The Bed Body (Gerald Bunting Book 1) Read online

  The Bed Body

  Gerald Bunting Mystery #1

  Adam D. Rice

  Copyright © 2021 Adam D. Rice

  All rights reserved.

  Any similarities to persons, living or dead, are a coincidence.

  Dedication

  To Agatha Christie, the legend.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  “A leopard? What would I want with—right.” Officer Marrow sipped his coffee. “To go with the other one. Where do you? On the credenza? If you think you can snag one for a fair—hold on. Marjorie, somebody’s trying to get through on the other line. I’ll call you back.”

  The constable pushed a button. “Hello, sir, how can I—a body? Where? Yes, I’ve got it all down”—the officer ransacked a drawer until he remembered the pen behind his ear—“right here. Pearl Street? Yes, alright. Heading there now.”

  The door creaked apprehensively. “Enter,” Marrow said, reaching for his badge.

  Officer Andrews leaned into the office. “Jacob, I’m glad I caught you. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.” Marrow’s colleague stood aside, revealing a short, middle-aged man with a scruffy beard. He was bundled up in two overcoats and a conspicuous scarf.

  “It is the pleasures, I am sure,” the man said, pinching the brim of his hat.

  Marrow sized up the stranger but didn’t learn much. “Yes, what is—who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

  “Come on, Jacob. You know who this is! He’s one of—”

  The man coughed. “Never one of. What is this one of? I am great—as great as the several. As esteemed as the many! Of this I am assured by paper scribblers and camera-holders who press in the crowds and stand by closely. For this,” he dug a thumb in his scarf, “is Gerald, the worldwide detective of Cornwall.”

  Silence grabbed a cocoa and settled in.

  “It’s Gerald Bunting!” Andrews said. “You know, the bloke who’s always solving crimes on the Continent. You’ve heard of him. I’m sure we’ve talked about—“

  “The Continent, yes, yes, surely,” the detective said, “but all of this earth marble is the oyster I possess. Wherever I make the costly travels, I find the sneaking clues and track down sly killers—save the capped ice with the penguin hoards. There, I shall not go.”

  Bunting sneezed, tugging at his outermost coat. “Apologize.”

  “Beg pardon?” Marrow said. “I don’t follow.”

  “Apologies,” Andrews muttered. “Leave it alone.”

  “Mr. Bunting, where exactly in Cornwall did you say you’re from?” Officer Marrow asked. “Amsterdam?”

  “I was born at Cornish seasides—Bude, the town. England, yes.”

  Marrow’s head twisted precariously. “Oh, alright. Yeah, I know the place. But let me get this straight. You were born in Cornwall.”

  The detective nodded. “So it is.”

  “And you’ve always spoken like that? Where are your parents from?”

  “Bude, also, yes. We are the Cornish, through and through again.” Bunting shivered. “Apologize, again, I must. I fidget with the drafts here. Oh, that the fueled cookstove could follow me always.” He sighed. “Sometime, I will find the eyes open for this dream.”

  Officer Marrow clapped his hands. “Well, I’d love to chat about some of those cases, Mr. Bunting, but I’d best be off. I have a bit of investigating to do myself.”

  “Ah,” the detective clucked his tongue, “you have scents for a case, and you find yourself stingy, Marrow man. You have laid out the tease. Would you trifle with G. Bunting this way? Tell of this case. Was it the phone I heard to ring? I notice all the little things—crumbs too small to stomach.”

  Andrews added, “It’ll only take a minute. I checked out Mr. Bunting’s file. He’s got special clearances. There’s no harm, whetting his thirst a bit.”

  “Whet my mind blade with this thirst you speak of. Yes—do,” Gerald said, cleaning his spectacles with a spare scarf.

  Marrow polished off his coffee, buying him a few seconds. He cleared his throat—then, twice more. Bunting leaned in. “There’s… a body. Well, a death.”

