1635: Music and Murder (68 page)

"So we do," Byron agreed. "So we do, after we ask a few more questions."

They exited the office, and Byron turned and pulled the office door closed. Testing it, he found that it still latched well, so he took the merchant's keys from his pocked and locked it. "Keep everyone out of that room until we say otherwise." Lutterodt nodded just as the outside door opened. Framed in the doorway was a woman with a sodden cloak thrown over a green dress.

"Frau Diebsin," Lutterodt exclaimed, stepping forward to take her arm and lead her in. "You did not have to come. You should have sent Philip." He nodded to the large man who followed her in, blanket draped over his shoulder.

"Is it true, Gerhard? Is Paulus really dead?"

Frau Sarah Diebsin
verheiratet
—no, it was
verwitwet
, now, Gotthilf thought—Bünemann was by anyone's estimation a plain woman. She was short, no taller than her husband, with mousy brown hair and uneven complexion, which was not improved by the reddened eyes and nose that gave evidence to weeping.

"Yes, ma'am," Byron interjected, "he's dead."

She looked at him and arched an eyebrow. "And who are you?" Gotthilf tightened his lips to keep from smiling.

"Lieutenant Byron Chieske, of the Magdeburg police, ma'am. My partner, Gotthilf Hoch." Byron pointed to Gotthilf. "We were sent to look into the circumstances of the death of such a prominent man as your husband."

Frau Diebsin brow furrowed. "Circumstances?"

"Yes, ma'am." Gotthilf replied. "It seems Herr Bünemann was murdered."

Her face paled to the extent that the redness seemed like streaks of scarlet. She wavered on her feet, clutching at Lutterodt's arm to remain standing. "Murdered?" she asked in a small voice. Gotthilf nodded in confirmation.

There was silence for a long moment. No one moved until Frau Diebsin spoke.

"I trust that it is now your concern to find who did this." Her voice was firm; she was not asking a question.

"Yes, ma'am," Gotthilf answered.

"Good. I want to know what you learn." She swallowed. "Now, may I take my husband home?"

"Ah, I'm afraid that won't be possible," Byron said. "The body has been sent to the police house for an examination to determine exactly what killed him."

"Don't you know what killed him?" Frau Diebsin' voice grew stronger, and her pale face began to redden.

"We think we know, ma'am, but we need to be sure."

"Is this indignity necessary?"

"We have instructions from Magistrate Otto Gericke," Gotthilf interjected, "to do a most thorough investigation."

"Oh." The news that the most prominent magistrate in Magdeburg was already involved in the situation set Frau Diebsin back a bit. "Then when can we receive him?"

The two detectives looked at each other. "Unless we find something unusual," Byron responded after a long moment, "perhaps around noon tomorrow."

"Good. I will expect a message accordingly."

Byron nodded. "We will want a chance to speak with you as well, ma'am. Would it be all right if we come by tomorrow morning?"

Frau Diebsin drew herself to her full height, such as it was. "I will look for you tomorrow, Lieutenant Chieske, Herr Hoch." In a moment, she was in her carriage and Philip was shaking the horse's reins.

Byron closed the door. "Okay, back to business. What happened today?"

"The usual routine," Lutterodt replied. "I arrived an hour after daybreak, opened the office and opened the warehouse as soon as the men started arriving a few minutes later. Johan came in about then as well."

"When did Master Bünemann arrive?"

"Perhaps a half hour after that."

"What did he do?"

"Went to his office and began working. He read and signed three contracts and dictated five letters to Johan. The contracts were sent out by messenger before noon."

"Anything unusual about the contracts?" Gotthilf asked.

"No, they were standard buy/sell agreements. He was spreading the risk of investing in this year's grain crop. 'Who knows what the emperor's campaigns will bring our way?'" Lutterodt's voice took on a thin nasal whine; he was apparently imitating the deceased merchant.

"So a corn factor buys and sells grain?" Byron asked. Both Gotthilf and Lutterodt stared at him. Byron spread his hands. "Hey, I'm an up-timer, remember? I'm used to buying my cereal in a box in a store."

