Grange Cemetery reflected the affluent neighbourhood it nestled in, with more than a hint of old Edinburgh money. The Skelfs didn’t often do burials here, it was mostly full, but occasionally one of the old families had a plot to dig up and add to, like today.
Jenny looked around at the grid layout of flamboyant Victorian headstones, weeping angels and skulls. What arrogance to think angels were crying their eyes out at your death. She got the skulls, reminded her of her teen Goth phase. And there were other strange headstones, a carved palm tree, stone relief of a horse and carriage, a skeleton holding the reins. And the weirdest thing was the split-level catacomb that ran through the middle of the place, mossy red-brick arches that were a great place for teenagers to smoke weed.
There was a host of notable society buried here, even a leaflet with a map at the entrance. Twenty-four names, all men, lots of Napiers, Ushers and Lauders, half the town was named after them. Wealth probably built on slavery and exploitation, some of them no doubt had statues in Princes Street Gardens, anonymous middle-aged men with bird-shit hair.
Jenny, Dorothy and Archie stood next to the open family plot in the southeast corner of the graveyard, the quiet end, away from the bustle of Beaufort Road. Vanessa Chalmers was burying her elderly mother, Elspeth, who died at home in her sleep. According to Vanessa a handful of medical conditions contributed, but she was ninety-five, the doctor just chalked it up to old age. We don’t always need a medical explanation for everything.
There were a hundred mourners, mostly elderly, all white, many still in overcoats despite the sun thudding onto the trimmed grass. Jenny counted a fair few walking sticks, one Zimmer frame and three wheelchairs, struggling on the gravel path to get here.
Vanessa Chalmers was in one of those wheelchairs. She was in her sixties, dressed impeccably, expensive hair and nails done, black heels, but she was ashen-faced and struggling for breath. A much younger man stood behind her wheelchair, leaned down and whispered in her ear. She took his hands in hers and kissed them. He was handsome, olive skin, short black hair full of product. His suit and shoes looked expensive. Francesco, Jenny remembered, she’d met him when Vanessa arranged the funeral. He came with her but barely spoke, just the occasional nod or touch of her shoulder. Vanessa hadn’t bothered explaining their relationship and Jenny hadn’t asked.
Either side of Vanessa were her son and daughter, Matthew and Maria, faces like bulldogs chewing wasps. They watched Vanessa whispering to her carer and their frowns deepened. They were in their late thirties, stocky and a little jowly, ill-fitting funeral clothes. Vanessa threw Francesco a thin smile. Matthew and Maria gave him an evil stare, Matthew sucking his teeth and Maria tutting so loud that Jenny heard.
The Church of Scotland minister conducted the ceremony with gravitas. He was well past retirement age, understood the vagaries of getting old, and he gave a good account of Elspeth’s life. Much of it was related to her husband, she’d never worked, bringing up Vanessa and her sister. It was the way of the world back then, women expected to be homemakers and provide children. On the surface so much had changed but Jenny wondered how much those roles were ingrained in all of us. How many generations did it take to shake off that shit? She felt it in herself even as she fought against it.
The talking ended and Elspeth was lowered into the ground. Matthew joined a handful of other men on the ropes. Again, only men, it was man’s work delivering the dead to their final resting place. Jenny wanted to take a rope, feel the strain of it, the burn on her skin, raw and meaningful.
She glanced at Dorothy and Archie. Archie never spoke much anyway, but Dorothy was very quiet today. She made a mental note to bring it up later.
Francesco wheeled Vanessa up to Jenny. She looked paler and weaker close up, barely holding it together. When they arranged the funeral, Jenny had noticed how ill she looked, bags under the eyes, shaking hands, but a week later this was already worse. Vanessa had mentioned that she’d buried her husband and sister in this same plot in the last three years, and Jenny wondered if it was all getting too much. Now she noticed how Vanessa looked at Francesco and how he returned the look, how easy they were with each other. Vanessa thanked them for everything, then let Francesco move her on. She shrank as she turned away, shoulders slumping.
Most of the mourners had left, but Matthew and Maria lingered, in a heated discussion by the graveside as two young men in green council overalls started shovelling dirt onto Elspeth. Eventually the twins made towards Jenny with purpose. Dorothy and Archie had left, swapping small talk with elderly mourners.
Matthew and Maria reached her.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Jenny said, hands clasped.
They were momentarily thrown by the comment, until Jenny glanced at the grave behind them.
‘Yes,’ Maria said. ‘Thank you. It was a lovely ceremony.’
Jenny kept her face blank. ‘Was there something I can help you with?’
Matthew nudged Maria in her midriff and she scowled at him.
‘You’re the Skelfs that are detectives, right?’ she said.
Jenny knew this was coming, had read their body language. ‘Private investigators, yes.’
‘Right,’ Maria said. Matthew leaned closer, invading his sister’s space. She straightened her shoulders and he backed off.
‘We have a job for you,’ Maria said.
Jenny remembered two years back, when her dad died and she got sucked back into life at the big house, her reluctance to take on investigation work. But she’d got good at it, had an instinct for when people were lying or hiding stuff. Part of it was just staying quiet and letting folk talk. She said nothing now.
Matthew nudged Maria again and she hissed at him. He cowered. She turned back to Jenny, nodded at the funeral guests leaving by the northeast gate.
‘It’s our mum,’ Maria said, rubbing her palms, ‘we think that wanker Francesco is killing her.’