‘Yes – and no. That is, I expected to find water in his lungs, but not the type that shows up under the microscope.’
‘The type of what, Ralph? The wrong type of water?’
‘Exactly. He was found face down in a bog pool, right? In which case there should be bog water in his lungs. It should be brackish and teeming with algae and micro-organisms, like the specimen of water that I took when I examined the body in situ.’ He tapped the microscope. ‘But the water in his lungs is as clear as day. It is fresh water.’
‘You mean it is river water?’ Torquil asked with a puzzled look.
Ralph bit his lip. ‘I’m not sure, except that it isn’t the same as the water that he was found in.’
‘Are you absolutely sure of that?’
‘Pretty well sure. In order to be certain I would need to have a detailed chemical analysis done, which will take a few days as I’ll need to send the specimens over to the Forensic Department at Dundee. I’ll also be sending his blood off for toxicology as well, and, as you know, a detailed analysis can take a week or two.’ He scratched his chin. ‘But in the meanwhile there is another anomaly that makes Dr Dent’s death seem decidedly fishy.’ He stood up and signalled to the door. ‘We’ll need to have a look at the body.’
Torquil winced. ‘Is he still—’
‘Still open?’ Ralph divined with a wry smile. ‘No. I’ve done my work and sewn him up nicely so that any relatives can view the body. But it is his skin that I want to show you.’
Torquil followed him back to the post-mortem room. Although he had seen numerous dead bodies in his career, he still was not comfortable when he had to see post-mortems being carried out.
Ralph closed the door behind them then crossed to the raised marble slab in the middle of the room. He lifted the green sheet and pulled it back from the body to reveal the head and neck and the tell-tale T-shaped incision from shoulder to shoulder meeting above the sternum, then extending downwards. Ralph’s neat suturing had united the ends of all of the skin edges leaving only two knots protruding; one at the end of the right-shoulder incision and the other at the T-junction where the two incisions met.
Despite himself Torquil found himself focusing on the sutures and the knots for a moment, rather than looking at the face of the corpse.
‘You could have been a seamstress, Ralph,’ he remarked casually.
Ralph McLelland gave a short laugh. ‘Pah! A frustrated surgeon I am. I always like to do as neat a job as I can for the relatives. And that includes my vertical mattress stitch and my one-handed surgical knots.’
Torquil nodded absently as he looked at Dent’s face. It seemed so strange to think that just a short time before he had been full of life, lodging a complaint at the station.
‘See his skin?’ Ralph asked.
‘What am I looking for, Ralph?’
‘Midge bites. As you will see, there aren’t any.’
Torquil thought back to the finding of the body. ‘I remember Ewan remarked about that. There were no midges landing on him, whereas we were all being bitten to heck. You said that it was because Dr Dent was dead.’
‘That’s right. They are attracted to carbon dioxide given off by living, breathing creatures.’
‘Then I don’t see what you are getting at.’
‘I was being stupid, Torquil. It is true that they don’t bite, but they would have bitten him before he fell. I think the reason he doesn’t have any bites is because he didn’t die in that bog pool.’
‘But he did drown?’
‘Oh yes. He drowned all right, but not there.’
Torquil clicked his tongue. ‘It is not looking good, Ralph. I think you are right. It looks like murder, right enough.’ He shook his head. ‘I have a bad feeling about this. There’s something troubling me about what you’ve just shown me. Something that I just can’t put my finger on.’
Ralph laid the sheet back over the body and nodded. ‘That’s weird, Torquil. I have that same feeling myself.’
Despite Cora’s protests Calum had insisted on escorting her from the Commercial Hotel back to the Chronicle offices where he made up the camp-bed for her with fresh sheets and blankets.
‘I’ll feel safer about you here,’ he explained. ‘I was not liking the look of that big lad, Wee Hughie. He has his eye on you.’
‘But I thought that was what you wanted, Calum?’ Cora replied as she stood watching him with her arms across her chest. ‘You told him that I was always on duty.’
‘Of course I did. You are a carrot, Cora.’
‘A carrot! Thanks very much, tattie head!’
‘No, not a vegetable. The type that you dangle in front of donkeys to get them moving. There is a story here, my girl, and we’re going to get on to it. Now, this is going to be good experience for you. A journalist has to get used to sleeping on the job. You get yourself settled, I’ll grab a few cushions and I’ll bed down in the archives room. You’ll find new toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bathroom. In the morning we’ll make a plan of campaign.’
He yawned, then went to the filing cabinet, pulled it open and took out his bottle of Glen Corlan whisky. ‘I’ll just have a wee dram to help me sleep. Would you like one?’
‘Ugh!’ Cora replied, screwing up her face in distaste.
‘But whisky is OK for vegetarians,’ he said encouragingly.
‘I would rather drink engine oil. Good night, boss.’
Calum sighed as he stuffed a couple of cushions under his arm, grabbed a mug and made for the archive room. ‘Good night, Cora.’
He was troubled. He wondered how she would cope in the cut and thrust world of journalism unless she developed a taste for Glen Corlan.
The following morning Lachlan was up with the lark. As arranged the previous evening his plan was to meet the Reverend Kenneth Canfield at the church for prayers, then have a nine hole rematch before having a long discussion about a project concerning their ministries. He had left food for Crusoe and a note for Torquil, since he had retired the previous evening before his nephew had returned from his mysterious trip to see Ralph McLelland.
He saw Kenneth standing in the cemetery as he approached the church across the golf course.
‘You are up bright and early, Kenneth,’ he called, as he left his golf bag against the fence and pushed open the creaking wrought-iron gate into the cemetery.
‘I was keen to talk to the Lord before I take my revenge.’
Lachlan struck a light to his pipe and joined him at the grave of Heather McQueen.
‘It is a bit of a mystery who put these flowers on her grave,’ he said, as he puffed his pipe. ‘I mentioned it to my nephew.’
‘Why did you do that?’
Lachlan was slightly taken aback at the tone in his colleague’s voice. ‘Oh just because he’s a police officer and he deals in mysteries.’
‘They are only flowers, Lachlan. I have a mind to put some on her grave myself.’
‘It wasn’t you that put these on?’
Kenneth Canfield’s eyes seemed on the verge of watering. He stared at the flowers for a moment then shook his head. ‘No. I have a suspicion who did though.’
‘Oh! Who?’
‘Digby Dent. I think he might have put them here out of guilt.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘I know a lot about guilt.’
‘You were on the verge of saying something about that the other day, Kenneth. Is it something that you want to talk to me about now?’
Kenneth stared at his old friend. ‘About Dr Dent? No, not just yet.’