Grave Doubts (26 page)

Miranda gasped. As the shadow of the stone slid across the opening and light flooded the cavity in a small stone crypt, she could see a woman’s body dressed in sky blue lying on rock, with only a smooth boulder beneath her golden hair
to support the head. Her skin was the colour of alabaster and her lips were as bright as blood. Her eyelids curved softly over closed eyes. Her lashes flickered in the bright illumination as if they were going to flash open, and her lips were poised as if she were about to speak. She was full-bodied and lithe in her absolute stillness, sensuous and innocent. All gazed at her in a profound hush, the mystery rendering them silent.

Then Miranda spoke. “It’s Shelagh Hubbard,” she said.

chapter thirteen
Yonge Street

The old church took on new life, swarming with Provincial Police. Peter Singh watched closely as they poked and prodded into every corner and shadow, assessing infinitesimal details of forensic interest, from dust motes to cobwebs. They had questioned him and Morgan and Miranda separately, hoping to find some anomaly in their description of events that might yield unexpected insights. They questioned Alexander Pope at length, but he seemed bewildered, as if his sacred trust had been violated. They interviewed the five pilgrims, finding them forthright and elusive, and of little value, it seemed, to the investigation. The pilgrims were told to go home, which they did.

Peter Singh observed all the activity in utter amazement. How did he have the great fortune to witness such an astonishing turn of events? Detectives Morgan and Quin had read the scene at the abandoned car like a novel, but they had been wrong, for their villain was here in a cold, stone crypt and
very dead. Yet, inexorably, they had been drawn here — he seemed to have forgotten it was at his suggestion — and the body had been revealed. They had been redeemed, and he marvelled that he had been with them. He was inextricably a part of the plot.

“It must be disappointing for them,” Miranda observed as they left through the sacristy.

“I don’t think so,” said Morgan. “As far as they’re concerned, Shelagh Hubbard never existed. What they have seen tonight is the body of a saint, and it is exactly what they expected: smelling sweetly of violets and un-decomposed. I’d say the evening has been a singular success from their point of view.”

“Do you really think they believe it was her?” said Peter Singh, spreading his hands out to indicate a body lying in state. “We have told them it is not.”

“And who would you believe?” said Morgan. “Us or God?”

“God?”

“Their God has given them the corpse they believed would be there. He has confirmed their faith. Anything we say is irrelevant. Faith overrules facts every time.”

“It’s almost enough to make me a believer,” said Alexander Pope. Miranda looked up at him; he was pale as a ghost.

“It’s not your fault, Alexander.”

“But it is. I created the context. I revealed the frescoes, I set up the scene.”

“Alexander, this is not about you,” said Morgan, not unsympathetically. He found the man more likable now, when he was standing on unknown ground and his project seemed to be slipping from his grasp. “How could you know this would happen?”

“I’ve been here most of the time, or sleeping in my van. Sometimes I drive into Midland or Penetanguishene for
supplies. Otherwise, I’ve been here.”

“One thing is certain,” said Miranda. “Good though she was at her craft, she didn’t put herself in there without help.”

“She has never looked better,” said Morgan, staring over the forensic team clustered at the opening of the small crypt.

“Blue suits her, although I must say the cut of her dress isn’t quite
au courant
,” Miranda observed. “It’s obviously meant to look like the outfit Saint Marie is wearing for her ascension.” She stepped down from the chancel and walked along the nave until opposite the fifth panel, in which Mary the Mother and Marie Celeste seemed to merge as one. The other three followed. “Look at that,” said Miranda. “Funny, though, I didn’t see it before. I thought she looked familiar but I didn’t make the connection. That could be an inspired portrait of Shelagh Hubbard!”

“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 was
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.