The Linking Rings

by John Gaspard

  “How did McHugh get permission to do this so quickly?” Megan asked quietly in my ear, as much to the group gathered around her as to me.

  “Apparently, Archie Banks had no heirs, so there was no family to deal with,” Angus said, trying to match her quiet tones.

  “If he had no heirs, who did he leave his estate to?” she said, clearly puzzled.

  “Given the state of his career before he died,” I distantly heard De Vries say, clearly several feet from Megan’s phone, “I would be very surprised if he had anything resembling an estate to leave to anyone.”

  “At the time, there wasn’t even enough to pay for the funeral,” Angus said. “It was Baxter who kicked in for the cemetery plot. The rest of us pooled our money and bought the coffin.”

  “That was very considerate of you,” Megan said.

  “Yes, I suppose it was,” De Vries agreed.

  All was quiet for a few moments, which was a relief for me, as the voices in my head were making it hard for me to focus on whatever it was McHugh had brought me along to focus on. I looked over at the gravesite, their comments about paying for the funeral still—literally—ringing in my ears.

  “So who bought the headstone?” I asked, gesturing to the weathered gray stone surrounded by brambles and weeds. I then realized that, for the audience I was speaking with, gestures were at best superfluous. And to anyone in the cemetery, I looked a tad loony.

  Silence at the other end of the Bluetooth suggested the group had been stymied by this innocent question.

  “Hello?” I asked tentatively.

  “They’re all shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads,” Megan explained. “I’m surprised you can’t hear the rattling of our brains and the creaking of our limbs,” Roy added, followed by another of his famous explosive laughs.

  The headstone looked like all the others around it, although newer than most. Thirty-plus years in the ground made Archie Banks a relative newbie at Highgate Cemetery, so the lettering on his gravestone lacked the worn and nearly illegible quality of many of the others nearby. Along with his name and the years of his birth and death, the stone also featured an engraving of a single flower, positioned directly above his name. Since the earthmover had not begun to excavate, I stepped closer and snapped a photo of the grave marker.

  “What was that?” Megan asked.

  “Just snapping a photo of the gravestone,” I explained. “In addition to the lettering, there’s also an engraving of a flower.”

  “What’s it look like?” she asked.

  The workers wanted me out of the way, so I stepped back and consulted the photo on my phone.

  “It’s round and puffy, with lots of small petals.”

  “Hang on.”

  I heard murmuring in the background, and several seconds later, Megan returned.

  “Roxanne thinks it’s a marigold,” she said.

  “The marigold is a symbol of grief and mourning,” Roxanne yelled in the background.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “I could have heard that even without the phone. Thanks, Roxanne.”

  Any further conversation was drowned out by the earthmover, which roared to life as it began its task.

  “What we have here is a brilliant illustration of exceptional dirt displacement and management,” McHugh was telling me as the workers created a larger and larger pile of earth next to the headstone. “First rate work, really. My hat’s off to the team, very nicely done.”

  I looked to McHugh to see if this was a joke, but he seemed genuinely impressed with the efforts of the groundskeepers. I had to admit his admiration was well-founded, as they had done a remarkable job of unearthing Archie Bank’s grave while keeping the surrounding graves and path clear and unobstructed.

  The team was just in the process of pulling the coffin from the ground using ropes and a pulley. I whispered this progress to the folks listening back in the pub.

  “It will be interesting to see the level of decay after all this time,” Angus said, his voice quiet and serious.

  “Oh, I would expect complete decomposition of everything but skeletal matter,” De Vries said. “After all this time, I mean.”

  “You think so?” Angus said.

  “Most definitely,” De Vries replied.

  “Well, it depends on the type of wood used for the coffin, doesn’t it?” Roy said, as the three men warmed to their morbid chat. “And if the body was embalmed. In an oak coffin, for example, I believe it can take decades for thorough decomposition to occur.”

  “And, of course, you have to take into account the local water table,” De Vries added.

  “As well as the type of soil,” Angus said.

  There was a loud grumble from the machinery, and I turned to see the coffin had been extracted from the grave. It was being lowered, rather shakily, onto a nearby plot of cleared land. McHugh followed the small cadre of police as they moved toward the dirt-encrusted box. I steered clear of them and instead made my way up a slight incline to the right of the gathering. After I reached the top of this small hill and turned back, I realized I had discovered the perfect position to see into the coffin when the lid was removed. I alerted the folks in the pub to my new position.

  “Just what are they expecting to see when they open the bloody box?” Angus whispered. “No body, just a note saying ‘Off to kill some old mates, back in a bit?’”

  “Best case scenario is the casket is empty, proving Banks is still around and they now have a perfect suspect,” Davis De Vries said.

  “Second that,” Roy agreed.

  “Short of that, finding a body which, via forensics, turns out to be someone other than Archie Banks would be a significant outcome,” De Vries continued.

  “Dental records, that sort of thing?” Roy said.

  With all the old guys whispering in my ear, it felt like I was listening to a morbid AARP golf tournament.

