1635: Music and Murder (70 page)

"For friends and family and acquaintances to come by and view the body and pay respects to the widow."

"Oh." Byron was silent for a moment. "I guess that makes sense. I mean, there are no funeral parlors here and now. But how long will they leave him here? He's already starting to smell some."

Gotthilf agreed. That sweetish odor of decaying flesh had touched his nose also. "I suspect that depends on how long it will take to get a coffin made and arrangements made to bury him. At least two days, maybe three."

"Yuck. Good thing the weather's cool, otherwise he'd be getting pretty high by then."

Gotthilf had to think about that statement, but after a moment he thought he understood what Byron meant.

"Besides," Byron continued, "if he's supposed to look pretty for the visitation, why don't they have him dressed up in his fanciest clothes? That's what we'd do in Grantville."

"The sumptuary laws."

"And what, pray tell, are the sumptuary laws?" Byron's eyebrows were elevated.

"Laws that decree who can wear what kind of clothing, including one that the dead are to be buried in nothing more than a shift."

"Why? Who cares how many clothes a body is wearing when it goes into the ground?"

"The paper makers care. They are in constant need of rags to use in making paper. They managed to get the emperor to make a law that it was illegal for bodies to be buried in clothes so that the clothes of the dead might come to them."

"Sheesh." Byron laughed. "Now I've heard everything."

"It's true, nonetheless," Gotthilf said. "Of course, I also understand that there is more than one lawsuit in the courts now, trying to have the laws annulled or otherwise declared invalid. That may take a while." He chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Even if the lawsuits do succeed, people may still get buried naked."

"Why?" Byron sounded very puzzled.

"Remember who I said caused the law to be made in the first place?"

"The papermakers."

"Right. Well, the papermakers do not care where the rags come from."

Byron thought about that for a moment, then his jaw dropped.

"You mean people would dig up dead bodies just to . . . "

"Steal the clothes off their backs. Yes, they would. It would be easier than digging up the dead bodies to sell to the anatomists, and that's been going on for a hundred years or more. Cloth is a lot easier to carry and hide than a body."

"That's just sick," Byron muttered.

"Welcome to the seventeenth century, my friend."

A noise distracted them, and Gotthilf looked around. Anna was standing in the doorway under the wedding portrait with a ring of keys in one hand. Something started fluttering at the edge of his mind, but it went away when Anna dropped the keys with a clatter. She stooped to pick them up, and averted her eyes from the body as she held out her burden.

"Thank you, Fräulein Anna," Gotthilf said as he took them from her. She bobbed a curtsey. Gotthilf slid the keys into his coat pocket. He noticed Byron was still looking at the portrait. He thought to himself that it was sad when a maid was prettier than the mistress. For that matter, it was sad when the husband was better looking than the wife in such a picture.

"Do you need anything else,
Herren
?"

"No, Fräulein Anna. We are ready to leave now." Gotthilf nodded to her.

"Come with me, please." She led them to the front door, opened it and stepped aside.

The two detectives moved into the sunlight, and the door closed behind them. They walked down the steps and out to the road. Byron looked around. "Where's that cabbie when you need him?" Indeed, the street was almost empty of wheeled vehicles. They started walking in the direction of the warehouse.

"So, we have evidence of a sort," Gotthilf said, "and we've interviewed the widow. What do we do next?"

"First we go hunt down the people in that list of names we got from Lutterodt and Dauth. We need to know who he had lunch with, and what happened. After that, back to the warehouse," Byron replied. "I'm going to go look at the hands of everyone who works there, and you're going to go into the office and try to figure out how the good Master Paulus Bünemann was murdered when the door to his office was locked and no one went in or out."

"Oh, thanks for giving me the hard part."

Byron grinned. "That's why I'm the lieutenant."

****

The warehouses of the other corn factors were also along the river, so they were able to walk down the river road from one to another. One by one they interviewed the men that Herr Bünemann's accountants had mentioned. The responses varied from smarmy to coldly polite, but they did at length identify two men who had had lunch with Herr Bünemann the previous day. Their stories matched in that they were the only ones who had dined with the victim, and that he was alive and well, if a bit tipsy, when they left him after the meal.

