The Bed Body (Gerald Bunting Book 1) Read online

  “Don’t touch the evidence until we’ve dusted it. I’m not going to say it again. We have protocols. We can’t all play things fast-and-loose.”

  “Ah, and these, your protocols, have solved the great cases? They have righted the wrongs, condemned the false innocents? What of the cases, cold as trout kisses? What of them? They sit in the box caskets, crying out, ‘The clues, we possess them, if you would stop the personal call business!’”

  Marrow crossed his arms. “You know, Gerald, it is shameful, the number of cases that’ve been piling up. They had to knock out a wall just to store them all in one spot. If only we had someone… eminent like you around—”

  “Easy…” Officer Andrews muttered.

  “I was just saying, then, they’d be gone. Here’s an idea. Really focus your attention on a single country for once. Maybe Bolivia.”

  A door slammed downstairs.

  Chapter Five

  “Must be the husband,” Officer Andrews said, poking his head into the hall. “He sounds upset. We’d better get down there.”

  They found a man kneeling by Mrs. Sutton in the living room. “Dear? Dear, ‘ello?”

  “Excuse me,” Officer Marrow said. The man turned sharply, falling against the couch. “I didn’t mean to startle you, sir. We’re here as part of the investigation.”

  “I told her….” He shook his head. “There’s nothin’ to investigate, alright? She was an old woman. She died—that’s it. Prob’ly went in her sleep. My wife’s got this crazy idea that her sister’s mixed up in it. You can see she’s not well ‘erself.”

  “Yes,” Gerald said, “correct, you are. She, Dorothy—the wife—struggles. But, husband, even the weak have more than waxing between the ears. They see, amiss, the tiny things.”

  Mr. Sutton turned to the officers. “What’s he runnin’ his mouth about? You short-staffed at the department?”

  Marrow said, “Sir—”

  “Quentin.”

  “What was the state of the body when your wife called?”

  “Called? I called her.”

  The detective’s eyes lit up. “You call the wife? This wife, you call?”

  “Sure. I’m a good husband, best as I can manage. Call her every day when I’m eatin’ my lunch. She was cryin’ so hard, she could ‘ardly string three words together. You’d think the world was endin’. Kept choking out that her sister came over. They got in a big fight. Next thing you know, Dorothy goes up to check on the old bird, and she’s out of commission—dead, gone. Natural causes, far as I could tell. Got her chilling in one of the coolers down at the morgue. You can have a doc check her out, but I’m tellin’ you, it happens every day. We had three just like her mum this week. All this excitement ‘bout the elections comin’ up, I think. Tryin’ to hold on to cast a vote and, then, kickin’ off, leaving the rest of us to handle the consequences.”

  Bunting scratched his beard. “This Mildred… you speak of her, the mother by law, like the sausage that is made.”

  “I see it every day. S’pose I’m used to it.”

  Mrs. Sutton stirred in her chair, stretching like a drunk cat. “Quentin, love. You’re home. Bring me some schnapps, would you? Just a bit. I’ve already had—"

  “Hush!” Mr. Sutton stood up.

  “This sister,” Officer Marrow continued, “does she live nearby?”

  “Just ‘cross town. 820 Middlebury. Harper. Well, that’s her husband’s name. Mauve, an artist. Painted that if you can believe it.” He pointed to a canvas over the desk. “Hang on.” He frowned.” Who’s touched the gun?”

  “Beats us,” Officer Andrews said, wringing his hands. “Right. Jacob, is there anything else you wanted to ask before we head out?”

  “We still need to dust that—”

  “I have questions, also,” Gerald grumbled, “for the man who rides ambulances. There is much still for asking and knowing. This body, Mildred—prior to the death passing, did she apply the powders and perfumeries?”

  “She ‘ardly went anywhere. It’s all antiques.”

  “But what of this?” The detective held out his handkerchief. He slowly unfolded the linen, revealing a small purple bottle.

  Marrow kicked a table. Andrews interjected, “Sorry, sir, he has fits.”

  Gerald pressed on. “This bottle, was it always in the old Mildred’s sleep chambers?”

  Mr. Sutton scrutinized the bottle. “Can’t say as I’ve seen it. What is it?”

