by John Moss
GRAVE DOUBTS
GRAVE DOUBTS
A Quin and Morgan Mystery
John Moss
A Castle Street Mystery
Copyright © John Moss, 2009
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Moss, John, 1940-
Grave doubts : a Quin and Morgan mystery / by John Moss.
(A Castle Street mystery)
ISBN 978-1-55488-405-6
I. Title. II. Series: Castle Street mystery
PS8576.O7863 G73 2009 C813’.6 C2009-900106-3
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For Beverley Haun
chapter one
Hogg’s Hollow
Winter in Toronto is a prolonged confrontation with street-blackened slush and ice-laden winds, punctuated at intervals by thick snowfalls of breathtaking beauty. This year, as the winter backed into spring with sullen unpredictability, David Morgan became increasingly restive, sometimes morose, despite the distraction of his various passions.
Morgan currently specialized in tribal antique carpets from Persia, as he persisted in calling Iran. He could not afford to buy the carpets he admired and dragged his partner, Detective Sergeant Miranda Quin, into myriad rug merchants on their travels about town. She had a better eye for colour and design and the dealers tended to address her, rather than him. She sometimes explained they weren’t married, they were cops. This made dealers nervous — unnecessarily, since their profession was homicide.
Miranda enjoyed these carpet excursions, but Morgan had recently developed a competing enthusiasm that puzzled her: handcrafted furniture by settlers who tried to disguise local softwoods with paint. She knew how succeeding generations added layer upon layer in various hues until the baby boomers came along, bought cheap, and furiously stripped back to the original wood. The patina of ancient colours was now a rare mark of authenticity, good taste, and very high cost. The word Canadiana, which Morgan used as if only he knew what it really meant, made her nervous. She preferred the mellow warmth of old pine, newly refurbished. In Miranda’s mind, authenticity gave way to aesthetics; she connected more with the present and he with the past. Morgan assured Miranda she was wrong.
Her partner’s restlessness when they were not immersed in murder paradoxically focused his mind. It also darkened his mood, especially when snow persisted as the nights grew shorter and the days were long. As for Miranda, her natural optimism was affirmed by adversity. A lull in their caseload made her nervous. They both needed something to happen. What, she had thought, could better distract him from seasonal affective disorder — which seemed to pursue him from season to season — than the gruesome discovery of desiccated corpses behind the walls of an old house, locked in a lovers’ embrace?
A winter mosquito hovered above David Morgan’s book as if a bit of punctuation had fluttered off the page. His gaze shifted from the flow of words as he pushed an open hand through air until instinctively his fingers closed and ground against his palm. He turned his hand inward to examine the insect remains and was disconcerted when the force of his breath made them airborne again.
Puzzled by his own cruelty, Morgan set his book down and leaned back on the sofa, staring up into the loft of his Victorian postmodern condo as if he were looking for something. When the natural light faded and the gloom overhead turned to darkness, he began to pace the perimeter of the room in measured steps. The haze of evening filled his window, pierced by sleet-rimed branches hovering darkly over the rooftops of neighbours across the street. He paused and turned on a table lamp, which cast a dull, luminescent wash across the glass.
Picking up three photographs from the coffee table, Morgan walked to the switch on the brick wall and flicked on the overhead. The front window flared into a huge mirror and he could see himself poised awkwardly at the edge of the room, holding the pictures as if they were notes for a speech.
He doused the lights and the city returned, layered and receding like a Turner montage.
Morgan did not have to scrutinize the photos; their content was inscribed in his mind. They were police shots from a crime scene. Miranda had dropped them off just before dusk.
He had been immersed in his Folio Society edition of The Persians. She had come to the door and, smiling ambiguously, offered him a manila envelope and shuffled back down the icy walk, negotiating her footing one step at a time.
“Come in out of the cold,” he called after her.
She leaned against her car, waiting. Her eyes flashed brown and green and golden in the evening light. She shook her head slowly from side to side and her auburn hair took on the rippling hues of the evening sky.
Framed in the open doorway, he removed photographs from the envelope and held them aslant to the light.
“These are cheerful,” he shouted.
She waved and climbed into her 1959 Jaguar XK 150, British racing green — she had only put it back on the road at the beginning of the week, anticipating good weather.
“Where’re their bloody heads?” He waved the photographs in the air as if he could conjure the missing parts.
“That’s the point!” she called through an open window. The Jag’s engine roared mischievously. He repeated his question with a mute, exaggerated mouthing of the words. She swerved the car out into ruts of unplowed slush. He watched as it slithered down the street until she was out of sight.
