Grave Girl (8 page)

Chapter Two

Mrs. Mayberry's bones makes a loud ripping and cracking sound as her ribs are slowly forced apart to reveal the chest cavity. As he prepares to take another blood sample directly from the heart, Dr. Wellington notes that there appears to be some distension to the liver, which is probably due to the old lady's habit of drinking brandy before bed, but which he figures should nevertheless be examined as the autopsy progresses. He slips the tip of a needle into Mrs. Mayberry's heart and carefully pulls the plunger back, filling the syringe with a nice clean blood sample.

"So," he says with a wry smile, "you
did
have a heart after all. Not that anyone would have known when you were alive, you old bag."

Once the sample has been taken and correctly labeled, he grabs some cutting tools from the bench and prepares to start removing, one by one, the old lady's organs so they can be weighed, measured, inspected and ultimately put back inside her body.

"Knock knock," says a voice over at the door, and Dr. Wellington immediately recognizes the soft Irish tones of Gabriel Fenroc. Having arrived in Rippon a couple of months ago, Fenroc has spent most of his time meandering along the narrow streets, showing no inclination to actually
do
anything other than observe the town. There's been a great deal of speculation regarding his true intentions, with the most commonly supported theory being that the man is simply a wastrel. Others, though, are convinced that there must be a reason for his presence.

"You'll be wanting next door, I imagine," Dr. Wellington says, carefully making an incision at the base of Mrs. Mayberry's bronchial tree. "This is a surgery, Mr. Fenroc, not the betting shop. If you want to put a tenner on the 3.20 at Knapton, I'm afraid I'm not your man."

"It might not be a betting shop
per se
," Fenroc replies, loitering over by the cabinets, "but a man can place a bet anywhere he goes, can't he? Even in a church. Even in a surgery. All he needs is something to bet on and someone to take his bet, and the deal's sealed, so to speak." He pauses for a moment. "For example, I'd bet an even tenner that you're gonna mark this dear old lady's death up as a common heart attack, aren't you?" He waits for a reply. "Tell me I'm wrong, Doc."

"I can't help you," Dr. Wellington says, making some more incisions in preparation for the removal of Mrs. Mayberry's right lung. "As you might have noticed, I'm rather busy performing the full autopsy that's required
before
I decide upon a cause of death."

"Aye," Fenroc says, "I'd noticed you've got something on your hands there. What happened to the poor old dear, if you don't mind my asking? I saw her yesterday afternoon and she seemed just fine. Did her ticker really just give out on her, as the old grapevine's been suggesting all morning?"

"If I knew what happened to her," Dr. Wellington says, carefully lifting the right lobe of Mrs. Mayberry's lung out of her chest and placing it on a weighing scale, "I wouldn't go to the very great trouble of performing an autopsy, now would I?"

"Aye, I suppose you wouldn't." Fenroc pauses for a moment. "She was a grand old dame, you know. Sharp as a rake, with a waspish tongue and no time for idiots. Reminded me of my grandmother back home in Donegal. God knows what old Mrs. Mayberry thought of the likes of me, but she was nice to my face at least, and that's more than I can say about everyone 'round these parts. Then again, there were some dark rumors surrounding the death of her husband, were there not?" He pauses again, as if there's something on his mind. "Dr. Wellington, do you mind if I ask you something?"

"You can ask," Dr. Wellington replies with a sigh, "but I wouldn't count on getting an answer."

"Have you seen there's a new young lady in the town?" Fenroc continues. "Working up at the cemetery, like. The new gardener, no less!"

"I'm afraid I don't keep up with the local gossip," Dr. Wellington says, making some quick notes about Mrs. Mayberry's lung.

"Well, there
is
a new gardener. A pretty young thing, she is, and hard-working. Got kind of a determined look about her, as if she won't brook any shit from anyone. I walked past the place today, and when I looked through the gate I could see her hacking away at that big old mausoleum in the center." He pauses again, and he can see a flicker of recognition on Dr. Wellington's face. "You remember that mausoleum, don't you? The big one. The stone one with the little hole at the top. The one where -"

"Is there a point to this idle chit-chat?" Dr. Wellington asks suddenly, with obvious irritation.

"Just making conversation and seeing what you think."

Dr. Wellington sighs. "If you're under the impression that a young lady might not be able to perform the tasks required of a gardener, I might begin to wonder if you're perhaps a little behind the times. From what I've read in the newspaper, women are taking on the jobs of men in almost every walk of life these days. The gender divide isn't what it used to be, Mr. Fenroc."

"Aye, that's true," Fenroc says. "You're right there. I guess I just wanted to see if you thought there might be any kind of connection between Mrs. Mayberry's tragic, early demise, and the arrival of this new girl?" He waits for an answer. "And the uncovering of that mausoleum, of course..."

"A connection?" Dr. Wellington asks. "Why should there be a connection? As far as I know, they've never even met!"

