A Grave Inconvenience

Arthur found the first one in his garden shed, nestled rather unceremoniously between the lawnmower and a forgotten bag of potting soil. "Oh, for heaven's sake," he muttered, nudging the suspiciously still boot with a rake handle. "Not *again*." It wasn't the body itself that annoyed him so much as the sheer inconvenience. His prize-winning petunias were wilting, and now he had to call the police *before* he could even think about watering them. Such an imposition.

The second cadaver presented itself just three weeks later, draped rather artfully over a top-loader in the communal laundry room. Arthur, who had just managed to wrestle his delicates into a vacant machine, paused. "Honestly," he sighed, eyeing the rather conspicuous stain on the deceased's shirt. "Couldn't you at least pick a machine that's *not* in use? This is Tuesday. My day." He considered just starting his wash, but the man had a rather unsettling stare fixed on the spin cycle button. Health and safety, you know.

But the third, the glorious, inconvenient third, truly tested Arthur's Zen-like patience. It was in his bathtub. Fully clothed. With a rubber duck floating serenely by its ear. Arthur stood in the doorway, towel clutched, eyes wide. "Right," he announced to the unresponsive form. "This is getting beyond a joke. My bath salts are right there! And what possessed you to wear a tweed jacket into *my* tub?" He poked the man's arm. Still, inconveniently, dead.

Arthur leaned against the doorframe, contemplating his morbid magnetism. Was he a cursed divining rod for the dearly departed? A human beacon for the tragically expired? Or was he simply living in a neighborhood with a surprisingly high rate of dramatic, poorly-located deaths? He sighed, retrieved his phone, and dialed 999. "Yes, hello," he began, trying to sound less exasperated than he felt. "It's Arthur. From 22b. I've found another one. Yes, *another* one. And this time, he's hogging the bubbles." He paused, listening. "No, I didn't push him in. I was just about to have a relaxing soak." He looked at the rubber duck. "Actually, could you send a forensics team that specializes in rubber duck placement? I'm genuinely curious." Perhaps, he mused, a career as a professional cadaver discoverer was his true calling. Or, more likely, he should just move to a desert island with very few people, and even fewer bathtubs.