"Tomorrow." Hoag felt faint, suddenly realizing, by custom, the body would be claimed for cremation according to Shinto ritual but now there would be no body...
"Wot's up, Doc?"
"Nothing, just a... thank you, Sergeant." His heart started again as he remembered the man was Korean, one of some shipwrecked fishermen who eked out a pathetic existence, no way to sail home, unwanted and despised by locals.
Babcott had agreed to have the body cremated in the Buddhist crematorium. "Actually, you could help, Sergeant."
Malcolm's corpse had been cleaned and dressed after the autopsy by their Japanese trainee assistants. With the help of the Sergeant, who took the feet, they placed him in the coffin.
"He looks right pretty for a corpse."
Malcolm's face was serene in death. "Let's do t'other one, Doc. No need t'give yourself a hernia, eh, not that this little bugger weighs but a stone or two."
"We'd better wrap him in his sheet."
The Korean was skin and bones. Dysentery had killed him. Together they put him into the coffin.
"Thanks, I'll just tidy things up, then turn in."
"All right Doc. I'll make sure your room's ready."
Once alone Hoag bolted the door. With Angelique's agreement, they had decided that there would be no traditional laying-out, with the coffin open for people to pay last respects to the dead man.
With care he slid the lid into place. It took no time to nail it tight.
Now the other one. There would be a great difference in weight. What to use? Earth. There was a shovel belonging to the gravediggers to one side--not every body was cremated. Outside the earth was soft, the night cold with a slight wind that rustled the vegetation. He dug swiftly and brought shovelfuls back, scattering the earth on and around the corpse, packing it tightly. A few branches filled up the gaps. Satisfied, he levered on the lid and hammered the nails in. He leaned against the coffin, his breathing heavy, sweaty and dirty and even more concerned than when he started.
Heavenly's right, he thought, washing his hands in a bucket. We'll never get away with it.
"You're off your rocker, Doc," Skye had said with his wheezing cough, "and so is she and so am I to say all right, I'm in. Wee Willie will have kittens but never mind, tomorrow night it is." This was in the Club a few hours ago, noisy and argumentative as always. "Have another whisky."
"I'll have a coffee, thanks, then I'd better be off."
"Her story reminded me of my Nellie, Doc. Married I was when I was an articled clerk, sixteen, she was fifteen, at least we pretended we were married and lived in a garret off Fleet Street, near the Old Cheshire Cheese Pub, Sam Johnson's place.
She died in childbirth and the nipper, he would have been a boy, he died too." He offered a cigar and lit one for himself. "Pauper's grave, a couple of pence to the nightly barrow, Bring Out your dead, and that was the last of them. Cholera was bad that year, dysentery too, cemeteries full to overflowing." Heavenly spat in the spittoon.
"Haven't thought of little Nellie for years. You been married, Doc?"' "Yes, once, she died in London too."
"Another coincidence, eh? Never felt like getting married after Nellie--swore I'd not be that poor again no matter what--always on the go, travelling too much. Had lots of girls but never did get the pox. Did you, Doc?"' "No." Hoag had crossed his fingers.
"Not yet."
"Hey, you're superstitious too, like me?"' "Yes. You're sure of our legal position in this?"' "As sure as can be, sure as shit--but if Wee Willie wants he can trump up a dozen charges, never fear. Listen, whatever happens, Tess Struan will bust her knickers and that's your stipend gone and you into the creek without a paddle."
"No. I'm going back to India..."
Strange how bad leads to good or good to bad.
All this has really decided me. I really am going back this time, going back to Cooch Behar in Bengal where I was stationed and where she came from.
I'm going to find her family and... and then we'll see. I've enough cash for that and a few years left, our son and daughter are grown up now, part of the tapestry of London, educated as best I could, paid for as best I could, my sister and her husband their real parents--both sterling and the stuff of England.
I'm a good doctor and God knows they need doctors in India, even bad ones, so who knows, maybe I can find some happiness... I don't even expect that, just some peace from the full-blooded horror of the killing of her.
Tired now he studied the two coffins. A last look to check that everything was as it should be.
Taking the oil lamp, he went out, bolting the door after him.
A baleful moon cast a shadow through the open windows. Silently another shadow moved.
Sergeant Towery peered into the morgue. He was puzzled. Why should Doc Hoag arrive in the dead of night, and then why dig in the garden like a foul grave robber to pack the dead native's coffin with earth?
Curiosity killed the cat, me lad, but not Yours Truly, not when I'm in charge. Tomorrow you'll take a closer look afore the good Doctor's awake, and afore Lord God Almighty Pallidar arrives for inspection.
He can find the answer.
KANAGAWA Friday, 12th December: Pallidar said icily, "Well, Doctor?"
Hoag had just been summoned. He sat on the edge of a chair, uncomfortable and pale.
Stiff-backed and uniformed, Pallidar was imposing even though he had a bad cold. On the desk was his plumed hat, his sword beside it, the early morning light glinting off the braid. Behind him stood Sergeant Towery. Bells from the temple toned ominously.
Hoag shrugged meekly. "Ballast."
"For Christ's sake, Doctor, this isn't a court martial and personally I don't care if you pack coffins with cow shit, kindly tell me why you did what you did last night."
"I... I... thought, thought it was a good idea."
"I want to know, now..." A cough stopped him. Exasperated, Pallidar blew his nose and coughed, cleared his throat, and coughed again.
Hoag said brightly, "I've, we've some special, new cough mixture in the clinic, it'll get rid of that cold in a jiffy, it's got quinine in it, opium." He began to get up. "I'll get some an--"
"Sit down! The coffin, for Christ's sake, not my cold! The Sergeant saw you. Rightly he told me. Now you tell me why?"
Hoag had twisted and turned but knew he was trapped. Cursing the Sergeant silently, he said, "Can, can I, can I talk to you alone, Settry, old boy, please?"
Pallidar glared at him. "All right.
Sergeant!" Towery saluted and marched out.
"Well?"
"Well you see... you see..." Although Hoag had decided to tell him sharply to please mind his own business, that he wasn't subject to military discipline anymore, thank God, you bloody officers trampled on me before but you're not going to do it again... he suddenly found himself pouring out the story in detail, ending, "So you see, Settry, it was the weight, the difference in weight, earth was perfect.... Listen, George Babcott is due any moment but he's not to know, no one is--you know nothing--we just send the wrong, the right coffin aboard the clipper and tonight when the cutter arrives, God willing, we bury him as he wanted and Angel wants."
Hoag fanned himself, feeling better, at the same time weak with guilt. "You know nothing. Now, now I'll get that cough mixture."