The Anatomist (Maya Mystery Book 2)

by Noah Alexander

  Ernst found himself going red. He had no clue what to say.

  “A month…” he managed finally but the director’s glance told him that it was too much time, “two weeks?”

  The director nodded.

  “I want you here in two weeks,” he said, “in possession of the skull and holding the thief in cuffs. You may leave now. Good morning.”

  6

  Maya's First Client

  Maya locked the door and trundled down the steps of the Bombay Detective Agency office on St Sebastian Avenue. She walked slowly, taking each step with care. Since her near-fatal accident climbing down the office building yesterday, Maya had cultivated an acute appreciation for life and had started to take extra care to avoid any mishap. It was only a miracle that she had survived the fall unhurt. She had landed on a cart of wool parked serendipitously on the street below which had softened her fall, and apart from a slightly twisted toe, she was feeling all right.

  Struggling to hold the bundle of papers in her hand from slipping, Maya emerged onto the street. She worked part-time in the Bombay Detective agency, the biggest private investigative agency of Cardim, as an administrative assistant. Her job was to look after the bills and the rents of the organization and take care of the logistic requirements of all the detectives and the researchers that worked there.

  But she wanted to be much more. She had joined the agency six months ago with the intention of learning from the detectives and then one day graduating to the position of an investigator herself. But that was easier said than done.

  For one she had no experience of detective work, most people who worked for the agency were either retired Greycoats from Tripoli Force – the crime investigation agency of Cardim or spies in the army. The bigger problem, though, was that Maya was a woman.

  The agency employed no female detectives and given the view that the men who led it held of women, it did not seem like that would change any time soon. But Maya hadn’t let that deter her from trying. If her self-learning program went well, in a few weeks she would approach Mr. Henry Camleman, the chief of the agency, with a proposal to become a detective or at least a junior researcher. But that was still some way off, if all went to plan, it would still take 6 weeks for her to get to that point.

  Right now she had to cross the road to the square carefully and catch a carriage home.

  It was evening and the St. Sebastian Avenue was a bustle of activity. People scurried like angry ants in all directions, looking for public coaches or hansoms or just trying to find traversable openings in the human multitude jostling on the street. Maya noticed a man with a bicycle. The newly invented vehicle wasn’t yet a common sight in the streets of Cardim and Maya could tell why. Its absurdly sized front wheel would make it so difficult to maneuver it in the bustling streets of the city, and if someone lost his balance and fell from the perch upon the wheel, he was sure to break a bone or two. Maya walked a few steps in the direction of the man almost unconsciously, she could not help but feel curious about the ride. She felt like asking the man to borrow the vehicle for a bit, whatever the dangers and impracticalities, the bicycle did seem like fun. Maya had an experience of riding a unicycle herself in the Gollum Circus and she remembered the time fondly. As Maya was lost in silent appreciation of the bicycle, a man coming from behind her suddenly clobbered into her, throwing the papers in her hand upon the pavement.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled almost absently, bending down to help gather Maya’s spilled papers as well as a couple of books that he had been carrying with him.

  “I am really sorry,” he mumbled apologetically again, “I was lost in thought and didn’t see you. Truly sorry.”

  The man was dressed in a white waistcoat and trousers, with a top hat upon his head. In his hand, he carried a gold-handled walking stick umbrella. It was easy to recognize rich men in Cardim.

  Maya smiled at the apologetic man, who bowed to her and took her leave. He walked past her and clobbered again into another elderly gentleman, then apologizing once more came to a halt beside the door of the Bombay Detective Agency. He knocked on the door twice before noticing the lock hanging below and apparently disappointed, let out a sigh. The man turned to walk away but Maya had already tiptoed behind him.

  “I believe you want to avail the services of The Bombay Detective Agency?” she said.

  “Umm… well no. I was here only see my friend Mr. Camleman,” said the man, “But it seems he is not here, I believe I should come at some other time.”

  “But, I do believe that you were here to seek his professional opinion on a matter. Right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, Mr. Camleman is a detective, so you obviously wanted to avail his services.”

  “No,” said the man sternly, “you are wrong. I am here only to meet my friend. And in any case, what does this have to do with you?”

  Maya smiled.

  “I am sorry to make you suspicious, but I am sure that you are here to seek professional help. I have two reasons for this conjecture. One, you look troubled, gravely so. A problem is weighing heavily upon your mind, so much so that while walking the 20 yards from the square to the door to the agency you clattered first into me and then into another elderly gentleman. Second, though you claim to be a friend of Mr. Camleman, you cannot in reality be an intimate friend or you would have known, that he rarely ever comes to the office. He prefers to work from his home. My assumption is that you found about Mr. Camleman from a friend or some other source and are here looking for a solution to whatever problem is troubling you.”

  The man gaped at Maya, visibly overwhelmed.

  “I am sorry,” he said turning hurriedly, “I should leave.”

  “No wait,” Maya stopped him, “It was not my intention to scare you away. I just wanted to prove to you that people in the agency are good at what they do and you can safely avail their services. You see I am also a detective here.”

