periodically to clear her ears, eyes shifting from wonderment at the wreck below to monitor her companions’ progress, ensuring that they stayed within easy reach of each other.
Twenty minutes south of Tobermory, Peter Singh asked Morgan, “What is the significance that her parents were morticians?”
“Rachel? I’m sure most kids of funeral directors grow up excessively normal. It’s almost de rigueur. But it seems likely Rachel was exposed as a child to the arts of embalming and preparing corpses for public display in ways that have shaped her life ever since. She acquired skills and a fascination with death, the way a lawyer’s kid will become a classroom advocate and end up as an adult serving hard time for manipulating the limits of power. Or a politician.”
“My goodness, I am glad my father was a grocer!”
“Grocers’ kids become cops.”
“Actually, he was a lawyer, himself, in Punjab, but that is another story.” After a few moments, when all they could hear was the hum of the tires on pavement, he asked, “Do you think Rachel could have killed the Hogg’s Hollow couple in Professor Shelagh Hubbard’s farmhouse? Is there any possibility?”
“Strong circumstantial evidence plus DNA ties Hubbard, herself, to those two. She almost certainly brought the colonial clothes from England; she arranged the corpses just so — ”
“Strangers in an eternal embrace. That really is a wicked notion.”
“Let’s say Rachel and Alexander recognized Hubbard’s grisly tableau at Hogg’s Hollow as a signature crime,” Morgan continued. “They were supposed to. But there was a problem: they would suspect that Miranda and I, and you, might eventually resolve the mystery and find it led back, one way or another, to them — an eventuality they preferred to avoid. So they created the counterfeit journals together. Rachel had the talent — she was a genius with pens and paper. Pope supplied the details of the London murders. He would, of course, know them intimately. And they adjusted the narrative chronology to coincide with Shelagh’s tenure at the museum.”
“But what about your murder?”
“My murder? No, yes, well. The Huron burial site — I think — was legitimate, if incredibly naive. Dr. Hubbard’s own genius was nothing if not erratic. It would establish her professional reputation to discover the bones of a Jesuit saint in a Huron grave. I don’t think she had any intention of putting me in there at all. But as Professor Birbalsingh said, it was a quixotic fabrication.” This pleased Morgan, to think he had not been in jeopardy. Sometimes a sauna is just a sauna. “She must have told Rachel and Alexander about her project, and about my visit. They conflated the two stories and wrote up the third journal as if my death were at the centre of her plans. That would draw our guaranteed attention… to her alone. Then they killed her. More precisely, Rachel killed her. I’m sure Alexander kept his distance. They both realized he was the more likely suspect.”
“Then why not just make her body disappear? Leave it a cold case. Why fake an abduction?”
“They wanted us to think Shelagh Hubbard was at the dead centre of another theatrical contrivance. Letting the scene fade to black would have been anticlimactic.”
“But the violets? They expected you to find her body; they practically invited you to find it.”
“They couldn’t resist a good yarn. They were sufficiently arrogant to believe we’d grow old searching for an explanation. That undoubtedly pleased them.”
“Hubris!” said Peter Singh, drawing the word from his sketchy memory of lectures in classical drama. “Seeding the grave of a saint with a fresh cadaver. That opened up a whole new story, in fact.”
“Which must have pleased them immensely. Perhaps each in a different way: morbid curiosity, to see how it would all turn out; the thrill of both directing the drama and being on stage. They both knew murders don’t just happen — they have lives of their own.”
“So to speak.”
“So to speak. In subsuming Alexander’s saint in a story where she had the power, Rachel would have made sure Pope wasn’t compromised — and we had no reason to suspect her. As far as we knew, she was in Toronto, three or four hours away.”
Suddenly, they were in Tobermory.
“We’re here, Peter. Head straight for the docks. If we’re lucky they haven’t gone out yet.” Morgan could feel his heart thumping inside his chest. He knew how important it was to remain calm, but what started as vague anxieties in the middle of the night had escalated into genuine fear for his partner’s survival.
