“How do you do, Mr. Morris?” he exclaimed. “So sorry to keep you waiting, but I was unfortunately detained at a consultation.”
Here Mrs. Morris sourly intervened to explain who I was; upon which he shook my hand again, and expressed his joy at making my acquaintance. He also made polite inquiries as to our hostess’ health, which she acknowledged gruffly over her shoulder as she preceded us along the passage, which was now pitch-dark, and where Cropper dropped his hat and trod on it, finally bumping his head against the unseen wall in a frantic effort to recover it.
When we emerged into the dimly lighted hall, I observed the two ladies peering inquisitively out of the drawing-room door. But Mrs. Morris took no notice of them, leading the way directly up the stairs to the room with which I was already familiar. It was poorly illuminated by a single gas-bracket over the fireplace, but the light was enough to show us a coffin resting on three chairs, and beyond it the shadowy figure of a man whom I recognized as Mr. Morris.
We crossed the room to the coffin, which was plainly finished with zinc fastenings, in accordance with the regulations of the cremation authorities, and had let into the top what I first took to be a pane of glass, but which turned out to be a plate of clear celluloid. When we had made our salutations to Mr. Morris, Cropper and I looked in through the celluloid window. The yellow, shrunken face of the dead man, surmounted by the skull cap which he had always worn, looked so little changed that he might still have been in the drowsy, torpid state in which I had been accustomed to see him. He had always looked so like a dead man that the final transition was hardly noticeable.
“I suppose,” said Morris, “you would like to have the coffin-lid taken off?”
“God bless my soul, yes!” exclaimed Cropper. “What are we here for? We shall want him out of the coffin, too.”
“Are you proposing to make a postmortem?” I asked, observing that Dr. Cropper had brought a good-sized handbag. “It seems hardly necessary, as we both know what he died of.”
Cropper shook his head. “That won’t do,” said he. “You mustn’t treat a cremation certificate as a mere formality. We have got to certify that we have verified the cause of death. Looking at a body through a window is not verifying the cause of death. We should cut a pretty figure in a court of law if any question arose and we had to admit that we had certified without any examination at all. But we needn’t do much, you know. Just get the body out on the bed and a single small incision will settle the nature of the growth. Then everything will be regular and in order. I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Morris,” he added, suavely, turning to that lady.
“You must do what you think necessary,” she replied, indifferently. “It is no affair of mine;” and with this she went out of the room and shut the door.
While we had been speaking, Mr. Morris, who apparently had kept a screwdriver in readiness for the possible contingency, had been neatly extracting the zinc screws and now lifted off the coffin-lid. Then the three of us raised the shrivelled body—it was as light as a child’s—and laid it on the bed. I left Cropper to do what he thought necessary, and while he was unpacking his instruments I took the opportunity to have a good look at Mr. Morris; for it is a singular fact that in all the weeks of my attendance at this house I had never come into contact with him since that first morning when I had caught a momentary glimpse of him as he looked out over the blind through the glazed shop door. In the interval his appearance had changed considerably for the better. He was no longer a merely unshaved man; his beard had grown to a respectable length, and, so far as I could judge in the uncertain light, the harelip scar was completely concealed by his moustache.
“Let me see,” said Cropper, as he polished a scalpel on the palm of his hand, “when did you say Mr. Bendelow died?”
“Yesterday afternoon at about five o’clock,” replied Mr. Morris.
“Did he really?” said Cropper, lifting one of the limp arms and letting it drop on the bed. “Yesterday afternoon! Now, Gray, doesn’t that show how careful one should be in giving opinions as to the time that has elapsed since death? If I had been shown this body and asked how long the man had been dead, I should have said three or four days. There isn’t the least trace of rigor mortis left; and the other appearances—but there it is. You are never safe in giving dogmatic opinions.”
“No,” I agreed. “I should have said he had been dead more than twenty-four hours. But I suppose there is a good deal of variation.”
“There is,” he replied. “You can’t apply averages to particular cases.”
I did not consider it necessary to take any active part in the proceedings. It was his diagnosis, and it was for him to verify it. At his request Mr. Morris fetched a candle and held it as he was directed; and while these preparations were in progress, I looked out of the window, which commanded a partial view of the canal. The moon had now risen and its full light fell on the white-painted hull of the Dutch sloop, which had come to rest and made fast alongside a small wharf. It was quite a pleasant picture, strangely at variance with the squalid neighbourhood around. As I looked down on the little vessel, with the ruddy light glowing from the deck-house windows and casting shimmering reflections in the quiet water, the sight seemed to carry me far away from the sordid
