The Bed Body (Gerald Bunting Book 1) Page 4

“I’m afraid not. Sir, how exactly did it happen? You said it yourself. Fifty years in the business, and no other corpse ever ended up where it shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t say that, Constable. There have been plenty of misplaced ashes and mislabeled ashes over the years. But never the wrong ashes altogether.”

  “How, then?”

  “It’s entirely my fault.” Mr. Thatch slid a hand over his forehead. “I was after a Mrs. Jennings. She was also over ninety, white hair. I was in a rush. We’re short on staff at the moment. Everyone’s wearing several hats.”

  Marrow nodded. “And the wrong one just slipped on? I understand. No time to look in a—”

  “Jacob,” Officer Andrews whispered.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Thatch. I suppose Bunting here got me riled up. So, you ran into the morgue and grabbed the first white-haired, old woman you saw?”

  The funeral director lowered himself into a chair. “No, there’s a sheet. I’d forgotten my glasses, and no one was in yet to ask. I thought it said Mrs. Jennings was in locker eight, but she was actually in locker three. Eight, three—they’re very similar if written poorly.”

  “Is Jennings here as well, then?” Officer Marrow gestured to a blue urn on a filing cabinet. “Is that her? What a flattering color.”

  “No, I thought it would be best to postpone her cremation until this was all sorted out.”

  “Agreed.”

  Mr. Thatch sighed. “I’m sure it said Jennings was in locker eight. I don’t know if this will help you, but”—he rose and picked up a dark red urn—“this is the poor woman’s ashes—Mrs. Wembley. I’m not sure there’s anything there that would be useful for forensics, but television programs make things sound promising, don’t they?”

  “Well, it’s carbon, isn’t it?” Marrow said. “Maybe the techs in the lab can date it and make sure Wembley wasn’t fudging her age.” Gerald stood. “See, sir? I told you he’d speak. You have the floor, Mr. Bunting.”

  “This sheet, Junior-most of Harolds? You skim this often?” the detective asked.

  “A time or two a week. It depends on whether the death was at home or elsewhere.”

  Bunting made a lap around the office. “And these glasses, the artificial eyes? You drive such, without them?”

  Mr. Thatch stiffened. “In emergencies.”

  “Before, has the numbered count reading been the strain?”

  “Not that I can remember. Maybe once, but I knew I was after a brunette, then.”

  Gerald frowned. “If only dead Wembley had dyed the hair. I have none of the further questions, or else I would stomp the shoe and demand answering.”

  Officer Marrow shook the mortician’s hand. “We’ll take the ashes just in case. Marcus, the red urn. We don’t need any more mistakes. Just to confirm, that’s Mildred Wembley, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Thatch nodded. “Yes, it’s there on the tag.”

  Marrow examined the paper. “Mrs. Perk—” The back of Harold Thatch’s chair rattled against the window. “Wait, yes. Here it is. Mrs. Wembley. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “Thank you, constables… and—”

  Gerald bowed as deeply as his coats allowed. “The great Bunting. It is the pleasure, mine.”

  A stout man in the lobby motioned for them to step carefully on the squeaky floorboards. An organ was playing faintly up the hall.

  When they’d reached the car, Officer Andrews whispered, “Jacob, do you think it could’ve been a twin?”

  “In the car.”

  Gerald hung back as the constables got in. “I wish not to have the confined feelings so soon again. I shall do the leg walk pumping—"

  Officer Marrow gunned the engine and left the detective choking on a cloud of exhaust.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The medical examiner was pouring over a stack of files. In the corner, a cadaver skeleton stared into an empty watercooler. The doctor heard the door squeak and looked up. A short, bearded man relaxed into a chair by the coatrack, burying his hands in his pockets.

  “Yes?”

  Gerald smiled. “I believe we had the pleasurable meeting—in Edinburgh, once upon other timing. You are the same David Quail, yes?”

  Dr. Quail sat back in his chair. “Well, I’ll be! Gerald Bunting. I hardly recognized you. Is that a disguise?”

  “Not the disguise, no. The precautionary step for dodging the drafts. Here, I am, to ask after the ashen Wembley.”