  “A body!” Gerald chuckled. “Let me make the guesses. Witnesses, they say she was felled from the camel by heat’s stroke, but yet, why is the bullet in the back? The great detectives, as I am, we often see this.”

  Officer Andrews asked, “Well, Jacob? Was he right? We don’t often get many camels in this part of Britain, Mr. Bunting.”

  Marrow pulled on his jacket. “No camels—not yet, anyway.”

  “Then where? The thirst, it continues!”

  “Pearl Street.”

  The detective’s smile disappeared beneath his coat collars. He mumbled, “What a precious place to be doused in the spilt bloodies. Of course, I know not this place exactly, but I have habits of mopping up whiffs and inklings handy to me in… handing me truths, yes. I have heard of this tidy, quiet Pearl where many raise small ones to bigger ones.”

  “I really need to be leaving. You’ll have to excuse me,” Officer Marrow said, grabbing his cap. “I’m sure, if you’ve got a little time on your hands, the folks down in cold cases would love some help sniffing around those inklings. Good morning.” The inspector tipped his hat and left.

  Chapter Two

  Officer Marrow checked the address. 31 Pearl Street. He knocked again. The curtains were drawn. It was nearly dark, but no lights glimmered within the brick two-story. He glanced up the street—completely deserted.

  “Constable.” Marrow rattled the knocker. “Hello, open up. We received a call.”

  He heard movement inside. A latch was drawn back, and the door opened a crack. “Yes, who is it?” a woman asked.

  “Officer Marrow, madam. A death was reported at this residence.”

  “Yes, yes. Get in,” the woman disappeared into a darkened sitting room. Marrow gripped his baton a bit tighter and followed the scent of her pungent perfume.

  “Coffee?” she fussed, clearing a stack of magazines off a chair. “No, on second thought, I think we’re all out. I usually go right out and get more after we use it all up, but…. Oh, and watch your step.”

  Marrow’s shoe crunched on a piece of broken glass. “Dropped something earlier. I’m a little clumsy these days.” He smelled alcohol.

  “Are you a relation of Mrs. Wembley’s?” The woman froze, staring off toward the curtains. “Ma’am, are you quite alright?”

  “Ma’am?” Officer Marrow barked. His jacket scratched past some loose wallpaper.

  She answered softly, “Yes, I’m her daughter, her youngest daughter, Dorothy Sutton. Mother was ninety-two, a month away from her next birthday. And, now”—she sank into an armchair—“she’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, madam.” Marrow stepped forward. “I didn’t mean to shout before. Would it be—I don’t mean to be impolite, but to begin my
investigation, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  The constable cocked his head as a car door slammed outside.

  “I’m frightened,” Mrs. Sutton whispered, fixated on the shut curtains. “I’ve been sitting here alone all day…. She was in my wedding.”

  “Who was? Your mother?”

  Her bloodshot eyes met his. “Flesh and blood—"

  Officer Marrow held up a hand. There were muttered voices from the front step. “Ma’am, have you been threatened?” He edged behind the grandfather clock.

  The woman dabbed her eyes with a shabby washcloth. “I don’t know. I’m so tired, Officer. I suppose if they could take Mother away, I could be next. But why? Why would they do that to someone? I still teach piano sometimes. I went to church with Mother—when her knees could take it.”

  Mrs. Sutton took a breath. “My own sister, flesh and blood.”

  The angry conversation continued outside, muffled by the door. “Four people,” Marrow thought. “There’s got to be a way out the back, but should I risk it?”

  “I know my sister’s got something to do with it,” the woman continued. “She’s been up to something all these years. I was always afraid to say something, and then, I took up some tea to Mother this afternoon, and she was… gone.”

  Marrow’s eyes drifted to the mantle. He threw down his baton and unfastened a shotgun. The argument on the step continued to escalate as he crept to the door. The constable planted his foot and thrust the gun through the mail slot.

  “Clear out!”

  The conversation ceased, and silence grabbed a bowl of ice cream.