"Aye," Fenroc replies, momentarily lost in thought. "Still, there are other types of connection, are there not? Like, for instance, if this new young lady might have antagonized someone, or perhaps upset the delicate balance of the cemetery. Isn't it possible that certain individuals might choose to lash out in another direction and make their feelings known in a very forceful manner?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Dr. Wellington says, removing Mrs. Mayberry's second lung.

"Aye, you're probably right," Fenroc says, heading back over to the door. "I just thought I'd come and shoot the breeze with you for a few minutes, see which way the wind's blowing. I suppose I'm worrying over nothing. After all, if certain individuals were unhappy about the arrival of a new girl in town, surely those certain individuals would take their displeasure out on the new arrival directly, rather than attacking someone else? I mean..." He pauses, unable to keep a slight grin from his lips. "Well,
certain
individuals in this town don't exactly have a reputation for being subtle, do they? It's not like there'd be anything stopping them from hurting the new gardener, is it?"

Dr. Wellington focuses on his work, removing Mrs. Mayberry's liver while studiously ignoring his visitor.

"Then again," Fenroc continues, "does anyone know for sure?"

Writing some notes about the liver, Dr. Wellington continues to avoid the conversation.

"Aye," Fenroc says, "well, I just thought I'd see what the news was about Mrs. Mayberry, and let you know that the mausoleum's out in the open, so to speak. Just in case you're interested for some reason. What that reason might be, of course, I have no idea. Just thinking out loud, really. You know, I heard the strangest rumor the other day. There are people who say dark forces are coming to Rippon."

"You should learn to ignore rumors," the doctor replies.

"Aye," Fenroc says, "but..." He places his hand flat on the counter. "Don't you feel it? Every so often, there's a faint shudder, like something big and heavy is coming closer."

"I don't have time for your superstitions," the doctor says.

"So you don't feel it?"

"Go away, Mr. Fenroc," the doctor says, focusing on his work. "Bother someone else with your superstitious nonsense."

Once Fenroc has left, Dr. Wellington forces himself to stay focused on the task at hand. He has a busy morning lined up, and it'll likely take him until lunchtime before he can have all of Mrs. Mayberry's organs out, checked, and then put back into her body. He already knows the cause of death, of course; even if he finds something unusual while he's digging through the old lady's innards, he's absolutely certain that he'll be listing 'heart attack' on her certificate. Anything else would open up too many questions, and would only encourage people like Fenroc to keep sniffing around. Grabbing the old lady's heart from one of the dishes, he carries it over to the bucket and squeezes the organ until ever last drop of blood has been collected. Next, he does the same with one of her lungs, wringing it dry with all his strength until finally the bucket is half full.

"Oh well," he mutters, glancing back at the old lady's corpse. "At least your death won't go in vain."

Chapter Three

Slowly, and with a determined expression on her face, Sam raises the scythe above her head and stands still for a moment, letting sunlight glint off the sharp metal.

"Prepare to die," she says firmly, before slicing the blade down and then pulling it back. A large knot of viney weeds comes crashing down, revealing yet more of the mausoleum's surface. Sam hacks at the foliage several more times, and finally she's able to read the inscription on the side of the stone edifice:

Henry Mayhew Peterson

January 1st 1870 to March 18th 1923

May he rest in God's grace

also

Elizabeth Emmet Peterson

November 30th 1871 to October 11th 1925

Loving wife and mother

Hauling the downed vines into a large plastic refuge sack, Sam notes with satisfaction that she's now cleared almost all the shrubbery from around the mausoleum. When she started, it was hard to tell that there was any kind of building in here at all; it simply looked like a huge mass of knotted foliage, save for a small corner of stonework that protruded from one side and gave the game away. It was pretty clear that the damn thing had been ignored for years. Now, for what must be the first time in living memory, the entire mausoleum has once again been exposed to the sun's warming light. It's a small achievement, but one that seems to Sam to be rather symbolic of all the hard work she's put in over the past couple of days. Already, the cemetery looks so different compared to the overgrown mess that she first encountered when she arrived a couple of days ago: less like a jungle, and more like a place where people would go to mourn their loved ones.

"There you are!" calls out a familiar voice, and Sam turns to see Mayor Winters making his way across the grass. "My word," he continues with a broad smile on his face, "you've been busy. I haven't seen this old thing since I was a young boy. My friends and I used to climb up the sides and try to peer in through that hole." Raising his cane, he taps a small gap in the stonework, from which a single growth of vine-weed is protruding. "I'd quite forgotten it was still here. Quite forgotten indeed."

"Did you ever see anything when you looked through the hole?" Sam asks.

"Oh, no," the mayor replies. "We tried everything, of course. Torches, matches, the lot. In fact, if you go inside, you might find the detritus from our failed attempts. Of course, there's a gate around the side, and we always dreamed of getting hold of the right key and making our way in to view the corpses. My mother once told me that the bodies of Henry Peterson and his family would be resting on shelves in there. Quite fired my imagination as a child, I can tell you. Yes, I had a few nightmares about this thing, back in the day." He turns and looks out across the cemetery. "I must say, Ms. Marker, you've done an absolutely exceptional job. I don't remember the last time the place looked so good. It's wonderful, quite wonderful."