"So much for that," Byron said as they walked down the street.

"Did you expect to find something out?" Gotthilf was curious.

"No, not really. Hoped, maybe, but I didn't expect any more than what we got. They had lunch, he got half-drunk, and they all went back to their offices. Strangulation is just not something you can set up ahead of time. Now, if he had been poisoned, they'd be the number one suspects, let me tell you. But not for this."

"So now what?" Gotthilf asked.

Byron put his hands in his pockets. "Now I think we need to make a call on Master Andreas Schardius."

It didn't take long to find the warehouse of Master Schardius. The layout of the building was similar to Master Bünemann's, with an office on the street side. There were four men at work in the front office when they entered the building, indicating that Master Schardius was perhaps more affluent than Master Bünemann. When they announced who they were, one of the men went through another door, then reappeared a moment later to beckon them.

They entered another office, surprisingly small. "Good morning,
Herren
." The man behind the desk stood. He was of middling height and build, with brown hair brushed back from his forehead and a neatly trimmed beard. His hands were large, Gotthilf noted.

"Master Schardius?" Byron asked.

"I am. And who are you, if you please?"

Byron introduced himself and Gotthilf, then continued with, "By order of Magistrate Gericke, we are investigating the murder of Master Paulus Bünemann."

Schardius waved at chairs, and said, "Please, be seated." He resumed his own seat. "I had heard that Master Bünemann was dead. I will send my condolences to his widow. I had not heard," the merchant frowned, "that it was murder. Do you know who did it?"

"That's what we're investigating. We'd like to ask you a few questions, please."

"By all means," the merchant responded. "I have nothing to hide." He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his stomach.

Gotthilf pulled out his notebook and pencil. Byron pursed his lips for a moment, then began.

"We've been told that Master Bünemann disliked you. Was the feeling mutual?"

Schardius chuckled. "No, Lieutenant, it was not. Not long after Bünemann began making contracts under his father, he accepted a proposal from me. It did not work out the way he thought it should, and he accused me of Fraud and theft. It was nothing of the sort. Everything I did was in accordance with the provisions and terms of the contract. It was not my fault if he was not as cognizant of the full possibilities of those provisions and terms as I was."

"So you took advantage of him?"

The smile left the merchant's face and he leaned forward. "Be careful of what you say, Lieutenant. I do not tolerate slander or libel." He leaned back again. "No, I did not 'take advantage of him,' or whatever simile you want to use for cheat. His own father recognized that I was within the letter of the contract, or he would have taken me to court. If anything, I helped Master Paulus gain an education in the only school that counts—the school of experience."

Gotthilf made more notes.

"I . . . see," Byron said. "But you bear . . . bore . . . Master Bünemann no ill will?"

"No more so than any of my competitors. If anything, I admired him somewhat. He learned his lessons well. After his father's death, he took their firm and built their business until he was second in Magdeburg in terms of contracts and amount of grain factored."

"Who is first?"

Schardius smiled again. "Why, that would be me. Our family has been the largest corn factor for Magdeburg for three generations, now."

Byron steepled his fingers in front of his chest. "So you had no reason to want the man dead?"

The merchant's smile disappeared again. "Lieutenant, let me be very plain. I did not hate Bünemann. He was a competitor, yes, but I did not hate him. And trust me, if I did want him murdered, it would not have happened in his own office. He would have simply disappeared and been found floating in the river a day or two later with nothing to point to me."

"So you won't mind telling me where you were yesterday afternoon?"

Schardius made an exasperated noise. "Right here in this chair. The men out front will confirm that."

Byron lowered his hands. "Very well. We will ask them on the way out. Thank you for your time, Master Schardius."

All three men stood. Gotthilf put his notebook back in his pocket. "You've hurt your hand in the past, haven't you, Master Schardius?" Byron asked.

