Viridian Tears

by Rachel Green

  “You have the deposit, though.”

  “Which doesn’t even cover the basic cadaver reduction, let alone the deluxe service she ordered. I’ve a good mind to phone up the son. What was his name?”

  “George. He was quite nice though his wife acted like she had a broomstick up her jacksy.”

  “Yes. I’ll give him a ring to express my condolences and see if I can turn the conversation to the matter of his father’s bill.”

  “You could pitch for the wife’s funeral too. Offer him the His and Hers package.”

  “That makes no sense. It’s only financially viable if the two have died together and we cryomate them both in the same chamber. Since we’ve already done the husband we’d actually lose money on the wife.”

  “A pity.” Emily sucked at her bottom lip. “You could offer the service as a small discount, but hold off the actual cryomation until you’re sure there wouldn’t be any more deaths in the family. If there’s a vengeful ghost it could be stalking all the rest of them, too.”

  “Honestly Emily. I wish I’d taped this conversation so you could hear how ridiculous you sound.” Eden picked up her coffee cup and, upon finding it had gone cold, stood to get a fresh one. “Right, speculation aside, I need to get on. We’ve got the Claremont funeral at eleven. Is she prepped?”

  “Not yet.” Emily followed her to the door. “I’ll pull her out of the fridge now and dress her. It’s a basic service and cryomation, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Cheap and cheerful. Generic flowers and temporary coffin. Use one of the biodegradable inserts.”

  “Don’t I always?” Emily smiled and held the door open for her. “I’ll use the Da Vinci casket, I think. That’s always a bit of a treat for the oldies.”

  “Those that remember anything about art.” Eden paused in the foyer and looked out of the main doors. “Tell me that’s not a bus coming in the gate.”

  “I’m very much afraid it is” Emily looked at her watch. “I bet it’s a charter from the old folks’ home. They’re an hour early.”

  “That’s all I need.” She took a deep breath and thrust her coffee cup at Emily. “Get rid of that for me, would you? I’ll go and have a word with the organizer and see if I can persuade them to come back in an hour. Would you find Malcolm as well? There are people at the far end of the cemetery who shouldn’t be. He needs to get rid of them and rig up some sort of temporary fencing until we can replace the hedge that was torn down.”

  “Will do.” Emily gave a nod of what Eden hoped was encouragement and dashed off.

  Eden took a deep breath and headed outside. The minibus had already parked in one of the hearse bays and the driver stood at the back unrolling a wheelchair ramp. Two old men were huddled under the mourner’s arch in the lee of the wind, puffing away at cigarettes while a woman in a blue coat and hair to match headed toward them with a walker and a determined glare.

  “Excuse me.” Eden called out to the driver as the first wheelchair was rolled down the ramp by a woman in a nurse’s uniform and matching handbag slung across her chest “Are you here for the Claremont service?”

  “That’s right.” The nurse let go of the wheelchair and stumped toward her. It was fortunate the chair was already close to the bottom of the ramp else the action might have had tragic consequences. As it was, Eden suspected she would never forget the look of terror etched on the occupant’s face as she freewheeled across the car park.

  “Jennifer Glapwell, caregiver in charge.” The nurse held out her hand and Eden took it, grateful she was used to David’s tight grip else she’d never have survived this one. “Is everything ready for us?”

  Eden glanced back at the minibus. There were now a dozen people milling about, not one of them without a walking aid of some sort. “Actually, I have to say no. You’re over an hour early.”

  “That’s all right, isn’t it?” Jennifer wrapped a beefy arm across Eden’s shoulders. “Only I finish at twelve, see, and they wouldn’t offer me overtime. I checked on your website and you hadn’t got any other funerals today so I thought you might be able to push the old dear through a bit early.”

  “But she’s not prepared or anything. She’s not ready for viewing.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just slap a bit of lippy on her and wheel the coffin in. Most of these can’t see their hand in front of their face so they’re not going to notice if she’s not got a salon do. Roll them in and roll them out again and we all get on.”

