shrugged.
Gregory, not saying a word, moved closer to the unshapely canvas mound, carefully lifted the edge of the stiff sheet, then pulled the whole thing off and threw it to the side.
This revealed a naked body. It was resting on its side with its arms and legs bent, as if it were kneeling on something invisible or pushing against something. A wide furrow in the snow extended from the lower part of the body to directly under the window. About two paces beyond the body’s head was the doorstep. The snow in that space was smooth.
“Why don’t you examine him,” Gregory suggested, getting up again. The blood rushed to his face. “Who is he?” he asked the constable, who was in the process of pulling his cap down over his eyes to protect them from the sun.
“Hansel, sir. John Hansel. He owned a small dyeing plant near here.”
Gregory watched while Sorensen, wearing a pair of rubber gloves he had taken out of an ordinary briefcase, felt the corpse’s legs and hands, drew back the eyelids, and examined the spinal curvature.
“Was he a German?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe by ancestry, but I never heard anything about it. His parents always lived around here.”
“When did he die?”
“Yesterday morning, sir. The doctor said it was a heart attack. He had a heart condition for a long time and wasn’t supposed to work anymore but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything after his wife left him for another guy.”
“Were there any other bodies in the mortuary?”
Sorensen stood up, brushed his knee with a handkerchief, rubbed an invisible spot off his sleeve, and carefully slipped the rubber gloves back into his briefcase.
“There was one the day before yesterday, sir, but it’s already been buried. The funeral was yesterday, at noon.”
“So this is the only body that’s been here since noon yesterday?”
“That’s right sir, only this one.”
“Well, Doctor?”
Gregory walked over to Sorensen. They stood together under a willow bush for a moment, but the melting snow on its branches soon began to drip on them.
“What can I tell you?”
Sorensen sounded annoyed.
“Death took place about twenty-four hours ago. The stains on the jaw, as you can see, indicate rigor mortis.”
“What about the extremities? Well, speak up — don’t you have anything to tell me?”
Both men lowered their voices but they spoke angrily.
“You saw it yourself.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“All right — there’s no rigor mortis. Not a sign; someone must have interrupted it. Someone interrupted it — let’s leave it at that and call it quits.”
“It won’t come back?”
“Sometimes it does, at least to a certain degree, but not always. Is this very important?”
“Are you sure there was any to begin with?”
“There’s always rigor mortis. You should know that. And please don’t ask me any more questions because I’ve already told you all I know.”
“Thanks a lot,” Gregory said, not bothering to hide his irritation. He walked over to the door. It was still open, but in order to go in he had to step over the body — actually, to jump over it, since the whole area had already been trampled enough and he didn’t want to leave any unnecessary footprints. Gregory took hold of the latch from the side and pulled. The door, stuck in the snow, didn’t budge. He tugged harder; this time, the door, with a shrill creak, slammed into the wall. It was pitch dark inside, and there was a wide puddle of melted snow on the doorsill. Closing his eyes and waiting patiently until they were accustomed to the darkness, Gregory stood for a moment in the unpleasant cold draft from the walls.
The mortuary was lit slightly by some light from the small northern window — the broken one; the other window, covered with whitewash, was barely translucent. Looking around, Gregory saw a coffin strewn with shavings standing in the center of the beaten earth floor. Leaning against it was a fir and spruce mourning wreath wrapped in a black ribbon with the letters “R.I.P.” in gold. The coffin lid stood in a corner against the wall. There were more wood shavings scattered beneath the window; alongside the other wall Gregory saw a pickaxe, a shovel, and several coils of dirty, clay-encrusted rope. There were also a few wooden boards.
Gregory went outside again, closing his eyes for a second in the painful brightness. The constable was covering the corpse with the canvas, trying very hard not to touch it.
“You had the duty until three this morning, right?” asked Gregory, walking over to him.
“That’s right, sir.” The constable straightened up.
“Where was the body?”
“When I was on duty, sir? In the coffin.”
“How do you know? Did you check it?”
“Yes sir.”
“How, by opening the door?”
“No sir, but I shined my flashlight through the window.”
“Was the windowpane broken?”
“No.”
“What about the coffin?”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Was the coffin open?”
“Yes sir.”
“What position was the corpse in?”
“The usual one, sir.”
“Why wasn’t it dressed?”
The constable livened up a little.
“The funeral was supposed to be today, sir. About the clothing — it’s a long story, it is. When Hansel’s wife walked out on him — that was two years ago — his sister moved in. She’s a pretty difficult woman, hard to get along with. Well, he died in the middle of breakfast and she didn’t want to give up the suit he was wearing because it was too new. She was supposed to give an old suit to the undertaker, but when he came to pick up the body she told him she’d decided to take an even older suit and dye it black. The undertaker didn’t want to make another trip, so he took the body the way it was. She was supposed to bring the suit this morning—”
“Gregory, I want to go back to London. You don’t need me here anymore,” Sorensen interrupted. “Let me take the car. You can get another one at the station house.”
“We’ll talk about that in a minute,” Gregory snapped. Sorensen was beginning to get on his nerves. A moment later, though, he added, “I’ll try to work something out for you.” Gregory was staring at the wrinkled canvas. Though he’d only seen the corpse for a few moments, he remembered it vividly. The dead man was a little under sixty years old. He had tired, work-stained palms. His head was almost bald, and there was a gray stubble covering his neck and cheeks. Most distinctly etched in Gregory’s memory, however, was the expression of surprise in the half-closed, clouded eyes. It was beginning to get warmer, and Gregory wanted to throw off his coat. He tried impatiently to calculate how long it would be before the sun reached the areas that were still in the shade. It was absolutely necessary to get casts of all the footprints and other markings before the snow melted.
He was about to send the constable up the road when he saw his crew approaching. Gregory walked over to meet them.
“It’s about time. Now listen, the snow is beginning to melt so don’t waste any time. Thomas, I’m particularly interested in the prints between the window and the door, but the snow is wet, so be careful or everything will fall apart! I’m going into town now. When you finish with the prints, measure everything that looks important, and get
