by John Moss
“And then there were four,” said Morgan. “Saint Marie Celeste and the Virgin Mary and Sister Mary Joseph and Saint Shelagh herself. It’s not a coincidence she’s laid out in a pale-blue habit.”
“Robe.”
“Habit. Anyway, the resemblance is uncanny, and it’s not a coincidence that Shelagh Hubbard and Lorraine Eliott are dead ringers.”
“What an unfortunate choice of words.”
“So, where are the bones of Lorraine Eliott?” said Miranda aloud, but more to herself than the others. Then, addressing Morgan, she said, “We’d better caution forensics to check the crypt carefully for residual traces of a much older body.” She stepped up onto the chancel to confer with the OPP.
“Where do you think they got to?” Morgan asked Alexander Pope.
“The bones? I have no idea. What would a person do with old bones?”
“Discard them, I suppose, or set up a morbid tableau. But there would have been more than a skeleton in the tomb. It’s a stone crypt, cool in summer and frozen in winter, and we saw how well it was sealed. I would imagine there was a mouldering corpse in there, swathed in the remains of a pale-blue robe.”
“Unless, of course, she was truly a saint,” Alexander observed. “Then she would have been perfectly preserved and smelling of violets. Perhaps the violets we smell are a lingering reminder of her inviolate flesh. How very eerie.”
When the county coroner’s people lifted Shelagh Hubbard’s body out of its tomb, Morgan moved closer. He watched them set her gently on the gurney. He stood beside her, looking down at her face. He felt a strange mixture of emotions. There was no doubt she was a pathological killer. His own fate had rested precariously in her power, and she had clearly articulated plans in her journal for extinguishing his life and using his bones to fabricate the charred remnants of a Jesuit saint. It seemed almost silly now, a quixotic subterfuge doomed to exposure. And he could not help but feel the pathetic irony of her present predicament, having herself been used after death to supplant another saint’s earthly remains. And as he scanned her face, her deep-set eyes pressing with suppressed vitality against the membrane of their lids, full lips poised as if about to utter a benediction, cheekbones pushing at their thin veneer of covering flesh, he found her hauntingly beautiful and it made him sad, and he felt sympathy for her powerless state as an exemplar of death.
“Morgan, you all right?” Miranda pressed to his side, holding his arm against her breast in a subtle gesture of affection no one else could see.
“Yeah,” he said. “Better than her.”
“Come on, let’s look around. It’s still our case; the abductor abducted is now the murderer murdered.”
“Okay.”
He kept staring at the dead woman’s face. Miranda spoke in a low voice — not a whisper, but a private communication. “Morgan, it’s okay, it wasn’t evil you were attracted to but the disguise she gave it. And look at her — it was an enticing disguise. Forgive yourself for being her victim, Morgan.”
He turned to her; they were standing so close, in other circumstances it might have been an embrace. He spoke in a firm voice. “Think about that.”
“No,” she said. She was not about to collapse her life story with his.
The two of them looked down at Shelagh Hubbard, who seemed to be listening.
“She’s had better days,” said Miranda.
“I wonder.”
“Death becomes the lady, Morgan. Pallor suits her.”
The implied intimacy of how close they were standing suddenly made both of them uncomfortable. Morgan stepped back and nearly trampled Officer Singh, who had just approached from behind. Miranda moved to the side and pushed against the gurney. A coroner’s assistant, taking that to be a signal, drew a white cloth over Shelagh Hubbard’s face and signalled for another assistant to help wheel her out of the building.
“Does this mean our case is resolved?” said Peter Singh.
“Well, in some sense it does,” Morgan answered, swinging around to respond and finding himself awkwardly close, but still able to appreciate the young officer’s odd gesture of closure, swiping his hand across his throat in a guillotine motion. Morgan held his own hand up, patting the air. “And in some sense it doesn’t.”
Miranda chimed in. “Scotland Yard will be pleased she’s dead. Our superintendent will be pleased she’s way out here and she’s dead. Morgan’s eventual heirs will be pleased she’s dead. But there’s a lot to find out before the story is over.”