  “That really is a most callous way to put it.” Eden squared her shoulders. “You can’t rush a funeral. What if the family arrives at eleven and everyone’s already gone? I’m afraid I won’t treat anyone as a commodity for the convenience of your shift hours.”

  “Suit yourself.” Jennifer drew out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from her handbag. She drew one out, offering the packet to Eden, who shook her head. “The way I see it,” she paused to light the cigarette and took two puffs, the smoke dragged off by the wind, “is that I knock off at midday whether the old dears are still here or not, and if they are still here then they all become your problem. The coach is only booked until twelve, as well.”

  Eden frowned, her mouth a thin line of annoyance. “Let me see what I can do. If you’d like to make your way to hospitality suite one I’ll see if I can get in touch with the family.”

  “What? For Patty?” Jennifer laughed. “You’d have to be a medium. The only family she had was her son and he died last year. The people at Hillview are the only family she has and they’re all here already.”

  “All right.” Eden pressed her palms to her face and slid them down again, pressing them together as if in prayer, her chin resting on her thumbs. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll get in touch with the minister and we’ll start as soon as soon as he can get here, how’s that?”

  “Marvelous.” Jennifer took a last drag of her cigarette and dropped it to the ground to crush with the toe of her boots. Eden recognized the style as coming from the cheap shop on Market Square. She shopped there herself. “See what we can achieve when we put our heads together?”

  She looked over Eden’s head. “Why have you got the police at the bottom of your cemetery? Have they found a dead body or something?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Those are just the compost heaps for the gardens.” We did have out excavator stolen yesterday. They’re probably investigating that. Someone drove it through the hedge onto the canal.”

  “There, see? You’ve got much bigger problems than a bunch of old people turning up early.” Jennifer headed toward the group. “If you’d like to follow me, ladies and gentlemen, they’re putting on tea and coffee in hospitality suite one while they set out the chapel for us. Harry? Please don’t pick the flowers. You know you’re allergic to pollen.”

  Eden took another deep breath and watched the activity at the canal end of the cemetery. It was times like this she almost believed in God herself, a God that had decided to make every moment a misery for her. She looked back at the building where the twenty residents of Steeple Vale were still bickering as they pushed and prodded each other through the doors of Reception Suite One. Ten o’clock in the morning and already her day was a shambles. Thank Azrael, Anubis and The Baron that Patricia Claremont was being cryomated rather than interred. She hadn’t got the backhoe back yet. She took another look at the activity at the bottom of the cemetery before she went back in. Was there another bunch of people there now? White-suited techies? Perhaps they’d found evidence of who’d taken her excavator.

  She went around the side of the building to avoid the oldies and the dreadful Jennifer Glapwell and slipped back to her office. The sheets for the Claremont service listed the minister as Rupert Shepherd, an evangelist minister she’d had dealings with a few times before. She groaned aloud. The man was quite obnoxious, condemning everything about the New Eden cemetery but happy to take her cash as remuneration for his time. He felt his position as a minister gave him a God-given right to preach his particul
ar brand of bigotry and hatred.

  She poured herself another coffee from the pot and phoned the listed number, wondering who had booked the odious man for the service if the deceased had no family to speak of. Someone at the care home was letting their personal agenda overrule the wishes of their clients, unless she was doing them an injustice. Perhaps Mrs. Claremont had liked the homophobic preacher.

  The number rang and rang and with no answer Eden was forced to conclude he was either otherwise engaged or had left his phone at home. She closed the connection without leaving a message.

  On a whim she dug in her coat pocket for the card from the odd woman yesterday. She was a witch, wasn’t she? Perhaps she was a minister, too. What was her name? Something Welsh?

  She found the card and smoothed out the crease in the corner. Meinwen Jones, yes. ‘The Goddess Provides’, her shop was called. Well, let’s hope so.

