by Rachel Green
VIRIDIAN TEARS
Laverstone Chronicles, Book 4
Rachel Green
LYRICAL PRESS
http://lyricalpress.com/
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
For all the Brilliant Misguided who dare defy social mores.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to DK and Luisa for living with a writer, Tir and the staff of Lyrical Press for all the help, and Stephanie for the constant encouragement.
I'd also like to thank Caitlin Doughty at The Order of the Good Death (http://www.orderofthegooddeath.com/) for some chilling inspiration.
Forword
Viridian Tears follows Meinwen Jones, the pagan investigator from Screaming Yellow and White Lies, but it's not necessary to have read either to enjoy Viridian Tears. Meinwen also appears in Sons of Angels.
Chapter 1
Edward Burbridge looked perfectly fine, right up until the moment his face fell off.
Until then he’d had a succession of visitors coming to pay their last respects. Most were relations and friends of the family, though there were several people Eden recognized from the business community and others who’d turned up hoping for free booze at the wake.
The shriek of horror from the chapel alerted Eden to a problem she’d dreaded all morning. She hurried to the front and closed the casket lid, sealing the horror away from view. She used the remote control to mute Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in D. “My apologies, ladies and gentleman. The circumstance of Mr. Burbridge’s death and his choice of an ecological burial precluded the use of preservatives. If you’d bear with me for just a moment, refreshments will be served in the Eulogy room. The memorial celebration will begin in thirty minutes.”
She gave a short bow and nodded to one of the ushers, who opened a door to one side of the chapel where glasses and bottles of alcohol had been laid out ready for the mourners. It was supposed to be reserved for after the service, but nothing cushioned the sight of your loved one’s gleaming cheekbones than a triple brandy on the house. She watched them file through the door and cluster at the liquid buffet where the deceased’s son and his wife took control. She wondered if he was as aggressive in the boardroom, or the bedroom, for that matter. Not that she’d be interested in finding out.
“I take it that wasn’t planned.” A tall man in a dark suit and light brown mackintosh had approached from the right.
“Of course not. We don’t use formaldehyde here, you see, and with the state of the body…” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. Are you a relative of the deceased?”
“An interested party.” The man took out a small plastic wallet and flipped it open. “DI White, Laverstone police.”
“Oh dear. Having a deceased's face fall of isn't an arrestable offense is it?”
“It depends on the business, I suppose.” White smiled. “Restaurateur, yes. Funeral director, not so much.”
“Then how can I help you?”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk? Away from the mourners?” He indicated several of the local businessmen who watched them with what seemed to be excessive interest.
“Certainly. Come through to my office.” She led the way through a doorway half-concealed by a tall vase of fresh flowers. It led to a utilitarian corridor, quite different from the quarry tile and oak veneers of the public areas. She stopped a woman carrying a clipboard. “Emily? Would you ring Michael, please? He should have been here by now.”
“Certainly.” The girl flashed a smile at the inspector and went through a doorway, offering them a glimpse of white tiles and stainless steel.
“Michael?” The inspector caught up with her.
“The minister. He travels here from Plymouth.”
“Why not use one of the local ones?”
“We do if the client requests it, but in those cases the service is generally held in one of the churches. Here I use a humanist minister more often than not. Non-denominational. We can get through the service without mentioning God.”
“I thought that was the whole point.”
“The point is to celebrate the deceased’s former life.” Eden opened a door and led the inspector into a well-appointed office. Dark carpet and oak panels gave the room a somber air, lifted by a series of large framed watercolors in abstract patterns. She sat behind a large oak desk and motioned him to take one of the seats in front of it. “We can do that with or without reference to God, according to the wishes of the client and the beliefs of the deceased.”
“I see.” White sat and took out a notebook. “About the deceased?”
“Yes? You had him first, Inspector, so I doubt there’s anything I can tell you about the body.”
“How much do you know about Edward Burbridge’s past, Ms. Maguire?”
“Call me Eden, unless you’re making an arrest.” She smiled. “Not much, really. Just what’s in the eulogy. He grew up in the East End, made his money with a string of betting shops then retired to Laverstone when his doctor told him to stop drinking before his liver made a dash for freedom.”
“That’s certainly the gist of it.” White leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What’s not generally known is that his betting shops were the public front of a number of less desirable businesses.”
“Such as?”
“Money laundering, drugs, prostitution rings. Even a spot of kidnapping I shouldn’t wonder, but nothing was ever proved. Someone tipped him off and he got out just in time. Another fortnight and we’d have had enough to put him away for good. Instead of which he closes up shop and scarpers. A week later he turns up here.”
“So what has all this got to do with me?”
The inspector removed a piece of lint from his trouser leg. “Mr. Burbridge came to Laverstone a very wealthy man indeed. We suspect the bulk of his money is still in existence, buried somewhere in his estate.”
“Buried in his estate? What? Do you want to borrow my tractor to dig up his lawn?”
“Ah, no.” White gave her a forced smile. “That came out wrong. I meant buried in a figurative sense, among the disbursal of his possessions.”
