Dark Undertakings

by Rebecca Tope

  Vince clattered in, swinging a tin bucket containing a spray of bright flowers. ‘These are for the chapel,’ he said. ‘Fancy arranging them for me?’

  Sid shrugged. None of the men were much good with the flowers, but Daphne never seemed to notice. Now and then she sent Olga to do it, but the result was no better than when Vince or Pat simply plunked them into a vase and fluffed them out into a rough shape. Sid felt obliged to make a little more effort, with a mixture of resentment and conscientiousness.

  ‘Where did Drew go?’ queried Vince. ‘He’s taken the Espace.’

  ‘Daphne sent him to fetch a dog,’ Sid reported, with a straight face.

  ‘A dog? Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Not just any dog. Apparently Lapsford’s died. Must have had a broken heart.’

  Vince groaned. ‘Not that nice little white thing?’ He was genuinely saddened. ‘What a shame. But why—?’

  ‘She thought we might put it in his coffin with him. Better than burying it in the garden, I s’pose. It’s out of order, so we’re not to say anything to the crem. Better not tell the others, either.’

  Vince thought carefully. ‘Will it be going to the house, then? For the wake – if that’s what she’s calling it. Won’t that look peculiar? Him and his dog all nestled in together?’

  Sid shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me – I’m just telling you what Daphne told Drew. Anyway, that’s where he is.’

  ‘Well I hope he isn’t putting any poison down about doctor’s papers,’ Vince remarked, as he turned to go. ‘That’s the last thing we need.’

  ‘He’d better not!’ The absence of any expletives in Sid’s vocabulary often served only to add force to what he said. Vince looked back in surprise.

  ‘Calm down, mate. I was joking. What’s he going to say? He’s an undertaker’s assistant, not a doctor or a policeman. I don’t reckon even our Drew is daft enough to stick his nose in too obviously.’

  Sid rubbed his forehead with a fist. ‘I’m going to embalm him, get it over with. Once that’s done, there’s no point in a PM, anyway. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘There isn’t going to be any trouble. Unless they ask you to embalm the dog as well.’ With a shout of laughter, Vince withdrew from the mortuary, rubbing stiff fingers back and forth along his hairline in a gesture of thoughtful relief.

  He returned to his smartly-dressed lady. He folded the white covers over the body, zigzagging a thin cord tightly across the top, stapling it at intervals to the inside of the coffin, to hold everything in place. Like a sculptor, he positioned the head symmetrically on its neck, tweaked the mouth, lightly brushed the hair with his fingers. When he was satisfied, he reached for the coffin lid, and laid it on top of the coffin, deliberately crooked, since he didn’t want it closed yet. He began to trundle the coffin on its wheeled base into the chapel.

  Although unspoken, there was a feeling that the chapel was almost as much Sid’s domain as was the mortuary. He alone prepared the bodies for viewing, closing their mouths with small stitches hidden inside their lips, or a dab of Superglue, moulding faces into appropriate shapes and positions. There was a tendency for dead faces to droop, and look unduly grim, which had to be rectified. Almost invariably the relatives made approving comments on his handiwork. The flowers were an essential finishing touch, as was the fine net covering which went over the whole coffin, and was only folded back when visitors appeared.

  Working with his quiet corpses, Sid was contented. The only one of the men with any professed religious belief, he was the most conscientious in his dealings with the dead. ‘Do you mean you think they’re watching you?’ Vince had asked one day.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt to think so,’ Sid had replied.

  Monica got home from David’s at twelve and made herself a sandwich for lunch. She had delivered Jodie back at the printworks, apologising for making the girl wait in vain to hear the secrets of David’s parentage. ‘I can’t tell you anything until I’ve explained it all to him,’ she had said. ‘You must see that.’ Jodie nodded minimally, and Monica went on, ‘It was really nice of you to come with me this morning. David can be so … unpredictable. I just didn’t think I’d be able to cope if he started shrieking at me. I think we did the right thing, don’t you?’

