1635: Music and Murder (69 page)

"Sounds like what we're dealing with. But it's not really possible, right?"

"Right. The up-time writers would always have a way for it to seem like the victim had been killed when he was alone, but there was always a way for someone to have somehow gotten to the victim without anyone else being aware of it. A couple of writers actually developed lists of the ways it could be done."

"Well?"

"Huh?"

"What are the ways?" Gotthilf said, an impatient tone in his voice.

"Oh, I don't remember them all," Byron said, "although I did have a criminal justice teacher who made a list of them. It may be with all those papers I had Jonni send me. If this gets too weird, I'll go dig it out."

"But what do you remember?"

"Okay: one was that a man could have been injured someplace else, but the injuries weren't immediately fatal and he could have gotten to the room and locked the door before dropping dead. Another was that there was another entrance to the room, hidden or otherwise, which hadn't been accounted for."

"Any more?"

"Umm, that the victim was alone in the room, but that the murderer somehow set up circumstances so that he was still killed. That one usually involved poison."

"Hmm. Whether we need it for this or not, find that paper," Gotthilf said. "I want to read the whole list."

There was no further conversation. They each thought their own thoughts about their puzzle until they arrived back at the police house.

****

"Well," Gotthilf said as they walked in the door. "Your kindness to the widow means our day isn't done."

"Aw, you didn't have anything else to do tonight, partner." Byron grinned and gave him a light punch in the shoulder. "Come on."

Gotthilf followed his partner to the back room of the police house. They found the body laid out on a long table. Someone had already gathered three lanterns in the room and lit them.

"Come help me," Byron called out. In the light, Herr Bünemann's corpse seemed even smaller than Gotthilf had remembered it. They spent the next few minutes removing the clothing from the corpse, subjecting it to what would have been gross indignities if there was still life in it.

"What a struggle," Byron said as the culottes were removed, the last of the clothing. They gave the clothing a quick examination, finding nothing more than a couple of coins in one pocket, but nothing else. They left the coins with the clothing.

"Nothing," Byron pronounced at last. "Nothing unusual, nothing remarkable, no clues shouting out the name of the murderer. These tell us nothing more than that Herr Paulus was a sloppy eater. From the stains, it looks like he got more of his lunch on the outside than he did on the inside."

Gotthilf began rolling the clothing into a bundle. "Well, given how he died, I didn't expect to find anything." Shirt, vest, jacket, culottes, stockings, shoes; it seemed a small list to represent the end of a life.

"I didn't either," Byron replied, "but I had just a bit of hope that maybe something would be here. Oh, well, back to what we do know." He pulled the chin up and flicked his flashlight on. "These are the strangulation marks. Had to be a man. Look at how big the hands were." He laid his own hands over the marks for comparison. "That's unusual, too. Crime studies back in the up-time indicated that men don't normally strangle men. They usually use a weapon.

"Strong hands, too. Look at . . . hmm, I didn't notice that earlier." Byron lifted his hands and bent down to look at the right side of the neck. "Our man must have had a deformity—look at this, Gotthilf."

Gotthilf stepped closer and bent down to see what Byron was pointing at. He laid his own hand against the mark for comparison. "I see what you mean."

Byron's eyes gleamed. "A solid clue, at last. Can you sketch that?"

Gotthilf spent the next couple of minutes sketching the neck and its marks, all the while listening to Byron mutter about cameras and morgues and medical examiners and the city council. When he was done, they took the lights and examined the body closely, rolling it from one side to another as needed. At the conclusion, Gotthilf closed his notebook and put it back into his pocket, for nothing further notable had been found.

"Well, we could pack him in ice and keep him a while longer, I guess, but I see no need to. I'm no medical examiner, but that's as good a search as I know how to do. For this case, I think we're safe in saying that the obvious injuries are the cause of death."

Gotthilf looked down at the naked corpse. "There is no dignity in death."

"Only as much as we give it," Byron replied. "Let's get a messenger off to the grieving widow. Maybe they can pick the body up later tonight or first thing in the morning. And go put that pry bar on your desk."