The divers glided away from the cement mooring block and gathered in a hovering conclave just over the rocky bottom beside what remained of an early twentieth-century excursion steamer. The hull, virtually intact, lay heeled over at an angle so that the remains of the superstructure loomed ominously above them. Miranda checked her depth gauge. They were at about sixty-six feet, or twenty metres. Divers are ambi-dimensional. The wreck was down far enough to escape the surge from the wildest of storms, yet shallow enough to be fairly accessible. Apart from layers of zebra mussels and lucent green algae, the steel hull appeared remarkably well-preserved.
With a circular upward sweep of her hand Rachel indicated she wanted to rise partway and circumnavigate the ship in an initial reconnaissance. They swam in a delta formation, with Rachel in the lead. On the upper side they found where the hull had been staved in. From the discrete shape and shear edges of the gaping hole, and the fact that it must have been at the waterline, Miranda deduced the ship had gone down as the result of an offshore collision rather than slamming against the rocks before slipping back into the depths.
She wondered how many had died. Was the sinking ship struggling toward land so that lifeboats could reach the shore, or steaming away to avoid breaking up on the rocks? She wished she knew the history; it felt eerie to be there, not knowing how many lives had been lost and under what circumstances. It made her feel like an invader, not knowing, like a ghoul, exposing open graves to her own invidious gaze.
Once they had circled the ship, Rachel led them up to the wheelhouse, which leaned precariously, and they could see the wheel and the binnacle were intact. Now that the wreck was part of a national marine park, attached artifacts would probably remain in position for the duration. Whatever that meant.
Miranda was relieved when Rachel did not try to enter the wheelhouse but passed up and over the side of the hull, then felt her breath quicken as she realized they were descending toward the gaping wound in the ship’s upper side. Rachel hovered over the hole and signalled for the others to turn on their flashlights. Giving them the “okay” sign with thumb to forefinger, she turned and with a slight kick of her fins descended into the darkness. Alexander motioned for Miranda to follow, which she did reluctantly, and he came immediately after. She thought they had agreed there would be no penetration, but these were her friends and they seemed almost casually confident.
Once inside the hull, her eyes adjusted to the murky light. She was disconcerted by the metallic echo of their air bubbling against the steel walls and bulkheads. The rumble of her own exhaled breath as it rushed past her ears was the only underwater sound she was used to. Another sound intruded — an insistent pounding — and she was unnerved to recognize her own heartbeat. Claustrophobia pressed and she pushed back, determined to suppress even the possibility of panic. She focused on maintaining neutral buoyancy. She had fine-tuned the air in her BCD on descent to compensate for the pressure squeezing air out of her 7 ml wetsuit. She carried weights precisely matched to counter body fat. She was pleased — she weighed nothing. Strengthened by vanity, she expanded her mental horizon and took comfort in seeing Rachel immediately ahead and, finding herself a flickering shadow in Alexander’s flashlight beam, in knowing Alexander was just behind her.
The three of them edged forward in file, using only the slightest intake or exhalation of breath to modify their relative plane, careful to stir up as little sediment as possible. In the midst of the criss-cross beams of three flashlights illuminating their surroundings, Miranda felt disoriented as she tried to distinguish between ceilings and floors. Structural angles were askew but up and down were more certain, since debris was gathered beneath them and their bubbles rose overhead.
Rachel motioned with her light and they followed her through a door that opened at a crazy slant into a passageway. In file they progressed toward a doorway gaping open at the far end. Rachel veered off and entered as if she knew where she was going. For a moment she was out of sight. Miranda felt reassured as Alexander’s light beam cast her shadow into the gloom ahead and a surge of relief when she turned through the doorway and discovered Rachel at the far end of a large cabin with three portholes that previous divers had scraped clear.
The three of them gently manoeuvred until they were close enough to touch. They began breathing in unison, suspended in the middle of this alien world, their bubbles roaring. Miranda could still hear the drumming of her heart against the inside of her skull but the beat was slower, now, and regular. Rachel signalled to extinguish their lights by pressing the beams against their stomachs. Instead of the absolute darkness that Miranda expected, she was astonished by the illumination assaulting the portholes from the ambient light in the water outside, and surprised at