  “It bears the label no longer—alas. But I make you, husband, sort of son, the sacred promise that I, Gerald Bunting, will stand close besides the chemist who knows such bottles until the paper boxes have all been checked.”

  “… Do I know you from somewhere?” Sutton asked. Gerald puffed out his chest. “From the greengrocer?” Bunting deflated. “No...” he clapped his hands, “from the papers! One of the greengrocer advertisements.”

  Bunting’s eyes flashed like a bed of coals. “You believe I am simply the bearded greengrocer man who holds up the fruit and says, ‘Good, this apple, I am finding’? No, it is not so! I have come to this place, because I sniff out the crime with the nosiness. I make many calls, for I know these constables, two, can be no help.” Gerald bowed. “It is truth, only, from experience. Then, this Quentin, you throw the insult barbs, little pet words that snap and bark. Advertisements? I have no need to peddle the wares. I go wherever the crimes have been and pick up the trails—cluing in—that reek of suspects’ doings.

  “But, unlike the dog, Gerald crosses the streams, the rivers, the ocean waters. I never lose the scents.” He paused to sneeze. “I am in the papers, yes, but not in this way you try to cripple the ego feelings. Never that way. I eat the vegetables only when they have appeared on the plate and are cooked to my likings. I do not hold them in the hands and smile the friendly grin to sell the bruised tomato.”

  “Bravo.” Officer Marrow applauded. “I think it may be time for us to leave.”

  “To this, I am agreeing,” the detective muttered.

  Chapter Six

  Officer Andrews polished off his second beer. “What do you make of it so far?”

  “I say we wait and see what the examiner has to say about the body. They’ll know whether it’s a poisoning soon enough. Could’ve been blunt trauma—no blood, I mean. They’ll find something.”

  “What did you think of the husband?”

  “I don’t know.” Officer Marrow tossed a chip in his mouth. “He didn’t seem to care much for the mother. I’m more interested to talk to the sister. She should be able to set some of it straight—if she’s not a drinker, too. And the neighbors.”

  “Yeah, if the row they had was as bad as all that, some snooping biddy will have heard, three doors down.”

  A bell jingled. “Ah, at last, I find you, constables, colleagues in the murder solving.”

  Marrow whispered, “I thought you got rid of him.”

  “Shh,” Andrews replied, “he’s never lost a case. We might learn something. You’ve just got to be open to hearing his opinions.”

  Gerald took a seat at the bar. He squinted up at a wide mirror. “Oh, that all glass could be foggy. I come to forget the swirling tempest troubles, not witness crow’s feet that stomp deeper in the face and eye bags that could fit the luggage.”

  Leaning behind Marrow, Andrews asked, “Did you have a good dinner, Gerald?”

  “Dreadful. I beg for the cabbage, but they find nothings.” He picked at his teeth. “What news of the bottling? Tell me of this ‘dusting.’ Did it reveal the murderer marks?”

  “No, it was clean. Wiped,” Officer Marrow muttered into his chips. “But I’m still not convinced that wasn’t because—”

  Andrews punched his shoulder. “Sorry, thought I saw a fly. Loads of reasons, he means, Gerald. Things get wiped all the time. Just look at the bartender.”

  “And what of morning sunshine?” the detective asked. “When do hunting whistles blow? Away from my Cornwall, I sleep little. I am ready, n
ow, for the dawning glow.”

  Officer Andrews opened his mouth. Marrow shoved a handful of chips in it. “We aren’t quite sure where we’re going to start. Marcus has your information. We’ll be sure to reach out if—”

  “When, sullen Marrow,” Bunting said. “There will be the time—soon, possibly—when your faculties they will strain like the eyes with no spectacles. At such the time, advisements of a detective such as Gerald—me, I am meaning—shall bring clear sighting.”

  Marrow shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve been on this beat eight years. I’ve built a good reputation.”

  Gerald smirked, picking at his beard. “I am sure this is so. I only pull these things from my many hunches. I may be found yet wrong at some point that is, I often pray, not quite so soon as now. Then, I shall retire to the sea countries of home to solve the worthy smallish crimes—a cow, missing, the hats, misplaced.

