Grave doubts qam-1

by John Moss

  “Such as?”

  “Just ambiguities. The committee wanted clarification.”

  “About what?” said Miranda. “I’ve read her CV. It’s impressive.”

  “Perhaps that is the problem, Miss Quin — Detective.”

  “I know she was waiting to hear about a grant proposal,” said Morgan. “She told me about a Shirk application — ”

  “Shirk,” said Miranda. “SSHRC. Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council.” She was quite pleased with herself. Usually it was Morgan who had access to the obscure meanings of acronyms and abbreviations.

  “I was not aware of such an application,” said Professor Birbalsingh. “Even if she applied through the ROM, it would have gone by me. No, I do not think she applied this year for funding of any sort.”

  Morgan was perplexed. He described her research project. Professor Birbalsingh reacted with mounting astonishment.

  “I do not think it likely, Mr. Morgan — I am sorry, Detective Morgan. Perhaps you would prefer to call me Iqbal. But no, we will let such an opportunity pass. What Dr. Hubbard told you seems a rather quixotic venture. I doubt very much there would be money or interest to sustain such a project. There is not much of a market for saints in Ontario. Perhaps in Quebec, though I doubt it. And it all seems very conjectural. I suspect she was spinning a fantasy. Such are the ruminations of the forensic anthropologist.”

  “But she has, perhaps, spun a few others in her pursuit of tenure?” Miranda found Shelagh Hubbard’s predicament mildly amusing.

  “No, not exactly. But as I am her sponsor, so to speak, having encouraged her cross-appointment with the museum, I am dismayed by her failure to appear before the committee.”

  “Did you call the police?” asked Morgan.

  “I was about to when you arrived, unsummoned.”

  “You’d have to call the OPP. It’s provincial jurisdiction.”

  “Morgan, it’s only been a day. She could have been out for a walk when Professor Birbalsingh called, or in the bath, or simply not answering the phone. Try again, Professor. Let’s give it another day. You call us tomorrow, if she hasn’t turned up. We’ll look into it. I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure Dr. Hubbard is in her own capable hands. She’ll look after herself.”

  “Was there something else that brought you all this way to my office, or was it a social call?”

  If there had been a purpose, Morgan seemed to have forgotten. He turned to Miranda. She shrugged amiably.

  Professor Birbalsingh nodded gravely and rose to his feet, indicating their interview was over. “Then I am sorry for your wasted time. I am afraid I must say goodbye,” he said, shaking both their hands.

  In the corridor, after they heard the lock click, Morgan and Miranda exchanged knowing glances. There was something endearing about a man so much the caricature of an academic. They walked out into the sunlight of University Circle and, immediately, each was taken up with a medley of personal memories from when this had been the centre of their separate worlds.

  When Professor Birbalsingh’s call was relayed to Miranda early Friday morning, she told him they would look after it and she called Morgan.

  “You know, I think we should take a run up there,” Morgan said.

  “It’s OPP jurisdiction.”

  “Exactly my point. I’d like to get there first, have you look over the place before they get involved.”

  “We’re not breaking in, Morgan. If we get there and no one’s around, we call the Provincials.”

  “Oh, for sure,” he said. “Want to meet for breakfast?”

  “I’ve got to go into the office. I’ll pick up a car and be over in an hour.”

  Morgan showered and got dressed, then decided he might as well cook up breakfast for both of them. He put a frying pan on to heat and broke eggs into a bowl, ready to scramble as soon as she pulled up in front; put the coffee on; took six pieces of back bacon out of the freezer which he carefully pried apart with a bread knife and put on to fry — this was double his weekly allotment; he was feeling magnanimous. By the time Miranda came in, toast and juice were on the table, coffee aroma filled the air, the eggs were cooking, and there were four pieces of cooked bacon left, to be split between them.

  “You have something on your lip,” she said when she sat down. “Bit of bacon? Are these four mine, then?”

  “I was just testing.”

  “The point of hoarding a commodity is not to enhance consumption but to control distribution.”

