Grave Doubts Read Online Free Page A

and bronze versions were done in large part by artisans. Or perhaps it was because London was another life.
    Miranda pictured “The Kiss” in her mind. Although she had only seen the plaster, she now imagined the imagein bronze. The lovers were naked; the bronze seemed alive, flesh trapped in illimitable torment. “I like it better, knowing the story,” she said. Unable to resist sounding like a brochure herself, she continued, “It anticipates the age of irony and the death of romance.”
    “Oh,” said Rachel. “I thought romance was dormant, not dead.”
    “Only for some of us,” said Morgan. “For these two it’s the other way around. Death is romance.”
    “From the ring and the cross, I’d say they were doomed from the moment they met,” said Miranda.
    “Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed,” Rachel proscribed with an edge in her voice.
    Miranda looked over at Morgan but his attention had shifted to the small cabinet leaning on its side near the gaping wall. It was three shades of bluish-green, with a diamond pattern on the door and an exposed bottom shelf between scooped sides. Across the top was an exaggerated cornice, a minor oxymoron of comic austerity.
    Anticipating her query, he explained. “It’s a Waterloo County hanging cupboard, mint condition — it might have belonged to your ancestors. German vernacular, Pennsylvania Dutch, made a couple of generations after they’d resettled as Loyalists. What’s unusual, really, is that salvagers had to rip it out with enough force they opened the crypt.”
    “It seems out of place.”
    “It is, in a sense. There couldn’t have been much of a market this close to town for country furniture. I’m guessing people, here, travelled up to Berlin, a century before it was renamed Kitchener, way before trains, to visit relatives or take the mineral waters in Preston. The cabinet is small enough to be brought back by wagon or carriage. Wagon, I’d say, given the modesty of the house. But why was it attachedso securely, and why wasn’t it painted over with the rest of the woodwork?”
    “Listen!” said Miranda. All three held their breath.
    “There’s somebody downstairs,” she whispered. “It’s either ghosts or forensic anthropologists! I thought academics slept through the night….”
    The clatter and absence of voices seemed ominous, until a hauntingly beautiful woman suddenly appeared in the doorway, followed by a man with quick eyes and a portly physique. Morgan, Miranda, and Rachel Naismith exchanged amused glances, while the dead stirred uneasily as floorboards beneath them shifted from the combined weight of the living.
    “Good to see you,” said the woman with a tired smile, while the man moved directly to the bodies on the floor as if courtesy were superfluous.
    “We’re the investigating anthropologists,” she explained. “That is Professor Birbalsingh.” She nodded toward the man hunkered over the corpses, examining them like specimens. “I’m Dr. Shelagh Hubbard from the Royal Ontario Museum.”
    Miranda introduced Morgan and the officer, and then herself as an afterthought. The woman nodded at Rachel, then took Morgan’s hand and her countenance warmed from weary to sleepy. She was very blond. Surprisingly, when she took Miranda’s hand, the sensuality did not subside. This woman has a sexual relationship with the world, Miranda suspected, wondering whether Rachel received short shrift due to race or, more likely, to her status in uniform.
    “We got an evening call from police headquarters. Somebody named Rufalo,” the woman continued with a congeniality that was apparently meant to counter her colleague’s brusqueness. “It sounded intriguing. Professor Birbalsingh phoned me several times through the night. He couldn’t sleep for thinking about it, and I couldn’t sleep withoutdisconnecting the telephone and putting my bid for university tenure in jeopardy. So here we are.”
    “Me too,” said a voice from the