‘Still causing trouble, even after you’ve passed over, you blighter,’ he muttered for the deceased patient’s ears only.
Eleanor’s sharp hearing caught it, however, and she shot Clifford a questioning look. He raised an eyebrow in response.
Doctor Browning grabbed hold of the Christmas fun-run number and tugged it from Canning’s vest. Eleanor craned her neck forward and watched as he then pulled down the vest. Having retrieved his spectacles, he pushed the lens back in and peered either side of the sternum as if watching a tennis match. He poked the dead man’s throat, then pulled the mud-covered bottom lip down and grunted as a long trail of thick saliva ran down the chin. As it cleaved a path in the filth, Doctor Browning gave a knowing ‘uh-hum’ and straightened up stiffly, leaning on his knees to do so.
‘What caused him to pass away?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Unofficially, I’d say his last moments bore witness to a heart attack but that is for his doctor to confirm, Lady Swift.’
‘But you’re here, attending the body.’
‘Although this person is known to me, I was not his doctor.’
‘But you said something about Mr Canning understanding his condition well enough to know he shouldn’t run the Christmas fun run. What was his condition?’
The doctor gave her a withering look. ‘I may have been fortunate enough not to call this man my patient, but I am an honourable physician, bound by the Hippocratic oath. Whatever I see or hear in the lives of others, I will keep secret, as considering all such things to be private. Good day.’
Eleanor stood open-mouthed as he shuffled away, his unsteady gait exacerbated by the unevenness of the ground. He soon faded into the swirling snow. Clifford stood silent. Eleanor flinched at the concern etched on his usually inscrutable expression. He shook his head and glanced up at Fry.
‘I believe we have need of Solemn Jon, Constable Fry.’
‘Right away, Mr Clifford.’
They waited in silence, keeping watch over the body, until the loud gasping of a heavy man running in stout boots made them both turn. Fry had returned, his chest heaving, mud streaking his uniform.
‘Gracious, are you alright, Constable?’ Eleanor asked, fearing another casualty.
‘Quite. Alright. My. Lady,’ the policeman puffed. ‘That is a deceptively steep hill, if you’ll pardon my giving an opinion on your property.’
Eleanor looked him over in concern. ‘Have you just run all the way up the hill?’
‘Almost three times, given that I slid back down to near the bottom twice. The going has become treacherous. Were this to have been a fun run involving horses and suchlike, I should have had regrettable cause to call a halt for the safety of the animals.’
Eleanor pointed at the now soaked body of Canning. ‘I wish either you or I had called a halt to the Christmas fun run. Maybe then this man would still have been with us. But why run up the hill? I saw you with your bicycle earlier. Surely, taking the road would have been easier and a good deal less fraught with possible injury?’
‘An astute observation, my lady. And, yes, it would have been if I hadn’t had a puncture. I went down to the other end of the track to converse discreetly with Solemn Jon. I told him as you wouldn’t want a huge fuss, seeing as it’s the special day for everyone.’ He smiled and gave a shrug. ‘Jon said he would drop the runners he’d picked up at the refreshment room where they would receive an extra glass of mead.’ He stared at his boots. ‘I do apologise for the presumption that your ladyship would be happy to furnish the runners with an extra beverage. I would have checked first but on account of being at the bottom of the hill and Canning and yourselves being here at the top…’ Constable Fry tailed off.
‘A most ingenious ruse on your part, Constable. Not only am I happy to sanction it, I applaud you for your quick thinking. Ah!’ She spotted the funeral wagon trundling towards them. Even without their ceremonial feather headdresses, the two black draught horses pulling the long glass and ebony-painted funeral coach brought an instant air of sombre elegance to the otherwise muddily irreverent spectacle.
‘Bravo, Constable! If we can remove the deceased gentleman from the vicinity, it would be most helpful.’
‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but I don’t think many folks would be calling Canning here a “gentleman”. There’ll be precious few tears shed at the Duck and Badger tonight, I’ll warrant.’
The three of them looked up as the funeral wagon drew to a stop. A short rotund man with chestnut-brown eyes, bordered by smile creases, gave a wave and raised his snow-encrusted peaked cap. The ribbed hem of a thick, blue woollen jumper hung out below his grey worsted jacket. Beside him, a whiskery Irish wolfhound sat poker straight, sporting a snow-laden matching peaked cap and hand-knitted scarf.
‘Ah, Lady Swift, ’tis a pleasure.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘It is good to see you too. And please accept my immense gratitude for helping out with this unfortunate situation, Mr Jon.’
The undertaker jumped down far more lithely than his rotund appearance suggested he would. ‘Everyone’s called me Solemn Jon for longer than ever, m’lady. It suits me just fine because it doesn’t suit me at all, if you get my drift. Born happy, I was. And in this profession, you needs to see the bright side of things. Now then, shall we get this poor fellow out of the snow? He may have passed away, but that’s no reason to treat him any differently to those of us still walking the earth. I’ve a jacket and’ – he pointed to his wolfhound – ‘even Patrick’s got his cap on. Being left out in the snow is for rubbish and firewood that needs seasoning, not bodies.’ He shook his head. ‘Though I seen enough like him lying in the mud and snow in them trenches to last me a lifetime and more.’
‘Will the three of you be able to manage Mr Canning? I’m very willing to help.’
Jon shook his head again. ‘Goodness to heavens, m’lady! How would that look for my business if folk see me letting a titled lady sling a body over her shoulders?’ He walked around to the back of the wagon. Reappearing with several lengths of wood battened together to make a ramp, he laid this against the side of the coach. Clapping his hands, he addressed Clifford and Fry. ‘Gentlemen, shall we pay our respects to old Canning whilst moving him to somewhere more luxurious than the mud and snow?’
With a ‘One, two, three, heave ho. Off to better pastures you go,’ Jon orchestrated the awkward shuffling of the dead man across the boggy ground and up the ramp into his wagon.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Eleanor said with relief. ‘First hurdle out of the way.’ She went to Jon’s side as he stood ready to climb into the wagon. ‘If you have any difficulty or delay in receiving payment from Mr Canning’s family for any costs incurred, please send your bill straight to me.’
Jon raised his cap. ‘Poor soul. There’ll be no family willing to fork out for him. But it’s my job to do the best by all, we’re all made of the same clay in the end.’ He swung himself into his seat with the nimbleness of years of practice. ‘So I’ll be happy to do right by him for cost of materials only, my lady. And look after Jet.’ At Eleanor’s confused look, he explained. ‘Jet is Canning’s horse. You’d have seen him pulling his wagon. He’ll need a new home now, poor chap.’ He stroked his wolfhound under the chin.