  “Sounds like Economics 101.”

  “Not the bacon, dear, I was thinking about murder. Did she deep-freeze her victim while she figured out what to do with him? Or did she know from the beginning and was just using the freezer for storage until the right woman came along to complete the coupling she had always intended?”

  “All that because I snuck a bite of my own bacon? You can’t say ‘she,’ for sure. We’re a long way from having a case.”

  “Ring ring,” she said.

  “Did you say ‘ring ring’?”

  “I did. It’s my vibrator,” she said, reaching for the cellphone on her belt.

  “That’s an odd place to keep a vibrator.”

  She gave him a mock smile and he mumbled to himself, “ring ring.”

  “Hello, Quin here.”

  “Detective Quin,” said the voice in the phone. “Singh, here — Owen Sound Police. I have had insistent calls from a Professor Birbalsingh — several calls. He gave me your name. They’ve patched me through from your office.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know Professor Birbalsingh?”

  “Yes, Officer Singh, I do. I assume this is about Shelagh Hubbard.”

  “He apparently called the OPP to report her missing.”

  “I gave him their detachment number.”

  “I gather they explained that since she’s a part-time resident, it would not be unusual for her to be away. It struck them as most likely Miss Hubbard had simply left for Toronto or elsewhere. He was most upset. He called us, as the nearest municipal police. I called the OPP myself and they sent a car out at my request.”

  “And what did they find?”

  “Nothing. Everything appeared normal. No evidence of forced entry. They felt they had neither just cause nor authority to pursue the matter.”

  “I appreciate you letting me know, Officer, but where are we going with this?”

  “Professor Birbalsingh was insistent. He said you would confirm that a most serious problem was happening.”

  “My partner and I are involved in a murder investigation. We would like to question Dr. Hubbard — ”

  “She is a doctor? I did not know that. We need more doctors up here. Shall I drive out and look around? Unofficially, of course.”

  “That is very kind, Officer Singh. But no, my partner and I will drop in and check things out. If there’s anything irregular, we’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Is Dr. Hubbard a murder suspect? Is she a specialist?”

  “She’s a Ph. D. in forensic anthropology, and no, she is not a suspect, as far as Professor Birbalsingh is concerned.”

  “I take your meaning, Detective Quin. If he calls back, I will be most discreet.”

  “Thank you, Officer. I’ll keep you informed.” She snapped the cellphone shut.

  “So, it’s on vibrator mode, is it?”

  “Resist the double entendres, Morgan. The word ‘vibrator’ is not inherently comical.”

  “I take it my friend is still missing. Do you want that piece of bacon?”

  “I do,” she said, snatching it out from under his swooping hand and popping it whole into her mouth. “Arghixtphtuftisdngtoo.”

  “Is that anything like ‘ring ring’? Mustn’t talk with your mouth full.”

  “Fktfu.”

  “You too.”

  When they turned in at the mailbox that starkly proclaimed Hubbard the resident, Miranda was surprised by the austere beauty of the scene. The landsc
ape was rougher than the rolling hills of Waterloo County. The fields surrounding the house sloped in irregular planes this way and that, drifting downward from the high hills of the meandering escarpment to the southwest, while in front of the house they seemed poised, gathering momentum for an eventual rush to the Georgian Bay shore. Towering black spruce hovered along either side of the drive, making a dramatic statement of proprietorial authority against the drab earth and dry grasses newly released from their cover of snow but not yet aroused into life. As they approached through the tunnel of spruce, the house was revealed to be charming, one-and-a-half storeys, with a front gable, shutters smoky-green against the rubble-stone walls. Miranda was so distracted by the paradoxically harsh and yet pastoral setting that she momentarily forgot why they were there.

  At the side of the house they were surprised to find a police cruiser parked facing out with the driver’s door open, as if the driver were anticipating a fast getaway, but the driver was nowhere in sight. Miranda chuckled to herself when she saw on the side of the car the insignia of the Owen Sound Police. She gave a congenial beep of the horn as they pulled in beside the cruiser, and as they were stretching from the long drive the figure of a young man appeared in the stable door under the overhung side of the old wooden barn. He was in uniform, wearing a turban. As he walked toward them, trying not to look awkward for being there, Miranda greeted him.

