The Tinsmith by Tim Bowling Page B

“Here?”
    â€œGentlemen.” The throbbing in Greaver’s temples moved behind his eyes. He touched his glasses delicately but did not remove them. The officers, motionless, glared. Greaver heard the wagon stop nearby, the clatter of men getting down. He could not define the greater threat. After all, the army wanted embalming surgeons. Hadn’t he already done much service to the families of the brave men fallen in the nation’s cause? Not as much as others, perhaps, but then, he had only begun. No, he could not perceive the officers as a threat. The otterlike man and the men from the wagon, on the other hand—Greaver did not like them spying on his operations. No doubt they wanted to look at, perhaps even steal, a bottle of his special embalming solution.
    â€œGentlemen, I assure you . . .” Greaver stepped to one side of the trio and started toward the wagon. The younger officer, red-mouthed, blue-eyed, stopped him by holding out one gloved hand.
    Now Greaver grew indignant. Civilians indeed! Had he come to this battlefield, risking his own life, to use his skill on civilians? Why, he could have stayed safely in the city and done that.
    â€œI assure you that I have preserved only soldiers, and many officers included, under this tarp. These hands”—he held them out—“have touched no one else.”
    The officers and the little man bent their heads together in a cloud of whispers. Greaver seized the opportunity to look for the wagon men. To his dismay, only one appeared; what about the other? Greaver turned so quickly toward the table under which he kept his bottles of fluid that he became dizzy. He put his foot down hard to regain his balance, and the sound brought the three heads up.
    Very dignified, the older officer said, “We will make a careful search.”
    Despite himself, the embalmer almost smiled. That’ll flush Tomkins out of his hole.
    But the satisfaction was fleeting. An amused voice boomed out from behind him.
    â€œHello, Pinkerton. Are you finding a nest of spies among these corpses now?”
    The man at the tripod had suddenly come up, his long coat open, his full beard split at the bottom. The laughter in his eyes dazzled like the sunlight on zinc.
    The little man scowled. He looked at the burly, jesting figure and spoke low. Greaver could not hear the words. But the heavily bearded man did not stop smiling as he nodded.
    â€œAye, I thought you’d have your eye on that business. But you weren’t there, Alan. It was quite a sight. If it hadna been so dark at the time . . .” The bearded man paused and then made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “There’s plenty of killing here as it is. One corpse, more or less, canna change the war. But listen, Alan . . .” He gripped the other’s elbow and put his great buffalo head very close. “I need to use the wire. I have to get more plates sent. Right away.”
    The little man frowned. “I can’t promise, Alex. If you haven’t noticed, that was a great battle yesterday. Communication with the White House is of the highest priority.”
    â€œBut, Alan.” The bearded man’s voice rose. “One message! Very short!”
    The younger officer appeared from behind the stacked coffins and tapped Greaver’s shoulder.
    â€œCome with me,” he said.
    Greaver followed, his head swivelling back, still drawn by the bearded man’s passion, a passion Greaver understood and respected—ambition. The tremble in the voice, the fire in the eyes: fortunately, the man was not an embalmer. Greaver had figured out that the tripod was a part of a camera, that the reference to plates indicated photography—he knew a little about the latter, as he had considered having a carte de visite made for business purposes. Indeed, once these mistaken officers departed, perhaps the bearded man could be persuaded to take a