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Rachel's Plaint

Written by David Carrico

 

 

Magdeburg

Late March 1635

 

It was early afternoon in the office of Paulus Bünemann. The door was closed, as the good Herr Bünemann was expecting no visitors. The merchant was, in fact, indulging in a post-prandial nap.

Despite Herr Bünemann's expectations, however, there was a visitor, one who walked on silent feet to where the merchant slept on the sofa which was across from the large desk. The visitor looked down at the slack face of the sleeping merchant, then leaned forward and placed hands around his neck. Bünemann's eyes flew open. A gurgle made its way from his lips, and his own hands strained and pulled at those of the visitor.

Unfortunately for the merchant, the visitor was stronger. The fingers sunk tighter into Bünemann's neck. Bünemann's complexion darkened, his eyes seemed to swell, and his feet drummed on the sofa for a moment. Then he sagged, his head lolled and his hands fell away.

The visitor retained his grip for some time, but at length released it. He straightened, staring down at the corpse for a long moment, then turned and made his way to the only door into the office. He gently tested the lock to ensure that it was still engaged.

Moments later, the corpse was alone in the room.

 

****

 

Byron Chieske and Gotthilf Hoch walked out the front of the building that was serving as the police and City Watch station.

"Do you know where this office is?" Byron asked.

"Yes."

"Close enough to walk?"

Gotthilf looked up at the gray sky that was beginning to drop water on them. "Not in the rain."

"Right." Byron stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, waving at one of the horse-drawn cabs.

The cab driver pulled up in front of them. "Where to, Herren?"

"Herr Bünemann's warehouse, down by the river." Gotthilf slammed the door of the carriage.

The driver shook his reins and clucked to his horse. The cab lurched into motion.

"The captain's got to light a fire under the city council," Byron muttered. "I'm getting tired of having to hire a cab every time I want to go someplace. I know they had to spring for the fire equipment, but that was last year."

"We finally got the typewriter," Gotthilf reminded him.

"One. A typewriter, when we need three. And don't get me started, or I'll be ranting about a morgue again." The rest of the ride took place in silence.

****

"Bünemann's warehouse," the cabbie called. Byron and Gotthilf dismounted from the carriage into the rain.

"Pay the man," Byron said. Gotthilf dug into a coat pocket and counted out enough of the new copper pennies to pay the fare.

"Thank you, sir," the cabbie said with a tug at his hat. Gotthilf heard him cluck to his horse as he hurried to the warehouse to get out of the rain.

"Georg." Gotthilf nodded to the City Watch man standing outside the warehouse door. "Any problems?"

"None outside of a dead body inside." They both chuckled, and Gotthilf opened the door. Inside he stepped up beside Byron, who was talking to a tall, stooped man whose face was almost ashen. Gotthilf couldn't tell if that was because of the circumstances or if it was the normal complexion for the fellow.

"Gotthilf, this is Gerhard Lutterodt, the chief accountant for Herr Bünemann's business." Byron waved a hand in Gotthilf's direction. "Gotthilf Hoch, my partner."

"Good day," Lutterodt muttered. Gotthilf simply nodded.

"So," Byron resumed the interrupted conversation, "you were telling me that Herr Bünemann often closed his door in the afternoon with instructions he was not to be bothered."

"Perhaps twice or thrice a week." The accountant nodded. "Usually after a large lunch with much wine."

"He was taking a nap?" Gotthilf guessed.

Lutterodt shrugged.

"Was it usual that he would lock the door?"

"Yes."

"And how long would the door remain locked."

Lutterodt shrugged again. "At least an hour, sometimes two."

Gotthilf looked around while the conversation was going on. The space wasn't very large. There were two tall tables with stools, one of them obviously belonging to Herr Lutterodt. The other stool was occupied by a younger man, who appeared to be intent on copying something into a ledger book . . . except that Gotthilf had seen that his pen hadn't moved for some time. There was an open door behind the young man that opened to a small room with shelves and cabinets in it.

"Gotthilf?"

He switched his attention back to Byron. "Yes?"

"Any questions for Herr Lutterodt before we start going over the crime scene?"

Gotthilf thought for a moment. "Was Herr Bünemann a successful merchant?"