  She dialed the shop number first, but the answer phone that kicked in referred her to the mobile number printed on the card and she rang that instead. “Miss Jones?”

  The sound of the wind occluded the witch’s words. She must be standing outside in a gale. She tried again. “Miss Jones?”

  The wind dropped enough for the voice to become clear. “Yes, this is Meinwen Jones. Hello?”

  “Hello. This is Eden Maguire from the New Eden cemetery? We met yesterday about your proposal to drop a monolith on my land?”

  “Yes, of course I remember. Splendid. So it’s a go then?”

  “Yes. No.” Eden bit her lip. “Look, I haven’t decided yet. I’m calling about something else.” The sound of a man shouting about a gurney overshadowed her. “I’m sorry. I seem to have called at a bad time.”

  “No it’s fine. Actually, I’m not far away from you at the moment. I’m on the canal bank at the bottom of your cemetery.”

  “Really? Where all the flashing lights are?”

  “That’s right. You could probably see me if you looked hard enough.”

  “I could, actually. My offices faces in that direction. What’s happened? There looks to be enough police there to fill a prison.”

  “Ha, possibly, yes.” There was the sound of her walking several paces. “That’s better, No-one can overhear me here. Listen, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, it being a murder inquiry and all that, but there’s a body in your cemetery.”

  Eden stifled a smile. “Just the one?”

  “I hope so, since this one was buried in a shallow grave in your compost heap. I’m also hoping you didn’t know about it, though DI White will want to ask you that personally when he arrives.”

  “A body? In my cemetery?” Eden took a deep breath. “But that means he was…”

  “Unlawfully killed, I think the expression is. Unlawfully disposed of, certainly, though I suspect it will turn out to be murder, judging by the bloody rock I found.”

  “But who is he? And why was he buried in my compost heap?”

  “His name is, or rather was, Joseph Yanuk. He was an immigrant tinker, the sort of man who’d take an old saucepan out of your dustbin and make it shine like new again. He was a friend of mine, of sorts.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks, but it sounds a bit insincere from a professional undertaker.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Sorry.” Eden chewed her lip as she backtracked. “Who put him in my compost?”

  “If I knew that I could send all the police home out of the cold.” Meinwen sniffed, though whether from the weather or from her emotional state Eden couldn’t tell. “What did you want me for, anyway? You didn’t know about the body when you called.”

  “I wondered if you were licensed to conduct funerals? If you were a licensed minister? I have a funeral party here and no minister to perform it.”

  “No, sorry. I should, though, shouldn’t I? It’d be another string to my bow if I were a witch with a license to thrill.” She gave a bark of laughter. “I perform handfastings. It’d be handy to be able to perform civil weddings as well. Birth them, marry them, bury them. That was the function of a witch in the old days.”

  “I suppose so. Let me know if you do get the paperwork. I might be able to throw a few funerals your way.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind, thanks.”

  “You do that. I’d like to be as multi-denominational as I can.” Eden was interrupted by the door opening. She looked up expecting to see Malcolm, or at least Emily, but it was one of the old men from the funeral party. He wandered to the four-foot Swiss cheese plant she had to green up her office and unzipped his trousers. “Sir?” Eden half stood. “Sir? Please don’t do that.” She spoke into the phone again. “Sorry. I have to go.”

  She dropped the phone onto her desk and hurried across the room. “Sir? Please don’t urinate on my…oh.”

  She tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped. “Eh?” A stream of urine described an arc on her carpet as he turned. “You can’t be in here, love. This is the gents.”

  “This is my office, sir.” Eden dodged the stream as it slowed and sputtered into drops. “You’ve just urinated into my potted plant.”

  “Did I?” The old man shook his penis, sending more drops flying into the air, then tucked it away. “It looks like a urinal to me.” He held his hand in front of his face and frowned in concentration. “Out of my room, turn right. Walk sixteen steps, turn left and through the door.”

