EIGHT
As I head for the door, I realize I’m wearing indoor boots and no jacket, and a glance out the window shows it’s hardly the warm May day I’d expect in Vancouver. I’ll stop at the front closet… Oh wait, it’s the Victorian era, when apparently closets haven’t been invented. Where do they keep outerwear? In their bedrooms? Were there warmer clothes in Catriona’s trunk?
I glance down at the rapidly cooling tea. I’ll take the tray to Gray and then go upstairs and figure out the rest.
The funeral parlor is quiet, the only light coming through open front curtains and precious little of that on this overcast day. I’m about to call for Gray when I realize that’s probably not maid-appropriate.
As I walk in, I catch a muffled curse from the laboratory. The door is closed. I rap once and push it open. Gray is standing beside the body of Archie Evans. He seems to be trying to do something with the young man’s hand, and rigor hasn’t relaxed yet, so the limb is not cooperating.
“Your tea, sir? Mrs. Wallace asked me to deliver it before I left.”
He stares at me. Looks at the body, and then back at me.
I just walked in on him wrestling with an autopsied corpse, the poor guy’s chest cracked open and roughly sewn. I should have dropped the tray and run screaming.
Little late for that.
“Is that the poor bloke they brought in yesterday?”
His brow furrows at the word “bloke.” That’s English, isn’t it? I am not getting any better at this.
“I shall leave your tea on the table over here. Unless you would prefer it at your desk.”
“I think my desk might be cleaner.”
“Right.” I turn to leave.
“Catriona?” he says. “If you have a moment, there is something I’d like far more than tea.”
I bite my lips against a snort, thinking again of my friend’s historical-romance novels. I’ve gotten none of those vibes from Gray, thankfully, and so I just say, “I do need to be off, sir. It is my half day. But I can spare a moment. You seem to be having trouble with that poor chap, er, lad’s arm. Shall I hold it for you?”
He looks at the corpse’s hand and back at me with a blink of surprise.
“I spent time on a farm,” I say, which is true enough. “I’m not squeamish.”
“I appreciate that. Icoulduse your assistance. I lost my apprentice last month. He decided undertaking was not the profession for him. I have no idea why.”
Gray doesn’t smile, but his eyes do sparkle with enough self-awareness to tell me this is a joke.
Huh, didn’t think you had it in you, Gray.
That’s not entirely fair. Duncan Gray doesn’t match the stereotype of the dour, washed-out undertaker, a ghoul haunting his own funeral parlor and preying on the grieving. I have yet to meet a funeral director whodoesmatch the stereotype. But while I wouldn’t call Gray dour, he’s certainly not trying out for stand-up comedy any time soon. If I had to cast him in a period drama, it’d be somewhere between “mad scientist” and “brooding lord with his wife locked in the attic.”
“Not everyone is cut out for such a job, sir.”
“I cannot imagine anyoneis,” he murmurs.
He speaks low enough that I’m not supposed to hear, but I can’t let that door shut without trying to pry it open. Curiosity is an occupational hazard.
“You inherited the business, yes?” I say. “I presume it was not your dream job either?”
“Dream job.” He mulls the words over, and I know I’ve been too modern again, but he nods, as if presuming this is only a unique phrasing.
In answer to the question, he shrugs. “Fate deals unexpected hands, and we learn to play the cards we are given.”
“I know a little of that,” I murmur. “Was your family always in the business then? Of undertaking?”
“No, but it is how we made our fortune, and so it behooves me to continue the tradition.”