Eden sat back. “I’ll ask again, then. What has this got to do with me? It sounds like you’re looking for a forensic accountant. Have you tried asking his solicitor for the will?”
“Alas, we have no evidence with which to obtain a warrant. All I need is for you to keep an ear out, particularly when all this…” He waved a hand to indicate the funeral arrangements, “…is paid for. Account numbers would help.”
“I see.” Eden steepled her hands, a habit she’d learned from her husband when he was about to win an argument. “You want me to casually investigate the family and associates of a suspected crime boss who died under mysterious circumstances on the off-chance it leads you to millions in drug money.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“How would you put it?”
“I’d have missed out the bit about him dying in mysterious circumstances. It was hardly a coincidence the one day he’d taken up drinking again was the day his car had broken down, forcing him to walk home along the canal in a drunken stupor.”
“Anyone can slip on a bit of ice, Inspector.”
“I’m not saying they don’t. I’m merely observing a series of unfortunate events which culminated in your client’s demise.”
“My client is alive and well, Inspector. I call her Mrs. Burbridge.” She emphasized the ‘Mrs.’
“Of course. So Mr. Burbridge is?”
“The deceased, or the late Mr. Burbridge, if you prefer.”
There was a knock on the office door and Emily pushed it open far enough to put her head through the gap. “Excuse me, but Michael’s here
and the mourners are getting rowdy. Some of them seemed to view a table full of alcohol as a personal challenge.”
“Thank you, Emily. I’ll be there in a moment.” Eden stood. “Right, Inspector. That’s all the time I can spare you. Was there anything else?”
“I don’t think so.” White stood as well. “Oh. One thing, perhaps, but it’s not really related. I noticed you’d put in a tender for the public disposal of bodies.”
“To the council, yes. I wasn’t aware it was a police matter.”
“Well, we do have to look into it. We don’t want to find all our unclaimed dead are being shipped off to research facilities, do we?”
“Of course not, but this is hardly Burke and Hare country, Inspector.” Eden walked to the second door, the one that led to the outside where mourners congregated before the service. “I’d lose my license if I didn’t dispose of bodies cleanly and efficiently.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like a tour of the facility when it’s convenient.”
“As you wish, Inspector. Just not today, eh? I’ve got a funeral to attend to.” She held the door open.
“Of course.” He seemed to take the hint at last and went out.
Eden closed the door and gave a long sigh. She’d have to do a bit of tidying before the inspector inspected. That could be dealt with later. Now she had a funeral to stage-manage.
She straightened her skirt and blouse and set off back to the Eulogy Room. It was, contrary to the usual decorum of the funeral home, as rowdy as a pub full of darts players. Several of the guests were flushed from the provided alcohol and were alternating verses about a brothel with calls of good health for ‘dear old Eddie.’”
“Ladies and gentlemen?” Eden’s voice was lost in the hubbub. “Ladies and gentlemen?”
None of the mourners were taking any notice of her. She worked her way to the front of the room where a large ship’s bell hung from a bracket. It was often used as a counterpoint to eulogies but now it could serve another purpose. She rang it three times and the conversation died. “Ladies and gentleman. If you’d kindly make your way to the chapel, the commemoration of life is about to begin.”
In the silence a small voice rose clearly. “Mum? I thought we was having a funeral?”
Eden turned to cloak her smile and led the way back to the chapel. She nodded to the humanist minister and stood to one side while the mourners filed in. Michael called them celebrants but however much Eden tried, she couldn’t think of the ad-hoc congregation as anything but mourners. Mrs. Burbridge had taken one look at the coffin on the catafalque and burst into tears.
When all the attendees had filed in and found seats, some of them looking quizzically at the leaflets outlining the order of service, Eden closed the doors. Michael raised his hands.
“How do?” He grinned at the mourners. “That’s what Eddie would say if he was here. He loved everything about life, didn’t he? He loved his beautiful wife.” Shirley Burbridge managed a weak smile. “His three children and his first grandchildren, Philip and Bethany.”
“That’s me, mummy.” The same voice as before piped up. It brought a collective chuckle from the mourners.
Michael referred to his notes. “Eddie loved the town here. He became a firm favorite among the locals and was elected to councilor the second year he was here. Another three years later he was the mayor. Everybody loved Eddie, and Eddie loved everybody.” He looked out at the congregation. “Is Robert Beswick here?”
“Aye. That’s me.” A man in a camelhair coat stood up.
“Except you.” Michael waved an index card as if it was evidence. “Eddie says he couldn’t stand you or your stupid statue at the town hall. He left explicit instructions if you had any more questions you could spin on the top of St. Pity’s spire for the answer.”
The room was silent for several seconds, then Robert Beswick guffawed. “What a card, eh? He always had to have the last laugh.”
The rest of the mourners laughed with him. Eden heaved a sigh of relief and couldn’t help catching Michael’s eye. He was relieved, too. Shirley had insisted the slight be in the service. It had been Eddie dying wish, she said.