  “I long for this stumble, sometimes. Oh, the bodies I have seen….” Bunting shuddered. “They would make the grizzled lumberman fall, fainted. The world—such cruelty. So much of sadness and the strivings.” He rose. “I have caught the reflection’s eye again, and I must find a corner seat where I may watch from shadows where the wrinkling reminders shall not find me. Seeing you both.”

  The detective wandered over to a booth. He switched off a nearby lamp and slipped behind a newspaper.

  “Don’t count on it,” Officer Marrow said. “You told the chief about him, right? He’s insufferable. He should be the one dealing with him. A handler, that’s what he needs.”

  Andrews muttered, “The chief’s sympathetic, but he’s got powerful friends. I called up a cop in Liverpool. He said Bunting was there a few months ago. Solved a double murder in an evening. He heard Gerald knows the Prime Minister.”

  “Delightful. And he’s really an Englishman? And the parents were English, too?”

  “Yes, I made a few calls, and it’s all true.”

  “How is that possible? I’ve heard of the Queen’s English, but what’s that he’s speaking? It sounds like he’s been hit on the head!”

  “Shh, keep it down. He might hear you. No one’s quite sure how he ended up that way, but apparently, he’s a master of languages—he picks them up quickly. His family had plenty of money, so he spent a lot of time overseas between the wars. Total immersion. A year at a stretch. They say he got to speaking so many different languages, his English, I don’t know, just got….”

  “Butchered,” Marrow mumbled.

  Andrews whispered, “I rang up the hotel. He’s extended his stay indefinitely.”

  “I wouldn’t mind it as much if he’d keep his nose under those scarves instead of sticking it in our business. I’ve practically drowned out the rambling.”

  Marrow threw some bills on the bar and reached for his coat. “The sister’s at eight. Not a word to the detective. Let’s see if he’s as good at hide-and-seek as he is at cat and mouse.”

  Gerald whistled. “Happy sleepings, constabularies!”

  Chapter Seven

  Officer Marrow settled into an armchair. “Mrs. Harper, I’ll try to be brief. We just have a few questions.”

  “About Mother? Certainly.” She tucked a strand of faded red hair behind her ear.

  “Before we begin, for completeness, is there a Mr. Harper?”

  “Deceased.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t be. Bit of a lech. We grew apart. He never even set foot in this house.”

  Marrow scanned his notes. “Well, kindly excuse me for dredging that up. I just needed to be sure who else we might need to interview. Your sister said you were at her house yesterday.”

  “Dorothy? Yes, I was there. I always spend time with Mother on Mondays. Dorothy called me a little past noon, screaming nonsense. Something about our childhood. I don’t know.” She straightened a pin on her blouse. “Drunk again, I’d wager. I hate it when she calls me up like that. Tries to transfer all that stress onto me. Sometimes, I get so worked up, I have to go in the shed and bust up more glass for my mosaics.”

  “To be clear, ma’am, she rang up to tell you your mother had passed?”

  “And to accuse me of murder. I told her it was all a lie. I wouldn’t put it past Dorothy to have done the job herself—her or that husband.”

  “Your sister mentioned that you had an argument yesterday morning.”

  Mrs. Harper tugged at a pendant. “She told you that, did she?” Her eyes darkened. “Officer Marrow, as I’ve said, my sister is a boozer. You’ve seen that side of her by now, I’m sure. She’s been abusing Mother’s kindness for ten years—ever since Father died. We had a fight.

  “I told her I wanted Mother to stay with me, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’d miss out on the pension checks! Leave it to Dorothy to find a way to keep her liquor cabinet stocked! And, all the while, Mother was getting frailer.

  “I think they were withholding medical care. Dorothy and Quentin said they hadn’t noticed a difference, but I could. Her arms”—she traced a line from elbow to shoulder. “I suppose it’s hard to see anything when you’ve always got your head down a decanter.”

  Marrow flushed. Officer Andrews’ lips verged on a smile.

  “Thank you for explaining, ma’am. Have you seen this before?” Marrow held out the purple bottle.

  She snatched it out of his hand. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was on your Mother’s vanity yesterday evening. Your sister said she’d never seen it before.”