  “Except you’re not at the nursing home, sir.” Eden closed her eyes and counted to three. “Let’s see if we can find your fellow mourners, shall we?” She took his arm and led him through the door, back to the reception suite. She paused in the doorway. Emily was fighting a losing battle trying to hand out cups of tea and a variety of biscuits. There had been no buffet scheduled and it looked as though she’d emptied the staff cupboards. The tall Jennifer Glapwell towered over the gathering.

  “Miss Glapwell?” Eden’s voice rang out over the hubbub and it died down except for the lone voice of one man asking for another biscuit. It was reminiscent of the child at Eddie Burbridge’s funeral and Eden briefly wondered if were all destined to return to our younger selves. “Miss Glapwell!”

  “Yes?” She came through the group like Moses parting the Red Sea. “Ah! You’ve found Mr. Hughes. We were wondering where he’d got to.”

  “He was…” Eden lowered her voice. “Urinating in my office. Can’t you keep better track of your charges?”

  “I wish I could.” Jennifer took the old man’s arm and shooed him toward Emily. “Have you had any luck tracing the minister?”

  “No, he wouldn’t answer his phone. Would there be any objection to me hiring somebody else?”

  “As long as they give a good show, no.” She jerked her head toward her charges. “They don’t get out much, you see, so they like to have a bit of a show when they get the chance. That’s why we book Rupert Shepherd. You really feel like you’ve had a good funeral after him. His homilies make the crematorium flames look insignificant compared to the fires of Hell.”

  “I see. Well, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “By all means, Miss Maguire, but it’s ten-fifteen already.” She tapped her wrist. “Tick tick tick.”

  “I know.” Eden headed back to her office, stopping by the canteen to grab a bottle of surface cleaner, a pair of rubber gloves and a roll of disposable towels. She set both by the plant in her office and picked up her phone again, dialing the Humanist Society in Wells. “Hello? Have you got anyone available to do a funeral in Laverstone right now? You do? Excellent.” She dotted down the name of the celebrant, gave her name and address and rang off, relieved that something was going right at last.

  She rang the original minister back, relieved she could leave a message instead of having to talk to him personally. “Mr. Shepherd? It’s Eden Maguire here, from the New Eden Cemetery? I’m afraid we won’t be needing you for the Claremont funeral today after all. Thank you.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and reached for her
coffee. It had already gone cold but she took a couple of mouthfuls anyway. She had no idea when she was going to get the chance of another cup today. She crossed the room and picked up the bottle of multi-surface cleaner, giving the carpet a generous spray along the arc of urine and several more squirts into the plant pot.

  She spent the next few minutes on her hands and knees scrubbing the carpet, unconvinced that the pine-fresh scent was preferable to the smell of old-man wee. She was still in this position, her hands encased to the elbows in yellow rubber gloves, when there was another knock and the door opened.

  “Eden, this is Detective Inspector White.” Malcolm came in and stood to one side of the door as the inspector came in behind him.

  “We are acquainted, sir.” He gazed at Eden while she hurriedly cleared away the cleaning supplies and got to her feet, stripping off the rubber gloves. “I have some rather distressing news for you, I’m afraid.”

  “They’ve found a body. In my compost heap. Murdered.” Malcolm blurted out the words as if they were burning his tongue, nodding his head for emphasis on each phrase.

  “I wouldn’t have put it quite so bluntly, but he is, essentially correct.” White looked pointedly from Eden to Malcolm. “If I might have a word?”

  “Of course.” Eden walked back to her desk. “Malcolm? Would you see how Emily is doing in chapel one? Tell her the celebrant’s on his way.”

  “You don’t want me to stay here?”

  “No, Malcolm. I’ll be fine, honestly.”

  “Well…ask him about the tractor, at least.” He left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The silence left behind seemed heavy as dust.

  The inspector broke the silence first. “Tractor?”