Murmuring the Judges

68

‘Did they have much trouble getting it out of the hole?’ One of the things Skinner liked most about Professor Joe Hutchison was that he was always matter-of-fact.

The policeman shook his head. ‘Not a bit. The ground was soft a good way down after last night’s rain, and we were lucky in that it turned out to be a solid oak box with proper brass fittings. The handles took the weight, no problem. They just tied on ropes and lifted it out. We were on our way here in only an hour and a half.’

As he looked at the coffin, lying newly washed on the floor of the examination room in the Edinburgh City Mortuary, he remembered the first occasion on which he had seen it, when he had been at the head of a queue of traffic halted in Aberlady’s main street by the old man’s funeral. The gleam of that day had gone from its varnish, but otherwise, its months in the ground had done it no apparent damage. The name, Orlach, etched on the brass plate on the lid, stood out clearly.

Hutchison turned to his two assistants. ‘Right lads, get it open. Let’s just hope they didn’t bury him in his good suit, or in his robes.’ He glanced heavenwards. ‘An ordinary shroud, please, or we’ll be here all bloody night getting it off.’

As the men began to unfasten the big brass screws on the coffin lid, he pulled his face mask into position. Skinner, McIlhenney and Sheriff Boone did the same.

The policeman felt the Sheriff flinch between them as the oak chest was opened, and steeled themselves to ignore the smell which seemed to flood into the room. As they watched, the assistants bent, lifted the body, and placed it on the steel post-mortem table. They saw at once that Hutchison’s informal prayer had been answered. The old judge had been wrapped in a linen shroud, which had once been cream in colour.

As the pathologist leaned over the table, and began to unwrap the winding sheet, Skinner pressed the mental button which switched on his professional detachment, but the sight of the old man’s blackened corpse was too much for Sheriff Boone. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured. ‘He’s dead all right. .’ He slipped from the room, his face ashen, in contrast to that of the late Lord Orlach.

Hutchison looked after him. ‘No stomach, these lawyers,’ he exclaimed. ‘They should all be made to attend one of these, so that they really know what they’re dealing with.’

He glanced at Skinner, over his mask. ‘So, Bob, Sarah reckoned suffocation was favourite, did she, if Milord here didn’t die of natural causes.’

‘That’s right.’

‘In that case, that’s where we’ll look first.’ He picked up a scalpel, then looked meaningfully once more at the policemen. ‘Better prepare yourselves, lads,’ he warned. ‘If you thought he smelled bad before. .’