A murder in Marienburg w-1

by David Bishop

  “What did you say?” Scheusal demanded.

  “He’s been enjoying my lovely dumplings,” Gerta explained with an innocent smile. She stopped stirring the casserole in a deep saucepan and lifted the lid off another bowl to reveal a cluster of suet dumplings, each one speckled with herbs and tender loving care. Two were missing from the dish, leaving half a dozen for whoever came off duty next and needed a hot meal. But Bescheiden’s gaze was fixed on Gerta’s not inconsiderable dйcolletage, which threatened to spill from her top as she bent over the hot stove.

  “I’ll bet he was,” Scheusal growled, his glare almost worth a charge of manslaughter. “It’s good to see you in here so early for your next shift, little Willy.”

  “I told you not to call me that,” Bescheiden protested. “It’s not my fault I’m shorter than most.”

  “Who said I was talking about your height?” Scheusal replied.

  Gerta tittered at the comment. “You two, always having a lark. I never know when you’re serious!”

  Scheusal sauntered past the chair where his colleague sat, taking care to crunch his boot heel down on Bescheiden’s left foot. The little man gasped in pain, his eyes watering freely.

  By now Gerta was busy chopping onions, but she still heard his strangled cry of agony. She looked over her shoulder and noticed the tears running down Bescheiden’s face. “Oh, you poor thing. Chopping onions always makes me weep. Do they make you cry too?” He nodded manfully, waiting until Gerta turned away before making an obscene gesture with his fingers at Scheusal. The big man responded by wandering back to the door, carefully crushing Bescheiden’s other foot as he passed this time.

  “Yes, little Willy is quite the cry-baby. He bursts into tears every time the sun sets.”

  Gerta nodded approvingly, before returning to her task. “I like a man who isn’t afraid to show his emotions. My beloved has always been completely honest with me about his feelings.”

  Bescheiden snorted in disbelief. The man whom Gerta claimed was her beloved had been one of Marienburg’s most notorious womanisers before his arrest and incarceration on Rijker’s Isle. Scheusal glared at his colleague and slid a warning finger across his throat, indicating what would happen if Bescheiden dared tell Gerta the truth about Engelbert Humpalot, as he was known among Black Caps. The little man rolled his eyes but nodded his agreement. “Well, I suppose I’d better go and see if I can help anyone downstairs,” he said. “I know my shift doesn’t start for a few hours yet, but I like to do all I can.”

  “You’re a credit to that uniform, little Willy,” Gerta cooed affectionately.

  Bescheiden strode out of the kitchen, his face black as a thundercloud. Scheusal permitted himself a private smile of triumph at having seen off his rival before approaching Gerta. “Have you heard anything from your beloved lately?” he ventured.

  “No, not since Mitterfruhl,” she admitted, “but I know he’s thinking of me. Engelbert’s never far from my heart.” Gerta reached inside her bulging blouse and pulled out a locket that had become wedged between her breasts. She snapped it open and showed the locket’s interior to Scheusal. A surly cameo drawing glared out of it at the Black Cap, a single eyebrow stretching from one side of Engelbert’s face to the other, like some elongated, hairy caterpillar. His ugly, thin lips curled with disdain at whomever had drawn his portrait. “I always say he’s far more handsome than this picture suggests.”

  “He’d need to be,” Scheusal muttered.

  “What was that, Jacques?”

  “Oh, nothing. Well, what chance I could get a taste of these famous dumplings of yours, hmm?” Kurt was angry with himself for humiliating Jan in front of Belladonna and the prisoners. It was no way to treat anyone under his leadership, let alone his best friend in Marienburg the man who’d helped him find some semblance of redemption after all that had happened. Kurt had always possessed a fiery temper and, all too often, it was his undoing. He let his anger get the better of his reason and others suffered as a consequence.