The next morning

Otto Gericke was waiting on them when they arrived at the police house early the next morning. They followed him into Captain Reilly's office without even taking off their coats. He turned to face them. "Well?"

"Yes, Herr Bünemann was murdered," Byron began. "Strangled, in fact. Yes, it looks like it happened in a locked room that couldn't be entered. So we've got the beginnings of a good mystery here."

"Any problems with solving it?" Bill was tapping a pencil on his desk.

"We're not far enough into it to know for sure, but it's not open and shut at this point. We'll get it, Captain."

"Any suspects yet?"

Byron looked at Gotthilf, who shook his head. "Nothing very solid. According to Bünemann's accountant, Lutterodt, the man had commercial rivals, but he didn't think anyone hated Bünemann enough to do something like this. Besides, that doesn't feel right to me."

"Feel right?" Gericke questioned.

"Yes, sir," Byron replied. "If it was a business deal that caused this, I would have expected Herr Bünemann to have been shot or stabbed in the street or have his head bashed in in an alleyway somewhere. Something fast and impersonal, hire someone to do it and run. No, this was a crime of passion and premeditation. Someone has been very offended by Herr Bünemann. Someone felt strongly about this. Someone was staring into Bünemann's eyes as he died. Someone went to the trouble of staging this whole thing, of setting up the mystery of the locked room. I don't see that being a business acquaintance."

Gericke shook his head. "Go ahead with your investigation, Lieutenant. But please, bring me an answer as swiftly as you can. As I told you yesterday, Bünemann was an important man in the city."

"Get at it, boys," Bill said.

"Send another watchman back to the office," Byron said as they ducked out of the office. They were back on the street in a moment. At least it wasn't raining today. They hadn't walked very far when their cabbie from yesterday pulled alongside them. "Ride,
Herren
?" Gotthilf shook his head at the cabbie's grin as they got in. "Where to?"

"Bünemann House."

The cabbie flicked the reins, and they were off.

****

A young woman opened the door to Bünemann's house when they knocked. "Yes?"

"Lieutenant Chieske and Gotthilf Hoch, to see Frau Diebsin," Gotthilf said.

"Bring them in, Anna," they heard the object of their visit call from farther in the house.

"This way, please." Anna stood back out of the way until they passed, then closed the door and led them into what could only be called a parlor. It was a large room, surprisingly airy and cheery—except for the platform with a dead body on it. Master Paulus had been laid out in his own home, blanket laid over him and pulled up to his chin, leaving his face clear.

Frau Diebsin, dressed in black, sat in an upholstered chair, primly, feet together on the floor and hands clasped in her lap. "Good morning, Lieutenant Chieske, Herr Hoch."

"Good morning, Frau Diebsin," Gotthilf replied with a nod, echoed by Byron. The widow wasn't wearing black because of up-time custom. The black clothing was likely the best that she owned. He'd heard his mother complain often enough that black dyes were so expensive. "We are sorry to intrude on your grief, but if we are to provide answers to Magistrate Gericke and to you as well, we must first ask some questions."

"As you will, but please be about your business quickly. I have much to do this day."

Byron took the lead again. "Do you know of anyone who hated your husband enough to kill him?"

Frau Diebsin shook her head. "No. He seldom talked of his work, so I know nothing of the people he did business with."

"What of the people who work for him?"

"I only know of Gerhard and Johan, and I don't see why either of them would have wanted to do this thing. Paulus was good to them." Gotthilf nodded slightly. That agreed with what Johan had said. Frau Diebsin continued, "I know nothing of the men in the warehouse, but I think they had all worked for Paulus for some time."

"Your husband had no close kin?"

"No. His brother and father are dead. I think there may be a cousin or two down toward Leipzig. Herr Köppe would know. Paulus' attorney. He's to come by later today and we are to discuss the business. Part of the business is mine by the marriage contract, because of the money I brought to the marriage, and I have a dower interest in the rest."

Gotthilf pursed his lips and nodded his head in respect. Frau Diebsin' thinking seemed to be very clear.

"Do you know the terms of your husband's will?"

