John Moss - Grave doubts

“What a destructive thing to do, this hour of the morning.”

“It really is. Is there such a thing as philosophical morbidity?”

“Philosophy is morbid by definition. Any concern with the meaning of life is inseparable from knowing how it all turns out.”

“That’s pretty profound for seven a.m.”

“What’s the problem?”

“What? Oh, I was lying here ruminating. I think I’m like Shelagh Hubbard in some ways. It’s very distressing.”

“I told you, she’s like my ex-wife. More so, the more we know of her. And you are nothing like Lucy at all. Ergo, you and the genius of depravity are nothing alike. You have nothing in common with Shelagh Hubbard except you both find me quite attractive.”

“She found you resistible, Morgan. I’ve read her account of your night at the farm.”

“And you?”

“You’ve got good bones.” She shuddered. “But I find you more useful alive. What’s up?”

“Up?”

“You called me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“I got a wake-up call from the superintendent. London’s in an uproar. It appears certain effigies in Madame Renaud’s Chamber of Horrors are human cadavers with a wax veneer. The museum has been closed down while every figure in the place is punctured with needles in a search for human tissue. It seems the tabloids are having a field day. They’ll even have to test out the queen in her various ages and stages. The British love cheeky scandals.”

“It’s only figures of murder victims who were replaced with corpses. I made that clear to Scotland Yard. Why bother with the rest? Shelagh Hubbard’s only interest was to replicate the obviously dead.”

“Also — ”

“There’s an also?”

“This morning’s Globe has a story buried — ”

“No,” said Miranda. “They’ve picked up on Alexander’s Virgin, haven’t they?”

“They have. How did you know?”

“Don’t you read waiting at the supermarket checkout? That’s how I keep up with current events.”

“Yeah, well the Globe names Pope as an authority on apparitions. As I read it, the Virgin Mary has appeared on a plaster wall of his church. Why, I cannot imagine. If she wanted to communicate with believers, why such an inept mode of expression? You’d think between Mary and God they could come up with something a little more substantial than blobs on a wall.”

“They work in mysterious ways, the celestials.”

“They do. But Alexander Pope seems unmystified. He’s declared the manifestation nothing more than a seepage stain from a fresco underneath the plaster. Sounds to me like he’s getting a bit of publicity for his reclamation project.”

“Which I cannot imagine he wants.”

“It depends, doesn’t it, on his motivation for restoring the paintings? It may be a labour of love, but love for what?”

“For a job well done? For giving us back a bit of our past?”

“You can’t give back the past. By definition.”

“Morgan, it’s too early for pedantry. What’s past is prologue, et cetera. Can I go now?”

“No. I called to tell you three things. Ready for number three?”

“Shelagh Hubbard’s been arrested?”

“No, but close.”

“Sighted?”

“Almost. They’ve found her car.”

“Where?”

“In the bush. Someone phoned Officer Singh — ”

“ Our Officer Singh? Peter the Pointer?”

“The same.”

“Why him? Was the car found in Owen Sound?”

“No, in scrub bush near Penetanguishene. It was an anonymous call — probably a local hiker. The boss asked us to drive up and take a look.”

“There was blood, of course.”

“Apparently.”

“Morgan, do you trust anything about this woman? It’s a set-up. What’s a little blood? She’s a master of special effects made from authentic materials. She’s still writing the story. She’s leading us on a wild goose chase. This is more fun for her than playing with corpses; she gets to manipulate real cops. Maybe you were her inspiration.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Morgan?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“I think she’s been abducted; she could be dead.”

“When you play with life and death, you don’t easily give up control.”

“Are you thinking like yourself or like her right now?”

“As I said, I’m not sure there’s a difference, Morgan.”

“That’s scary.”

When they arrived at the scene, Morgan walked around the abandoned car in concentric circles, starting from a point where the car could barely be seen and slowly closing in. Miranda circumscribed the scene in an expanding spiral, beginning at the car and moving gradually outwards. The OPP had done the forensics, photographed the scene minutely, and as a courtesy had waited for them to appear before towing the car away.

Peter Singh, who turned up immediately after they arrived, explained in a low voice to the officer in charge that this is what made them such a formidable team. He made swirling motions with the index finger of one hand on the palm of the other, trying to replicate their complementary circuits.

“As fine an example of the difference between inductive and deductive investigation techniques as you’re likely to find,” he offered, going on to declare their legendary status. The OPP sergeant listened politely. She had never heard of them. But she was experienced enough not to expect a great revelation when they completed their perambulations and approached. Singh, however, anticipated a major pronouncement, and was briefly disappointed when neither had much to say.

“Is there anything else?” asked the sergeant. “Do you want to catch up over at detachment headquarters? I don’t think there’s anything we haven’t already sent on.”

Miranda bent down and peered in through the open door on the passenger side of the car. Morgan followed with his eyes on the trail that led through spindly hardwoods and gnarled cedars to the fire road they came in on that ran alongside a dense and orderly array of pines in a reforestation project. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “That’s about it. I think we’ll head back.”

Miranda looked up and concurred. “Thanks for waiting,” she said. “Let us know if anything turns up. She’s long gone, wherever she is.”

“Okay,” said the OPP sergeant. “Sorry it wasn’t more productive. It’s a long drive.” She turned to the truck operator. “Let’s haul her away.”

Miranda and Morgan and Peter Singh stood in a small group to the side, watching the tow truck jockey into position, crushing scrub foliage in the process. Once it got a good purchase on Shelagh Hubbard’s car, the sergeant signalled goodbye and hopped in beside the driver, hitching a ride out to the highway where her cruiser was parked.

“Did you see that?” said Morgan, focusing for the first time on their friend from Owen Sound Police Services.

“What?” asked Peter Singh, pleased to be included.

Morgan looked at the young officer’s turban and smiled, wondering how he managed to get enough headroom in a car. He held himself tall, and the turban added several inches to his height.

“My turban,” said Singh. “Is it not clean?”

“Oh, yes,” Morgan answered. “Good to see you.” He reached out his hand and gave Peter Singh a hearty handshake, much to the latter’s bewilderment, since he had been on the scene for a half an hour or more.

“What is it I saw?” asked Singh.

“You can see this spot from the gravel road, there.”

“Yes, the fire road, number 37, for fighting forest fires.”

“But you can’t see it from the highway.”

“No,” said Singh. “The fire road has not been graded since last year. That is why we both parked at the side of the highway.”