  “Most likely. With no heirs, not sure how DNA would enter into the equation. They will most likely rely on dental records,” De Vries said. “Isn’t it wonderful how the police procedurals on television have made quasi-experts of us all? I feel I could speak intelligently on this topic for hours.”

  Before I could agree or disagree with that assessment, the sound of wood splintering signaled the coffin was being pried open. Moments later, the top had been removed and, as I had thought, my vantage point gave me a bird’s-eye view of the coffin’s interior.

  A quick shout-out to Hollywood horror films. For all their failings, apparently they do get at least one thing consistently right: the way a body looks in a coffin after it’s had years and years to decompose. The sight before me could have been a perfect, if low-key Halloween decoration on any suburban front porch. An assemblage of pale, gray-white bones poking out from the remains of a dark gray suit. A stark skull, with a fixed and crooked smile. Boney hands protruding from the sleeves.

  I made a sudden deep intake of breath and stepped back. “Oh,” I said. “It just occurred to me I don’t think I’ve ever seen a body in such a state.”

  “Isn’t it what you expected?” Angus asked in my ear.

  “I guess so,” I said with a shudder. “But it just makes me feel, I don’t know—dirty, I guess. I think I may have to take a good long soak tonight.”

  “Good thought,” Angus agreed. “I may do so as well.”

  “What else do you see, Eli?” This was from Harry, who had been strangely silent throughout.

  “Well,” I considered, looking at the pile of bones in the box below me. “The suit still looks pretty good. It’s gray, double-breasted.”

  “Hey, I think I remember that suit,” Roy said suddenly and a little too brightly. “I had one just like it. Probably still do.”

  “It’s not the suit that interests us,” De Vries said. “I’m more interested in what
is on—or not on—his right hand.”

  As if to answer him, one of the detectives stepped away from the coffin, widening my range of vision. And there it was: the red ruby ring worn by all the members of the Mystical Magi was wrapped around a thin third finger on the skeleton’s right hand.

  “Yep, he’s wearing the ring,” I reported via my Bluetooth.

  “Then that’s clearly him. Good thing we never made him give the damned thing back when we tossed him out of The Magic Circle,” De Vries muttered. I began the slow climb down from my vantage point while the police tech people began the process of removing Archie Banks’ remains from the decaying coffin.

  “That’s funny,” I heard Roy say as he turned away from the phone. “I thought we did get the ring back.”

  “This is really lovely,” Megan said as she stopped to admire a large, worn statue of an angel marking one ancient grave.

  The skeletal remains of Archie Banks had been removed and the excavation team had finished refilling the now empty grave. McHugh and I gave our short report to the folks in the pub, and while everyone else dispersed to points unknown, Megan and I had headed back to the cemetery for a more complete tour of the grounds. Harry had been correct in his suggestion that we should add the ancient cemetery to our tourism short list, as the graveyard was well worth a longer expedition.

  I looked up at the large statue, which stood at a slightly askew angle over a worn and illegible gravestone. “I’m always amazed at the lengths people go to when it comes to commemorating death,” I said.

  “Or celebrating life,” she suggested as we ambled on.

  “Leave it to you to put a positive spin on a cemetery,” I said, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

  We walked for several moments in silence and rounded a corner, suddenly facing a long row of large mausoleums of Greek or, more likely, Roman derivation.

  “Do you want to be buried when you die?” she asked. This was certainly a reasonable location for such a question, but nonetheless, it took me a bit by surprise.

  “I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” I said. “But it seems sort of silly to go to all the trouble. And expense.”

  “You’re interested in saving money after you die?”

  “That might be the only time I can,” I offered. “Particularly if I have a coupon. How about you?”

  She stopped at an iron gate marking the entrance to an impressive stone vault, peering into the murky darkness.

  “I used to think I wanted to be cremated, with my ashes spread over the flowers at the Rose Garden by Lake Harriet. Like I did with my grandmother.”

  “I didn’t know you were allowed to do that.”

  “You’re not,” she said. “There’s some sort of silly law against it.”

  “A law against distributing human remains at random locations throughout the city? Give me the petition to strike that one from the books, I’m ready to sign.”

  She laughed. “It’s a garden; what’s the big deal?”

  I had to admit, in reality, it didn’t strike me as being such a big deal. “So you were told you couldn’t spread her ashes?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you went ahead and did it anyway?”

  “Well, not all at once. Anytime I was going to visit the rose gardens, I’d open her urn and pour some of Grandma into a baggie. Then, when I was walking through the garden, I’d flick a bit here and there.”

  “Like the POWs in The Great Escape,” I suggested. “Although, they were dumping dirt to cover up their tunnel building, but the concept is the same.”

  “Anyway, it didn’t take long,” Megan continued. “She wasn’t a large woman.”

  “So that’s what you want done with your ashes?”

  She shook her head, grabbing onto the bars blocking entry to the tomb and giving them a bit of a shake. “It was until today. Now I think I want a tomb. A mausoleum. Something big and impressive that will last forever.”

