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FROM THE STREET, THE McClure Undertaking Parlour looked like another family home, apart from the small sign on the front lawn revealing its purpose. As Detective Jack Winston approached, the door opened to reveal a smartly dressed man, eyes wide in surprise. “Sir, are you here for a viewing? We have nothing scheduled until Mrs. Jennings this afternoon.” The words danced out of his mouth in a brogue that placed his origins in Scotland.
Winston held his hat in one hand. “Mr. McClure? I would like to view someone, though not Mrs. Jennings. I understand Walter Huntington’s body is here.”
The man extended his hand. “I’m Jamie McClure. Mr. Huntington is here, yes. And he will be ready tomorrow, per his mother’s instructions.”
“I understand. However, I must examine his body today. I’m with the police.” Winston retrieved his warrant card from inside his jacket and showed it to McClure. “Can you take me to him now, please?”
McClure pressed his lips into a flat line. He pulled the door wider to let Winston in. “He’s this way,” he said, gesturing to point the way for Winston.
The morning sun filtered through stained glass windows into colourful shapes on the floor of the entry hall. Through the door on the right, a vase of lilies rested atop a long, solid table occupying the centre of the room, presumably waiting for Mrs. Jennings. McClure ushered Winston toward the end of the hall. “It’s a cold space.”
The man pushed into a door with his body. A wave of cool, damp air rushed past Winston when he followed McClure into the room. McClure approached the third of three doors cut into the wall and unlatched it. He grunted as he pulled a gurney from within. “Mr. Huntington.”
“Thank you, sir. You may leave me if you wish to continue your preparations.”
“I will return in ten minutes. Do you need longer?”
Winston bit his lip, resisting the urge to use his handkerchief against the sour smell of the room. “That will be fine.”
McClure pointed at the sheet draped across Huntington. “We will dress him tomorrow. I’m expecting his clothes today.”
Alone now, Winston forced himself to approach the table. The sheet softened the peaks and valleys of the body, providing dignity rather than warmth, which of course Huntington did not need. Winston lifted the side closest to him, peering closely at the white flesh beneath it. He worked his way up the body, lifting and replacing the material in turn. On the inside of the second arm, near the fold of Huntington’s elbow, Winston found two round marks on the skin, just larger than pinpricks. He pulled out his notepad to sketch their location. He found a similar mark on Huntington’s neck. Injection points? From when? Were they part of the process of preparation for burial?
Finding nothing else of note, Winston mouthed an apology to the dead man before replacing his covering. With his eyes averted, Winston pushed the table back into the narrow space in the wall and latched the door. He found McClure waiting outside the room. “Sir, thank you for allowing me time with Mr. Huntington.”
“Is there anything more?”
“Possibly. I may return this afternoon with someone else.”
McClure frowned. “Is something amiss? I can assure you we have the finest parlour in the city.”
“I have no doubt. All the same, I’d like to bring someone back this afternoon.”
“But Mrs. Jennings,” McClure protested.
“We will be discreet. We’ll be in and out quickly without disturbing you or Mrs. Jennings’ guests.”
“If you must.”
Winston held his finger in the air. “One final thing if I may, Mr. McClure. When you prepare a body, do you inject it?”
McClure swallowed. “Preparing a body occasionally necessitates certain procedures.”
“Such as?”
“In Mr. Huntington’s case, he was embalmed.”
“Describe the process for me, please.”
“In detail?”
A wave of nausea threatened Winston. “The basics will suffice.”
McClure offered Winston a smile as he pressed his palms together. “Very well. After removing the blood, fluid is injected into the body to preserve it when burial is delayed, as with Mr. Huntington.”
“The location of the injection? It’s the only one?”
McClure pointed to his neck. “Here.”
“Thank you, Mr. McClure. I shall return.”
CONSTABLE MILLER OFFERED Winston a page when the detective arrived at the station. “Doctor Cole registered with the medical society ten years ago. In the decade since, the society has received no complaints about him.”
“You went to the medical society to learn this?” Winston asked.
Miller stared at his shoes. “I thought it might be good to discover a little more about Doctor Cole. Since he knew Huntington and saw Chase.”
“Miller, you’ve shown remarkable initiative here. Well done. But...” Winston stepped closer to the constable. “But we have a process and must follow it. Next time, bring your idea to me before you race off.”
The constable pursed his lips. “I didn’t know how long you’d be, sir. I didn’t think it mattered if I asked a few questions.”
“Perhaps not, this time. Nonetheless, I want you to come to me. We do not know how connected Cole is with the society. They could alert him that we’re making inquiries.” He patted Miller on the shoulder. “Do you know where Cole arrived from ten years ago?”
Miller shook his head. “The society didn’t say.”
“It may not be important.” Winston waved his hand. “I was just at the funeral home where Huntington is being prepared for his service tomorrow. I should like another doctor—someone who did not know Huntington—to examine his body. To come to the task without prejudice.”
