I close the office door and make a mental note to find out whether there’s anything I should be doing in the office, dusting or such. Then I retreat to finish cleaning the showroom and reception area.
When I’m done, I know I should head off to bed. An hour ago, I’d been ready to cuddle down in a casket to get a bit of rest. Now my work’s finally done, and my brain is whizzing so fast I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.
That locked door must be the preparation room. It must also be where they keep the bodies awaiting burial.
As a police officer, I’ve sat—or stood—in on autopsies. My colleagues always tease that I’m such a keener I jump at the chance to prove myself in anything, even autopsy duty. The truth is that I’m genuinely interested.
I’ve even seen an embalming. I’d been interviewing a mortician on a case, and he’d been up to his eyeballs in bodies, so I’d talked to him while he worked. I suspect that violates some professional code of privacy, but when I’d expressed an interest in seeing the process, he’d happily demonstrated. He also called the next day to ask me out. I said no, but not without a stab of guilt. I suspect putting “mortician” on your dating profile doesn’t win you a lot of right swipes.
As for the preparations, I’d found them fascinating. All that work to give people one last look at their loved one, and they’ll still complain that Aunt Agnes never wore her hair that way. This reminds me of Nan, but in a strange way, thinking about the dead helps quiet the gibbering voice that whispers my grandmother is probably already dead, probably lying in a place like this.
What if she is? Would that be any different than coming back from my jog that night to find she’d passed while I was gone? I would have felt horrible not being there, but I also must admit that we’d said what needed to be said. I just selfishly wanted more time. If she is gone, then her body may be in a place like this, but her spirit is not and the memory of her is not.
I double-check the door. Yep, still locked. I scan the room for something I can use to pick the lock with. Amazing how many of those “junior police officer” kits come with tools and instructions for opening locks, as if breaking and entering is just part of the job.
I return to Gray’s office and ease open a drawer, looking for—
A hard rap sounds at a distant door, seemingly from the front of the house. I slam the drawer shut, wincing as everything inside jostles. I hurry out of the funeral parlor into the main hall. A staccato rap sounds again, and I realize it comes not at the front door but at the rear.
Is a housemaid allowed—or even expected—to answer the back door? I could catch shit either way. The choice, then, is mine. Which means there’s no choice at all. It’s a late-night knock at the back door to a funeral parlor. Of course I want to know who it is.
I must still play the simpering maid, though, so I set my foot behind the door and crack it open a scant inch, while gripping a letter opener in my hidden hand.
I peer through the crack to see a man far more befitting my mental image of a Victorian gentleman … and possibly befitting my romance-loving friends’, too. He wears what I want to call a frock coat, with a vest underneath and a starched white shirt. A wide tie with a jeweled stickpin completes the look. He’s around Gray’s age and has sandy brown hair, sideburns, and a neat mustache. Despite the facial hair not being to my taste, he’s handsome in that ordinary way that I consider the best kind of good-looking. Nothing flashy, just really easy on the eyes.
It takes me a moment to notice the man isn’t alone. Behind him stands a guy probably not much older than Catriona, wearing what is unmistakably a police uniform.
“Miss Catriona.” The older man smiles, and there’s a gap between his front teeth, a charming one that I’m glad no modern orthodontist closed. “So good to see you up and about. I saw the light and thought it must be Duncan working late.”
“No, sir,” I say, my gaze demurely lowered. “It is only myself, finishing my chores. Would you like me to fetch Dr. Gray?”
“Please.”
I slide the letter opener into my sleeve as I pull the door wide and invite them in. It’s only as the two men move inside that I see the wagon in the courtyard. And a foot hanging out of it.
Oh, my. This is interesting.
“I will tell the doctor you’re here,” I say. Then I pause. “Apologies, sir, but…” I rub the bump on my temple. “This has left me a wee bit confused. I know you are an associate of Dr. Gray’s, and that we have met before, and that you work for the police. Yet your name escapes me.”
He only smiles. “Tell Dr. Gray that Hugh McCreadie is here to see him.” He motions at the young man. “And this is Police Constable Findlay, whom I believe you know.”
McCreadie’s eyes twinkle, and I glance over at Findlay, who nods stiffly.
“Perhaps you two can take a moment to speak later,” McCreadie says.
“That won’t be necessary,” Findlay says, his voice as stiff as that nod.
McCreadie looks between us and sighs. “That’s why you’ve been off today, is it? A bit of trouble between you and the lass?”
“Nothing of concern, sir.”
So Catriona had some romantic entanglement with the young constable? That’s awkward, and I kinda do hope they have had a falling-out, for my sake. Catriona can fix that once she’s back.
I turn to the older man. “Inspector McCreadie, is it?” I say, remembering the proper title for police detectives in Scotland.
He chuckles. “I’m not English, lass. I’m a Scottish criminal officer.”
When I hesitate, he says, “Detective McCreadie.”
Detective. The same title I use in Canada. That’ll make it easy to remember.
“Thank you,” I say. “I shall tell—”
“No need, Catriona.” Gray’s voice cuts through mine, and I glance up to see him descending the stairs. “Hello, Hugh. I thought I heard your voice.”
“No,” McCreadie says. “You sensed that rustle in the air that tells you something is afoot, something interesting. I have brought a fresh intellectual adventure for that brain of yours, so if we may step inside…”
Gray turns to me. “I’ve no further need of you this evening, Catriona.”
I bob a quarter curtsy. “Thank you, sir. I left my dusting rag inside. I shall fetch it and depart out the other door.”
With a wave from Gray, I’m dismissed. I disappear into the funeral parlor, walk to the rear—staff—entrance, open the door and shut it again loud enough for them to hear. I doubt they noticed—they’re already outside bringing in the body. While they do that, I find myself a shadowy hiding spot.
A midnight corpse at a funeral parlor. Delivered by a police detective and his young constable. That hardly seems proper procedure, and I have a very good idea what they’re up to.
Body snatching.
Years ago, Nan had taken me to a special exhibit at the museum. I remember a wonderfully lurid diorama of two disreputable men robbing a grave, one digging while the other held a lantern. A raven had been perched on the headstone and a starving dog waited, as if both hoped for any pieces that might fall off the rotting corpse.
Edinburgh was known for its medical schools, and those schools needed bodies, which were hard to come by back in a time when you couldn’t—and wouldn’t—donate yours to science. An entire trade grew up around providing those specimens. If I recall correctly, there’d been a notorious case of two local guys who realized how much money they could make selling cadavers and decided to skip the whole “waiting for people to die” part.