The Bed Body (Gerald Bunting Book 1) Page 6

  “I can see you are truthy. The composting, it grows taller, like Jack’s climbing stalks.”

  “Yes,” she sighed, “the bucket makes such a mess. These days, I hold off as long as I can.” Gerald ground a fruit fly into the tablecloth. “Always a chore to be done.”

  The detective shook his head. “I poke the funning, madam. It is the grand home, rot smell or sweetly. One more questioning before I make the exit. Mr. Sutton, ambulanceman, husband, shotgunner—is he the patriot?”

  Mrs. Wilkins folded her hands on her knee. “I’m not sure I’d know anything about that.”

  “In the war, was he the fighter?”

  “Yes, I believe so. When he came home, he worked for a firm that took him to Europe every so often.”

  “No, Wilkins, I point elsewhere—follow this nose. The Spaniel, recall?” Bunting stuck out his chin. “This Quentin, has he the musical bends?”

  “Heavens, I don’t know.”

  “The heavens know, madam. It is you only who forget. Is the Sutton man this singing ambulanceman?”

  “I can’t say that I’ve ever heard him sing.” Mrs. Wilkins refilled her teacup. “He’s hardly out-of-doors enough for me to know.”

  Gerald spat out the hard candy into his cup. “Excuse the gross thing. It is the high blood sugars. I will toss this to the composts.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “You’re back, are you?” Mrs. Stephens backed away from the fence. “Keep a distance. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve never trusted a detective to wash his hands properly. I don’t want one of those blood illnesses. I bet you roll in the stuff. Got enough bad air and vapors ‘round here as it is.”

  Gerald smiled. “You can pierce and smack the feelings, but I, Bunting, shall be unwounded. You are true, we are the dirty bunches, but our timepieces—notched, top, to note the things.”

  Mrs. Stephens listened to her watch. “Well, I like mine alright. Think it’s from Sweden. Needs winding again. Runs down a little fast. Don’t know if I’ve ever rightly met a Swede. I bet they’re just the same as those Norwegians, though. Vikings, all of them, aren’t they? Comin’ here in their boats and burnin’ down the countryside. Pagans. Maybe not now, but back then, they were. All a shame.

  “And, another thing, I think they should knock down that Stonehenge business. Attracts a strange group—crowds of them. Put up a statue of Victoria, that’s what they should do. I’ve got the letter all written up. Just need a stamp. The way I see it, there’s nothin’ to done but bomb the lot—the Norwegians, the Swedes. Show ‘em what it was like ‘round here during the war. Give them some medicine.”

  Mrs. Stephens glared at the detective. “Where were you during the war, Mr. Burton?”

  “America.”

  “Americans—think they rule the world. Think everything’s about them.” She plucked a withered bloom off a bush. “Let’s see them beat the Commonwealth!”

  “Madam, I wish no alarm bells to ring.”

  “You’re rather alarming yourself. Just look at you. Hat, coats, and scarves in September. You’re like a walking air raid siren. Every time you stop, I go into a state. Have to take a glass of water with me to the bath just to settle my nerves. I’m always thirsty.”

  “Mrs. Stephens, the rundown Sutton place receives the murdering threat.”

  She backed away, clutching her broom. “Haven’t they just had one? They’re expecting more—others? I should’ve gone with those Russians when I had the chance. I need to call my son.”

  Gerald placed his hand on the fence soothingly. Mrs. Stephens’ hawk-like gaze pounced on it. He released his grip. “The germy germs, yes. I tell of this only to ask—”

  “No,” Mrs. Stephens muttered, “I’ve got to have that glass of water now, I think. I need a bath. I feel all sick just talking to you. You mentioned it. You brought it up! No peace in this town. I’ll have to get out to the country.”

  “I ask only if—”

  “Whole place’ll be overrun by Vikings soon enough anyway. If it’s not them, it’ll be the Danes. I’m sure they’ll take the nice country houses first. No use in looking, then. That’s where they’ll start—the big houses with porches and plenty of windows.”