  “Like the library at Alexandria?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I suppose ‘forever’ is a relative term.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Megan started suddenly and turned around. She scanned the row of tombs across from us, and then looked back the way we had come.

  “What’s up?”

  She shook her head. “I just had the sudden feeling we weren’t alone.”

  I gestured to the row of vaults, many of which held multiple generations. “We aren’t alone. There could easily be a hundred people entombed within just a few feet of us.”

  “No, not dead people. I’ve got no problem with dead people,” she said, still surveying our surroundings. “It’s the living that can give me the creeps. You ever get the feeling someone is watching you?”

  “Not until you just mentioned it,” I said, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Have you seen enough tombs for the time being?”

  “I have.”

  Once we got away from the long row of mausoleums, I could sense Megan begin to relax, which in turn helped me to calm down. We spent the next few minutes looking at really old tombstones, remarking on how disturbing small statues of cherubs actually are (“Those freaky, fat baby angels,” as Megan preferred to call them), and enjoying the impromptu nature walk.

  The paths were twisty and the landscape covered with trees, so it didn’t take long for us to get lost. Not hopelessly lost, just lost enough. Megan has no real sense of direction, and so it often fell on me to keep us headed on the right track. After several turns, I was beginning to feel I was doing my job quite badly. I did keep a lid on feelings of panic, because I recognized we were inside a fenced enclosure and eventually had to end up somewhere. After a few tense minutes, I was very relieved to round a bend and see Laurence Baxter standing in front of a grave marker.

  “Oh, Eli, you’ll find this interesting,” he said when he saw us, not in the least surprised. He waved us over as if we’d just wandered in from another room at a ritzy cocktail party. “This is the grave of David Devant.”

  “Who’s that?” Megan asked as we approached. The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t provide anything resembling an actual answer. Luckily, Baxter, still in host mode, was already on top of it.

  “Devant was a predecessor of mine, after a fashion—he was the first president of The Magic Circle.”

  I nodded in agreement, as if that had been the answer I intended to give.

  “In fact,” he continued, “the room where Eli and I met at the Circle is named for him—the Devant Room.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “Quite the legendary magician was our David Devant,” he went on, brushing aside some leaves from the grave marker with his foot. “You know about his egg bag routine, of course.”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “What was his egg bag routine?” Megan turned to me, and I feigned I was about to answer, then gestured to Baxter as the greater authority.

  “Oh, a high water mark indeed,” he began, as I turned my attention to studying the grave marker. It was a very simple tombstone. Besides the name and the birth and death dates, there was not much to hold my attention. Not even a nice flower engraving like on Archie Banks’ tombstone.

  “And they say the routine even made the Queen laugh during a Royal Command Performance, which is no small trick,” Baxter said as he finished his explanation of the egg bag illusion. Based on what I had overheard, it was just the normal egg bag routine—with an egg continually appearing and disappearing inside a cloth bag—but was taken to new heights with Devant’s performance skills.

  “So, while others of note are buried in the East section of Highgate,” Baxter continued, “Karl Marx, George Eliot, Anthony Shaffer, and the like, I always make a point to visit the West section and the grave of Mr. Devant when I’m in the neighborhood.”

 
He turned and began to saunter away, so we joined him. I assumed if he knew where David Devant’s grave was, he would also know how to get us back to our starting point.

  “As it turns out, there is an interesting point of connection between David Devant and the late Archie Banks,” he continued as we walked along side of him. “Both were ousted from The Magic Circle. In Devant’s case, twice!”

  “So, apparently they took Devant back at least once,” I said.

  “Oh, they did both times,” Baxter laughed. “They would hardly name a room after him if they didn’t.”

  “What did he do wrong?” I asked. “Was he stealing material like Banks?”

  “Nothing so brazen, no,” Baxter said, stopping to right some flowers that had tilted to one side in front of a gravestone. “They claimed he divulged magic secrets in two books he penned. It caused quite the uproar at the time, outrage at the shocking exposure and all that.”

  “Imagine if they saw all the exposure on YouTube these days,” I suggested.

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “It would induce a mass panic, if not collective embolisms. Anyway, I always felt a special connection to old Devant. That was one of the reasons I wanted a house in Hampstead. It was his old stomping grounds.”

  And so it went, the next few minutes consisted of an amiable guided nature walk with Baxter pointing out some unique vegetation found in the cemetery.

  “And that one there is a hearty little beast,” he said. “Although, I have had absolutely no success getting one to thrive in my greenhouse. Just infuriating.”

  “I think some things can only survive in the wild,” Megan suggested. “People and plants. They just don’t like restrictions.”

  “Well put, my dear,” he said as we made one more turn, revealing the cemetery’s entrance in the distance. “Anyway, given how this all shook out, I’m not sure it was worth everyone’s time to come all the way out here today,”

  “Did you think for a minute the coffin would be found empty when they opened it?” I asked.