“The important thing, apparently, is that she’s dead,” said Alexander Pope, who had meandered through the tangle of investigators to join them.
There was an awkward silence.
“This one’s definitely out of our jurisdiction,” said Morgan.
“Unless,” said Miranda, with a devilish gleam in her eye, “she was killed in Toronto and brought back here for burial. Then it’s the same deal as with the Provincials, in reverse.”
“Could that be possible?” said Officer Singh.
“Anything’s possible,” Morgan responded.
“We’re on this,” said Miranda, “until, can I say in oral quotation marks, ‘the circumstances of her death have been resolved.’ We’d like to understand what led her to do what she did, why she kept such meticulous records, where the predilection for grisly scenarios came from. That’s part of our mandate, unofficially, if not on the books.”
“Well, I must say,” said Alexander, “I will be relieved when this latest development in her story is over. I really would like to get back to my work.”
“Of course,” said Morgan. “It’s good to keep things in perspective.”
More sympathetically, Miranda said, “I think the believers have already begun to disperse. Let’s check them out.” She led the others toward the front of the building and pushed one of the double doors open. The OPP officer outside made way and they stepped into a garish glow. Miranda was startled to realize the night had fled to the west and the grey sky was streaked with pink and orange as the sun pushed upwards against the eastern horizon. The crowd had thinned to a few clusters of diehards who seemed as thrilled to be associated with murder as with the holy apparition that it had displaced.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air. “The paintings on the wall haven’t changed, but now they’re just paintings. For these people out here, Shelagh Hubbard’s appearance in the grave of their saint seems to have taken the magic away, if not the mystery.”
“Not their saint,” said Morgan. “She’s the saint of the housekeeping pilgrims. What these other people saw was an image of the Virgin Mary, and it undermines her manifestation to be associated with a criminal investigation. Logic kicks in. Maybe it’s only a picture of the folk saint after all, and suddenly the apparition is reduced to cult status, an awkward archaic curiosity. So, home they go, to wait for another sign, next time on a pizza crust or a washroom wall.”
“You are quite cynical, Detective Morgan,” said Alexander Pope. “I think the frescoes are the very beautiful works of unheralded genius. As art they are much more significant in the long run than an apparition of the Virgin Mary or, for that matter, the recovery of a saint’s untainted corpse, or even the surprise appearance of a dead murderess.”
“And you think I’m the cynic,” said Morgan.
“‘Sailing to Byzantium,’” said Miranda, who bristled at the word murderess.
“What?”
“Yeats. ‘Sailing to Byzantium.’ ‘Art above life.’”
“You’re speaking cultural shorthand,” said Morgan, unsure whether he was complimenting her or censuring her for inappropriate erudition.
“How long was she dead?” said Peter Singh.
“Who, the saint or the sinner?” Miranda responded.
“The woman we have been looking for.”
There was a pause. Then Miranda answered. “It’s hard to tell. She had been embalmed, she was sealed in, the crypt wa
s icy cold. I’d say she could have been there a week or more.”
“And the violets?”
“Injected through her veins, I imagine, with the embalming fluid.”
“Oh, dear.”
Miranda turned to Morgan, who seemed radiant in the morning sunlight. “Well, partner, it’s time to go. Let’s check in with the OPP and then check out.”
“My goodness,” said Peter Singh. “I’m on duty in an hour. Goodbye. We will keep in touch.”
“For sure,” said Morgan.
“As for me,” said Alexander, “if no one wants me for anything further, I’m off to Midland and a good day’s sleep in a choice motel.”
“Very reasonable,” said Miranda. “I’ll tell the OPP they can reach you here later on. I imagine they’ll want you to keep clear of the crypt, but you can carry on with your project. I’ll ask, but I don’t see why not. I’m anxious to see how the story turns out.”
“The fifth panel? I’ll leave it for the time being. It is what it is: a stunning trompe de l’oeil. The panels on the other side of the church, I don’t anticipate anything special. The apotheosis of Sister Marie Celeste would be hard to top.”