The rest of the service went smoothly. The two eulogies from his sons brought laughter and tears and even the rendition of Jerusalem Shirley had claimed was Eddie’s favorite hymn was belted out loudly enough to wake him if he’d only been asleep. Eden knew he wasn’t. Not with the great Y-section in his chest and several internal organs missing, courtesy of Laverstone Police Pathology Unit. Eden doubted he’d have woken for the Last Trump. When the final Green and Pleasant Land had faded, Michael pressed a button and the coffin sank out of sight. A few closing words and it was all over. Eden opened the doors again, standing to one side as all the mourners filed out.
“That went well, I thought.” Michael spoke softly.
“You do us proud, Michael. Thank you.” She was aware the family were within hearing range and smiled into his twinkling eyes. “I can always rely on you.”
“You can, Eden. Anything you need. You know that.”
“So you say.”
Chapter 2
When all the mourners had left, the eulogy room had been cleaned and the chapel tidied ready for the following day, Eden dismissed the staff for the night and locked up. She unpinned her hair as she walked through the business side of the funeral parlor, shaking out her shoulder-length curls and catching them into a more comfortable elastic scrunchie. In the scrubbing room she exchanged her black dress for a white lab coat and pulled a pair of latex gloves from the dispenser. There was no one else in the building so she felt comfortable in just her underwear under the lab coat. The only person likely to see her was David, her husband, and he rarely got home from work before six. The only other eyes were those of the dead, and they never voiced an objection to her casual attire.
The room behind the two chapels was a chilled area for temporary storage of caskets as they came off the memorial bier. She rolled Edward Burbridge onto a gurney and pushed him across the floor to the freezer, a bank of six state-of-the-art mortuary drawers able to drop the temperature of a corpse down to minus sixteen degrees. It took about three days, but monitors on the inside of the drawers took readings on the state of the corpse within and displayed the information on a front-mounted panel.
“Sweet dreams, Mr. Burbridge.” She slid him into a drawer and switched on the freezing unit. Shirley Burbridge had paid for the full service, which included the casket. Eden was relieved. It made the whole process a little more tasteful than the disposable cardboard coffins favored by the council’s accounting department. Bodies shipped to her for disposal at public expense were rendered down as cheaply as possible.
Eden checked the readings on the only other drawer currently occupied. Elizabeth Pilgrim was as deep-frozen as she’d ever be in here. Time for stage two of the process. She donned heavy leather gloves of the sort used by blacksmiths and pulled open the door. Minus sixteen was cold enough to rip the skin off the palms with the slightest touch and Eden didn’t believe in taking chances. Not when her hands were the stake, anyway. She pulled the old lady’s casket onto the gurney just vacated and moved it to one side while she closed the door.
“That was stupid, Eden.” She’d developed a habit of talking herself through her apprenticeship. When she worked alone with bodies it felt natural to talk to them and to imagine them talking back to her. David called it ‘puppeteering’ whenever he walked in on her holding both sides of a conversation. Now she was imagining Elizabeth speaking from inside her beech-veneered pine casket. “You should have taken me out first and put Eddie in the same drawer. It would have saved you a bit of money on the electricity bill.”
“Not to worry, love.” Eden kept the gloves on as she wheeled Elizabeth through the automatic doors to the next room. “I’ve got two council disposals scheduled for tomorrow. They’ll make the money up soon enough. This time next year I’ll be running at a profit, you wait and see.”
Sh
e stopped at the machine and slid Elizabeth’s casket into the chamber, then removed the heavy gloves to seal the cryomation chamber. She checked the liquid nitrogen tanks and switched the machine on. A readout showed Elizabeth’s weight including casket, the current temperature and current phase of the process. She patted the inspection panel. “Good night, Elizabeth. See you tomorrow.”
She pressed the process button and listened to the machine’s hiss as liquid nitrogen poured into the tank. She’d trained herself to gauge the state of the jets by the sound they made, since they were prone to becoming brittle from the sub-zero temperatures. At the far door she turned the lights out, leaving the cryomation chamber to automatically reduce Elizabeth to thirty pounds or so of sterile powder by morning.
Eden left her white lab coat in the lobby as she went upstairs to her private suite. That was the benefit of living above the shop. No commute to go home. On the first floor of the building, which was once the home of a wealthy Edwardian gentleman, was the suite of rooms she and David called home. She slipped on a pair of jeans and a blouse, mentally reprimanding herself for leaving the black dress in the scrubbing room. A quick detour to the bathroom while the kettle boiled, then a trip upstairs to the third floor.
This was Eden’s sanctum, her holy place if she’d been at all religious. Here she indulged herself in her passion for art and painting in particular. The air was heavy with the scent of oils from the two canvasses propped on easels at the far end of the attic. Each was a portrait of someone she’d never known, the decomposition of each figure rendered in exquisite detail. She was fond of watercolors, too, though her work in that medium tended to be much looser, almost abstract with only a hint of a gaping eye socket or exposed ribcage in the delicate tracery of viridian green, Prussian blue or alizarin crimson.
She set her coffee on a side table and sank into the deckchair furthest from the oils. Clouds plastered the sky like the world’s slate roof, leaving little illumination from the bank of north-facing skylights, but Eden was reluctant to switch on the overheads. They made everything look artificial.
