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 theyhavehad 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.
While grave robbing is one way to get bodies, this would be another one: use the corpses of those who won’t be missed. Gray’s police friend finds a drunkard dead in an alleyway and brings him to his funeral parlor, as if delivering a body for a pauper’s grave. Gray pays a few shillings and passes the cadaver along to his medical-school friends.
I won’t question the ethics of what he’s doing. I’d never condone it in the modern world. We already treat the indigent as disposable. Here, though, if advancing medical science requires corpses, I’ll cut them some slack until we reach the day where people can choose to donate their bodies to science.
I’m not hiding to judge Gray by confirming my suspicions. I’m hiding because he isn’t the only one who likes a puzzle. I think I’ve solved this one. Now I’m flipping to the back of the book to double-check my answer.
Gray helps lift the body. Just rolls up his sleeves and does the work, which would have surprised me for another man of his station, but doesn’t surprise me for this one.
They carry in a man’s body through the courtyard door, then the staff door and finally through that locked door. I would think one would want a direct door from the funeral parlor to the courtyard, but I suppose that hadn’t been possible, when they were retooling a family home to accommodate the dead.
After Constable Findlay helps, McCreadie claps him on the back and tells him to take the rest of the night off, joking that there’s time to get a pint before the public houses close. He might also palm him a shilling—or whatever a beer costs. I only know that the young man thanks McCreadie and leaves without hesitation.
McCreadie waits until Findlay’s gone. Then he says, “I think the body put him off, poor lad. I do hope not. He has promise, that one, but this isn’t a job for the squeamish.”
Gray only grunts in response, and then there’s a click, as if he’s locking the door.
McCreadie’s heavy footsteps cross the floor. I wait for the click of him closing the preparation room door, but it doesn’t come, and when I poke my head out, I see the door half open, the light from inside flooding out.
Thank you, Detective.