The Tinsmith by Tim Bowling Page A

No. Greaver could not deny it: what truly bothered him was that he, a graduate of the two-year diploma in surgery, had not known that the Rebels had no embalmers.
    He drew in a deep breath of decay, pulled at the soldier’s cheek, found it satisfactorily stiff, and decided to suture the incision. As he did so, he heard horses rapidly approaching.
    Tomkins emerged from the tent, twirling the waxed ends of his moustache.
    â€œOfficers,” he said. “I fear, doctor, that this does not augur well.”
    Greaver grunted and stepped away from the table. He whisked a few flies away, put one hand over his thick lenses, and watched the three horses draw near. Just beyond them, as if pulled in their wake, came a wagon much like his own. One of his competitors, no doubt, sniffing out an opportunity. But Greaver knew he had nothing to be concerned about from the officers. The president himself favoured sending embalmed soldiers home. Even so . . . even so, he knew that Tomkins possessed a rare instinct for trouble, which was why he’d vanished into the tent, withdrawing like a damned snake into its hole. Greaver grumbled and covered the corpse with a blanket. If Tomkins wasn’t so useful, Greaver had a mind to tell him that his services were no longer required.
    The officers arrived, well striped and fine looking, one young and one old. They’d make attractive corpses someday, Greaver mused, nervously eyeing them as they dismounted. The third rider was very different. Small and darkly clothed, his tiny eyes darting above a pointed nose and tight mouth, he had the appearance of a wet otter and even seemed to slide off his horse. But the two officers turned in unison and briefly conferred with him. Then, soberly, they strode toward Greaver, their spines as upright as the sabres at their sides.
    The horses nickered softly. From the near distance floated a high, tinkling sound, almost like cow bells. Except for the stench and corpses, it was all very bucolic. The senior officer—more than a colonel but not a general: Greaver had not yet made a thorough study of the command insignia, just enough to know the top price when he saw it—had a prominent cleft chin and heavy side whiskers. He was at least sixty. His voice had a pleasing gravity, and he stood very still.
    â€œWe have information that you have been embalming more than soldiers here. That you’ve been embalming civilians.”
    If not for his admiration of the officer’s tone and carriage, Greaver would have been stunned by the statement. As it was, it discomposed him enough that he shifted his weight from one foot to the other before replying.
    â€œSir, your information, I’m afraid, is inaccurate. That is to say, I’m willing to perform my services, as a general rule and at a very fair price, for anyone in need of them. But here . . .”
    The embalmer looked slowly across the battlefield, his dramatic gesture grossly interrupted for him by the sight of the horse and wagon that had almost reached his tent.
    Two men were seated on the board, the tinkling sound grew louder.
    â€œHere I have not encountered a member of the public in such need.”
    Greaver stared at the wagon. What competitors were these to ride so brazenly into his operations? His temples throbbed. He wanted to call out to Tomkins for assistance, but that would be as effective as calling to the bodies in the coffins.
    The otterlike little man stepped forward. He was barely taller than a small boy but well into middle age. A few white whiskers showed in his trim beard. His air was both cool and tense, as if he knew what was going to happen but not how others would respond.
    â€œThe information is reliable,” he said. “You have had in your possession the body of a farmer named Orlett. Who brought it to you? And where is it now?” He pointed toward a stack of open coffins, the zinc reflecting the sun in daggers.