Grave Doubts (16 page)

All morning he wondered about the siren’s call. Was it the sound of his own weakness tolling in the chambers of his heart, or was it truly seduction, the melodic ululation of his heart’s desire? By the time he reached the restaurant, walking up Yonge Street, he was convinced that regret was a waste,
that he had not stuffed up his ears but had listened, first to one, then the other. Their songs were the same. Surely, he thought, it’s better to wrestle with demons and sleep with the devil than not.

His line of reasoning, such as it was, collapsed when he saw Miranda sitting at a back table, patiently waiting. She smiled receptively. As he leaned down to her, she reached forward and with the back of her hand brushed gently against his cheek. He was startled for a moment, until she blew him a pouting kiss, and he decided he was forgiven. He would not tell her about the connection, the siren. He suspected she would understand. Instead, they would have lunch, talk about antiques and things. Maybe he would tell her about his tattoo, although it was unlikely.

Thursday; they met in front of Professor Birbalsingh’s office. The professor had pretty much lost interest when the bodies were declared modern. Postmodern, in fact, he had quipped. “It is not a question of contemporaneity,” he explained to Miranda when she had dropped in to interview him on her own while Morgan was away. “They are, of course, recently deceased. I am saying we would have discovered that, although perhaps not for a few more hours. A science like ours works incrementally, you know, building one small observation upon another and another, until sometimes we have constructed a dinosaur, Miss Quin, from an elephant’s remains. But eventually, the elephant will out, so to speak, declaring its trunk not a tail, despite our scientific efforts to the contrary.”

“Postmodern?” she had said.

“Indeed, Miss Quin.”

“Detective.”

“Detective Quin. I am sorry. Titles are so very important in my line of work and I am assuming in yours also.”

“They can be, yes.”

“Well, I am saying ‘postmodern’ because it strikes me as a crime that breaks all the rules. You know it is a nasty murder but you feel it is an estimable achievement, nonetheless. In spite of your capacity for empathy with the victims you admire the artistry of their rather hideous demise. You know, it was a scene of undoubted melodrama and of comic absurdity, but certainly presaged by tragedy, devised for ironic effect. All very academic, in fact. Four modes in one. My late esteemed colleague, Professor Northrop Frye, would have been very much pleased. Perhaps ‘pleased’ is not the most appropriate word.”

“So,” Miranda had said, fascinated by his convoluted assessment. “Our killer is an academic?”

“Dear me,” he responded, “I should say so, but that would perhaps be presumptuous. Not a university person, in the strictest sense, perhaps. No, quite unlikely. The university life does not leave room for such a flourish of imagination, I am afraid. Too many committees and subcommittees and granting agencies with juries. A project like this would die in the seminal stages.” He paused, raised his stentorian eyebrows, and added, “As, of course, it should.”

It had occurred to Miranda as he had been talking that Dr. Shelagh Hubbard fit the description. She had the academic credentials to be an adjunct professor, but she was employed outside the university, doing most of her work through the ROM. It was following this conversation that Miranda ran a close check on Birbalsingh’s associate and came up with her connection to Alexander Pope, studying methods of domestic construction in British colonial times. Otherwise, the woman’s curriculum vitae read like an academic prototype, and her personal dossier suggested life was a subsidiary activity to scholarly pursuits.

She liked Professor Birbalsingh and was happy to come along when Morgan suggested they interview him again, even though Morgan did not seem to have particular questions in mind.

When the professor opened his door, he seemed relieved at their presence.

“I was going to call you,” he said. “Come in, come in. Be seated.” He had a pair of comfortable leather chairs in his cramped office, both of them piled with books that he distributed among a clutter of papers and other books on the floor. “Now then,” he said, sitting down behind his desk in a chair strategically placed in front of a narrow window to cast a luminous glow around him while obscuring his features in shadow. “I am happy to have you here. I was wondering if you might be hearing from Dr. Hubbard.”

Good grief, thought Miranda, was word already out about the sauna? Has Morgan offended academic protocol? Are the university authorities holding him responsible for her whereabouts?

Morgan responded, “No, I dropped in to see her last weekend at her farm. She was marking papers and exams. Is there a problem?”

“There is. She was expected back yesterday noon.”

“And she’s late by a day,” said Miranda. “Did you call her?”

“Oh, yes, I did, but there was no answer.”

“And is that a grave problem?” she said.

“Yes, very grave.”

“How so?” asked Morgan.

“Well, you see, she was expected to speak to the tenure committee yesterday at four o’clock.”

“And it was a bad thing to miss her appointment?” Miranda posed this as a question but the answer was obvious.

“Yes, very bad. She was being considered for tenure and there were questions to be asked about her publication record.”

“Is that standard procedure?” asked Morgan.

Professor Birbalsingh leaned forward over his desk so that his facial features emerged into the light of the room. “It can be,” he said. “Especially if there are ambiguities.”

“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 landscape 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.