  Mrs. Stephens scratched her arm. “Nothing to be done about it, Margaret. Yes, you’ll just have to live with it. Moscow, there’s a safer bet. They’ll bomb the Vikings if they sail their way. Nuclear whatnots. I don’t want anyone to die—world doesn’t need more of that. I just want those Norwegians to move. Antarctica—it’s good and cold there, isn’t it? They’d fit in alright.”

  “Madam?”

  She looked up. “You’re still here? I told you to leave! You’re one of them, aren’t you? Just a Russian in disguise. That’s what you want me to do—up and leave everything and move to your country.” Her eyes were wild. “They’ll take me to plays. I don’t want to spend my last few years doing that. No, I need a glass of—”

  “Silence, madam!” Mrs. Stephens jumped. “Or I will coat the fence in the grubby handlings.” Gerald lowered a palm toward the nearest picket.

  “No, don’t! I’ll listen. I’ll listen to you, spy that you are. But make it quick. I think I left the stove on. It’s the only house I’ve got, and I don’t want it burning down until I’ve got that place in the country.”

  “The intimidating, the letter note, it comes last evening. Did you notice the lurkers at Sutton gardens?”

  Mrs. Stephens leaned the broom against a lattice. “Come to think of it, I did hear something.”

  “Tell all.”

  She whispered, “A person cursed. It was dark out, and I was making sure the lattice was standing straight. I won’t have one of them calling the council on me for a crooked lattice. I’ve got to keep my reputation. Won’t have it being sullied by a thunderstorm. So, I was working away, and I saw a man with a gun come running out of the house—rabbits, I thought. They’ve infested the place, gonna have us run out of the village in two years if something’s not done about it.

  “Well, I saw that gun and ran straight for the house. Took me two baths to get myself sorted. Nerves—can’t control them sometimes. That’s why I started drinking more water. I bought a new set of locks, but I haven’t got them put in yet. I still need one that braces the middle, I think. A crossbar—that’s next. A bit of English oak. That’ll do the trick. Nothing will get through that. But, then… how will I get out in a fire? I suppose I could break a window.”

  The detective leaned over the fence. “How soon, this curse and, then, the gunning man?”

  “I was focused on the lattice. I don’t know.” Mrs. Stephens backed away. “I don’t want mixed up in this business.”

  “There shall be none of the mixing—up, down, or besides.”

  She nodded. “Good. Yes, I like things plain and separate—peas and potatoes. No reason to blend it all up on the plate. Shepherd’s pie—disgusting. I’d rather go hungry.”

  “Please, frantic lady, try the remembrance again.”

  Mrs. Stephens closed her eyes. “I was checking the lattice. It sank a little in the last rain. I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was going to steal one of my trowels. Then, I heard something. I turned and looked over there—toward the Suttons’. I saw something, but it was too cloudy to make out much.”

  She hesitated. “Drive further, Stephens…” Bunting whispered. “As far as the road is paving.”

  “I went back to the lattice. I was about to head inside—must have been a couple of minutes. That’s when I saw the man with the gun. Might’ve been the husband. Says he drives ambulances, but I don’t believe it. I think he’s rumrunning. He’s got that great big car. Nobody would know, would they?”

  Gerald smiled. “That is helping, yes.”

  Mrs. Stephens climbed the back steps. “I’m a victim here, just like them. This whole thing’s been terrible on my digestion. I need to go in and lock up now, so I can have that bath—and that water.” She unfastened her watch and flung it ac
ross the garden. “Need to find myself a British watch. Can’t trust that one. If you’re still standing by that fence when I look out the window, Mr. Burton, I’m calling the authorities.”

  Gerald didn’t give her the chance.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Officer Marrow folded his newspaper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Marcus. Marjorie keeps up on the magazines. She knows what she’s doing with the redecorating.”

  The constable took a bite of his lunch. He continued with some tuna in his cheek, “I think you’re jealous. Been a while since you’ve had a girl around.”

  “It’s a zebra pattern. It clashes with everything! You live in England, not the savannah.” Officer Andrews rubbed his hands over a mug of steaming coffee. “There’s nothing valuable in the glossy magazines, anyway.”

  “I like them for the letters. Lot of funny people send them in—women talking about lost love and their deadbeat boyfriends.”