  The doctor looked incredulously at her. Who ever heard of a woman detective?

  “I don’t think you can help me,” said the man, “I am not sure anyone can for that matter.”

  “You wouldn’t know that until you try to seek help,” said Maya looking straight into the man’s eyes. This was one of the tricks she had read about recently in a book on human psychology. To influence a man, look straight into his eyes, unflinching, and speak softly but with authority. “I have had many cases where the clients thought that their problem had no solution. They changed their opinion pretty quickly. You see, the science of deduction is magical in its abilities, it can smash boulders.”

  The man still didn’t seem convinced.

  “Let me give you a quick example,” Maya said trying her last trick. She really harbored the hope that if she could actually convince this man to allow her to solve whatever problem he had, she could use it to actually become a detective in the agency, “let me tell you why you are here.”

  “I am sorry?”

  “To convince you of the potential of our professional relationship, I would now deduce what problem you are facing. I hope that would give you some trust.”

  “Okay,” said the man slightly unsure.

  Maya observed the man carefully from head to toe, then squinted her eyes and looked straight into the man’s face.

  “Let’s start with you. You are a professor at the University of Cardim,” she said in a slow methodical voice, “and you teach medicine. You are a married man and have been so for some years, you live near River Kali, perhaps Rabitsnare which would mean that you are a rather rich man for your profession. That would indicate that you come from an influential family. You are currently worried about the cadavers that you receive for dissection and want to know their source.”

  The doctor was too shocked to reply. He gaped wide-eyed at Maya feeling positively nervous.

  “I am sorry,” he managed after some time,” How do you know so much about me? Who are you?”

  Maya smiled trying to disarm him bu
t without much success, “As I said before, I am a detective in the agency and I do not know this about you I deduced this from you, from how you look, what you wear, what you carry and how you behave.”

  The man did not still trust her.

  “You know what,” he said walking away, “I don’t want any help.”

  “No wait,” Maya ran after him, “don’t be distrustful. Please pardon me if I made you feel so. But let me tell you how I know all this about you.”

  The doctor eyed Maya with mistrust but he stopped to hear her out.

  “You are a rich man, that is evident from your appearance and your garb. And a man who needs to work intricately judging that you keep a spectacle – you could be an accountant or a clerk. But you could not be both because you are too rich for any of those professions. You could be a banker as well but no you are a professor. There is a considerable amount of chalk on your waistcoat, you also carry in your hand a few medical books, which means that you are a professor of medicine. When you clobbered into me on the street I saw the mark of the Library of the University of Cardim inside the books, so you teach there. I know that you are married from your engagement ring which has its own share of scratches and wear, indicating that it has been in your hands for a few years. There are spots of yellow clay on the back of your trousers as well as on your shoes. This soil is peculiar to the area near the river Kali, more specifically Rabitsnare. Further, the bungalows in Rabitsnare are the most expensive in Cardim and are mostly kept within families, a professor would not be able to afford a bungalow there, so I suspect you have a rich and influential family.

  Now we come to your purpose of you being here. You are visibly troubled, so the problem you are facing is something grave, a personal problem that has great implications on you. It’s not a problem which you face regularly since you seem quite unprepared for this sort of exercise. Now, what could this problem be, you are a married man, so it could be about your wife who might have an affair, but I am inclined to believe that this is something more professional. In your hands, you hold two newspapers both folded to the headline of the recent case where a physician Homi Simpson was arrested for dealing with grave robbers and using bodies stolen from graves for research. So, I suspect this has something to do with your cadavers and their source, you are worried that the bodies that you use for research might also be illegally stolen from graves.”

  “That seemed quite simple,” said the doctor.

  “It was,” said Maya, “one just has to look carefully and think.”

  The doctor nodded. He was still slightly unsettled.

  “If you want, I can direct you to Mr. Camleman’s house,” said Maya, “But I would suggest that we should first go inside the office and look at the facts of your case before troubling Mr. Camleman, who, being the chief of the agency, is a busy man and sometimes rejects cases he does not think are significant or challenging enough.”

  Maya quickly opened the lock at the door and held it open.

  “After you,” she said smiling.

  The man looked dazed but he followed Maya’s direction wordlessly, stepping inside the building.

  Maya entered after the man and slowly closed the door behind her.

  7

  Doctor's Dilemma

  The office of the Bombay Detective Agency consisted of a large hall flanked by four smaller private rooms. On the right, past the main door was a small table laden with loose papers and an array of pins, clips, files, and fountain pens. This was Maya’s place. The young woman was not allowed to venture anywhere further until asked. Past her desk was a large hall with a circular podium in the middle and wooden chairs aligned around the platform. The society held bi-weekly deliberations here, in which all the researchers, detectives, and partners of the agency gathered to discuss the cases currently being handled by the agency.

  Maya’s role was to take care of the bills, oversee the weekly cleaning of the place, make meeting notes, and supply copies of the deliberation to all the partners. Since Maya was not a detective, Mr. Camleman, the chief of the agency, had made it clear that she was to keep herself as far as possible from all the cases that the agency handled.

