It was very quiet in the embalming room and Hugo Pentecost worked alone, his rubber apron smeared with blood. There was no need for him to engage in the more practical work of the establishment, but he liked to keep his hand in and in any case, there was always a certain pleasure to be derived from a job well done.
The cadaver on which he was engaged was that of a young woman and he was in the process of withdrawing her viscera. It was usual to wear rubber gloves, but Pentecost never could, preferring the additional sensitivity to be found in bare hands.
He had successfully removed the contents of the abdomen and was now on the throat, whistling softly, his arms dappled with blood up to the elbows.
The door opened behind him and a tall gaunt man with sunken cheeks and dull eyes came in. Like Pentecost he wore a heavy rubber apron.
"Anything I can do, Mr. Pentecost?"
"I'm all through here for tonight, George," Pentecost said. "Her cranium will have to wait till tomorrow. I've got rather a lot of paperwork to get through. Help me put her in the tank, will you?"
He hosed the body down quickly, flushing away the blood and they lifted her between them into a large glass tank of formaldehyde. The body slid under the surface with a soft splash and turned over several times before settling a foot or so from the bottom, the long hair fanning out in a most lifelike manner.
"A shame, isn't it, Mr. Pentecost?" George said. "She was really beautiful."
"Beautiful or ugly, young or old, this is what they all come down to in the end, George," Pentecost said cheerfully. "Has everyone else gone?"
"Yes, sir."
"No need for you to hang around. As I said, I'll be here for quite some time."
"I'll go then, if that's all right with you, Mr. Pentecost. I did promise to take my wife out for a meal."
"Try the Golden Dragon on Michener Street," Pentecost advised. "They do a really excellent Chow Mein."
"Well, thank you, sir. I think we will."
George withdrew and Pentecost went to the sink and washed the blood from his arms. He removed his rubber apron, went into the private bathroom at the other end of the embalming room, stripped and showered. The warm water made him feel pleasantly relaxed and afterwards, he stood in front of the mirror, humming softly as he changed into a soft white shirt, black tie and a beautifully tailored suit in dark worsted.
With his snow white hair and gold rimmed spectacles, he looked remarkably as one might have expected the director of Long Barrow Crematorium and House of Rest to look. Certainly there was no resemblance to Harry Marks, the second rate confidence man who had served three terms of imprisonment as a young man before learning the facts of life.
Things were very different now and he went through the embalming room and moved along the corridor, his feet silent on the thick carpets. An indefinable aura of dignity pervaded the whole establishment, there was no question of that. There was polished wood and brass everywhere and flowers and cut glass winking in the soft light from the shaded lamps.
Which was as it should be. This was, after all, the last earthly resting place for so many people. Strange that its fortunes should have been founded on murder, morally at least, although a court of law would probably have found that there was no case to answer.
Poor Alice Tisdale, on the other hand, might have thought otherwise. A lonely old widow of seventy with a pension and PS13,000 in the bank, she had been captivated by the considerate stranger who had offered her his umbrella one rainy morning on the front at Brighton.
Once installed as chauffeur and general handyman at the house in Forest Hill, Harry Marks had put into operation a programme scientifically designed to break first the old woman's spirit and then her health. She had died of the combined effects of malnutrition and senile decay leaving faithful Harry all she possessed and the two cousins and a nephew who had attempted to contest the will got nowhere.
But Harry Marks belonged to another world. Now there was only Hugo Pentecost and Long Barrow, had been at least until the arrival of Smith the previous year with his quiet, cultured voice and distressingly accurate knowledge of Harry Marks and his past activities. So, when the whip cracked, he had to jump. Still, one could only be philosophical about these things and life had an interesting habit of turning full circle. His chance would come and when it did. .
As he went down the beautiful marble staircase he was thinking of the new incinerator, installed only the previous week, which could consume a human body in fifteen minutes. Not like the older ones which took up to an hour and a half and were so inefficient that it was usually necessary to pound up the skull and pelvis afterwards. Come to think of it, Smith wasn't particularly big. It would probably take no longer than ten minutes in his case.
As he crossed the foyer at the bottom of the stairs and walked towards his office, he became aware of a young woman standing at the reception desk.
She turned awkwardly. "I'm looking for Mr. Pentecost."
"I am he. What can I do for you?"
Pentecost's habitually soft tones carried a sharper edge than usual. The young woman was plain-in fact, rather ugly. He could have forgiven her for that, but the shabby coat and poor quality shoes, the scarf bound round the head peasant-fashion, reminded him too much for his peace of mind, of a childhood spent amidst the poverty of Whitechapel. And then there was her voice with its broad northern vowels-an accent which had always offended him.
"It was a relative I really wanted to see you about. My great aunt."
"She has just passed on?"
"This morning. I'd like to arrange for her to be taken care of. You are Mr. Hugo Pentecost?"
"Yes, I am he." Mr. Pentecost sighed. "My dear child, you have my deepest condolences, but I must point out that we offer a very specialised service here and one that is rather expensive."
Searching desperately for an answer to keep the conversation going, Molly remembered her own mother's recent death and something Crowther had mentioned.
"There was an insurance."
"May I ask how much?"
"Two hundred pounds. Would that be enough?"
Pentecost warmed to her, his voice deepening appreciably and he placed an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sure we can manage something. Perhaps you could return in the morning."
"I'd hoped to settle things tonight. Is it too late?"
"My staff have all gone home. I'm completely alone here." He hesitated and greed won. "But why not? It won't take long to settle the essential details. Come into my office."
He opened the door and showed her inside. It was furnished in excellent if rather sombre taste and he motioned her to a chair and sat down behind his desk.
He opened a large desk diary, produced a black and gold fountain pen. "Just a few details-your name?"
"Crowther-Molly Crowther."
"Address?"
"I'm not sure." He looked up with a frown and Molly said hesitatingly, "It's on the road that leads to Babylon."
In the silence which followed, he sat staring at her, his slight polite smile wiped away. "I see."
He closed the desk diary, opened a drawer and put it away, at the same time taking out a.38 revolver with his other hand and slipping it into his pocket, an act which completely escaped the girl's notice.
He stood up. "Would you kindly come this way?"
Molly got to her feet, panic moving inside her. She hadn't the slightest idea what to do next and reached out to touch his arm timidly as he brushed past her.
"There's nothing to worry about," Pentecost said reassuringly. "We'll talk upstairs."
She followed him up the stairway and along the quiet corridor at the top. He paused outside a leather covered door, opened it and stood back for her.
The room was a place of shadows and she moved inside uncertainly. The first thing she noticed was the heavy smell of formaldehyde and then she saw the body floating in the tank tinged with green in the subdued light, hair trailing like seaweed. Her throat went dry and she turned with a gasp as the door clicked shut.