  Officer Marrow felt a nudge on the gun barrel. “Andrews, is this not Marrow from the stations? I believe we have found Pearl house.”

  Chapter Three

  Officer Marrow laid the shotgun in its cradle. “Andrews, a word.”

  “Don’t blame—"

  “The kitchen.”

  Marrow shut the door and exploded, “What were you thinking, bringing him here? We’ve got systems for this sort of thing, Marcus. He’ll just get in the way. I don’t care how many cases he’s solved. I don’t trust him.”

  Officer Andrews eyed a chocolate cake on the counter. “I know, but our hands are tied. He went over my head, straight to the chief.”

  “How? You were with him, weren’t you?”

  Andrews shrugged. “He said he needed to use the bathroom. When he didn’t come back after a quarter of an hour, I got concerned—all those coats, you know. Any other man would’ve passed out by now. It’s only September.”

  “Where the devil did he go, then? Scotland Yard?”

  “… I found him in a phonebooth with a roll of coins and a phonebook. There was nothing I could do.”

  Marrow punched the butcher block. “This case could’ve made me promotion material. And, now, there’s a… a Cornishman meddling—”

  “Yoo-hoo, Marrow, Andrews—officer police?” Gerald’s nose peered into the room. “The Dorothy here would like some cake bits. Would you be good, just so—the plates, the sherry, also.”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Bunting,” Officer Marrow crooned. “Should there be anything else, anything you find not to your immense satisfaction, say the word, and we shall put it right. Will anyone else be joining us this evening?”

  The detective raised an eyebrow.

  “I wasn’t sure if the Queen would be joining us.” Andrews elbowed Marrow in the ribs.

  “No,” Bunting shook his head, “that will come still later, when I have found fault in the body business.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Thanking you.” The door shut firmly.

  Marrow grabbed the cake, but Andrews blocked his path. “No, Jacob, I think I should take that. You grab the sherry—up there on the shelf. Come on. Give me the cake.”

  A worrisome vein throbbed in Officer Marrow’s neck. He stood, rooted to the spot. Andrews reached for the dish. “You can run this up the chain of command when we get back. Maybe they’ll listen to you. Just don’t embarrass him. He must know plenty of journalists.”

  Following a brief struggle, Marrow exchanged the cake for a bottle and a stack of silverware. “Haven’t even seen the body yet,” he mumbled. “Just a glorified waiter. What’s the use, wearing a badge if you end up—”

  “Excuse me,” Gerald whispered into the kitchen, “one more time, I shall do the asking. The woman, she faintly lives. Sherry would do much good to her spirits—mine, as well. Your Andrews friend whips and speeds the car, and I—"

  “We’ll be there momentarily, Mr. Bunting,” Marrow snapped. “I hope our tardiness won’t affect your gratui—”

  “Jacob!” Andrews shouted. “Help me with the door, would you? We were just coming. We’ve got the sherry and cake right here.”

  Bunting smiled. “That English faith, I find it again.”

  Chapter Four

  “Do you feel better, ma’am?” Officer Andrews asked.

  Mrs. Sutton licked her lips. “Yes, thank you. Hit the spot perfectly. I was saving it for—that doesn’t matter. I suppose you’ll want to see the bed. It’s still up there. No one’s touched it.”

  Gerald’s plate rattled onto a table. “Yes, we shall see this beds.”

  “Would you get the lights?” Mrs. Sutton asked, squinting in the dark.

  Officer Marrow flipped on a lamp. “Ma’am”—he took out a notebook—“would it be possible to ask you some questions before we examine the body and call in the—”

  “No, they’ve already been.” She swallowed hard, shielding her eyes from the light. “They were here hours ago.”

  “Who has?”

  “My husband. He’s an ambulanceman. I rang him up when I found Mother up there,” she sniffed, “dead. It’s nothing like the shows on the telly.”

  “I, too, deplore the violence,” Bunting said, patting her hand. “Tell me, was there much of the blood? The guts, as well?”

