Embarrassment of Corpses, An by Alan Beechey

thick file. Actually, it’s several.”
    He hefted the files out of the drawer and piled them on top of the desk. Several odd-sized papers and documents avalanched across the shiny surface. Most had other sheets of notepaper stapled to them, covered in Sir Harry’s spidery handwriting. More recent records were adorned with fluorescent yellow labels. Lorina picked up a booklet with a little cry.
    â€œThis is my school report, from when I was eight years old,” she cried in amazement. “And here’s my certificate of confirmation. And an article from the local newspaper about a ballet recital when I was twelve. God, I look awful in this picture. No, you don’t” she added laughingly as Oliver tried to snatch the sallow clipping. Satan chose the moment to bite firmly into his ankle, but Oliver was used to the beast’s habits and pushed him away.
    â€œI think he always wanted to write his autobiography, which is why he made notes about everything that ever happened to him.” Lorina chuckled. “Who’d believe the old fraud had never traveled further than a day trip to Boulogne?”
    â€œThere’s no entry under L for ‘Last will and testament,’” Oliver reported. “Shall I try W for ‘Will’ or F for ‘Funeral arrangements’?”
    The doorbell rang. Lorina looked startled.
    â€œCan you get that?” she asked, looking down at her clothes. “I’ll search in the meanwhile. Oh, and Ollie—try to be diplomatic.”
    Bristling at the last remark, Oliver headed for the hall and opened the front door without using the peephole. He was surprised to find himself staring into his uncle’s necktie.
    â€œSo Harry’s death was murder,” he breathed, raising his eyes, in which glimmerings of triumph were appearing.
    â€œActually, I’m here to pay my respects to Lorina,” Mallard replied scornfully. “And I sincerely hope you haven’t been bothering her with your half-witted theories. Can I come in?”
    â€œIt’s my Uncle Tim,” Oliver called as he ushered Mallard across the threshold. Lorina hurried into the hall and hugged the detective. Satan rubbed his cheek against Mallard’s trouser-leg.
    â€œFound it,” she said to Oliver, waving a piece of paper. “ O for ‘Obsequies.’”
    â€œLorina, my dear,” said Mallard, after he had recovered from his astonishment at her casual appearance, “I didn’t know your father as well as I hoped. His passing has sadly taken away the pleasure of achieving that ambition.”
    â€œHow nicely put!” she said with delight. “Oliver, you could learn a lot from your uncle. Now, you two make yourselves comfortable in the living room, I’m going to put the kettle on for tea. Give me a few minutes to change first, though.”
    She skipped away. The men stared at each other uncomfortably, then drifted into the large, paneled living room. Satan followed them, trying to make his destination look like a coincidence.
    â€œNot much like a house of mourning,” muttered Mallard eventually, as he inspected the line-up of Sir Harry Random’s literary awards on the stone mantelpiece. Oliver had perched on an unyielding recamier and patted his lap. The cat ignored him and began to wash himself in offensive places.
    â€œIt’s her way of dealing with it,” Oliver said. “She cares, I can tell.”
    â€œStrange to think she’s now a rising star of the Civil Service, when she was neither civil nor serviceable in her student days,” Mallard continued. “You do realize, dear nephew, that if you want me to investigate Harry’s death as a murder, Lorina becomes a suspect? It was well known they didn’t see eye to eye.”
    Oliver didn’t look at his uncle. “I thought you said it was a dead issue, excuse the pun.”
    â€œI don’t think I should in the house of