  He fought with it, tried to keep the daemon down, but sometimes red mist overtook him and he would lash out at anything and anybody within range. It had happened with Oosterlee earlier, when the sensible choice would have been to turn the errand boy into a weapon against Henschmann. So what if Jan believed in superstition? People across this water-logged city believed in a dozen different cults, none of which rang true with Kurt. Manann, Shallya, Ranald, Sigmar, Morr, Ulric-to some people they were divine beings. For Kurt they were merely names, convenient epithets in times of stress. He might have believed in a god once, but that faith was crushed during the war against Chaos, torn apart by what had happened to him in Altdorf. Blame fate, blame the gods, blame whomever you liked -Kurt knew he was the person truly to blame for his old life. If he was to make a success of this new life, he had to find a new faith and a new strength of will. His temper could not be his ruler anymore.

  The worst aspect of his argument with Jan was the inevitable fact that his sergeant had been right. Jan was always right. Perhaps not at the time, but hindsight tended to prove the wisdom of his words after the fact. That knowledge had fuelled Kurt’s rage and now it added bitterness to his regret. He would apologise when Jan returned from patrol, and make sure it was a public apology. Like Jan had frequently told him, the true mark of a man’s worth was his ability to admit mistakes and take responsibility for them. There was no shame in saying you were wrong, particularly if it repaired the best friendship Kurt had known since Sara-No, he wasn’t going to think about Sara. Those wounds were still too fresh, too painful.

  It was almost a relief when Molly marched into the station from the abandoned temple next door. “Captain Schnell, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice stern and unforgiving, red curls massed round her face.

  “Yes, Molly. What’s the matter now?”

  “Everything was fine until one of your men staggered in, drunk as a member of the Stadsraad and got into a fight with one of my best girls. Astrid’s a good worker, never causes any trouble. But he’s locked himself in with her and won’t let anyone inside.” Molly’s chin wobbled slightly. “I’m worried about what he might do to poor Astrid. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, but him-”

  “Who is it?” Kurt asked, removing his club from its leather sheath at his side.

  “Says he’s commander of the graveyard shift, but wouldn’t give his name.”

  “Holismus,” Belladonna said, biting her bottom lip. “I saw him stagger out earlier. Sorry, I meant to say something at the time but you were busy-”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Kurt interrupted. “You stay here. I’ll fetch Lothar back from whatever bottle he’s decided to pour himself into.” He turned to Molly. “Lead the way.”

  She marched out of the station, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse and stomped into the converted temple. The previous day it had been all but a ruin, with broken pews and holes in the thatched roof. Kurt was surprised to see how much Molly and her girls had done since then, redecorating the interior and getting the roof repaired. She led Kurt through a richly furnished parlour, past a bead curtain that cut the temple in two and down a corridor, passing half a dozen doors on either side of the hallway. Molly stopped outside the last door on the left, gently tapping on the wood with her knuckles. “Astrid? You still in there?”

  “Y-Yes,” a young woman replied, fear all too obvious in her trembling voice.

  “Astrid? It’s Captain Schnell, from the station next door. Is Lothar Holismus in there with you?”

  “He only told me his first name, but it was Lothar. I recognised him from yesterday.”

  “Is he still in there with you?”

  “Yes. He’s slumped in front of the door, and now I can’t get out. Keeps mumbling things I don’t understand. Just this and just that, keeps saying the same things, over and over.”

  Kurt put a shoulder to the door and tried to push it open. The heavy wooden barrier did not move. “Astrid, can you reach past Lothar and unlock the do
or?”

  “I… I’m afraid.”

  “It’s alright, Astrid,” Molly called to her. “You’ll be alright. Just do as the captain says.”

  “Jussst!” a voice shouted from the other side of the door. “Jussst! Jussst!”

  “Holismus, is that you?” Kurt shouted.

  “Jussst here…” the drunken Black Cap slurred.

  “Holismus, can you unlock the door and let me in? I want to help you.”

  “Can’t help. Jussst too late, for all of us. He’s coming.”