  It was never easy to read Jodie’s mood. With an air of intense consideration, she would often pause for more than a minute before replying to the simplest remark. She seemed constantly on guard. Monica had learnt to give her the benefit of the doubt, influenced by Jim’s stalwart defence of her in the face of any criticisms. ‘Jodie’s pure gold,’ he used to say when she first started working for him. ‘True as a die. I don’t know where we’d be without her. Never mind her manner – we can’t help the way we are.’ And Monica had believed him. Which made it all the more surprising that he’d been so uneasy about Jodie taking up with David. During that brief year of relative stability, Monica had found herself looking forward to accepting Jodie as the daughter she’d always hoped for.

  ‘He’s upset,’ came Jodie’s eventual reply. ‘I’ve never known him drink in the morning before. He’s obviously got a lot on his mind. I wish I hadn’t seen him like that. I thought he’d learnt more sense.’

  ‘Oh, Jodie, I’m sorry. I never thought how it might be for you. Especially with Jim … I know how fond you were of him. Oh, it’s all such a mess, isn’t it.’

  ‘I was more than just fond of him,’ said the girl, with dignity, before climbing out of the car and standing at full height in the layby outside the printworks. Before Monica could reply, she stalked away, her long, thin legs and narrow shoulders marking her out as distinctive even when she’d crossed the car park and mingled with a knot of people gathered beside the outer door.

  Monica drove home quickly, trying not to think about those last words. Surely Jodie hadn’t been one of Jim’s sexual partners? It was unthinkable – he’d regarded her as a daughter, hadn’t he? That, presumably, was all she’d meant. After working with him so long, they’d have established an easy familiarity which did of course transcend fondness. With a sigh, she realised that it hardly mattered anyway.

  The young chap from the undertaker’s rang the doorbell at one-fifteen, standing on the doorstep exactly as he had done on Tuesday morning. It made her feel almost alarmed to have the whole scene re-enacted so soon. ‘I hope you don’t think this is very peculiar of me?’ she said nervously. ‘It just seemed such an obvious solution. Jim was very fond of Cassie. I think she must have died of grief for him. Does that happen, do you know? Have you come across it before, at all?’

  Drew shook his head. ‘But I’ve only been working here for a few weeks,’ he said. ‘So I’m not really qualified to say. Although’ – he took a deep breath – ‘it did come as a surprise. The dog didn’t look ill or old to me on Tuesday. I’m not sure that grief would kill her so quickly. After all, it must only have been about forty-eight hours.’ He eyed Monica earnestly, trying to convey his suspicions without having to spell them out.

  Unfortunately, Monica was being obtuse. ‘She’s ten. That’s fairly old for a dog.’

  He took the plunge. ‘I remember you said she’d been licking his face … after you found him on Tuesday. I was just wondering …’

  Monica stared at him in puzzlement. ‘I don’t follow,’ she said.

  The full import of what he was trying to say hit him, as he met her eyes, and paralysed his tongue. How did you suggest to a woman that her husband had actually been murdered? That he didn’t die of a heart attack after all? That he had in fact been poisoned by substances unknown? Especially when she’d spent all night beside him, and would be anyone’s first choice of suspect. He glanced around the room in a wild search for inspiration. The death of the dog had clinched it once and for all in his own mind. It was almost enough to justify calling in the police. Almost, but not quite, unless the widow co-operated very much more than she was currently doing.

  ‘I know the doctor said it was Mr Lapsford�
�s heart,’ Drew pressed on valiantly. ‘But I was just thinking – what if he’d eaten something the night before? Something that didn’t agree with him? Then, if the dog had somehow taken some of it in as well, when she licked his face, that would explain … Was he here all evening on Monday?’

  She gave him an antagonistic look. ‘As it happens, he wasn’t,’ she said.

  He contented himself with a raised eyebrow. Monica went on, ‘He seemed perfectly all right when he got in. Although I suppose I didn’t really look at him. You know how it is – well, you probably don’t – but after so many years together, you don’t really look at each other any more. Besides, I was only in the room with him for a minute or two, before going up to my bath. But he seemed cheerful enough. Made some joke about how macho he was; would he have done that if he’d been feeling ill? Then he went into the kitchen to make a drink and that’s the last I saw of him. Alive, I mean.’

