A Rip Through Time(37)

She lifts her still-half-gloved hand. “Just now. I haven’t even had time to take these off, and I’ve already discovered that my poor maid was strangled and has experienced a brain injury.”

“Ah, yes. Catriona. She seems fine enough.” McCreadie picks up a small suitcase in each hand. “I’ll run these upstairs for you.”

“Did you not just come to fetch my brother?” she says. “On the urgent matter in the funerary parlor?”

“Er, yes. Of course. Duncan, you need to show me what you found before they remove the body.”

“Body?” Isla perks up. “Is it a murder?”

“Yes, but—”

“Come, Catriona,” Isla says. “There is a murder victim to tend to. This is terribly exciting. It’s been months since we had one. No wonder Duncan is so distracted.” She beams at him. “Is it an interesting case? Please tell me it is interesting.”

McCreadie steps into her path. “No, Isla. Duncan has Catriona to assist him. You are not seeing this one.”

Her brows arch. “I beg your pardon? It sounds as if you said I am not to see him, when you meant that I ought not to.”

I bite my lip to suppress a smile, half at her words and half at the flush that creeps over McCreadie’s face.

“Er, yes. ‘Ought.’ That was the word I meant. You ought not to see the body.”

“But I can, and so I will.”

She starts to pass him.

Gray clears his throat. “Isla…?”

She keeps walking. Gray sighs, follows, and leans past her to brace one hand on the door.

“Hugh is correct,” he says. “It will give you nightmares.”

She looks between the two men and straightens. “May I remind you that I am no longer a child needing you two to protect my delicate sensibilities.”

“It’s your delicate stomach that’s the problem,” Gray says. “And your overactive imagination.”

“Overactive?” she huffs.

“This is not a science project, Isla,” Gray says. “It is a murder victim.”

Her lips tighten. She doesn’t like that, particularly as her brother does indeed use murder victims as objects of scientific study. But I presume she doesn’t study forensics, and so his point is valid enough to accomplish what he intends—make her reconsider her zeal to see the body.

Finally, she flutters her fingers. “All right. Off with all three of you then, and I shall await the report. There will be a report, yes? And if there are any unknown substances to be analyzed, you will bring them to me?”

“We shall report and, of course, anything requiring chemical analysis shall be delivered to your laboratory.”





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.”

“He might appreciate it.”

McCreadie chuckles. “No doubt he would. The lad was fond of his spirits.”

“So what do you 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 funeral director.”

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’t you be licensed as a police surgeon, Dr. Gray? Then you could perform the autopsy.”