  The doctor nodded. “I was just looking through the files to see if it might have been an error on our part. I hate to blame that old man from the funeral home. I’ve asked the clerks to write more neatly going forward.”

  Bunting rose. “Permit me, Quail, the moment. I wish to scratch the skin that itches. It may leave the bruises and lingered markers, but at least, I shall find my satisfactions.”

  “Shoot.”

  Gerald leaned on the desk. “Did you, Doctor, set the eyes on the funeral mansion man when he arrives?”

  “Yes, I let him in. I was just turning on the coffee pot.”

  “And is it not the examining custom to check the locker math?”

  “After the incident with the brunette, I confirm something about the body with him, so I said, ‘Old woman today, right, Mr. Thatch?’”

  “The check that doubles down, yes. Compounding interests.”

  Dr. Quail squeezed a paperweight. “Absolutely.”

  Bunting lowered his voice. “Quail, doctor, I am not the constable. What is the truths?”

  “I told you, Gerald.”

  The detective chuckled. “You want, the game, to play, but I shall champion. You were not potting the coffee drinks when the funerary Thatch arrives.”

  “Yes, I was.” The doctor drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “The judgment fires, were they not set all the while? Do you see Bunting’s irons there? No, I shall not be handing the punishments. You are not killing a Quail by telling me the little truth bits.”

  Dr. Quail glanced toward the door. He whispered, “I was late coming in today. I… some friends and I—we had money on a horse. One of the early races, first of the morning.”

  “What of this race?” Gerald asked. “The short jockey rider? Was the starvation but the saddened farce?”

  The doctor sighed. “It fell at the first gate. I suppose it’s been—you understand—by now….”

  “Tragic, yes. Who, then, did tend the pots?”

  “Honestly, Bunting, I don’t know. I’d guess one of the ambulance drivers. They’re here earlier than most.”

  “Thank you for sparing me of your time limit, Doctor.”

  Bunting shut the door firmly, and Dr. Quail returned to his work. He was interrupted again by a cough. The examiner’s pen cut a jagged line across a form. “Yes? Oh, it’s you again, Gerald.”

  “One more point I would state. I mean to check the sheet—the scribbles, baffling. Eight, three? Who can know these differences?”

  “It’s here.” Dr. Quail slid a folder across his desk.

  Gerald scrutinized it for a moment. “May I, now, place the tiny, least-important ringing?”

  “Sure. Just don’t tie up the line for long. I’m expecting a call about some test results.”

  The detective dialed rapidly. “Mrs. Dorothy? Greetings, woman. Yes, Gerald Bunting. I make use of the phones also, for my many questionings. Your married husband, Quentin? May I—but, of course. Yes, he works for the bacon. Goodbye.”

  The receiver clicked.

  “Quentin Sutton?” Dr. Quail asked. “What’s he got to do with it?”

  Gerald retied his scarves. “Nothing, nothing. I seek the peaceful, easy ride.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A dart zipped across the office. Jacob Marrow cursed under his breath.

  Officer Andrews ran in and took a seat by the umbrellas. “Good news, I hope,” Marrow muttered. “Or did someone in Records miss the ashtray?”

  “Just listen. It’s about Mr. Harper.”

 
“He’s alive?” Another dart missed the mark.

  “No.”

  “He’s been exhumed, made to rob a bank, and, then, cremated?”

  “Shut up! His death was investigated fifteen years ago. This is from the case notes: ‘Widow seems evasive. Strongly considered a suspect. Revenge or infidelity?’” Andrews shut the file.

  Marrow shrugged. “So, he was a lech. She said as much herself. There was probably money involved—insurance. Of course, they looked into it. She’s the widow. I’d be shocked if they hadn’t.”

  “That’s not all. They tracked down the mistress to Berlin. She claimed Mr. Harper told her that, if anything should happen to him, to suspect foul play—especially from Mauve.”

  “Well, Marcus, I didn’t see any bars at her place.”

  “Obviously, they couldn’t find enough evidence to connect the dots.”