Lutterodt gave a thin smile. "Rather."

"So he had enemies?"

"Not in the battlefield sense. Competitors, certainly."

"Anyone he was afraid of?"

"Afraid? No." Lutterodt was definite. "He was concerned about the Praegorius family from Hamburg sending a factor here, but the man hasn't even arrived yet."

"Anyone he hated?"

Lutterodt frowned. "I do not know if hate is the right word, but Master Paulus would have nothing to do with Andreas Schardius. The man took advantage of him in one of his earliest deals. Ever since then the master would neither accept nor make proposals involving Master Schardius."

"Is this Schardius person dishonest?"

"Master Paulus would say that he made a dog's hind leg look straight in comparison."

Gotthilf underlined that name in his notebook.

"Do you know of anyone that would have gone to the length of killing him?"

Lutterodt all of a sudden yanked a kerchief from his left pocket and coughed heavily into it, almost a paroxysm. Afterward, he took a shuddering deep breath while shoving the kerchief back into its pocket. Gotthilf thought he saw spots on it.

"I doubt that there are many who will mourn his passing." Lutterodt's voice was hoarse at first, evening out as he spoke. "But likewise I doubt that any of the other corn factors despised him enough to try and murder him. Besides, as we told the first watchman, there was no one in the room when we broke in. I do not see how he could have been murdered."

"That's the door you broke?" Byron pointed to a door at the back of the room.

"Yes."

They moved in that direction. Byron fingered a splintered place on the door frame. "Why did you decide to break in?"

"I needed the master's signature on a contract, and it had been over two hours since he had gone in to the office. I tapped on the door, but there was no answer."

"Did you break in then?"

"No, next I rapped hard. After there was no answer, I pounded as hard as I could."

"And still no answer." Byron was pulling on his chin, a sign that Gotthilf recognized that meant the up-timer was thinking hard.

"Aye. I waited a few more minutes, not wanting to needlessly anger the master by destroying the doorway, but finally I sent Johan," Lutterodt gestured to the other accountant, "to bring one of the warehousemen with a pry bar."

"Is that the bar?" Gotthilf pointed to a length of metal lying next to the wall.

"Yes."

Byron picked it up and compared the end of the bar to the marks on the door frame. They matched. He handed it to Gotthilf. "Tag it." Gotthilf pulled a piece of heavy paper on a string loop out of one of his pockets, and a pencil out of another. He wrote "Bünemann" followed by the date on the tag, then looped it around the bar and tucked it under his arm.

The up-timer reached out and pushed the sprung door open, revealing a surprisingly large room dimly lit by two small windows set up high in the wall across from the door.

Gotthilf followed Byron into the office. The corpse was obvious, lying on a sofa across from the desk. One arm was folded up on the chest, the other trailed to the floor.

Byron stopped them just inside the door. "When you first broke in, Herr Lutterodt, did anything in the room seem strange?"

"Other than the body?"

"Other than the body." Byron's tone was dry.

"No, but I didn't take time to look."

"Take time now," Byron instructed. "Take all the time you need."

Gotthilf watched Lutterodt as he surveyed the room. The accountant, hands in pockets, made a slow turn as he scanned everything, even stepping forward to look over the desk and its chair. He turned again to face the detectives.

"I cannot swear that everything is as it was before he locked the door, but everything that I know should be here is present, and I see nothing that should not be here."

Byron turned to the door. "I assume this is the master's key in the lock."

"It must be. He never gave me a key to this door."

"Are there any others?"

"The master told me once that his wife has one, but I have never seen it."

Byron took the key from the lock, knelt and tried to pass the key on its ring under the door. The space was too narrow for the bulk of the key, not to mention the ring with the other keys on it. "Well, that didn't work. Not that it would prove anything or help us any if it did." He stood again and handed the keys to his partner. "Tag them." Gotthilf did so, and handed them back to Byron.

The up-timer now moved to the sofa and touched the face of Herr Bünemann's corpse, then lifted the trailing arm and set it on the sofa. "Hmm. Rigor mortis is already setting in. That would match death sometime after noon. Did you close his eyes, Herr Lutterodt?"

"Yes."