"Not exactly. I know he left bequests to his workers, Anna . . . " She waved a hand at the maid standing to the side. " . . . a few acquaintances, and . . . others."

"Others?"

Frau Diebsin looked away for a moment, then looked back with a glint in her eye. She pointed to a painting hanging at the far end of the room. "That is our wedding portrait, painted eleven years ago. I was twenty-six, Paulus was twenty-eight. There was no love in the match. Paulus had a reputation as being one who would chase anything in a skirt, but he was never less than respectful to me. He married me for two reasons, neither of which had anything to do with beauty I did not possess: First, I brought gold from my father, and Paulus needed gold just then; and second, to produce an heir. I'm not certain to this day which was more important to him, but he did desire an heir. He attended to his marital duties with vigor and . . . duty."

She looked down at her hands. "Perhaps if we'd had a child, it could have provided a bond, a foundation on which love could have been built. But after several years, it became increasingly clear there would be no child. And because of his past we both knew who was at fault. So he returned to his mistresses."

Frau Diebsin raised her head and stared at the blanket shrouded body. "He would still come to me betimes. The intervening nights I would spend on my knees, beseeching God to give me a child, a son."

Gotthilf remembered a homily from a recent Sunday. "'Give me children, lest I perish,'" he murmured.

The widow's head swiveled to look at him, mild surprise on her face. "Yes. The words of Rachel. Oh, I know them well, the stories of Rachel, and Rebecca, and my namesake Sarah, and even Samuel's mother Hannah. How could I not? God intervened in their lives, but never in mine." The last sentence was uttered in a bitter whisper.

After a moment of silence, she continued in a normal voice, "But before long he stopped coming to me, spending his evenings instead with his whores. He gave me respect, but none of his love, none of his passion."

"And were there illegitimate children produced from his times with his mistresses?" Gotthilf tried to be delicate.

"Oh, please, use the old words. They fit so much better. Yes, both before and after the marriage, his whores gave him bastard children. He gave them gifts, you know: twenty groschen for a daughter, fifty groschen the one time a son was born. He told me about that one, celebrating. That was some time ago. But ever since then, I knew he was thinking. And finally he confronted me one night with a proposal: that we would take into this house that bastard son, adopt it into the family, so that he could have an heir of his body to take over the business when the time came."

"Was that when you went to his office and threatened to kill him?" Gotthilf asked.

Frau Diebsin looked at him with eyebrows raised, then smiled for a moment. "You must have gotten that from Johan. He is such an honest boy. Yes, I told Paulus to his face that I would kill him if he brought that boy into this house. I may not have given him children, but I am his wife, and this is my house. As my namesake would not tolerate Ishmael, I would not abide that scandal in my own home."

"Would you have killed him?" Byron asked.

Her jaw set. "I would have tried."

"Did you kill him?"

She held up her small hands. "Do these look like the hands that left the marks on his neck? Oh, yes, I saw them last night as his body was bathed."

"You could have hired it done."

"No, Lieutenant, I did not kill my husband. The fact that I do not . . . did not love Paulus does not mean that I hated him."

Gotthilf spoke up again. "Who will take over the business now? Herr Lutterodt?"

Frau Diebsin sighed. "No. He grows daily weaker from the consumption." Gotthilf heard a sniff, and he looked over to see the maid Anna wiping tears from her face. "He is her father," the widow explained. "But I will probably have to rely on Herr Köppe to find a man to manage the business now."

Byron looked to Gotthilf, who shrugged. "Thank you, Frau Diebsin. That's all the questions we have for now. One last thing—could we also borrow your set of keys to the warehouse?"

"Certainly." Frau Sarah stood, skirts rustling. "Anna will bring them." The two women left through the door under the wedding portrait.

Gotthilf walked closer to examine the painting. Herr Bünemann had obviously not been aging well—eleven years ago he had been a reasonably handsome man. Frau Sarah, on the other hand; well, the truth was as she had said—even on her wedding day she was not a beauty.

"So why is he laid out like this?" Byron asked. "I expected to find him on a bed or in a coffin."

"For the visitation," Gotthilf replied.

"Visitation?"