  “Poison,” Mrs. Sutton murmured, “I’m sure of it. I was so surprised, I ran straight to the phone. My husband put her on the cot and drove her to the morgue.”

  “Why didn’t he phone the police?” Marrow asked.

  “I told him not to. I needed time to calm down. They never show that part on the telly. The way they film it, you’d think someone dying is like the toaster breaking.”

  “Mrs. Sutton, where is your husband?”

  “He’s still on his shift.” She glanced at a clock. “I expect he’ll be home shortly.”

  “And you saw no signs of violence or struggle on your mother’s body?”

  “No, Quentin looked her over right up in the bedroom—nothing.” Her head lolled. “Nothing at all. Poison. I’m sure of it. What else could it be?”

  “Take a deep breath, ma’am. I’m having trouble hearing you.” Mrs. Sutton leaned back in her chair. “If you suspected foul play, why would you move the body?”

  “We didn’t… not at first. Thought she’d just died—she was old. My husband said it happens every day, death.” She shut her eyes and moaned, “But, then, I found the bottle.”

  “Bottle?” Marrow asked.

  “Sure,” Mrs. Sutton said. “It’s up there. On the vanity. Itty-bitty. Never saw it before. I can show”—she tried to stand, sinking back into the cushions—“I’ll be here if there are any more questions.” She dabbed her forehead with the washcloth. “I need a nap, I think.”

  Gerald grabbed her wrists. “No! Dorothy, woman, you must stay! Do not go quiet into the death sleep yourself. Mama has died this day, but you shall remain to sample shining, newer toasters—until I have had the photos, sweet smiling in many papers.”

  Her eyelids fluttered. The detective shook her gently. “Waken!”

  “Let her sleep,” Officer Marrow said. “She’s a wreck. I’ll bet you five pounds that sherry’s not been her first nip of the day.”

  “The drunkard?” Gerald released her wrists. “But, of course. The signs are notes in the features, once warmth, a beauty, now tepid as the spat water. Pew!�
�

  ***

  “She said the last door, didn’t she?” Officer Andrews entered a bedroom. The last rays of evening sun fell on an unmade bed.

  Bunting pushed past him and flipped the light switch with a well-chewed pencil. “The bed for deathly sleeping. Yes,” he laid a hand on the bedpost, “this is the place where the Dorothy Mama was taken.”

  “Mildred,” Officer Marrow sighed. “Just don’t—” Gerald lifted a mirror. “Bunting! Put that down. We haven’t dusted for fingerprints.”

  The detective held up a handkerchief. “Shall I use this, then, to handle the fripperies?” He chuckled. “You officers think only of evidence, dirtied. I do not have the sticking fingers. You may call the Bude authority persons. They will tell you much of my hands!”

  “No, thanks.” Marrow pulled back the duvet. His investigation revealed no traces of blood, no hairs on the pillow.

  Andrews dropped to the floor. “Jacob, I think I’ve got something down here.” He was greeted by Gerald’s face on the opposite side of the bed.

  “What is it, this evidence? Here, here. Tell me. This thing you have found, will it blow the case like the dynamite’s blast?”

  Andrews climbed back to his feet. “I’m sorry, Bunting. It’s just a joke we like to pull—I found her slippers.” The detective’s scarf bristled softly against his whiskers. “The humor gallows. Yes, ha.”

  Officer Marrow turned his attention to the vanity. It was littered with glass bottles, some decades old. He took a seat and jotted down the names on the faded labels. He felt a presence beside him—an excessively-bundled presence. “Yes, Mr. Bunting? Is it time for another round of cake and sherry? I’m afraid I got distracted, trying to gather evidence. Perhaps we could try fruit this time, something a little lighter—to cleanse the palette.”

  “I believe the seeking bottle, it is there. ‘Itty-bits,’ she says. Yes,” his hand reached for a purple bottle by the hairbrush. Marrow slapped it. “Ow! You would strike Gerald Bunting, renowned and known for talents besides the coffee drinking and slippery jokes?”