  “Officer Singh, I presume.”

  “Detective Quin,” he smiled radiantly, having already forgiven himself for venturing well outside his sphere of authority, knowing the detectives were on equally ambiguous ground. “It is so good to meet you. Welcome to the countryside.”

  “This is my partner, Detective Morgan. Just call him Morgan. I’m Miranda.”

  “My name is Peter.”

  They all shook hands. The young officer could not stop smiling. His smile was infectious, and the three of them stood for some time, motionless, smiling.

  “I am happy to be of assistance,” he said. “Murder is a rare occurrence in Owen Sound. Mostly domestic violence, and very unpleasant. I have been reading about your case, I believe. The very old bodies in the very old house. And then not so old, after all. It has been intriguing, but it did not stay very long in the papers. I recognized your names. When Professor Birbalsingh told me, I knew who you were.”

  As he mentioned the call, he indicated with a hand gesture the universal telephone sign, little finger and thumb extended, the other three fingers folded in.

  Morgan said, “We are appreciative, Officer Singh.” He addressed the young policeman with a conspiratorial wink. “We will work as a team. Did you find anything of interest in the barn?”

  “Oh, yes. Barns are of infinite interest. But nothing suspicious.”

  “Good work,” said Morgan.

  “Well,” said Miranda, noticing the cobwebs on his turban, “I’m sure, then, we can turn our attentions to the house.” She realized both she and Morgan were being a trifle patronizing, but, she thought, with good intentions. Peter Singh’s ingenuous enthusiasm made him likeably vulnerable and they were instinctively trying to create protective barriers around him, before either lapsed into cynicism. “Have you been here long? You look like you were getting ready to leave,” she said, nodding at the open door of the cruiser.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I estimated the drive would take you three hours if you left right away.” He indicated driving with two hands moving an imaginary steering wheel. “My car is like that to reassure anyone here of my goodwill.”

  “Is anyone here?” asked Miranda.

  “No, I do not believe so. Not alive — ”

  “Peter,” Morgan said, “we’re not looking for bodies, we’re just trying to find Dr. Hubbard.”

  “Who is a person wanted for questioning in a homicide investigation.”

  “Yes. Who appears to be missing.”

  “A very nasty homicide.”

  “Yes,” said Miranda. She opened the summer-kitchen door. It seemed reasonable to step inside, to knock on the house door. Immediately, she recognized the door to the sauna from Morgan’s description of the bolt and flanged hinges.

  “There are five doors in this room, Morgan. I was expecting two. One for the lady and the other for the tiger.”

  Morgan and Peter Singh had followed her in. Morgan grimaced, but Officer Singh asked, “What do you mean? What tiger?”

  “It’s an old story. A man has a choice: does he choose the door concealing the lady, or the door concealing the tiger?”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, looking quite perplexed. “A difficult choice.”

  “Well, what do you think, Morgan. Shall we give the door a try?”

  “How about knocking first?”

  “Officer Singh already has. I’ll just try the handle. You never know.”

  Miranda depressed the handle and pushed and the door swung open into the kitchen. She leaned in and called a piercing “Hello-o-o.”

  There was no answer. She stepped inside.

  “Morgan, come in. We have a problem.”

  Morgan entered and walked by her into the centre of the room. Peter Singh crowded in behind.

  “Familiar territory, Morgan?”

  He glowered. Peter Singh offered the opinion that it was a beautiful house. The renovations were clearly of the highest calibre, he noted as he made a rapid hammering gesture with one hand over the other, and it was very neat.

  “Notice anything?” Miranda asked.

  “The door wasn’t locked. It’s unlikely she’d leave it unlocked.”

