LaRue jiggled the door handle, obviously expecting it to be locked, but the door cracked open and she jumped back with a squeal that turned to a giggle.
“Well, go on, then,” Caroline snapped. “You wanted to see it, so go see it.”
“Myrtle first,” LaRue said.
I stepped inside, noting the tang of disinfectant and the unmistakable—the only word is stench—of decomposition. The lights in the carriage house weren’t lit, but the large windows provided plenty of daylight, even on an overcast day. Caroline had said there was no body here, but a form covered in white sheeting lay on the examination table, giving off an ominous buzz. I crept closer, my chest tight. It was just like the frogs in my biology textbook. Just like a chicken on Cook’s dinner table.
Dear Reader, here is where I must insert a nota bene about honing one’s Observational Skills not simply on the natural world, but on the ever-more cryptic Human Nature. Which is to say: I should have expected what came next. I was so pleased that my plan to enter Dr. Munjal’s office had worked, I didn’t notice the other girls hadn’t followed me in. I heard the swish of fabric behind me, followed by a snickering laugh. I spun round to see that the mourning costume had been tossed over the threshold.
“Here you go, Morbid Myrtle,” LaRue called from the doorway. “Have fun with the other ghouls.” She slammed the door, which closed with a disconcerting click.
I ran back to the door and gave it a tug, but it would not budge. They’d locked me in.
Honesty compels me to remind my readers that I brought this entirely upon myself. However, let me repeat my earlier assertion that there was no reason to fear. I now had the opportunity to search the premises properly, beyond my wildest hopes for the expedition. Therefore, not in the least unsettled, I set straight to work. I sifted through the papers on Dr. Munjal’s desk, my back firmly to the examination table, doing my level best not to snoop into anything that did not concern Miss Wodehouse’s death. But I daresay even Caroline would have found it hard to resist a file marked arsenic in bold red letters, or decapitated? (with question mark).
Of course, once the idea of decapitation was in my head (no pun intended!), it was not so easy to shake. The laboratory smells filled up the room, making me take shallow breaths through my mouth. Soon my breathing was the only thing I could hear. And the strange buzzing, which seemed to be growing louder. Surely the smell was worse than it ought to have been—in an empty room. I could not help a furtive glance over my shoulder. If those were only towels on the exam table, why would they be covered up? And wasn’t that heap suspiciously short? Headless body short, perhaps?
“Focus, Myrtle.” I was here for Miss Wodehouse’s report. I reached across the desk for more files, careful not to disturb the doctor’s wonderful skull-shaped (at least I think it was only shaped) paperweight, but Miss Wodehouse’s report was not there, either. Dr. Munjal had left the desk drawers unlocked—really, didn’t anyone think there was crime in Swinburne?—but they were mostly filled with blank paper and empty pen nibs.
Leaning against the desk, I tapped my finger against my lips. I had to find that report. Crikey, that smell was getting stronger. My throat burned from the antiseptic, and the light was starting to fade as more gloomy clouds moved in. I consulted my watch. It was after three p.m. The Tedious Girls knew that Miss Judson was coming to fetch me at four; surely they’d let me out by then.
I made another circuit of the morgue. Under the big back windows was a workbench full of apparatus and samples, including a glorious microscope, fancier than Mum’s, with a heavy brass base and a case full of interchangeable lenses. Here was the laboratory of my dreams, and I had nearly an hour in which to explore. If only that exam table didn’t keep making me turn round and stare at it. It seemed to press against my neck, taunting me.
Perhaps decapitated? would prove less distracting. I flipped it open upon the bench beside the windows. Disappointingly, it was just a bunch of mundane reports, like an old letter from Schofield College and an order for microscope slides. Nobody headless, or even nearly headless. Leafing past the boring bits, I spotted the word Ambrose scrawled across the corner of a page. Could that mean Mr. Ambrose, the solicitor? He was a friend of Father’s—and Miss Wodehouse’s lawyer. I tugged the sheet from the file. It turned out to be the Police Surgeon’s report for someone who had died (not by decapitation) in 1888, the same year as Mum. One of Mr. Ambrose’s clients, perhaps? I read on.
Harold Cartwright, 67, found dead in his bed from complications of dropsy—a condition which caused excess fluid to build up in the body. There must have been an autopsy, though, for under Official Cause of Death, it read, “acute digitalis toxicity.” Poison. I’d heard of digitalis; it was the treatment for dropsy, so the doctor should have found some of it. But evidently he’d discovered a toxic overdose. Interesting as that was, it didn’t help me with Miss Wodehouse. I shoved the papers back into the file with a sigh.
A fly alit on the folder, green and bulbous and hairy. I swatted at it.
Where was Miss Judson?
Where were the Tedious Girls?
Where, for heaven’s sake, was Dr. Munjal? A distant growl of thunder underscored my thoughts.
Then a horrible notion struck me.
What if Miss Judson had come back for me, and LaRue and Caroline told her that I’d got bored and left? Would she believe them? Although I did my best to circumvent Father’s regulations for me, I had rarely disobeyed Miss Judson. The idea that she’d think I’d gone off without her permission made my throat ache even worse than the awful smells. I sank to the floor, trying to decide what to do. Another fly landed beside me as if sharing my indecision. I supposed they were an occupational hazard.
After a few tense moments’ moping, I couldn’t take it any longer. I succumbed to—yes, I’ll say it—morbid curiosity. I pulled myself to my feet and crept over to the exam table. More clouds had closed in; shadows overtook the counters and medical instruments. The sample jars in the window looked like gruesome puppets poised for a show.
The table was as high as my chest, white enamel with a curved, raised rim that put me in mind of Miss Wodehouse’s notorious bathtub. I wanted to know what was under the sheet, and yet I didn’t. I took a deep breath through my mouth. Observations: the length of the form on the table (approximately 59 inches), the condition of the sheet (tidy), the much stronger odors present at this vicinity (take my word for it). The frightful buzzing of flies, which seemed to swarm all over. I approached the far end of the table—the feet end, hopefully—and carefully lifted the corner of the sheet.
It was meat. Not in a metaphorical sense. In the wildly-overspent-at-the-butcher’s sense. A great ugly side of mutton, not yet cut up into shanks and chops. The stench rose up like a fog, and all over, flies buzzed and crawled and settled in the flesh. I swallowed hard, but in a flash of realization, I understood. Various insects can infest a body after death—Dr. Munjal must be studying them.