“Unless her body turned up,” said Morgan, “unravaged by time.”
“Morgan,” said Miranda, “let’s let these guys get on their way.” She took him by the arm and turned back through the door. “Come on, we’ll go in and say our goodbyes.”
Six weeks later, Morgan was walking down Mount Pleasant Boulevard, taking in the green of mid-June despite the traffic roaring by. Ahead, leaning against the abutment of a pedestrian overpass, he saw a half-dozen girls in school uniforms. Their blouses were untucked, draped loosely over their skirt bands, and their knee socks were scrunched around their ankles. These were older students, intent on declaring their personal style by compromising the prescribed apparel of their school, looking as dishevelled as possible. Nothing and no one, thought Morgan, will test the limits of privilege like those born within it. Still, there was something dangerously sexy about their wilful abandon.
Feeling a lascivious twinge of guilt, Morgan looked away as he walked by. A familiar voice shrieked an indecipherable inanity, and he saw out of the corner of his eye that one of the girls was Miranda’s ward and another was her friend Justine. He stopped dead in his tracks. The girls went silent, then Jill recognized the slightly unkempt pedestrian who seemed poised on the edge of a decision. She dropped her cigarette to the ground. Justine did the same. The other four girls, unaware of the implications, kept on smoking.
“Jill,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “Good to see you. Good to see you, too, Justine.”
The two girls rushed him, Jill throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a smoochy kiss on the cheek, Justine hugging them both and blowing kisses into the air.
“Do you know this man?” said the tallest girl.
“No,” said Jill. “But isn’t he handsome!”
“He’s my mother’s boyfriend,” Justine announced.
“Your mother is married,” said the tall girl. “I met her, remember? And your father.”
“Well, he would be if he could.”
“Actually, he is the favourite boyfriend of my official guardian,” said Jill.
“Morgan!” said the tall girl. They, of course had heard of Miranda and Morgan and some of the sordid details of Jill’s past. That is how she chose to maintain control of her own narrative: by being forthright about the publicly known story, and perversely whimsical about the details.
Before Morgan could mumble that he was not Miranda’s boyfriend, the other girls gathered around him. Justine maintained a proprietorial grasp on his arm. He was embarrassed by the attention, and several times tried to excuse himself. Finally, he explained that he was on duty and really had to get going.
“Murder,” Justine announced. “Murder is Morgan’s business.”
Morgan took Jill gently by the arm and said, “Walk along with me a bit.” The others, even Justine, picked up the hint and fell back.
Once they were out of earshot, Jill said, “I know what you’re going to say.”
“What?”
“Miranda is death on smoking.”
“But she’s not as much against it as I am.”
“Oh.”
“I thought you had more sense.”
“I do.”
“Then — ”
“It’s not about sense, Morgan. It’s peer pressure.”
“Bull!” He couldn’t help but smile. “Peer pressure is no match for intelligence and a modicum of imagination.”
“Right. Actually, I’ve been conned by subliminal advertising. Did you notice cops in movies smoke?”
“Only the ones who can’t act.”
“Yeah. Dumb, eh?”
“Really dumb, Jill.
“So okay, let’s make a deal. I’ll never have another cigarette if you bribe me. And Justine. You have to bribe her, too. You see, what happens is, like a girl in my dorm, her parents wrote her a cheque for a thousand dollars when she turned twelve, and postdated it a decade ahead. If she makes it to twenty-two without smoking, it’s hers. Neat, eh?”
“And what if she smokes? How would her parents know?”
“She’d tell them.”
“Simple as that.”
“Simple as that. Being a rebel and a renegade and a maverick doesn’t mean you’re dishonest, Morgan. So how about it? Wanna bribe me?”
“Sure.”
“How much?”
“Twenty.”
“Each?”
“Each. But I pay you now. Then it’s your problem, not mine.”
“Agreed. I agree for Justine, too.”
Morgan took out his wallet and handed her two twenties. She took them and tucked them down the front of her blouse just as a police cruiser pulled to the curb. She leaned up and kissed him. “Love ya,” she said, and she strolled with an exaggerated swing of her hips back to her friends.
