The shop, such as it was, had nothing to sell. That was the thing about undertakers, they existed in a world of euphemism, where nothing was allowed to be what it was. A single counter, glass topped, held a vase of white lilies, an open book of condolence, and a brass pushdown bell. There were some uncomfortable wooden chairs and a low coffee table holding three copies of the
Then he walloped the bell and shouted, ‘Shop!’ They listened to the silence that says you are being ignored.
Earlier that morning Ely police had given the press brief details on the body found in the diggers’ trench. Dryden had joined a gaggle of local and regional press at the briefing room at the police station. The deceased was male, mid twenties to late thirties, below average height at around five foot eight inches, no distinguishing features with one spectacular exception: the bullet hole in the forehead just above the right eye. It was the police pathologist’s opinion that the victim had died in excess of thirty years ago – probably much more. Dating the bones was problematic, owing to the variable effects of the pine casing of the tunnel and the possible presence of an air flow through the cavity. Samples had been removed, routinely, for carbon dating. But as far as the enquiry was concerned the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming: initial examination of the candlestick and pearls indicated that they had been manufactured between 1880 and 1940. The tunnel was clearly wartime. Enquiries would proceed: but they were not a priority. Both the Italian and German embassies in London had been informed of the discovery. Cause of death, on the balance of probability, was the gunshot, accepting it had been delivered before the collapse of the clay roof of the tunnel. The victim was shoeless and appeared to have been wearing shorts and a light top – both of which had rotted in the damp clay. A few threads remained for the forensic scientists to examine but they held out little hope the results would be either conclusive or illuminating. There was no jewellery on the body, the teeth held no fillings. The ID disc found with the body was unreadable but had been forwarded to the town museum for cleaning: again, the best guess was that it was for PoW identification.
The body had been released for burial pending an inquest to be opened later that day, judged by the police a pure formality. Death by misadventure was the only plausible coroner’s verdict given the complete lack of any other evidence at the scene and the probable length of time since the death occurred. Professor Valgimigli had indicated that the four universities undertaking the work at California were happy to meet the costs of a casket and tombstone. Site workers would also undertake an internet search and attempt to contact ex-prisoners’ associations and the relevant Whitehall authorities. The universities accepted that identification might prove impossible, and were ready to shoulder the entire cost of the burial, which could now proceed.
Dryden was about to repeat his performance on the push-bell when a man in a charcoal suit appeared between black velveteen curtains, popping up like a puppeteer. Dryden got a whiff of linseed oil, and the cloying scent of the lilies seemed to deepen.
‘Gentlemen?’ he said, placing his hands neatly on the glass counter top. Dryden imagined that when he lifted them away the counter would still be spotless. The pale cream pinstripe of the charcoal-grey suit perfectly matched the man’s hair, a carapace of white, held perfectly in place like a funeral orchid.
‘My name is Azeglio Valgimigli. Professor Azeglio Valgimigli. The, er, unfortunate man discovered at the archaeological dig: I wish to pay for the casket and so on, and possibly the burial also, and the coroner has agreed to this. I understand that you have been informed of this decision and that you have these… remains here?’
The man offered his hand: ‘Thomas Alder. This way.’
The undertaker led them into a large showroom full of caskets and coffins: a mini-supermarket of death. Alder went into a long rehearsed sales pitch, obscured by Dickensian locution, but Valgimigli seemed distracted: he quickly chose an expensive and stylish oak casket with brushed steel handles. Then, as quickly, a headstone in Italian marble.
Burial, Alder said, was now scheduled for the following week, possibly Monday.
‘So soon,’ said Valgimigli, adding without pause that the entire archaeological team would attend, and, if available, a minor functionary from the Italian Consulate in Bedford. The German Embassy in London would send a wreath.
The formalities over with, Valgimigli looked around. ‘Could I see him?’ he asked.
Alder nodded, the ever-present smile only weakening as Dryden fell in behind them with grossly inappropriate enthusiasm.
‘We were only able to collect the remains this morning. We will now be able to transfer them to the casket you have chosen,’ he said, pacing ahead.
Alder led them through a chapel of rest where several coffins stood with flowers set in vases on their lids. Beyond was a small anteroom with a single stained-glass window depicting an angel rising on beams of light.
On a small table a rectangular cardboard box was marked with police sticky ribbon: ‘Human Remains’. It held the skeleton, packed for transit, the skull resting on the sternum and upper ribs, the leg and arm bones laid parallel to the side.
‘Is it complete?’ asked Dryden.
‘Oh yes,’ said Alder. ‘Quite. In the casket the bones will be laid out properly and some additional weight added to the coffin to approximate that of the actual body. We don’t want the pallbearers lifting it too easily – it suggests unpleasant questions to the mourners. Usually we include items provided by the family – but here… unless you have any suggestions, Professor?’
Valgimigli didn’t speak but touched the skull lightly, almost caressing the cranium with his wedding-ring finger.
‘No.’
‘There’s the museum,’ said Dryden. ‘They have the contents of the camp, at least what was left after the war. Why not ask them for something? Some medals perhaps, for the unknown escapee.’
Everyone nodded. ‘Very appropriate,’ said Alder. ‘The weight does not matter so much – we can make up the difference with stone from the workshop.’
Suddenly Valgimigli spoke, his voice overloud in the small hushed space. ‘It is likely he was a Roman Catholic, of course. But, again, we may never know. I would suggest a crucifix as well perhaps.’
Alder nodded. ‘I’ll get some laid out for you to see. In the meantime – perhaps you would like a few minutes.’ A statement rather than a question, and he was gone before they could decline.