  “Yes,” Miranda said. “But even more telling. Feel the temperature. It’s warm in here. The furnace is on. No one, not even on a professor’s salary, would neglect to turn the heat down if they were planning to be away. She’s been gone, I’d say, three days.”

  “How do you know that?” said Peter Singh.

  “There’s a sweet, yeasty smell; the garbage under the sink is a few days old, not long enough to be rank, too long to live with.”

  “Very interesting.”

  Morgan looked at her with particular affection. She was good at this.

  “Does your nose tell us if she’s still on the premises?”

  “She isn’t here. We’ll check all the rooms, but the air is unsullied by human remains. I would think she left in a hurry and under duress, probably in the evening.”

  “How so?”

  “The dishes are washed; after breakfast or lunch there’d still be a few cups around, a few crumbs, but everything’s been carefully put away, the counter and table are wiped down. I’d say it was the final cleanup of the day. And look on the table: three pieces of paper, with holes for a three-ringed binder. And a pen. She was settling down to write journal entries. And a wine glass. Clean. Empty. She was going to pour herself a glass — did you say she drank port? — a glass of port. She was about to record her memories of the day, her dreams and her plans. There are no essays in sight — she was probably finished her marking. And there’s not a single book off the shelves. Academics invariably write with books spread open around them.”

  “Invariably? Perhaps you’re projecting from stereotype. I think we’ve got about as much here as we’re going to get without a warrant.”

  “We have reason to believe a crime has been committed. She didn’t leave of her own accord, Morgan. I think we should look around.”

  “I’ll check upstairs,” Officer Singh volunteered.

  Morgan sat down at the table and stared into the cold ashes in the fireplace. He got up and closed the damper. Heat from the furnace would be pouring out the chimney. She wouldn’t have left it open. He sat down again, pleased to be alone as Miranda checked out the parlour and downstairs bedroom. He felt something strangely akin to nostalgia. This was absurd, for he and Shelagh had spent only a short time together, and it had been an emotional roller coaster, leaving him both frightened of her possible capacity for evil and irredeemably enthralled.

  “Morgan,” Miranda
’s voice echoed from Shelagh Hubbard’s bedroom. “I think you should see this.”

  As he walked through, Peter Singh came clattering down the stairs, eager to miss nothing. The three of them crowded into the small room, along with a pressed-wood chair, a deal dresser, a three-quarters size bed — neatly made — bedside shelves stuffed with books and a braided rug. Miranda was sitting on the edge of the bed. On her lap was an open three-ring binder with a blue plastic cover. Two others were lying on top of a bookshelf. She turned the binder for Morgan to see in the glare of an overhead bulb suspended from the ceiling. This room had not yet been refinished.

  He could not read without projecting his shadow across the open pages, so he took the book from her and turned into the light, only to have it blocked by the young officer who was simultaneously trying to read over his shoulder and stay out of his way. Morgan turned to Peter Singh and, making the universal gesture of two fingers walking, said, “I’ll just walk out to the kitchen with this. There’s better light.”

  He sat down at the harvest table with the book open in front of him. Slowly, he thumbed through, opening the pages at random, moving backward and forward, taking in brief descriptive passages, drawings, recipes for plaster and paint, details of antique clothing, outlines of plot, lists that included a crucifix and a Masonic ring, a clinical accounting of the extermination of lives and the preparation of corpses to fulfill their grisly roles in a ghastly embrace. A sketch showed severed heads resting face to face, lips touching lips. They had missed that, when they had lifted the heads from the chute — that they were meant to be kissing. Miranda stood in the small archway leading into the central hall with Officer Singh beside her.

  Morgan for a moment envisioned his former wife as the author. He imagined Lucy making notes about buying a freezer big enough for a body, adapting a sauna for murder and mummification. He could picture her planning out a tableau for her own amusement, arranging desiccated corpses like dolls in a depraved parody of affection. Separating bodies from heads — passion is in the mind, she would say. The body is merely the medium, the message is always obscure. He could read his former wife’s personality in the disinterested precision of Shelagh Hubbard’s records.