“A little young for you, buddy,” said a voice from the cruiser. The driver leaned forward to look up at Morgan through the passenger window. “Detective Morgan! Still, she is a bit young.”
“Officer Yossarian.” Morgan was amused and a little disconcerted by Yossarian’s assumption. “You found me.”
“No, sir, I wasn’t looking. Just cruising.”
“Can I use your radio?”
“Sure. Where’s your cellphone.”
“At home with my gun.” Morgan slid in beside Yossarian. He waved to the girls, who were clustered together in excitement. The cruiser made his credentials more authentic. “Let’s drive,” he said.
“Groupies?”
“Yeah, well, you know. It goes with the job.”
“Me, I like working uniform.”
“Yeah. I never did it.”
“You started in plainclothes?”
“Yep.”
“I’m going back to school.”
“Yep, good idea,” said Morgan. They were driving up Mount Pleasant and Yossarian wheeled left onto Lawrence Avenue. “So where are you taking me?”
“Dunno. Are you working?”
“Yeah,” said Morgan. “I was thinking.”
“You got a case I should crack for you.”
“If you’ve got time.”
They bantered until they got to the Yonge Street intersection.
“Pull over here,” said Morgan. “I’ll walk down Yonge for a while. Do me a favour: call my partner, tell her where I am, and tell her I’m working.”
“Sure thing, Detective. Keep thinking. You take care, now.”
Morgan got out and ambled south down the east side of the street to enjoy the foliage along the cemetery boundaries and the TTC lines where the subway is elevated to ground level and the tracks carve through green ravines. He was deep in thought, but aware of his surroundings. It troubled him that the Shelagh Hubbard murder had not been resolved. They couldn’t lower the curtains on the Hogg’s Hollow drama until her file had been laid
to rest. Initially, there had been a certain relief over Shelagh Hubbard’s death. There would be no more horrific tableaux. But as time passed, he and Miranda both struggled with the lack of resolution. She wanted to understand. Morgan wanted closure.
They kept in daily contact with the regional OPP through the woman in charge, who was the sergeant at the scene when they had gone up to check out the abandoned car. They had had several routine cases after that: one in Rosedale — a situation that was euphemistically described as justifiable homicide. Politically sensitive. No charges were laid. There was a shooting in Yorkville, and another on lower Jarvis Street. Both saw the demise of pathetic outsiders — social misfits murdered by friends. Arrests were made without incident. The paperwork for all three cases was staggering.
Morgan had fled the office earlier in the day, before Miranda got in. Sitting hunched over his desk, images kept intruding on words. He was haunted by the memory of Shelagh Hubbard when they saw first her inside the stone crypt. For a fraction of a second he had thought it was the sanctified body of a dead saint! Perhaps he saw Lucy, he wasn’t sure. Marie Celeste seemed to obscure the edges of identity, even when she wasn’t there. Perhaps that’s what a saint does, he thought. He wanted to avoid Miranda until the images sorted themselves out.
Despite the early onset of summer, the case had turned cold. The confusion of saints and sinners refused to unravel. The OPP had focused on Alexander Pope for a while, but as Morgan pointed out, the guy was a harmless eccentric. Sure, his prints and residual bits were everywhere in what was formerly the Church of the Immaculate Conception, but the place was, in effect, his studio. There wasn’t so much as a fleck of skin, a fingernail paring, a loose hair on the elevated chancel near the opening in the stone floor — apart from his DNA adhering to the slab where they had lifted it away when they opened the crypt. Morgan’s was there as well. There was, indeed, a connection between Pope and the murder victim, but he had been her teacher, not her mentor, and more recently his involvement was at Morgan’s request.
Alexander Pope, himself, was apparently undeterred by the macabre turn of events. Miranda talked to him several times on the phone, getting progress reports on his project. Officer Peter Singh dropped in on him periodically and let Morgan and Miranda know how he was doing. Morgan envied Pope — a man consumed by his work to the exclusion of anything else; an artist obsessed.