“That’s what brought us here,” said Miranda.
“Okay, let’s just see what we have — ”
“Be careful with that,” snapped Birbalsingh with a vehemence suggesting he was not used to his authority being usurped, especially by a non-academic and a woman. “It is a very fine cloak. You do not want to cause it damage. These are very good clothes.”
Without turning around, the ME announced, “I am Dr. Ravenscroft, coroner’s office. Who are you, love?”
“This is Professor Birbalsingh from the University of Toronto,” said his colleague. “I’m Shelagh Hubbard, cross-appointed from the ROM. We’re the forensic anthropologists here by request.”
“By request? Well, isn’t that a treat. They let you off campus. I went to York, myself.”
“For the suburban atmosphere, I presume.”
“You do, love, you presume,” she said, standing up. “The real York, as in Yorkshire. Not the nether regions of Toronto and certainly not the ‘New’ one — the five boroughs on the Hudson.”
“So, what do you see?” Miranda interjected to restore professional decorum, although Rachel and Morgan had been enjoying the repartee.
“They’re thoroughly dead.” Ellen Ravenscroft seemed to triumph in a declaration of the obvious. “Their heads are missing. I’d say that’s about it.” She nodded gravely. “They’re all yours, Professor Birbalsingh, Dr. Hubbard. If the heads turn up, kindly inform someone.”
“Anyone in particular?” Miranda asked.
“I’ve got my doubts about the heads,” said Morgan. “They weren’t in the crypt, so they’re probably converted to dust.”
“Well,” said Miranda, “apparently a conversion was called for.”
There was an awkward pause; then, remembering the cross and ring, Morgan chuckled and as soon as he did Rachel Naismith recognized the joke and chortled to herself. Ellen seemed indifferent to missing the point.
“I’m out of here, my friends. Give me a call, Morgan. We’ll talk about missed opportunities. Good night, Miranda. Good night, Officer.”
And almost as an afterthought she said over her shoulder, “Good night, forensic anthropologists. Let me know if you find anything.” And, finally, with a fading sigh, “Do call me, Morgan.”
Miranda rolled her eyes at her partner as Ellen Ravenscroft disappeared down the stairs. He looked away, he squinted back at her, mouthing an indecipherable phrase.
“What is it you’re trying to say, Morgan?”
He shrugged.
“Do you two want more coffee?” Rachel asked.
“Definitely not for me,” said Morgan.
Shelagh Hubbard stood up. “I’d like some coffee, if you wouldn’t mind, Officer. It couldn’t be worse than I make myself.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Miranda.
“Would he like some?” Rachel asked, nodding in the direction of the portly Professor Birbalsingh, crouched over his headless victim. “I’ve got lots. It’s been steeping all night.”
“I think he probably would,” said Dr. Hubbard. “Both black, no sugar.”
“That’s good,” said Rachel. “I didn’t bring extras.”
“Milk and sugar are necessities,” said Morgan, who preferred double-double, and had no intention of enduring more of the poisonous brew.
“Only for those who can’t do without.”
“That is a tautology,” he said.
“Yes it is,” she said, reassuring him.
She walked out of the room and suddenly there was thunderous clatter as if the stairs had collapsed. Miranda was closest and through the door in an instant, calling Rachel’s name.
Rachel waved from the gloom in the downstairs hall.
Miranda heard an embarrassed scramble behind her and wheeled around to see Morgan and Shelagh Hubbard jammed in the doorframe, in a comic simulation of the grotesque embrace on the floor. Miranda rolled her eyes and returned her attention to Rachel, who was waiting.
“You okay?” Miranda called. “What the hell happened?”
“It was only a loose step,” Rachel answered. “I skied my way down. You take care, any of you, coming down after me.” She craned forward to see the couple in the doorway frozen in place by their futile attempts to avoid pressing flesh.
Morgan and the anthropologist disentangled themselves and receded into the room. Miranda followed.
“I see you two are becoming quite friendly,” she whispered to Morgan, looking at Shelagh Hubbard.
The woman was preternaturally attractive; her pale skin and light blue eyes and long blond hair, pulled tightly against her skull, made her seem otherworldly, but not ethereal; less ghostlike than deadly.
Shelagh Hubbard bent down to exchange words with Professor Birbalsingh. He was closely examining the remnants of dried flesh at the collars of each corpse, something that held his interest more than anything the living could possibly offer. He nodded assent.
The woman took out her cellphone, explaining that since the cadavers had been inappropriately disentombed, they were vulnerable. She did not explain how or to what. Rapid deterioration, Miranda supposed; airborne bacteria, diseases of the dead. They needed to get the bodies to the lab at the university as soon as transportation could be arranged. Ambulance or hearse? Miranda wondered. Neither seemed quite suitable.
With the medical examiner gone, the forensic anthropologists were in charge. The police function was to offer assistance, guard the remains, and bear witness to the irrevocability of death. It was time, Miranda thought, for the ghouls to go home. She glanced at Morgan and saw that he was gazing at Dr. Hubbard, perhaps savouring the effects of their fleeting embrace. The woman was wearing perfume, Miranda realized; a subtle scent but inescapable. She had dressed for the occasion.
Miranda considered the implicit judgment about disturbing the bodies. Almost certainly the uniforms who answered the call had moved them only enough to identify the problem. Normal procedure would demand nothing be disturbed. But at some point, as Morgan had suggested, time intrudes and evidentiary materials simply become artifacts.
Morgan was lingering. He had a genuine interest in forensic anthropology. Little was revealed, however, by observing the mental activities of the two academics, who were scrutinizing and registering from their specialized perspectives. This must be how we appear, he thought, prowling the scene of a crime — cerebral and disengaged. He chuckled at the image as he admired Dr. Hubbard.
Miranda coughed throatily, seemed to listen for something elusive, then coughed again. Then she announced, “I’m going to scream.”
Morgan looked puzzled, tolerant.
She shrieked wickedly in variable pitch.
A racket from downstairs was followed by thumping footsteps, and Officer Naismith sprang through the doorway, her semi-automatic clasped in both hands. Everyone froze.
For a moment even the bodies seemed part of an allegorical danse macabre, with Rachel cast in the role of Death.
Then the tableau collapsed in laughter, much to the officer’s annoyance.
“Sorry,” Miranda said. “I should have warned you.”
Rachel looked down at her Glock semi-automatic, summoned an indignant smile, and tucked it back in its holster.
“Bang bang,” she said.
Good recovery, Morgan thought. He regarded Miranda with bewildered affection, and waited.
“Listen,” Miranda said. “You can hear the emptiness.”
Nice, thought Morgan, imagining the music of the spheres.
“I noticed when we were in the kitchen — I’ve never figured out why people say the word echo to hear an echo. I wonder what they say in Chinese.”
She had their attention.
“Okay,” she said. “Listen.”