Miller looked at the paper, still clutched in his hands. “Do you want the name of a newly arrived doctor? The society gave me a list when I asked for doctors currently practising in the city and how long they have been here. Someone new might not have any connection or loyalty to Cole.”
Winston smiled. “Miller, you’ve impressed me again with those instincts of yours.”
Miller coloured at the praise and pointed at a name. “This fellow is the most recently added to their list. Should we call on him?”
“Let’s go.”
“Sir, what about Chase? He is still missing. Should we focus on finding him?”
Winston deflated. “You’re right, Miller. We have too many questions leading to more questions. I would like to retrace Chase’s steps on the day of his disappearance.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. We can leave his house at the same time as he did the day he disappeared and follow his route to work. That gives us today to learn what we still can from Huntington. And I suspect answering questions about his death may help find Chase. Good work, Miller. Now to find this doctor.”
AS THEY WALKED INTO the West End of the city from the streetcar stop, Winston explained how they would present the situation to the doctor. “I think it’s best to be honest. We want to have another medical resource available to assist, as necessary. There is no need to share our suspicions about Doctor Cole with this fellow.”
They arrived outside a large, well-kept home. Winston knocked and a woman opened the door. “Hello, my name is Detective Winston, with the police. I am looking for Doctor Nathaniel Evans. Is he in?”
She moved to let Winston and Miller into the house. “I will get him,” she answered in clipped tones. The policemen waited in the hall, admiring the pictures of seascapes adorning the walls.
A throat cleared behind Winston. He turned to face a young, clean-shaven man with sleeves rolled to his elbows and flecks of blue paint dotting his fingers. “Doctor Evans, I’m Detective Winston and this is Constable Miller. We are looking for someone to assist us with a case, and the medical society gave us your name.”
The man extended his hand with an easy smile. “How can I help you?”
Winston chose his words carefully. “We are looking for someone to examine bodies.”
“Haven’t you someone who does that already?”
Winston nodded. “We do. Our current examiner has his own practice and is not always available.”
Evans stepped back. “My patients have always been of the living variety.”
Winston closed the gap created when Evans moved. “I appreciate that, sir. Perhaps you could help us with our current investigation, and then we can discuss whether this is an opportunity you would like to pursue?”
Winston held his breath while Evans considered the proposal. Seeing his brows relax, Winston eased the tension in his shoulders.
“A reasonable approach, Detective. What would you have me do?”
“We are investigating a death, and I would like a second opinion.”
Evans pursed his lips. “What about your regular examiner? Won’t he be bothered?”
Miller, who had been observing the exchange, stepped forward. “He is unavailable today.”
“And it cannot wait?” The doctor scratched his cheek, looking between Miller and Winston.
Winston clenched his fist and pushed it into his leg, brushing Ellis’s rock. “Doctor Evans, this is sensitive and urgent. The burial is tomorrow.”
Evans smiled warmly. “Well then, how can I say no?”
“Are you able to come now?” Winston gestured toward the door.
“Yes, if you give me a moment to gather supplies.”
Winston agreed and turned to Miller after Evans had left. “Miller, can you return to the station? There is likely to be a viewing at the funeral home, and we may draw too much attention with you in uniform. Please map out our journey tomorrow to retrace Chase’s steps.”
A flash of disappointment, replaced by relief, crossed Miller’s face. “I will, sir. As it turns out, I’m happy not to see a body today.”
Winston smiled. “Even when kept cool, days-old bodies are unpleasant.”
Evans rejoined the policemen. “Are we going far? I have a carriage,” he offered.
“McClure’s Funeral Home. It should take fifteen minutes to walk there, though your carriage is welcome if you prefer.” As they left the room, Winston explained that Miller would not join them at the funeral home.
Seated in his comfortable carriage, Evans turned to Winston. “Can you tell me a little about the deceased, the body that I am to examine?”
“You’ve seen the news about Walter Huntington, the man who had been missing? We found his body this week?”
Evans grimaced. “A sad story.”
“His mother will bury him tomorrow. And I’d like a final examination performed while we can.” The horses slowed. “We’re here.”
The two men alighted from the carriage and joined Mrs. Jennings’ mourners walking the path to the funeral home. McClure rushed to Winston. “Detective, I’m surprised to see you,” he hissed.
“Mr. McClure. I understand our arrival is inconvenient, and I have no wish to interrupt Mrs. Jennings’ afternoon, but we are here to see Mr. Huntington.” McClure blanched. “We spoke of this earlier,” said Winston.
“That’s the thing, Detective. They moved Mr. Huntington’s body shortly after you left. Mrs. Huntington sent instructions.”
“Who? Moved it where?”
McClure removed a note from his pocket.
Winston snatched it from McClure, his face falling as he read the short missive. “Hurry, Doctor. We may be too late,” he called over his shoulder as he wove through the mourners.