  Officer Marrow took a gulp of cold coffee. “Obviously, so how’d it happen? How’d they find him, I mean?”

  Andrews flipped through the folder. “Sleeping pills. No note.”

  “Where? A hotel? Could’ve been suicide.”

  “That’s how they ruled it. He was found at his home. They were living separately.”

  “The mistress—was that interview documented?”

  “I couldn’t find the notes.”

  Marrow slapped the desk. “Nothing important ever stays in the right box around here! A suicide, huh?”

  “I really think there might be something there.”

  “We don’t have the resources.” Andrews smirked. “What? No. Marcus, wipe that grin off your face. I’m not going to Germany with him.”

  “Deutschland?” Bunting asked, ducking into the room. “I know much of these places.”

  ***

  The plane began its rapid descent. Gerald clutched his stomach. “Why must we make the travels so, in the tube of stale exhales?”

  Officer Marrow rolled up his magazine and slapped the detective on the knee. “I love flying. Can’t get enough of it! If you’d wear one coat like a sensible person, you wouldn’t be suffocating.”

  “But, if not well-guarded,” Bunting replied, “I should be weakened by the chills! I would die in this seat before the warm towels and their metallic tongs.”

  “I’ve never been to Berlin.” Marrow glanced out the window. “Looks like a lovely place to die of chills, if you ask me. You should count yourself lucky.”

  Gerald hailed a cab, and the pair set off for police headquarters. Upon arrival, the aging detective burst out of the car like it was about to explode. He sat on a bench, hyperventilating, until he’d composed himself. Meanwhile, Officer Marrow took the liberty of buying a snack.

  Their appointment with a Mr. Meyer began on schedule at one o’clock. “Mr. Bunting,” the rumpled man said in crisp German, clapping him on the back, “so good to see you again.”

  Marrow stood quietly, looking the part of an English-speaking rock.

  “My good man,” Gerald replied, “pay no attention to him. He’s my meal ticket, as the Americans say. His reckless driving has nearly killed me several times, but he has his usefulness.”

  “What brings you to Berlin?”

  “I’ve just come from a village in Britain. A likely murder, but the clues are inconclusive. The details are quite bizarre, one of the strangest cases I’ve come across. As I mentioned in the telegram—”

  “Hallo?” Marrow added.

  “One moment.” Bunting turned to the constable. “I, Gerald, the great detective—the man who solves the many crimes, who travels the worlds and collects the trinket souvenirs—speak now with this police person, an inspector with notations also. Shall I continue this, my quest, a promise to death’s women relatives?”

  Officer Marrow crossed his arms. “I didn’t exactly come all this way to stand and nod in a corner.”

  “Go, then! Strudels could swim stomach strokes within the minute anywhere, in Berlin city.”

  The constable drifted over to a chair and forcefully twiddled his thumbs.

  Bunting rejoined his previous conversation. “Sorry for the interruption. I love my country, but the average police inspector in Great Britain couldn’t—"

  “Hey!” Marrow shouted. “Watch it. You said, ‘Brittanien,’ just then. I might not be able to read a newspaper over here, but I know what that means. We won the war! Well, us and the Americans. And you’re from Cornwall. Surely, you were bombed like the rest of us. Have some pride, for Pete’s sake, Bunting!”

  “What did he say?” Mr. Meyer asked.

  “Something about a pheasant. I don’t know.” The detective shrugged. “Now, to the telegram.”

  “Yes, we’ve made inquiries. Lucky for you, Ms. Sprecher still lives in the same apartment.”

  Bunting clapped his hands. “Incredible! Have you sent someone to speak with her?”

  “No, I figured we’d leave that up to you and….”

  “Officer Marrow.”

  “Would you cut that out?” Marrow jumped out of his chair. “You just said my name.”

  “Hush with these speeches,” Gerald growled.

  “Would you like me to arrest him—you know, accuse him of something? I could lock him up for a while to keep him out of your hair.”

  “I would be forever in your debt,” Bunting smiled, “but I believe that would ruin my chances of having further access to the evidence. I would certainly still solve the crime, but why make things more difficult?”

