THIRTEEN
Gray and I wait while McCreadie carries Isla’s bags to the third floor. Then we head back down to the main level.
“Why is Evans being moved?” I ask as we start down the stairs.
Both men frown at me.
When Gray replies, it is with all the patience of an excellent teacher. “We need to remove him before his body begins to break down in the process known as decomposition. He will become quite odorous, and it is best to relocate him to a morgue, as his funeral cannot be held until Thursday.”
“Is there nothing an undertaker can do to halt the decay process?” I say, seeing the opportunity to answer questions I’ve had from the start.
“Such as preserving the body in spirits? For medical examination, yes, but I doubt the family is keen to purchase ten gallons of whisky to pickle him.”
“Hemight appreciate it.”
McCreadie chuckles. “No doubt he would. The lad was fond of his spirits.”
“So whatdoyou do to the bodies? To prepare them for burial?”
“I do nothing to the bodies, Catriona.” Gray’s dark eyes grow darker. “If you have heard otherwise—”
“I haven’t,” I say quickly. “I only wondered about an undertaker’s role in regards to the body. Dressing it? Making it look presentable?”
“You have a very odd concept of my occupation. Dressing or beautifying a corpse is entirely the responsibility of the family or whomever they hire. I simply make the arrangements. I free the bereaved from such details.”
“Ah, then you are a funeraldirector.”
His lips purse as he resumes walking. “Yes, I suppose that is an apt way of phrasing it. I direct all details of the funeral itself—the procession and the service—as well as supplying the necessary commodities, such as the coffin and the cemetery plot.”
Interesting. To me, the term “undertaker” always had a hint of the morbid, and I presumed it described the person who dealt with the body itself. Instead, the modern title of “funeral director” seems more apt. Like a wedding planner for death.
“But if you have found something, should you not be permitted to further examine the body?” I ask. “Even after the coroner does his work, the body cannot always be released to the family promptly.”
“Coroner?” Gray’s brows shoot up. “We are in Scotland, Catriona.”
“So Dr. Addington is called…”
“The police surgeon.”
“Couldn’tyoube licensed as a police surgeon, Dr. Gray? Then you could perform the autopsy.”
Gray stiffens at that. Before I can apologize for an apparent misstep, McCreadie says gently, “Dr. Gray possesses a medical degree, but he cannot—er,doesnot—practice medicine. Even if he did, there is only one police surgeon in Edinburgh. It is an elected position. The police surgeon autopsies the victim. I examine the scene and make observations regarding the body.”
“So you’re trained in the principles of forensic science? I presume it is part of your policing education.”
McCreadie frowns at Gray.
“She means the science I am doing,” Gray says. “‘Forensic science’ is her term for it. As for the education a criminal officer receives…”
McCreadie snorts. “A high-minded ideal, Catriona, but I believe the breadth of my professional instruction was ‘Can you wield a cudgel? Yes? Excellent!’”
“Hugh is joking,” Gray says. “But only slightly. As with many new areas of study, being new means your ‘forensic science’ has not been provento the satisfaction of those who oppose change. Most officers of the law, not being scientists, mistrust the science. They solve a robbery by questioning witnesses. Not by matching finger marks left on the window frame to the fingers of a suspect.”
“Still not convinced of that one myself,” McCreadie murmurs.
“Remind me to lend you a treatise on the matter.”
“Please don’t. The only thing those articles are good for is helping me sleep. Finger marks are intriguing, but there’s no possible way they can solve a crime.”