The pictures were recently taken, but the bodies were historical artifacts. Wearing early Victorian clothes. Regency? Possibly. He would have to check it out.
Miranda was whimsical, but not capricious. There would be an explanation. A male and female, decapitated, bodies entwined in a macabre embrace — perhaps there was something in their symbolic rapport she wanted to share.
Morgan shrugged, trying to be indifferent. People didn’t shrug their indifference when there was no one to see them, he thought.
They had worked together in homicide long enough they were inured to the grotesqueries of death, but murder fascinates. You start with a corpse and work backward, he reflected, until the victim’s demise is the inevitable outcome of what you’ve unearthed. A metaphysical inversion: you turn the quest for the meaning of life on i
ts head. You search for the meaning of death.
Morgan stood still in the gloom of the lamplight, contemplating the pictures in his hand. When he had closed the door after Miranda disappeared, he had determinedly reinserted himself into the travails and triumphs of ancient Persia. Minutes later, his concentration broken by the arbitrary execution of a mosquito, unaccountably alive in the wrong season, he found himself on his feet, motionless, irritated by his desire to resist whatever it was she was up to.
He wheeled about and strode into the glare of the kitchen. Taking a beer from the fridge, he returned to the living room, flicked the lights on full, and settled into the wingback chair he had years ago released from captivity at a thrift shop on Jarvis Street and had been meaning to have reupholstered ever since.
He spread the photographs across the coffee table and leaned forward to examine them, trying to avoid his own shadow. Then he sat back, keeping the pictures in his peripheral vision, and as the hours rolled by he opened his mind to a montage of images: images of sex and death, of Upper Canadian pioneers, of Darius, Xerxes, and the invasions of Greece, all scudding through at random velocities.
The photographs offered three perspectives on the same tableau. One was from across a room that was evidently in the process of demolition. It showed a sizeable cavity or closet that had been revealed where rotting plaster and clumped layers of wallpaper were sheared from a wall, and inside on the floor there was an ominous rumple of shadows. In the next picture, taken from the doorway of the hidden closet, the bodies of a man and a woman lay closely together, and somehow, paradoxically, they seemed chastely intimate.
In the third, the bodies had been removed to the larger room and were laid out on display for the camera, still with their limbs entwined. On the back, pencilled in Miranda’s handwriting, were the words, “Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff.”
Curiously, nothing was noted about the missing heads.
Morgan turned the other two pictures over, but they were blank. It was getting late. He telephoned her anyway. A sleepy voice answered.
“Morgan?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Who else?”
“It’s only eleven —”
“— forty-five.”
“Talk to me,” he said.
“Did Heathcliff have a first name?”
“Miranda?”
“I thought you’d be interested.”
“Possibly.”
“They’re still at the scene,” Miranda said. “Headless. The superintendent wants forensic anthropologists to see them in situ. But tenured scientists don’t work the night shift.”
“Whoever moved them must have already looked for the heads. They shouldn’t have been moved. Amazing they didn’t come apart.”
“They’re frozen in an eternal embrace, Morgan. Like sculpture, flesh turned to bronze.”
“I hope someone has the imagination to bury them like that.”
“In the Yorkshire dales?”
“Maybe the English won’t take them. They’ve got enough old stuff already.”
“They took the Elgin Marbles!”
“The Parthenon looks better without them. Less cluttered.”
“Good night, Morgan.”
“Oh, no! No way. We’re going up there.”
“Come on!”
“We’re going headhunting; I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”
“Morgan, go to sleep.”
“You wouldn’t have offered the temptation if you weren’t prepared for the consequences.”
He could hear her smiling.
“How do you know, up there?” she said. “Up where?”
“They’re wearing town clothes but the room is country.”
“Keep going.”
“See the fragments of plaster?” he continued as if she had the photographs in front of her. “They’re dangling on horsehair from hand-split, swamp-cedar lath. You can see the crown moulding is local design, wood not plaster, and the baseboard is original. Upper Canadian, transitional farmhouse. Too bad they can’t salvage it. I’d say we’re talking about somewhere on the northern margins of early Toronto — before 1834 when it was still Muddy York — up around Hogg’s Hollow, east off Yonge. Within hearing distance of Highway 401.”
“Sometimes you’re fun, Morgan. See you in half an hour. Bring coffee.”
She hung up the phone and rolled over, pleased with herself. She had almost fallen asleep, waiting for his call. She knew, for all Morgan’s interest in pioneer cabinetry and oriental rugs and exotic fish and Arctic exploration and Easter Island and language acquisition and the history of ideas, that nothing got him going like an unresolved murder. And if they were absorbed in a mutual interest, her own disposition unaccountably mellowed.