  ‘And do you know where he’d been?’

  ‘It’s absolutely none of your business,’ she flared up. ‘You sound like a policeman, asking all these questions.’

  He held up both hands, placatingly. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I’m really sorry. I was just curious, really. It’s such a sudden way to die.’

  ‘He was with Jack Merryfield, if you must know,’ she said. ‘They’ve been friends for twenty-five years or more. Jack’s absolutely devastated by what’s happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Drew again.

  Monica indicated the dog, which she had carried into the hallway.

  ‘Now, if you could just take her for me, I won’t delay you any further.’

  He seized on the only remaining postponing tactic he could think of. ‘I know it’s a terrible cheek of me, but I’ve been driving most of the morning, and really need to use a loo. Do you think I could—’

  Monica sighed, exasperated, and said, ‘It’s the first door you come to at the top of the stairs.’

  In the bathroom, he made a hurried search of the medicine cabinet, in true detective style. He knew he’d have no chance to explore elsewhere. The mirrored door made a loud click as it opened, and he froze, thinking she might hear it. When nothing happened, he made a rapid survey of the contents. Headache pills; Deep Heat for muscular pain; sticking plasters; two half-empty bottles of cough medicine; and a plain white plastic container, large enough to hold a hundred or more tablets. He took this out and pulled off the lid. Inside were perhaps thirty bright blue lozenge-shaped tablets, which being bigger than most pills, filled the pot just over halfway. He had seen pictures of tablets like these, and knew what they were. He also knew that they were not freely available on prescription, and were generally obtained only on a thriving black market. He slipped one out of the container and into his jacket pocket.

  Carefully he replaced the lid, and put the container back where he found it. He flushed the loo, ran taps, then he hurried downstairs again. Monica was waiting for him with an air of impatience.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he smiled, gathering up the dog in its wrapping. ‘Now I’ll get out of your way. Will you be wanting the towel back?’

  She shook her head, in some disgust. ‘Perhaps she could be wrapped in it in the coffin,’ she said.

  He remembered the arrangements for the coming week. ‘Er …’ he began, ‘when we bring the coffin back to the house – well, will you be wanting it open?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure we will. There doesn’t seem so much point otherwise.’

  ‘So the dog—’ he prompted.

  ‘Ah! I see what you mean. I suppose it might look a bit peculiar. And your Miss Plant did imply that it was rather against the rules. You think someone might report me to the authorities?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he nodded weakly. In fact, it had been the mere idea of displaying a corpse with his pet dog on his chest that had given him pause. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll look after her for you until the funeral.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said gravely. ‘Since Jim was so fond of her, it seemed a good idea to keep them together. I’m sure I can trust you to do what’s best.’

  Drew made for the door. As he reached it, the bell rang, making him jump. He looked helplessly over his shoulder at Monica; she reached around him and unlatched the door. A short, bearded man in heavy bifocals stood there, scratching the back of his neck with one hand and holding a large sheaf of flowers in the other.

  ‘Jack!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are those for me? How nice!’

  With some deft footwork, she managed to eject Drew and replace him with the new visitor in seconds. Drew found himself on the garden path with the door firmly closed behind him, and no explanations given. ‘Come on then, dog,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s see what we can make of you.’

  * * *

  Not for a moment did Drew believe it was a coincidence when Monica’s two elderly neighbours emerged from their front door, side by side, wearing light autumn jackets and stout walking shoes. Heads down, they appeared to be deep in conversation all the way to their front gate.

  ‘Oh, my goodness! What have you got there?’ the smaller one asked innocently, as she almost bumped into him. He hefted the stiffly awkward bundle, causing one corner of the enfolding towel to fall away and flap against his knees. ‘It looks awfully mysterious,’ she added.

  ‘Sarah!’ the tall one remonstrated. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’ But she fixed her eyes attentively on Drew’s armload, her head slightly on one side.

  ‘You must be Mrs Lapsford’s neighbours,’ he remarked, inanely.

