“Oh,” said Rachel. “I thought romance was dormant, not dead.”
“Only for some of us,” said Morgan. “For these two it’s the other way around. Death is romance.”
“From the ring and the cross, I’d say they were doomed from the moment they met,” said Miranda.
“Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed,” Rachel proscribed with an edge in her voice.
Miranda looked over at Morgan but his attention had shifted to the small cabinet leaning on its side near the gaping wall. It was three shades of bluish-green, with a diamond pattern on the door and an exposed bottom shelf between scooped sides. Across the top was an exaggerated cornice, a minor oxymoron of comic austerity.
Anticipating her query, he explained. “It’s a Waterloo County hanging cupboard, mint condition — it might have belonged to your ancestors. German vernacular, Pennsylvania Dutch, made a couple of generations after they’d resettled as Loyalists. What’s unusual, really, is that salvagers had to rip it out with enough force they opened the crypt.”
“It seems out of place.”
“It is, in a sense. There couldn’t have been much of a market this close to town for country furniture. I’m guessing people, here, travelled up to Berlin, a century before it was renamed Kitchener, way before trains, to visit relatives or take the mineral waters in Preston. The cabinet is small enough to be brought back by wagon or carriage. Wagon, I’d say, given the modesty of the house. But why was it attached so securely, and why wasn’t it painted over with the rest of the woodwork?”
“Listen!” said Miranda. All three held their breath.
“There’s somebody downstairs,” she whispered. “It’s either ghosts or forensic anthropologists! I thought academics slept through the night…”
The clatter and absence of voices seemed ominous, until a hauntingly beautiful woman suddenly appeared in the doorway, followed by a man with quick eyes and a portly physique. Morgan, Miranda, and Rachel Naismith exchanged amused glances, while the dead stirred uneasily as floorboards beneath them shifted from the combined weight of the living.
“Good to see you,” said the woman with a tired smile, while the man moved directly to the bodies on the floor as if courtesy were superfluous.
“We’re the investigating anthropologists,” she explained. “That is Professor Birbalsingh.” She nodded toward the man hunkered over the corpses, examining them like specimens. “I’m Dr. Shelagh Hubbard from the Royal Ontario Museum.”
Miranda introduced Morgan and the officer, and then herself as an afterthought. The woman nodded at Rachel, then took Morgan’s hand and her countenance warmed from weary to sleepy. She was very blond. Surprisingly, when she took Miranda’s hand, the sensuality did not subside. This woman has a sexual relationship with the world, Miranda suspected, wondering whether Rachel received short shrift due to race or, more likely, to her status in uniform.
“We got an evening call from police headquarters. Somebody named Rufalo,” the woman continued with a congeniality that was apparently meant to counter her colleague’s brusqueness. “It sounded intriguing. Professor Birbalsingh phoned me several times through the night. He couldn’t sleep for thinking about it, and I couldn’t sleep without disconnecting the telephone and putting my bid for university tenure in jeopardy. So here we are.”
“Me too,” said a voice from the stairs. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Ellen Ravenscroft, the medical examiner, stepped into the room, forcing the other four to realign themselves in relation to the bodies and the man on his knees who was engrossed in the details of wizened flesh and uncommon apparel.
“Surprised to see you two here,” said Ellen.
“Just ghoulish curiosity,” said Miranda. “It’s not official.”
“Not official?” Rachel Naismith exclaimed. “You’ve been drinking my coffee! And you’re tourists! For me, it’s a crime scene.”
Miranda introduced her to Ellen Ravenscroft. The two women did not exchange courtesies, beyond nods of recognition for their professional roles.
“I’m surprised they’d send a medical examiner on a case like this,” said Miranda. “I’d have thought the academics had it covered.”
“If it’s dead and there’s a chance it was human, it’s ours,” Ellen responded. “Just a formality, love, so I can fill out the papers.”
“No autopsy?”
“Not likely,” she said. “Excuse me.”
Morgan watched with admiration as the ME shunted the academic experts aside and squatted down to examine the bodies. “I’ll take a look here before you two start messing about.”
Professor Birbalsingh rose to his feet, harumphing with indignity, eyes flashing, muttering something about forensic anthropologists, but said nothing more. He hovered like a raptor tracking its prey until Ellen Ravenscroft glowered up at him and muttered “forensic pathologist trumps anthropologist,” backing the professor away.
“Did the police get pictures?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Officer Naismith
“That’s what brought us here,” said Miranda.
“Okay, let’s just see what we have — ”
“Be careful with that,” snapped Birbalsingh with a vehemence suggesting he was not used to his authority being usurped, especially by a non-academic and a woman. “It is a very fine cloak. You do not want to cause it damage. These are very good clothes.”
Without turning around, the ME announced, “I am Dr. Ravenscroft, coroner’s office. Who are you, love?”
“This is Professor Birbalsingh from the University of Toronto,” said his colleague. “I’m Shelagh Hubbard, cross-appointed from the ROM. We’re the forensic anthropologists here by request.”
“By request? Well, isn’t that a treat. They let you off campus. I went to York, myself.”
“For the suburban atmosphere, I presume.”
“You do, love, you presume,” she said, standing up. “The real York, as in Yorkshire. Not the nether regions of Toronto and certainly not the ‘New’ one — the five boroughs on the Hudson.”
“So, what do you see?” Miranda interjected to restore professional decorum, although Rachel and Morgan had been enjoying the repartee.
“They’re thoroughly dead.” Ellen Ravenscroft seemed to triumph in a declaration of the obvious. “Their heads are missing. I’d say that’s about it.” She nodded gravely. “They’re all yours, Professor Birbalsingh, Dr. Hubbard. If the heads turn up, kindly inform someone.”
“Anyone in particular?” Miranda asked.
“I’ve got my doubts about the heads,” said Morgan. “They weren’t in the crypt, so they’re probably converted to dust.”
“Well,” said Miranda, “apparently a conversion was called for.”
There was an awkward pause; then, remembering the cross and ring, Morgan chuckled and as soon as he did Rachel Naismith recognized the joke and chortled to herself. Ellen seemed indifferent to missing the point.
“I’m out of here, my friends. Give me a call, Morgan. We’ll talk about missed opportunities. Good night, Miranda. Good night, Officer.”
And almost as an afterthought she said over her shoulder, “Good night, forensic anthropologists. Let me know if you find anything.” And, finally, with a fading sigh, “Do call me, Morgan.”
Miranda rolled her eyes at her partner as Ellen Ravenscroft disappeared down the stairs. He looked away, he squinted back at her, mouthing an indecipherable phrase.
“What is it you’re trying to say, Morgan?”
He shrugged.
“Do you two want more coffee?” Rachel asked.
“Definitely not for me,” said Morgan.
Shelagh Hubbard stood up. “I’d like some coffee, if you wouldn’t mind, Officer. It couldn’t be worse than I make myself.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Miranda.