The Book of the Dead by Elizabeth Daly Page A

much of a shock to him. The question is: was he lying to Billig about having had no former diagnosis, or did Billig know he had had one, and did Billig lie to St. Damian’s?”
    The attendant turned, saw them, and advanced.
    â€œWe were sent on here by St. Damian’s hospital,” said Gamadge. “They inform us that Buckley’s has charge of funeral arrangements for the late Mr. Howard Crenshaw.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The attendant showed more than a polite interest. “You are friends of the deceased?”
    â€œThis lady knew Mr. Crenshaw.”
    â€œIf you’ll wait in the lounge here I’ll get young Mr. Buckley down.”
    There was nothing funereal about the lounge, unless an etching of Ely cathedral might be considered a reminder of man’s ultimate fate. Idelia sat in a chintz-covered chair, her eyes alert. Presently she said: “It’s funny.”
    â€œFunny?”
    â€œNow that he’s dead they’ll tell us anything.”
    â€œNow that he’s dead he’s safe from annoyance from us or anybody.”
    An elevator gate clashed, and young Mr. Buckley arrived from an inner hall. He was a personable youth, smartly but quietly dressed, dark and grave. He looked gratified.
    â€œWe’re very glad indeed,” he said, “to meet friends of the late Mr. Crenshaw.”
    Gamadge introduced himself and Idelia. “I didn’t know Mr. Crenshaw,” he explained, “and Miss Fisher only met him this summer; but she was greatly shocked at St. Damian’s this evening to hear that he had died. She didn’t know that he was seriously ill until they told her—the people at his apartment house told her—that he had been taken to a hospital.”
    Mr. Buckley, addressing Idelia with respectful sympathy, said that the final collapse had been sudden. “We understood,” he went on, “that Mr. Crenshaw was entirely alone in the world. He never mentioned friends, so far as I know.”
    â€œI only knew him up in Vermont this summer,” said Idelia.
    â€œI see. That accounts for it. But we’re very glad you are in the city, Miss Fisher. We always like it when friends come in. We have followed Mr. Crenshaw’s instructions to the letter, and we like friends of the deceased to see what we are doing and have done. We’re in communication with Stonehill, Vermont—in fact, we have paid them.”
    Gamadge looked politely surprised.
    â€œEvery detail,” said Mr. Buckley, in reply to this, “was settled by Mr. Crenshaw before he died. His estimate was very generous. St. Damian’s had an advance in cash, part of it came to us, and out of our share we have paid Stonehill. He is to be buried in the old family plot there; the sexton of the Congregational church there is attending to the funeral. It takes place day after tomorrow.”
    â€œI know that cemetery,” said Idelia. “We have a plot there too.”
    Buckley seemed to think that this was a rather touching coincidence. He said: “They inform us that there had been no burial in the Crenshaw plot for a long time until Mr. Crenshaw’s uncle was buried there last spring. The family was scattered; Mr. Crenshaw himself came from California. That—” he looked at Gamadge—“more or less explains the unusual cash arrangements made by him. He had no legal representatives here in the east, no business representatives except the Western Merchants bank here. He didn’t want delay in settling his estate in California after his death.”
    â€œA business man indeed.”
    â€œI understand that he was once in the building business.”
    â€œThe hospital told you so?”
    â€œI think his doctor had had that information from him.”
    Mr. Buckley looked at the bunch of petunias in Idelia’s hand “You wished to leave these, Miss Fisher?”
    â€œIf I could.”
    â€œI was going to