a giggle.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Shelagh Hubbard. She fixed her gaze on Morgan with an intensity that made him shudder. She seemed able to turn her allure on or off like a wilful chameleon. Her pale eyes had taken on a predatory lustre and the death’s-head appearance of her high cheekbones, accentuated by her blond hair pulled back tightly against her skull, seemed suddenly, dangerously exciting. In spite of his better judgment Morgan felt drawn in, wanting vaguely to please her, uncertain what was required.
She stood unnaturally close. He tried to hold his ground. He thought he felt the curve of her breast against his chest as she turned slightly to the side. She turned again, and this time there was no mistake. She was using sexuality as an instrument of intimidation. She leaned into him. He flinched, then to her surprise he pushed forward, pressing his body against hers. For the briefest moment they stood torso to torso in an armless embrace. He could feel her breasts, both of them, the tight roundness of her belly, her upper thighs. He did an instant inventory, then she turned and stepped away as if nothing had happened.
Morgan looked down into the box. “Her lips are sealed,” he said.
“Death has a way of doing that,” said Shelagh Hubbard.
“No, I mean it. They’re sewn shut.” He pointed to a thread barely visible among creases of wizened flesh.
“Not an uncommon funerary practice,” she said.
“Let me see that,” said the professor, who suddenly appeared beside them. Ignoring prescribed methodology he unceremoniously picked up the woman’s head by the hair and carried it over to an examining table to get a better look under the bright illumination. He plunked it down close to the stump of her companion’s neck. For a moment the professor seemed confused. Then he took the head in his hands and moved to the other table where he set it in place above the woman’s own body. He’s not immune to the subtle proprieties of death, thought Morgan.
Morgan bent close to observe as the professor used a spatula and a small scalpel to pry between the lips and sever the threads. Her lips were drawn tight against her teeth, but with the thread gone, they shrank back and her mouth opened a little to the light. Morgan leaned closer.
“Oh, my goodness,” he gasped in astonishment.
Professor Birbalsingh fixed his gaze on the woman’s mouth. Without saying a word, he pulled back the leathery flesh of her lips. She had a remarkably good set of teeth. He gently forced them apart. He stood upright but said nothing. He glanced at Morgan in affirmation, then shifted his line of vision and seemed to become absorbed in something outside the windows.
“Well now,” said Morgan. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to terminate your inquiry, professor.”
The graduate student sidled closer to the centre of attention, smiling at some private joke.
“Could I use your cellphone, Joleen?” Morgan asked. “I need to call the coroner’s office, police headquarters, and my partner in crime.”
“What on earth?” said Shelagh Hubbard as if she were about to protest. Professor Birbalsingh remained silent.
“People her age always have cellphones,” Morgan explained.
Ignoring him, Shelagh Hubbard moved forward, and for a moment seemed to lose herself in the revelation of what appeared to be glistening composite fillings in the dead woman’s skull. Slowly, her posture stiffened and, avoiding Morgan’s gaze, she too looked out the windows into the middle distance, perhaps observing the lost possibilities of a research grant and easy tenure.
Morgan felt strangely elated, vindicated somehow, although he had been as beguiled by the simulations of antiquity as the experts. The case was now under his jurisdiction; a case and not just a case study. But he also felt oppressed: what had appeared to be a quirky historical windfall was now a genuine tragedy. This was no longer about death — it was about dying.
“Oh, my God,” said Joleen Chau, standing between the cadavers, “I’ve never seen a real dead person before!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Miranda was luxuriating in the warmth of her overheated apartment, lying in on a leisurely Saturday off work. She rolled over languidly, shifting the flannel sheet off and away, and stretched until her muscles tingled through every part of her body. She arched against the bed, feeling wonderfully lithe and sexual, emotionally vague, intellectually drifting, like she had been making love for hours.
Damn it, she thought. I wish I could remember my dreams.
Suddenly, a loud thumping on the door wrenched her out of her reverie. My God, she thought. What’s Morgan doing here at a time like this?
It had to be him. The building superintendent would have knocked deferentially, and the few people she knew in neighbouring apartments would telephone first. He must have slipped past the security door. She looked around for a robe. In movies there is always a dressing gown within hand’s reach of the bed.
The hell with it, she mumbled to herself. I pay the heating bills, I’ll wear what I want. By the time she got to the door, she was having second thoughts. What if it’s Girl Guides selling cookies, or Jehovah’s Witnesses? She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and nothing else. She looked good. If it’s a couple of fresh-faced Mormons, I might let them in.
It was Morgan.
Through the peephole he looked grotesquely distorted. He was leaning so close, all she could see was the smile. His version of the Cheshire Cat; he had done it before, with full explanation. She opened the door. His face