  ‘Obviously,’ Sarah confirmed snappily. ‘Unless you think we’ve just been burgling number 22. Which is, of course, something we might accuse you of.’

  ‘Except it would be number 24 in your case,’ added Dottie helpfully. ‘You know, I think I can see a little patch of hair just there. White hair. How intriguing.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Lapsford’s dog,’ Drew confessed. ‘She died, you see. I’m taking her away. It’s a – service we do.’

  Dottie gave a little moan of grief. ‘Oh, no! Not dear little Cassie! But how? She was always such a fit little thing. I never once saw her off colour.’ The echoes of two days before were loud in Drew’s ears. How was it that these obtuse people couldn’t see what was jumping up and down in front of their faces?

  But perhaps he had underestimated these ladies, for Sarah narrowed her eyes, and spoke thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t this all rather odd?’ she began slowly. ‘First Jim, and now his dog? There isn’t some sort of gas leak in the house, is there? Or has Monica been gathering interesting mushrooms in the woods?’

  Dottie was yet again visibly shocked. ‘Mind your tongue,’ she warned. ‘You’ll be accused of slander, if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Sarah addressed Drew. ‘How long have you known the Lapsford family?’

  He smiled, and directed his gaze modestly at the pavement. ‘Well, to be completely honest with you, I’m from the undertakers – Plant’s. I removed Mr Lapsford on Tuesday morning. The dog died this morning, and Mrs Lapsford asked us to keep them together. She thinks Cassie just pined away.’

  ‘But she never called the vet?’

  ‘I imagine she’s been a bit too busy for that,’ Drew spoke neutrally, fighting to hide his growing excitement at finally finding an ally in his conviction that all was not as it ought to be.

  ‘Is it common practice for people to be buried with their dogs?’ asked Dottie. ‘It sounds rather nice to me. Though, of course, I don’t suppose they’d often die at the same time. Not unless they were in some sort of accident.’

  ‘It’s not a burial, it’s a cremation,’ Sarah corrected her. ‘Monica told us that yesterday.’

  Dottie blinked. ‘What difference does that make?’

  Sarah looked full into Drew’s face, and he could see an undimmed intelligence at work. ‘I think this young man and I both know that it could make a very big difference,’ she said. ‘Oh, don’t worry—’ she reassured him, as he cast an
anxious glance at number 24. ‘I already know that you have your own suspicions.’

  He frowned, and tried vainly to rewrap the dog with the cumbersome towel, stalling for time. ‘How?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Your complete lack of surprise at what I’ve been saying has given you away,’ she laughed, in an impressive parody of Miss Marple. ‘Well, I wish you luck. Perhaps you’d like to come and talk to us again, when you’ve got more time? Tomorrow evening, or Saturday morning, for example. I think we might be able to point you in one or two helpful directions. But you’ll have to move fast. The cremation—’

  ‘We’ve got until next Tuesday,’ nodded Drew. ‘And I have to go now. But I’ll be back as soon as I can. Thank you very much, Mrs—’

  ‘Simpson,’ supplied Sarah. ‘Sarah Simpson. And this is Dottie. Now don’t lose that dog! It might be just the evidence you need.’

  ‘Visitor for you, Sid,’ announced Pat, putting his head round the mortuary door. ‘She says will you make sure there’s nothing nasty in here, before she comes in.’

  Sid looked up from the coffin he was working on, in some alarm. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded. ‘There’s nothing to see, anyway.’ The coffin was empty, waiting for Jim Lapsford to occupy it in due course.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, it’s only me,’ came a familiar voice. ‘I just didn’t feel up to watching you embalming somebody.’

  ‘Why? You’re not pregnant, are you?’ he asked suspiciously. He moved towards her, and laid a hand on her shoulder, examining her face earnestly.

  ‘For heaven’s sake! The number of times you ask me that, I should do it just to shut you up. It’s obvious that that’s what you really want, deep down.’

  ‘Don’t start that. What d’you want? Did Daphne see you coming in?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I came straight round the back. I just wanted to have a little chat, away from Mum.’