She stretched languidly. Morgan would be closer to an hour getting there. She had time to enjoy the warmth of the room before preparing herself against the penetrating dampness outside. He refused to buy a car and trudging through accretions of icy slush from the Annex over to Isabella would take its toll. He would be late, chilled to the bone, and grumpy. Grumpy was different from morose. She could laugh at grumpy, and he would laugh back.
She was wearing only a T-shirt and men’s boxers. One of the advantages of a condo over rental is that she controlled her own thermostat.
Miranda had lived in the same place as a student. When she returned to the city after three years in the RCMP, she discovered the building was being converted to private ownership and snapped up her old apartment. Partly it was for nostalgia — the reassurance of familiar terrain — and partly it was her fondness for varnish on the balustrades checkered by time, worn marble stairs, paned windows, and porcelain fixtures. Consistency was the hobgoblin of little minds! Someone said that. Probably Swift or Pope. It sounded eighteenth century-ish.
She thought of herself as “urban contemporary,” perhaps because she grew up in a village. Morgan was raised, impoverished, in Cabbagetown, just south of where she lived now, back when it was in transition to becoming an upscale address. He was a gentleman by nature not birth, and endearingly unkempt, but not shabby.
Her intercom buzzed.
“Morgan?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re here so soon.”
“I took a taxi.”
“You never.”
“I did. Are you going to let me in?”
“Did you bring coffee?”
“Yes.”
She buzzed him in, then unlocked her door.
She was in the bathroom, dabbing sleep wrinkles out of her face with icy water, when he called from the kitchen.
“Do you want milk in yours? I asked for double-double but they’re both black with no sugar.”
“Good,” she mumbled, applying lipstick as a token gesture. “Help yourself. I’ll stick with black.”
She walked out into the kitchen.
“You look good when you’re sleepy; very ethereal.”
“Like the ghost of Catherine Earnshaw. Brunettes can’t be ethereal; we’re alluring.”
“Seductive.”
“In your dreams, Morgan.”
She did look attractive, rumpled. Sometimes he was very aware she was a woman.
“Doesn’t that make you think of erectile dysfunction?” she said.
“What?”
“Wuthering Heights.”
He grimaced.
Once, in this same apartment, they had made love. He remembered, looking at her now, that it was good, but they never tried it again.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We can drink these on the way.”
“No, just a sec, I need milk to cool it down. What’s it like outside?”
“The usual.”
“Cold, wet, and the sky is radiant?”
“Glowing putrescence, like a painting by Turner. Let’s go.”
In Miranda’s car, they reviewed what they knew about the case. It wasn’t their case but they were already committed. It wasn’t anyone
’s case, really. It was a matter of historical interest, not criminal justice.
Miranda asked Morgan to dig her cellphone from the depths of her purse and call headquarters to let them know what they were doing. His own was, inevitably, battery-dead and in his sweater drawer along with anachronistic cuff links and a gold, hardly used wedding band.
“We happened to be in the area,” Morgan explained to Alex Rufalo, their superintendent, and after a brief exchange dropped the phone back into her bag.
“We’re not the only ones who work late,” he said.
“We’re not working, remember?” She paused. “Rufalo went home before I left. There must be something up to bring him back in. The office as sanctuary, no?”
“Yes. Maybe.”
Miranda pulled the Jag up in front of a nondescript frame house, sliding roughly against the curb as she parked.
“Damn slush,” she said. “This is the address. There’s a patrol car down the street. A light in the upstairs window. What do you think? Doesn’t look like much.”
“This’ll be it.”
“Okay,” she said, getting out of the car. Despite the telltale light in the upper window, a book-cover cliché foreshadowing dread and doom, the place looked deserted and remarkably ordinary.
As Morgan clambered awkwardly from the low-slung car, he expounded. “Ontario country vernacular. Storey and a half, steep gable, central hall, symmetrical design; Georgian with early Victorian pretensions. God forgive the aluminum siding. It’s clapboard underneath.”
“You figure so?”
“Yeah.”
They dumped the dregs of their coffee out onto the icy snow but, without any place to leave them, held on to the cups. They knocked on the door and waited. Morgan scrutinized the blank wall overhead, trying to estimate where the arched transom would have been. As a practical concession to warmth, it was probably covered in about the same time as the surrounding farmland became housing tracts.
The door opened and a uniformed policewoman stood squarely in the middle, backlit by a dull glow from the kitchen.
“Yes?” she said. The woman did not seem intimidated by late-night callers at a murder scene.