Lutterodt gave a sardonic twitch to his mouth. "Yes, a corn factor buys and sells grain. You could say he buys and sells life itself. The Germanies, all of Europe, lives on bread—wheat for the wealthy, barley and rye for those who can't afford the wheat. Grain is literally the stuff of life. The Roman emperors knew that; they had a fleet of ships dedicated to bringing grain from Egypt to Rome to keep the people quiet. And they had riots over bread if the supplies dropped or the prices climbed too high. It is not an idle analogy when our Savior said 'I am the bread of life.'"

Gotthilf smiled a bit. Of course a corn factor's establishment would know that verse from Scripture."

Byron took a new tack. "Do you keep any money on the premises?"

Lutterodt said, "The master sometimes keeps . . . kept a few pfennigs, maybe a groschen or two in his desk."

"Are they still there?"

The accountant's eyebrows went up. "I didn't think to look."

Byron unlocked the office and they all trooped in and witnessed as Lutterodt pulled open the desk drawer and counted the few coins. "Three pfennigs."

"Hardly enough to bother with, and since it's still here, obviously robbery was not a motive for the killing." Byron led them back to the outer office, locking the door again.

"Okay." Byron nodded. "So what did Herr Bünemann do at noon?"

"He took a meal with several of his business connections." Lutterodt looked to his assistant. "Did he say where he ate, Johan?"

"Not to me."

"Did he say who he was with?" Byron asked.

Lutterodt looked to Johan, who shook his head. "No."

"Who would he usually lunch with?"

Lutterodt and Johan between them named half a dozen names. Gotthilf jotted them down.

"How long was he gone?"

"An hour, maybe a bit more."

Byron was pulling at his chin again, Gotthilf noted.

"And was this a common pattern?"

"Oh, yes. More days than not, he would dine with his acquaintances, then return complaining of having overeaten or drunk too much." Gotthilf made note of that. It agreed with what the accountant had said earlier.

"And that's when he'd close the door to his office for an hour or so."

Lutterodt shrugged. "Usually."

"So today's events follow his normal routine?" Byron's voice had a note of resignation.

Lutterodt held up his hand and gave an almost Gallic shrug. "The master was comforted by routine. He disliked change."

"Yeah, well, his routine's been changed . . . permanently." Byron nodded to Gotthilf to take over.

"Did anyone enter Herr Bünemann's office between the time he locked the door and you had to have it pried open?"

"No."

"Did anyone attempt to open the door?"

"No."

Gotthilf noticed Lutterodt looked a bit put out by the questions. He continued. "Do you remember anything unusual happening at all, any time in the last few weeks?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gotthilf saw Johan open his mouth, only to close it again when Lutterodt said, "No." He looked to Byron and saw from his narrowed eyes that his partner had caught that motion as well. He nodded toward the warehouse.

Byron straightened. "Herr Lutterodt, come show me the warehouse side of this space. I want to see the back side of the office." Lutterodt shrugged again, then led him to the side door that opened into the warehouse space.

Gotthilf turned to Johan. "Johan, is it?" The youth nodded. "And what is your surname?"

"Dauth, sir."

The pencil made jottings in the notebook again. "Johan Dauth. Good. Now, Johan, did you like Master Bünemann?"

Johan squirmed. "It's not for the likes of me to like or dislike someone like the master. He was mostly a fair man, and treated us okay."

Gotthilf nodded, and made notes. "Good. Now, I noticed you were about to say something about something unusual happening?"

More squirming. "I . . . don't know as I should."

"Johan." Gotthilf made his voice take on a stern note, smiling inside at the thought of being stern with anyone. "This is a murder investigation. Magistrate Gericke himself wants the truth found. Anything you know must be told to us."

"Well," the youth hesitated, then finally blurted, "it was about two weeks ago. It was late in the day when the master's wife came in. She nodded to me and walked on into the master's office, closing the door behind her. Gerhard left right after she came in. He was having one of his bad days."

"And what is Gerhard's problem?"

"Consumption."

Gotthilf's stomach lurched. Suddenly he was glad he had not made physical contact with the man. "Continue."

"She stayed for maybe half an hour. I was in the document room," he pointed to the open door with the cabinets in view, "when she came out. I didn't see her, but I heard her last words to him."