  “… Helen used to call me a deadbeat.” Andrews dipped a bit of doughnut in his coffee. “I’m not sure I disagree with her, under the circumstances.”

  Marrow picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “No one’s called. It didn’t ring.”

  “Hello? Yes, operator, I’d like to speak with Marcus’ ba—”

  “Stop it, Jacob.”

  “Oh, they’ve gone out on holiday, have they? Well, could I leave a message?” Officer Marrow hung up, smudging the receiver with a speck of tuna. “Only kidding. You need a new girl.”

  Andrews leaned his head against the wall. “But where?”

  Gerald entered, sporting a blinding yellow scarf.

  Marrow choked on his sandwich. “Well, if it isn’t—”

  “I assure the constable parties, yes, it is Bunting, detective, not the mystery mirage.”

  “I don’t know about that. Mirages seem to get more clever by the day. May I?” Marrow reached toward the detective’s coat.

  Gerald sidestepped him and took a seat. “I appear to say, only, I now take my leaves. I go back to the tastes-filled home in Bude. But, first, the French vacations to take off the mind.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve had a lovely stay in our little village,” Marrow replied. “Shame about the case. Lots of factors to be considered, most of them burnt. The physical evidence might as well be a pub bin after the ashtrays are emptied.”

  “Tell him about Mauve,” Andrews said, blowing on his coffee.

  “It’s not important, a throwaway—”

  Bunting’s eyes brightened. “Toss it to my persons, I beg.”

  Marrow wiped his hands on his slacks. “Speaking of France, has anyone ever told you that you speak a bit like a Frenchman?”

  Gerald sighed. “Many times to my displeasures.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “This Mauve—glass-smash artist—there is news?”

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  “We stopped by the local gallery,” Officer Andrews said. “It turns out that patron of hers is represented by an art dealer in London. It’s actually a certain German woman.”

  Marrow cut in, “Marcus here thought pretty fast on his feet. He asked the authorities in Berlin to post a letter from our dear friend, Ms. Sprecher—you remember. Nice woman. Doesn’t speak a word of—”

  “It was a short note,” Andrews continued. “It just asked if there were any new pieces of Mrs. Harper’s for sale.” He laughed. “And, wouldn’t you know, the dealer answered!”

  Gerald grinned. “Fortunes, they make restorations!”

  “It’s a revenge thing. She’s been buying the art as cheaply as possible, trying to ruin the woman. They’re sending me the telegram. I’m going to frame it.”

  Officer Marrow returned to his sandwich. “He doesn’t have much up on the walls at the moment. Afraid of putting holes in the plaster, I guess. A bit of a phobia. Inoperable, sadly.”

  “Jacob, can I use the phone?” He nodded.

  Andrews grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Hello, yes, Marcus Andrews this time. Yes, I’d like to schedule that safari. Where? Northern Africa, where else? I want the plains package—”

  “We’ve been through this, Marcus,” Marrow said. “It’s fashionable. You just don’t appreciate—”

  “Lions? Yes, I’ll pay extra for lions.” Andrews curled the phone cord around his finger.

  “So, this will be a safari… for one?”

  “Low budget, yes. Cheap as it comes. There’s a place like that here in town? Same effect—they’ve completely recreated it, you say? In an apartment? Just like the real thing? I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve beat this horse—”

  “Zebra.”

  “Well, you’ve made your zebra.” Andrews dropped the receiver in Marrow’s lap. “You thought of that earlier on. Admit it, you’ve been saving that up.”

  “Gerald came in just as I was about to launch into it. I didn’t want to lose the opportunity.”

  Bunting continued to sit in silence, tracing small patterns in the air.

  “Mr. Bunting,” Officer Marrow said after a while, “is there anything else we can do for you before you leave? A pastry to-go, perhaps? Something to roil your stomach a little before the plane?”

  The detective stared at his palms.

  “Are you alright?” Andrews asked. “If it’s that patron lead, I’m sure there’s nothing there. Just a petty squabble.”

  Gerald stood. “I, the detective loved by flashing cameras, miss Cornish homelands. Again, I take my goings.” He reached in his coat and pulled out an envelope. “This, also.” He set it on the desk. “A new threat to Suttons. Likely, the ruse.”