  Maya struggled to keep the directive in her mind. In fact, she disregarded it anytime she possibly could.

  The central hall was flanked by four private meeting rooms for the clients. Maya ushered her guest into one of the rooms. It was a small room 10 feet by 5 in girth and most of the space was occupied by a table in the center. On the wall behind the table was a blackboard with a box of chalk and a cloth duster. On the right was a wooden rack laden with law books and case files.

  Maya took the seat behind the table and asked her guest to take the chair in front. She had never been to this room before and the feeling of sitting with a prospective client gave her a special thrill. She offered the glass of water kept upon the table to the man. She was not sure how old the water was but figured it would be discourteous to not offer him even water.

  The man took the glass, flinched slightly at the taste but finished it nonetheless.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” said Maya warmly, “And you can confide your problem to me without any hesitation. There is no one else around to overhear us.”

  The man nodded understandably.

  “Let me introduce myself first. I am Maya Mitchell, senior detective, and I have a lot of experience in solving cases like yours. I mean I don’t yet know your specific problem but I think I have a fair idea and I am sure I can help you.”

  Maya kicked herself. She had a feeling, she was coming across like a salesman. She had to tone down her pitch.

  “May I know, who I have the good fortune of addressing”

  The man hesitated.

  “I am Norman Sinclair,” he said.

  “I have no problem in dealing with a false name,” said Maya almost considerately, “but I would prefer you not borrow the name of the Mayor”

  “Pardon me,” said the man visibly embarrassed, “I am having trouble thinking properly. This problem has worn me a great deal. I am Doctor Charles Melcrose.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Melcrose,” smiled Maya, “I understand the duress that you are in currently and would try my best to alleviate it.”

  This did nothing to calm the doctor down and he fidgeted uneasily in his chair. Maya wondered what she could do to make him feel more at ease. Her lack of experience in managing clients was showing.

  “I am facing a terrible problem, Miss Mitchell,” Charles Melcrose said at length, “one which I fear might destroy my reputation and career.”

  8

  Maya Gets the Case

  “I don’t think you would have the knowledge,” continued Charles Melcrose solemnly, “but I am among the more well-known anatomists of Cardim. I spend most of my time researching and teaching students than actually practicing but I do entertain occasional clients.”

  Maya rummaged her bag and produced a leather-bound book. In gilded letters on the brown cover was the name Charles Melcrose. “Actually doctor,” Maya said, “I am quite familiar with your work. In my profession, it is very important to have knowledge about human anatomy and I read your research papers widely.”

  “It is great to know that.”

  The doctor tried to smile but managed merely to pucker his lips.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Maya said, “please continue your tale.”

  “As I said, my main interest lies in research. Research of the human body, of the construction and functioning of internal organs, and how different diseases afflict them. For this purpose, I am in regular need of organs and bodies to research upon. I don’t generally source human organs directly and prefer to dissect them from corpses. The bodies themselves, cadavers as they are called in my profession, I source from a man called Bernard Knowles. Now, to the best of my knowledge, Mr. Knowles works for the Sophia Morgue, the biggest such facility in Cardim. For your knowledge, according to the Cardim law for medical research, I can only use the bodie
s of people who have been given a death penalty by law or whose relatives have consented in written to have their bodies dissected and used for research. Mr. Knowles usually supplies me with a body every two or three weeks, along with requisite documents of its origin. In my year-long dealing with Mr. Knowles, I have found him very trustworthy and competent. The bodies that he supplies are also of very good quality. Just to make it clear, at no point in my dealing with him did I ever suspect that the bodies are from any place but the morgue. But yesterday something happened which has forced me to reconsider this belief.”

  The doctor stopped as if reconsidering his decision to reveal the truth to Maya.

  “I want you to swear to me that this would stay between us,” he said promptly.

  “My clients vouch for my ability to swallow secrets whole,” Maya assured him.

  “Yesterday, no, actually today at around 4 in the morning as I was working in my office, I heard a knock at the door. When I looked in its direction, I found that a note had been slipped into my office. I opened the door but there was no one outside.”

  Mr. Melcrose handed Maya a slip of paper.

  Stop disturbing the graves or I’ll tell the police

  “This note troubled me greatly,” said the doctor wiping sweat from his forehead, “I immediately dropped the idea of involving the High Guards. The note alluded that Mr. Knowles robbed graves to source the bodies that he supplied. You must have read in the newspapers that lately the law has turned very harsh against grave robbers and those who use their services. Just today I read that my good friend Homi Simpson has been convicted of using bodies stolen from graves. He has now lost his medical license as well as his position in the Society of Anatomists. Can you believe it? He lost his livelihood, all his lifetime’s worth of efforts in one unfortunate moment. You can understand my dilemma, if I involve the guards I run the risk of imitating the fate of my colleague Dr. Simpson. I cannot afford that. I do not want to suffer for a crime that I have not committed. So I decided not to involve the police, not right now in any case. Before I make any decision, I need to know if what the note said was true. I need to find if Mr. Bernard was actually a grave robber?