Laurel took up the reins again once they were on board. Theo Beckley was sitting on a stool outside his business smoking a thin cigar when they arrived. Call took care of the team while Laurel introduced the doctor and the undertaker.
In appearance, Mr. Beckley was nothing at all like the men of his profession portrayed in Gothic novels. He was squat, stout, and rosy-cheeked. When his services wereengaged, he wore black. When they were not in use, he often wore colorfully checked trousers, usually yellow and black so he resembled nothing so much as a bumblebee. He was genial in his public presentation, shrewd in matters of business. The first thing he did after introductions were completed was verify that Mr. Stonechurch would indeed pay for the storage, service, and burial of Mr. Josiah Pye.
“I have your money right here,” said Call, producing the bills from his pocket. “All your expenses are covered as promised.”
Theo Beckley led the way to his workroom in the back. “This is where I make the coffins,” he explained, pointing to the wood shavings and carpentry tools. He cleared the table. “I could use your help bringing the body up from the cellar,” he said to Call. For the doctor’s benefit, he went on, “We put the deceased down there where it’s cooler. I built this house over a natural hollow in the rock for storing fruit and vegetables and canned goods, but it’s been helpful on the few occasions I have to keep a body.”
“Excellent notion,” said Singer. “Could I work down there?”
“Not nearly enough light.”
“I see. Then by all means, bring Mr. Pye to me.”
Call thought the doctor could have been a tad less enthusiastic about his work, but he supposed what Singer was about to do was not at all macabre to a man of medicine. He waited for Mr. Beckley to light a lamp and then followed him down the stairs. The undertaker’s girth almost filled the narrow passage and blocked most of the light. Call treaded carefully.
Beckley set the lamp on a shelf crowded with jars of jelly, tomatoes, pickled beets, and something that looked like a human hand but Call hoped was some sort of sea creature, though why either of those things should be in Mr. Beckley’s cellar was outside his imagination.
“Head or feet?” asked Call.
“Feet, if you don’t mind.”
Call didn’t mind at all. Mr. Pye was lying exactly as he and the sheriff had left him. Mr. Beckley had fetched a stretcher to move the body and now it and Mr. Pye rested on the table in the middle of the room. Call turned around so he could grasp the stretcher’s handles and lift Pye behind him. There was some fumbling as the undertaker struggled with his end, but they managed to coordinate their steps by the time they began to climb.
Beckley directed Call to set the stretcher on the table. “I’m going to get the lamp I left behind. Feel free to light the lamps in here.”
Singer nodded absently. He was already looking over the body. “Would you do that, Miss Morrison? Open the curtains, too, please. Is there a stool around here, something to set my bag on?”
Call found Beckley’s work stool in a corner and set it beside the doctor while Laurel dealt with the lamps.
Singer set his bag down, opened it, and removed a pair of scissors. He used them with deft efficiency to cut away Josey Pye’s clothes, all of which were still damp and clammy. He only hesitated when he was ready to take the scissors to Pye’s union suit. His attention strayed to Laurel long enough to cock an eyebrow and ask, “Are you certain you want to be here? I cannot attend to your modesty.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m staying. All I ask is that you treat him respectfully.”
“Always.” He cut away the union suit, made a cursory examination of Pye’s genitals and then used the man’s shirt to cover them. “Which one of you is going to take notes?”
Laurel looked to Call and shook her head. “I don’t have my reading spectacles.”
“All right, but God knows if it will be legible. Mr. Beckley! Paper and pencil, please.”
Beckley was standing just outside the room, well away from the doctor’s activity. “There’s a drawer in theworktable, right where Dr. Singer is standing. You’ll find both there.”
Singer stepped aside and gave Call access. He immediately went back to work, describing Pye’s visible injuries and then carefully examining the man’s skull by sifting through his hair. “Three-inch gash on the left temporal area approximately two inches from the central body line. Perhaps made by a rock, though whether above water or below is impossible to know. Other scratches and bites evident on the scalp. Miss Morrison mentioned turtles. They are the likely culprits.”
Call was scribbling as fast as he could, attempting both accuracy and legibility. He was glad when the doctor straightened, and stretched his lower back, as it gave Call time to catch up.
Singer took a scalpel from his bag and made a Y-shaped incision on Pye’s torso. He was expecting the noxious gases that the incision released, but Call and Laurel were not. They both took a step back. “You can open a window,” the doctor said.
Laurel moved immediately to do that and breathed deeply of the fresh air that wafted in. When she turned, she noticed that Mr. Beckley was now farther away from the entrance. He was an odd one, she thought, even for an undertaker.
Call was writing furiously again as Singer described the condition of the heart and lungs. “No water in the lungs,” said Singer. “He was dead when he went under. Oh, dear. What’s this?”
“What?” asked Laurel, leaning a bit toward the table. “What do you see?”
Singer didn’t answer. He set the scalpel aside and chose a probe from his bag. He used it to examine something that had caught his eye in Pye’s left pectoral muscle. It was only after pulling back the muscle that he had a glimpse of it. He probed the area, separating the smooth filaments to search for what he’d seen. “Tweezers,” hesaid to no one in particular and held out a hand with the full expectation that the instrument would be placed in it.
Laurel met that expectation since Call’s hands were occupied with paper and pencil.
Singer kept the muscle filaments separated with the probe and used the tweezers in his other hand to extract a bullet. He held it up so Call could get a look at it. “Isn’t this a minié ball?”