  “Who’s coming, Holismus? Who is it?”

  “Jussst…”

  Realisation hit Kurt like a wall of stone. “He’s not saying just-he’s saying Joost. Joost was his brother, Joost Holismus. He was watch captain on Three Penny Bridge, years ago.”

  Molly frowned. “But he drowned, didn’t he?”

  “That was the official story,” Kurt said, recalling what the other captains had suggested in the commander’s office the previous day. “Lothar, did you see your brother Joost?”

  “Joost was here…”

  “Here, in Molly’s place?”

  “At the station. Joost came to me, talked to me… Said we were all going to die…”

  “I told you, he was drunk when he came in,” Molly insisted.

  “I don’t doubt that, but Lothar hadn’t touched a drop for days,” Kurt said.

  “Then he’s drying out, getting the visions. I’ve witnessed people losing their grip on reality, seeing things when they’re drying out. Best thing he could have done was climb back into the bottle,” she decided.

  “Not for me it isn’t,” Kurt replied, “and not for Lothar, either. If he did see his brother-actually see him, not just imagine Joost-the shock would have been enough to tip anyone over the edge.”

  “Captain,” Lothar whispered from the other side of the door. “I did see him, I swear it. I thought he was just another nightmare, but Joost was real. He kept offering to lead me to salvation.”

  “Lothar, this is important. Where did you see him?”

  “In the sleeping quarters, upstairs. He must have climbed up the side of the building. He was wet, as if he’d clambered out of the cut. I don’t think Narbig or Raufbold saw him, they were asleep.”

  “Alright, I believe you,” Kurt said. “Now I need you to believe me. Unless you open that door and release Astrid, you’ll be charged, sentenced and probably spend the rest of your days on Rijker’s. But I’m willing to give you another chance. I need your help, Lothar. Together we can save your brother. But to do that, I need you sober. Can you do that for me, Lothar? Or should I give up on you, throw away the key?”

  Molly was unimpressed by the captain’s offer. “You’re not going to arrest him? What about what he’s done here? Frightening poor Astrid half to death, smashing furniture.”

  “By rights, I should close this place down, not to mention arresting you and your girls,” Kurt replied. “But I’ve got more pressing problems and so does the rest of Suiddock, so I’ve decided to opt for a live and let live policy here.” He turned back to the doorway. “Well, Lothar? What’s it to be?”

  A key turned in the lock and the door opened slowly inwards. Astrid burst from the room, throwing herself into Molly’s arms. Kurt went into the bedchamber and removed Lothar. The shame-faced Black Cap reeked of ale, but he hadn’t laid a finger on Astrid. “Get him out of here,” Molly told Kurt. “And tell the rest of your men they’re barred from my place until they can handle their drink.”

  “Fine by me,” Kurt agreed, leading the lurching Lothar out of Molly’s premises. The two men emerged into the late afternoon sunshine to find a grand coach parked on Three Penny Bridge, the crest of the City Watch emblazoned on its side. The presence of this mighty vehicle had brought foot traffic on the bridge close to a standstill, and a crowd was gathering to see what important visitor might possibly stop on this most notorious of spans. A number of furtive men in shabby military uniform lingered among the throng, trying not to meet anyone’s eye-a sure sign of being deserters. Beside them were several halflings, casting an appreciative eye over the coach’s ornately carved wheels. The driver jumped down from his seat and kicked at the halflings, driving them away before he held open the door and unfolded a set of steps from inside. A small, sour-faced figure emerged from the interior, sniffing the air unhappily. The well-dressed man climbed down to the cobbles and glared at Kurt with disdain.

  “How charming! I arrive to inspect the newly reopened Watch Station and discover my newly promoted acting captain staggering out of what looks like a bordello next door, propping up one of his drunken recruits,” the commander snapped. “I’m glad to see you’re enjoying the perks of office, Captain Schnell. But perhaps you’d be better advised to concentrate on stopping the current crime wave!”