  “Here’s the address,” Meyer said, slipping Gerald a piece of paper.

  “My deepest thanks.”

  Bunting headed for the exit. Officer Marrow had to sprint to catch up to him. “So, what did he say? As the official investigator for this case, I deserve to know everything you said to that man. It’s a… it’s relevant to national security. Don’t make me turn you in to the intelligence service.”

  Gerald turned. “She still does the living.”

  “That’s it? That can’t be it. You said a good deal more than that!”

  “With the Germans, language uses the great many words to speak just the few.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The apartment was cramped but spotless. A wardrobe partially blocked the window in the sitting room. Ida Sprecher was dressed in a trendy dress. At first, she’d been unwilling to welcome the two strangers into her home, but Gerald quickly allayed her fears that they were from the tax authority. And so, Bunting and Officer Marrow found themselves, seated in the dim apartment.

  “May I get you both a drink?” Ms. Sprecher asked.

  Gerald replied, “Yes, I would have a water, please.”

  “And him?” Sprecher smiled warmly at Marrow.

  “He requires nothing, thank you.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen. Marrow whispered, “What did she say about me just now?”

  “Your hat, it is the news of all hours. The British style. I shall be requiring one also when we make the return… if I should survive, flying the airline channels.”

  Marrow ran his finger along his hat’s felt brim. “Marjorie never seemed to notice,” he thought.

  “Here you go, Mr. Bunting,” Sprecher said, placing a glass of water on the table. “You said you’re with the police, but if you’ll excuse the observation, you don’t look like one.”

  “I attend to the crimes themselves, madam. I don’t like the politics associated with formal groups. I solve more crimes in a month than most constables solve in three years. They are terrible statistics—very sad, for the taxpayers.” Ms. Sprecher’s eyelid twitched. “I didn’t mean—"

  “So, there’s been a crime?”

  “Yes, a murder.”

  Ms. Sprecher’s eyes widened as she brought a teacup to her lips. “Anyone I know?”

  “… You were once in a relationship with an Englishman.”

  “There you go again!” Officer Marrow cried. He caught Sprecher’s eye. “We won the war, didn’t we, lady? Yes, alright, so the Americans did the heavy
lifting, but how else would they have staged things for Normandy without us, holding out for so long?”

  Gerald held up a hand. “Quiet with the anger barking, or you may get the rib bullet shot before our fine dinner feast.” He brushed a bit of the constable’s spittle off his coat.

  “Is he alright?” Ms. Sprecher asked. “He looks angry.”

  “He’s prone to these outbursts,” Bunting continued. “It’s a shame that I must accompany him everywhere to limit embarrassment.”

  “To get back to your question, yes, I knew an…”—she glanced at Marrow—“a man from where you said.”

  “Right, and this man from Great Britain—"

  Marrow kicked the coffee table. A steely glare from just above Gerald’s scarves kept him silent.

  “… Harper, correct?”

  “James Harper, yes.”

  “How long was your liaison?”

  “At least ten years, off and on. He traveled to Berlin on business several times a year.”

  “And you were questioned following his death?”

  “Yes, a man from… from ‘over there’ came to speak with me.”

  Gerald nodded, taking a drink. “But you continue to carry a suspicion, something you remembered months later? I can see it in your eyes, madam. You had the inspector’s information, but the inquest was over. What was the use in involving the police for so slight a clue?”

  Ms. Sprecher folded her hands in her lap. “You’re right, Mr. Bunting.”

  “Well, what was the clue? It’s probably nothing, of course. But it could be something.”

  “You know,” Officer Marrow said, “for questioning a witness, you’re doing an awful lot of the talking.” Bunting pulled the constable’s hat over his eyes.

  Ms. Sprecher hesitated. “I told the inspector what Jimmy said, that he was fearful of something happening to him. He said to expect funny business or something like that—something bad. I don’t think he took those sleeping pills. We’d spoken that morning. The thing I remembered is that he said his wife was coming over for dinner. It’s nothing, but, Mr. Bunting, they were barely in love when they first married. It’s unusual, that’s all—for them to meet like that.”