In Gotthilf's eyes, Herr Bünemann was not a prepossessing man. His frame was small; he wasn't much taller than Gotthilf, which made him short. At least Gotthilf was stocky, but the merchant by comparison was rather slender. His hands were small, short-fingered, and looked soft. His face was reasonably handsome, with regular features and no pock marks or other scars, but his hair was thin and receding, which left him looking like a dyspeptic school master. All in all, Gotthilf was reasonably glad he hadn't been on familiar terms with the man.

Gotthilf turned to Lutterodt, who was hovering behind them. "You said earlier Herr Bünemann had a wife?"

"Yes. He was married to Frau Sarah Diebes."

"Did they have children?"

"No."

Gotthilf pulled out his notebook again and made more notes. "Are there any legitimate kin that should be notified?"

"No. The master had a younger brother, Karl, who died when Tilly's soldiers sacked the city. He was not married. Their father was an only child. There may be some distant cousins somewhere, but I do not know who they would be."

Lutterodt pulled his kerchief out for another coughing spell. When it subsided, Gotthilf murmured, "Just a few more questions. Has Frau Sarah Diebes been notified of her husband's death?"

"I believe so." Lutterodt's voice was weak and shaky. "The City Watch said they would notify her." He stopped and took a heavy breath. "I am surprised she is not here already."

"And did the master have any illegitimate kin?"

Lutterodt grimaced. "Yes." He began coughing again.

"Children?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me who they were?"

Lutterodt grimaced again. "No. I simply knew he had them. He made no great secret about it."

Byron had been crouched over the body this entire time, shining the beam of a small pocket flashlight on the neck and turning the head this way and that against the increasing stiffness of the advancing rigor. He flicked the light off and straightened. Gotthilf turned and raised his eyebrows.

"No doubt about it," Byron spread his hands. "He was strangled. And since there's no way that you can strangle yourself, we seem to have a murder."

The room seemed to darken at that pronouncement.

Byron looked to Gotthilf. "We've got to examine the body and see if there is anything else about it that might be important."

"Right." Gotthilf nodded, anticipating the next question.

"So, where do we do it?"

"There's that back room at the police house."

"I guess that's better than nothing." Byron muttered something. All Gotthilf could catch was ". . . city council . . ." He decided not to ask Byron to repeat it. "Okay," the up-timer said, "your drawing is better than mine, so you make a sketch of the body in the room while I get us some wheels."

Gotthilf turned to a fresh page in his notebook and began sketching as Byron left the room. He heard the outer door shut.

It didn't take long to make the drawing of the body and its placement. Gotthilf was actually pretty competent at sketching. He took a little bit of pride in that, smiling as he thought of how poor Byron was at it. On the other hand, he definitely sympathized with Byron's opinion of the city council; he wished they'd quit delaying and arguing and get the photography gear they had been promising the fledgling police department. It would be so much better than these drawings at showing exactly how things stood in a crime scene.

He turned to a fresh page, anticipating the next need, and began making a sketch of the room as a whole. Good progress had been made with it when the outer door opened again. Byron entered the room a moment later, followed by Georg the patrolman.

"How's it coming?"

Gotthilf flipped back and showed him the drawing of the body.

"Good. Well, I've got a cab, and the cabbie had a spare horse blanket, so we can wrap him up and get him out of here." Georg shook the blanket out on the floor, then he and Byron lifted the body and set it down on the blanket. A few moments later, the corpse was swaddled and not visible. Gotthilf watched as the two men bent. "Hup!" Byron exclaimed as they lifted the dead weight. Gotthilf returned to his sketching as Georg led the way out of the office, walking backward and looking over his shoulder.

A few minutes later Byron came back in. "Well, that's done. Georg's on his way to the police house with the body. He'll get somebody to help him carry it in, then he'll come back here."

Gotthilf finished the sketch of the room, closed his notebook and put it back into his pocket. "Well, I think we have an appointment with a corpse," he remarked.

"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 Diebes," 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 Diebes 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 Diebes 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 Diebes 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 Diebes' 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 Diebes 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 Diebes 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 this built to replace it."

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 Diebes."

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."

"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 town."

"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 Diebes," 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 Diebes, 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 Diebes," 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 Diebes 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 Diebes 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 Diebes' 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 Diebes 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 Diebes 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 ...