"I haven't really got started," Sam says, feeling a rush of pride.

"Nonsense! I can see you've been busy. You've done more work in two days than your recent predecessors managed between them in six months. I thought industriousness was a trait long gone from today's youth, but you've rather restored my faith, Ms. Marker. Your immediate predecessor, Mr. Faraday, spent more time reading than actually doing any work, whereas you... Actually, that's why I'm here. I'm afraid I've come to give you a new job. Something a little more interesting than weeding. Allow me to show you. Come along."

Tapping her shoulder with his cane, Mayor Winters leads Sam along one of the paths, and they eventually come to a halt in a small, shady part of the cemetery over by the far wall.

"I'm afraid there was a death in town last night," the mayor says, poking the ground with the end of his cane. "Dear old Mrs. Mayberry suffered a terminal cardiac event and was found dead on her bedroom floor. You won't have met her, of course, but it's all very sad. Lovely old lady, even if she could be a little terse at times. Anyway, Dr. Wellington has been performing the autopsy this morning, and I'm confident we shall be ready for a funeral and burial ceremony tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. She didn't have much family left, so it won't be a big shindig. And this -" He taps the ground with his cane-tip. "This is Mrs. Mayberry's plot. It was arranged some time ago, you see, so she could be buried next to her husband. You'll need to have it ready for a full coffin service."

"Okay," Sam says, before pausing for a moment as the reality of the situation sinks in. "Oh..."

"I don't suppose you've ever dug a grave before, have you?" the mayor asks with a smile on his face.

Sam shakes her head, contemplating the prospect of digging a real, actual grave.

"Well this will be a test of your skills," the mayor continues. "However, I'm confident you'll have no trouble. What we need is a six-foot deep hole in the ground, big enough to fit a coffin that's approximately six feet in length and four feet wide, with a little extra room for clearance." He lumbers forward and uses the tip of his cane to mark out the rough shape of the grave. "I mean, it's not the most complex or difficult job in the world. If one has dug even the smallest hole in the past, one can certainly manage to expand the operation and create something that's big enough for a coffin. The biggest challenge will be in making sure the sides are straight, you see, since we like our graves to be nice and neat in Rippon. Most towns have one of those little mechanical diggers to make the job easier, but I'm afraid we've never quite managed to get the budget wrangled into shape. You'll need to use elbow grease and a shovel for this job, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you can manage it." He swings his cane toward Sam and taps her on the arm. "Strong young thing like you, shouldn't have too much trouble, eh?"

"Totally," Sam replies, taking a deep breath at the thought of spending the better part of the next day digging a grave. "I'll get right on it."

"That's the spirit," Mayor Winters replies, tapping the ground with his cane once again. "When faced with a daunting task, one must simply roll one's sleeves up and get stuck in. You've always got a little time tomorrow morning to neaten up the edges. The undertaker will see to the rest and bring the ropes and so on. Really, all you need to do is prepare the grave and then fill it in after the service is over, and maybe in a few days you'll have to plant some grass-seed to encourage it to grow over. Oh, and erect the tombstone when it arrives, but that's a minor job."

"It is?" Sam asks, wondering how on earth someone is supposed to go about the job of putting a tombstone next to a grave. Glancing across the cemetery and seeing row upon row of crooked, cracked stones, she reasons that her predecessors seem to have had no great skill in the matter either.

"So," the mayor continues, filled with the enthusiasm of a man who has just offloaded a back-breaking job onto someone else, "my advice to you would be to have a nice hearty lunch, grab your spade and get on with the task at hand. As I said, the service will be tomorrow or the day after, but we need to be prepared for tomorrow, just in case. It all depends on how the autopsy goes, but I'm not anticipating any snags. Open and shut case, if you ask me."

"I'll have the grave ready first thing in the morning," Sam says, staring at the ground and imagining herself digging deeper and deeper down. Just when she thought she was getting on top of her new job, this fresh challenge arrives to shake things up. Still, she reasons that she should have known something like this would happen eventually. No matter how neat and tidy she makes the place, she realizes there'll always be people coming along to be buried. After all, that's the whole point of a cemetery.

"I shall pop by first thing in the morning to see how you're doing," Mayor Winters says, turning and starting to walk away. "I look forward to seeing a rather exceptional grave in this spot, Ms. Marker. I have no doubt whatsoever that you have all the talent and determination to make an excellent grave-digger. One of the first things I noticed about you was your broad-shouldered physique. I could tell at once that you'd be quite excellent at this job. Quite excellent indeed."

"You could?" Sam asks, staring at him as he makes his way along the path. Unsure as to whether that last comment was a compliment or not, she reaches up and feels her shoulders. "Broad?" she mutters, having always considered herself to have a rather narrow, ladylike figure. Shrugging, she turns to look at the cottage and realizes there's no point delaying things any further: it's time to go and get her shovel and set about digging her very first grave. She slings the scythe over her shoulder and wanders toward the shed. As she walks, she notices her own shadow on the grass, and she sees that in silhouette at least, she rather resembles Death itself, broad shoulders and all.