The merchant held up his left hand and bent his fingers into a fist. All except the ring finger obeyed him. "This? This is a memento from early in my career, the result of leaving my hand between a barge and the pier it was homing in on. Crushed the finger and left it useless. I sometimes wish I had let the doctor amputate it as he wanted to. It does nothing but get in the way."

They did stop and ask the office men if the merchant had been in his office the previous afternoon. They confirmed his statement.

Outside the building, they began walking toward the Bünemann warehouse.

"So," Byron said, "Master Schardius has a deformed left hand. That means he could be our killer. He also has an alibi, which means he probably isn't our killer." They walked on a few steps. "What did you think of our esteemed merchant?"

Gotthilf snorted. "I would not want to buy a used carriage from the man."

Byron chuckled. "I think I agree with you, partner."

****

Georg was posted back on the front door to the warehouse office. They nodded to him and went on in.

"Lieutenant Chieske, Herr Hoch." Lutterodt greeted them, echoed by Johan Dauth. They returned the greetings.

"Herr Lutterodt," Byron said, "come introduce me to the head man in the warehouse. I need to talk to the men, and I might as well begin with him."

The accountant pushed off from his desk almost in slow motion, gathered himself and walked toward the warehouse door. Midway a coughing spell hit him, and he stopped, one hand on the wall to support himself, the other holding his ever-present kerchief. After it passed, he straightened and led the way out.

Gotthilf looked to Johan. "Bad day?"

"Bad day," Johan nodded.

Gotthilf pulled Frau Diebsin' keys from his pocket, walked to the office door and tried the keys until one of them opened the lock. He looked up to see Johan staring at him with wide eyes. Grinning, he placed a finger against his lips, went into the office and shut the door.

It was brighter in the room today compared to yesterday, because of the sunlight flooding through the small windows. The room still couldn't be considered well-lit, however. Surely there was some kind of light . . . ah, there it was.

On the desk stood an oil lamp. Gotthilf looked around the desktop and found the expected box of the new-style matches. He lifted the chimney, rolled the wick up in the frame, struck a match and in a moment had light. Replacing the chimney, he lifted the lamp by its handle and looked around.

Right. He was supposed to figure out how someone entered and left this room without the two men sitting out front noticing it. Okay, first things first. The windows: could someone come and go through them?

Gotthilf walked over to the window frames and stretched his arm up. He could put his fingers on the sill, but he couldn't touch the window. A taller man could, but looking at the size of the windows and how near they were to the ceiling, he didn't see how even a taller man could get out that way without something to stand on, which there wasn't. And if a chair or something had been moved to provide that, it would still be here. And if it was possible for someone to come into the room and move the chair back after the killer left, then the killer could have come and gone by that way and not bothered with the windows. Right. Windows were out.

Holes. Any holes in the ceiling? Gotthilf lifted the lamp up and spent quite some time walking back and forth, looking at the ceiling in between the beams. There was no evidence of holes or panels that he could see. After a lengthy examination, ceiling access was provisionally crossed off the list. He still might have to come back with a ladder and look at it closely if nothing else was found.

Gotthilf looked around. Walls. Any secret openings in the walls? And how would he find them if there were? With a sigh, he started at the corner nearest the desk and began a process of tapping on the walls, listening for a change in sound.

When he was almost half-way around the room there came a knock at the door. "Gotthilf?" Byron's voice was muffled by the thickness of the door.

"The door's not locked," Gotthilf called out.

Byron entered the room. "How are you doing?"

"Close the door," Gotthilf responded. Byron did so. "Did you find anything among the warehouse men?"

"Having talked to one and all and inspected several sets of very grimy hands, I can say with assurance that none of them have a deformity or damage that would have caused the mark we saw on Bünemann's neck. Now, what have you unearthed?"

"I looked for other ways into and out of this locked room." Gotthilf pointed to the floor by the wall. "There is no way anyone could go out those windows without leaving evidence that they did so; a chair, a table, a stool, something."