  Marrow scrambled to read the note. “And you didn’t tell us? When did this happen?”

  “Last night, I look and find this in the cook kitchen.”

  Officer Marrow slid back his chair. “Listen and listen closely, Bunting. I tolerated your meddling, because Andrews here said you’re well-connected, but it’s a crime to hide evidence from the police.”

  “Hidden? No. It was here”—Gerald patted his coat—“here all this time, even when I get the sleeps. The Sutton pair, they flee to the guest hotel with the rusty gun between.”

  “What were you doing, back at their house without us?” Marrow asked. “Stopped for another nip of that gin?”

  “Just the misplaced hunch. Good mornings.” Bunting tipped his hat and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The airport was buzzing with activity, like a hive of bees who know the honey dipper will be making landfall any day now. Gerald Bunting sat in the lounge, contentedly watching the passengers race to their gates. “Those two,” he thought. “It must be their honeymoon. Ah, children—a delight in confined spaces, especially a sniffling one. He even has his own set of luggage to drop on the attendants’ feet. How nice.

  “It’s a difficult business, solving crimes. These new criminals have the television to teach them how to do it, how to baffle even great detectives. Marrow’s driving—that’s what rattled me, shifted something around in my brain. Well, Gerald, you did the best you could. There’s nothing left for you now. I’m sure you’ll be able to help tourists find a billfold now and then. It’s only retirement—not defeat.”

  The detective sighed. “It’s a draw… a draw that will make it into the papers before long. I’ll be hounded every second. But, first, I have to live through this flight.”

  An announcement filtered through the lounge speaker. “If only they’d invent a faster train instead.”

  Across the concourse, a fresh batch of travelers poured into the building. “That woman,” Gerald thought. “She walks as though she’s running away. A missed flight?”

  The figure dashed past the lounge window, bringing Bunting to his feet. “Stop!” he shouted. “The skip-run woman, stop her—helping!”

  It was Mauve Harper.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I collect the crowd’s attentions.�
�� Gerald stood in Mrs. Wilkins’ living room, beaming. “A moment.” He shed his third scarf and threw it in the closet. “Thank you for setting fire to this room, madam.” The rest of the audience loosened their collars and cleared sweat from their foreheads.

  “The case, this woman murder—Mildred Wembley, you knew her as. Treasured mama, to the daughters, Dorothy and the fugitive, Mauve.” Officer Marrow’s grip on Mrs. Harper’s arm tightened reflexively.

  “Could you start back at the beginning, Gerald?” Officer Andrews interjected. “It might be helpful.”

  Bunting nodded. “Yes, back to before, to the daughter frustrations. Bickers. Squabbling. One is drinking. The other stews bitter pickles. Both search for affections of the mother. One cashes the pension check. The second sees Mildred, frailer by the hourglass.

  Again, they dispute. Madam Harper goes, huffing. Mrs. Sutton, she points to the ‘itty-bitty’ clue, this bottle, behind it is left. She calls police, and I, Gerald Bunting, the detective, hear also.” Marrow rolled his eyes. “Dorothy Sutton says sister Mauve leaves, yes, but not before the bed visit to the mother—Mildred, ashes now. Then, Harper wastes no timing with the exit.”

  Mrs. Harper snarled, “I rearranged the items in my purse when I was speaking with Mother, and I left the bottle out by accident. I didn’t want you accusing me by misunderstanding—”

  Gerald clenched his fists. “I misunderstand much of the talk-speaking, but I never—”

  Officer Andrews whispered, “This appears to be a bit of a diversion.”

  Bunting crossed his arms. “Mrs. Sutton sobs at Mother’s death. Harper has silenced. She thinks of California, of the art and sales of this also. But… this bottle, the alley stray, the examinators find it empty. Nothing—no residuals. Mosaics fodder.

  “So, I knew not of the murder identity. It was the challenge when the body vamooses. Mr. Sutton—Quentin, ambulanceman, carries Wembley, Mama, to the car. He has watched the deaths and did this muscle memories job as Dorothy hid eyes behind the bottles.