Free Grave Doubts by John Moss Page A

tall as God, but not as convincing. I invited him to stand very still and he complied. Says he’s here on your invitation. Refused to wait in his van.”
    “I saw no reason to remain outside,” he said. “I’m assuming you outrank her, Detective Morgan. Do tell her to stand easy. I’ve never been at a crime scene before, but even here I would hope common civility applies.” Morgan smiled. Here was someone totally comfortable with the persona he chose to project to the world, arbitrary as it was. His intonation and syntax were vaguely English, yet Canadian-born. In a few brief sentences he showed the residual inflection of a genuinely colonial sensibility. Once we were British, thought Morgan. Some still are.
    Miranda gazed up at the man in admiration. Everything about him was authentic, she thought. His precarious sweater, his worn corduroy pants, his steel-toed workboots unlaced at the ankle, his three-day beard, and his unkempt steel-grey hair all went together with a fine eye for texture and colour. He held himself proud — he was immaculately clean, his clothes were well-cared-for, despite their deteriorating condition. He could have stepped off the pages of a women’s magazine — the splendid model of an aging bohemian.
    She looked at Officer Naismith, who was monitoring her observations. Alexander Pope had moved in the space of a foot or so from the policewoman’s jurisdiction to Morgan’s, gaining his freedom. “What are you doing here, Rachel? Have you been here all along?”
    “Yes,” she said. “I got triple shifted — I’m on my second time ’round the clock. Who is this guy?”
    For no apparent reason, Morgan led Pope through the kitchen, where he mumbled something about avoiding the coffee, then back past the women out to the stairs, which they ascended one at a time. The lanky stranger had to stoop to avoid cracking his head on the stringer.
    “C’mon,” Miranda said to Rachel Naismith in a conspiratorial tone, “Let’s see what our friend has to say for himself. And note: the bodies are not old! There’s foul play afoot, as they say, and it’s not ancient history.”
    “Wow.”
    “Yeah. Amazing, eh?”
    “Then —”
    “We don’t know. Who they are, how they died, how they got sealed behind plaster, who did it, why, who wrote the script… We don’t know.”
    When they entered the room, Miranda was disconcerted to find the bodies gone. They were inextricably a part of the scene in her mind. Otherwise, the room was bright and airy, quite unlike the illuminated darkness of the night before. It seemed almost cheerful, despite the rubble and dust.
    “Miranda,” said Morgan, standing between her and the tall man, “This is Alexander Pope.”
    “I’ve always admired your poetry.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And this is Detective Miranda Quin. One n .”
    “Must be from Waterloo County. An Ontario Quin.”
    “And this is Officer Naismith —”
    “Whom I have already met. Delighted,” he said, bowing slightly. She regarded him warily, lifted her lip in a feigned snarl, and bowed in return. They shared a smile between them.
    “The pleasure was mine, Mr. Pope. I’ve always admired your bulls.” No one got the joke. “Papal bulls? Encyclicals? Pronouncements? Don’t you hate that? It’s been a long night.”
    “It is four-thirty-five,” Alexander said. “In the afternoon. Saturday. March, I believe.”
    “If you want to go, Officer Naismith, we’ll cover,” Morgan offered. “You need some downtime.”
    “Hardly,” she said. “But I’ll heat up some coffee if you’d like. I’ve still got a bit left.”
    “No thanks,” said the other three simultaneously.
    “Now, Mr. Morgan,” said Alexander Pope. “You said on the telephone there were anomalies here. You found two bodies in this closed-off closet, except for their heads, which fetched up in the laundry chute. I am to understand the dead couple were in an intimate embrace, rather in spite of mutual decapitation. I