  “Well, it should’ve never been there! It was in my purse yesterday. I found it on the side of the road when I was out for a walk. I like taking walks after supper. It helps with my creativity.”

  “Did it contain any liquid at the time?”

  “I think so.” Mrs. Harper thought for a moment and shook her head. “I don’t know for sure. I can’t remember. Maybe a trace. I hardly left the purse alone—except… when I spoke with Dorothy. I nearly forgot it in Mother’s room.”

  She dug her nails into the armrest. “You don’t think Mother might have taken it, thinking it was medicine? She seemed confused lately, hardly knew what day it was. I never would’ve left her alone with it if….” She stared at the bottle. “Could she have killed herself?”

  “I’m afraid anything is possible, Mrs. Harper,” Marrow replied. “A medical examiner will be evaluating her to investigate these scenarios.”

  “Here. Take it, please,” she held out the bottle. The constable obliged.

  “Who’s that?” Mrs. Harper pointed to the window. “It’s a man in—he’s wearing several coats.”

  Officer Marrow punched his thigh. “Marcus, if you told him—”

  “Don’t look at me!”

  “You, hello?” A muffled accent leached through the panes. “I, Gerald Bunting, grow wearied of close listening. Might I be using the door, or must I scale the roof chimneys?”

  The detective dropped out of sight.

  “Is he with the police?” Mrs. Harper asked.

  “In a way of speaking,” Marrow said. “But it’s best to ignore him for now. It’ll be quieter that way.”

  Gerald trotted into the room, puffing softly. “Unlocked, too late, I find the door. You should not keep it so, madam. Mother Mildred is deadened. Other badness may stalk the villages.”

  Mrs. Harper sighed. “I’m tempted to leave.”

  “But why, madam? The home, it is adequate. The neighbor grass, is it not trimmed?”

  “No one here appreciates my art. When I exhibit it in the States, they lap it up, but when I put pieces up for sale in British galleries, they never make a splash. Thankfully, my patron buys a few things now and then, or I wouldn’t make any money at all. California—that’s where I need to go. Somewhere coastal. Now that Mother’s gone, I don’t have to fret about her welfare.”

  Bunting coughed into his scarves. “Pardon, Mauve artist, but you are not busted-up, shred-torn by sudden tragedies?” He p
aced around the heavy furniture. “Forgive the quirks. The blood, I must keep it on the course, or I will not live to see many springs.”

  Mrs. Harper played with a bracelet. “Of course, I knew this day was coming. I just hoped it would take longer. The doctors gave Mother all sorts of assurances, but if you ask me, they were just trying to keep her from worrying.”

  She dabbed at her eye. “I don’t know what to say. Dorothy and I have never been close, not even as children. There are nine years between us. Nothing in common, I suppose. It’s been difficult, seeing her spiral like she has. I just wanted what was best for Mother.”

  Mrs. Harper sighed. “I hope she didn’t suffer.”

  Officer Marrow turned to Bunting, anticipating an outburst. Seeing none, he asked, “Was your mother in good spirits when you spoke with her yesterday?”

  She smiled weakly. “Mother was a resolute woman. She wasn’t one to complain.”

  “She didn’t seem fearful or worried?”

  “No, Officer.”

  “Thank you. If we have further questions, we’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Eight

  Gerald climbed into the backseat of the officers’ car. “Must I hunt for the constable pair each time you search for the tiny clues?”

  Marrow slammed his car door. “This has all been a misunderstanding. We’re merely doing our jobs. I suppose Marcus and I are used to some secrecy.”

  The car engine roared to life.

  “Secrecy! Hmph. Truth, it knows no secrets. They have never been, the two, acquainted—no. Truth blows the mountain horns and covers sleeping chalets with its avalanches. Nothing can stop its forces, not walls, not large trees or rocks.”

  Officer Andrews glanced in the rearview mirror. “How do you think the case is shaping up?”

  Gerald threaded his fingers. “This Mauve, I question. I prod. I am tickling, but evading answers, they float over the locked-up garden gate.”

  He chuckled. “But she knows not that I befriend the falconer. The ivy obscures, yes, but the hawk—Gerald—shall find the way to soar above the brambly bushes that snare policemen’s minds.”