"Which were?"

Johan hesitated until Gotthilf frowned at him, then spilled in a rush, "'Paulus, if you bring that bastard child into my house, so help me, I'll kill you for it.' But she couldn't have done it! She hasn't been here for days."

Gotthilf shaped a soft whistle as his pencil flew over the page of his notebook. He looked up to see the youth almost quivering. "It's all right, Johan. You've done nothing wrong. But say nothing of this to anyone else until we tell you you can."

Johan gave a convulsive nod, and turned back to the papers on his desk.

Gotthilf looked around, just taking in the general atmosphere of the accountants' work area: papers pinned together lying on the desks, folders lying on top of the cabinets in the document room, spools of different colored ribbons for use as tapes in place on the desks and in the document room. He turned as Byron and Gerhard Lutterodt came back in from the warehouse side.

"Well, certainly no one could have gotten into Master Bünemann's office from out there." The note of resignation was higher in Byron's voice now. "How new is this building, anyway?"

"The original building was burned in 1631 by Tilly's army," Lutterodt said. "Very little was left of it. The master had it rebuilt."

Byron glanced at Gotthilf, who gave him a nod in return. Byron pulled up his sleeve cuff and looked at his watch. "Almost five. How much longer would you ordinarily work, guys?"

"The master usually let us go while there was still daylight in the skies."

"Then call it a day right now, if you will. We'll be back tomorrow morning, and we'll want you here then."

"What do we tell the warehousemen? They will want to know who will take over the business. Who will pay them?"

Gotthilf shook his head. "That's up to Frau Diebsin."

Lutterodt returned to the warehouse while Johan tidied things up and closed the document room. Gotthilf picked up the tagged pry bar before Johan could lock it away with everything else.

The door to the warehouse opened again, and Lutterodt rejoined them. "The men are gone and the warehouse is closed and locked, but they were grumbling as they left. Someone needs to have answers for them tomorrow."

"Talk to the widow," Gotthilf said again.

Moments later, they were all out in the rain and Lutterodt was locking the front door. "Who else has a key to this door?" Gotthilf asked.

"Frau Sarah," came the reply.

"All right then, we'll see you in the morning." Byron waved at the others as they left.

Gotthilf turned to the watchman, who had made it back from his errand to the police house. "Go home, Georg."

"With pleasure, sir." Georg touched the rim of his hat, and left no time in striding down the street.

Byron and Gotthilf weren't far behind him. A horse came clip-clopping up as they walked, heads down. "Need a cab?"

Gotthilf looked up to see the same cabbie that had brought them here smiling at them. "By all means." They scrambled into the carriage which might be somewhat damp but was infinitely preferable to the heavy rain.

Byron muttered something.

"Hmm?" Gotthilf raised his eyebrows.

"I said, you do realize this case has changed, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

Byron sighed. "At first we thought we just had a dead man in his office. Then we thought we had a dead man in a locked office. But now . . . now we have a murdered man in a locked office."

"So?"

"So, there looks to be only one door into this room, right?"

"Right."

"If the door was locked from the inside," Byron continued, "if Herr Lutterodt and his assistant don't have keys to the door, and if they didn't see anyone enter or leave the room, how was the murder committed?"

Gotthilf started to answer, then stopped as he realized the implications of what Byron had said. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. We've got a real life locked room puzzle in front of us."

Gotthilf raised his eyebrows again. "Locked room puzzle?"

"Oh, yeah. We've talked about all the different kinds of books people used to be able to get in the up-time, right?"

"Yes."

Byron slumped down a little in the carriage seat. "One of the different kinds of books was called mysteries, and most of them dealt with stories about murders."

Gotthilf made a face. "Go on."

"No, really, these were really popular. People would read and re-read their favorite books, and even get together and have conventions . . . um, maybe conclaves would be a better word for you . . . about these books."

Up-timers were weird, Gotthilf reminded himself.

"Anyway, there was one whole type of these stories that was dedicated to murders that couldn't have happened. Murders that happened in impossible circumstances. The most popular variation was the locked room mystery, where a man was murdered in a locked room that no one has a key to and no one could get into or out of. Yet he was murdered."