  Kurt took a deep breath and bowed his head to the commander. “Forgive me, sir, but I was not expecting a visit from you so soon-”

  “That much is obvious,” the commander replied, holding a linen cloth over his nostrils to mask the smells of the streets. “Well, are you going to invite me inside the station, or should I conduct my inspection from out here on the cobbles?”

  “Please, come inside.” Kurt leaned Lothar against the nearest wall and hurried towards the entrance. But before he could escort his superior inside, Holismus slid to the ground, already snoring loudly. Kurt hung his head, ashamed at having been caught unawares and so unprepared. He pushed open the door and held it back so the distinguished visitor could enter. “Welcome to Three Penny Bridge station, sir,” Kurt said, directing his voice inside in the hope Belladonna might realise what was happening. “I trust you’ll reserve final judgement on our progress here until you’ve seen everything we’ve achieved so far.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” the commander said. “I was displeased with your performance before I arrived, that’s the reason for my visit. But it appears things here are far worse than I’d anticipated. Let us hope what I find tips the balance in your favour, Captain Schnell-otherwise this station could be closed before sundown, and your name will be forever stained with that shame. But, considering your past history in Altdorf, I’m sure you’re used to that by now.” He smiled and strutted into the station, leaving Kurt outside on the cobbles, fuming in front of a dozen bemused citizens. Jan found what was left of Mutig on a quay in Stoessel’s northern ward, overlooking the Rijksweg. The Black Cap was missing both legs from below the knee and most of one arm. Leather belts had been fastened tautly near the end of each stump, stark evidence Mutig had been kept alive during the brutal amputations. This was torture, there could be little doubt of that. Somebody had taken to the watchman’s body with a merciless enthusiasm, hacking away at Mutig’s limbs while savouring his screams of agony.

  If the dead man had been a criminal or a prisoner of war, Jan might have considered the treatment part of some obscene interrogation. But Mutig’s record was clean, aside from a tendency to be cited for violent conduct soon after starting each new assignment. He had a reputation as a bruiser, but Jan had his own suspicions about that. Whatever the truth of that reputation, there could be little sane reason for the way Mutig had been abused. Whoever did this was sending a message. To underline the fact, they had crudely carved six words into the skin of Mutig’s torso, leaving his tunic torn open so those finding the corpse could be in no doubt what the killing meant. Not subtle, but effective.

  The sergeant moved closer, so he could read all the message at once: BLACK CAPS-GET OUT OF SUIDDOCK. Two further letters were etched into Mutig’s flesh below the word Suiddock. Jan shook his head, unable to believe the sadist responsible for this atrocity had the temerity to leave their signature on the victim’s body: AC. The sergeant had little doubt who those initials stood for: Abram Cobbius. “Kurt was right,” Jan whispered to himself. “The sooner we arrest this animal, the better for everyone.” He knelt beside Mutig’s body, reaching forward with one hand to gently shut the murdered man’s star
ing eyes.

  “I’m not dead yet,” Mutig gasped in a hoarse voice.

  “Taal’s teeth!” Jan exclaimed, almost falling over backwards on to the quay, such was his shock. He recovered himself quickly and pulled a small gourd from his tunic pocket. The sergeant removed the lip and tipped a little Bretonnian brandy into Mutig’s mouth. The Black Cap coughed twice, regurgitating most of the liquid, but swallowing enough to revive his spirits slightly. Jan removed his tunic and wedged it under Mutig’s head, making him a fraction more comfortable. “Who did this to you?”

  “Cobbius…” the watchman winced, his face contorting in pain. “Abram Cobbius…”

  “Why?”

  Mutig almost smiled. “I didn’t recognise him… Tried to pick a fight…”

  Jan nodded. “Beat the biggest thug you can find on your first day at a new station and nobody gives you any trouble after that, right?”

  “How did you-?”

  “Save your energy.” The sergeant pressed a finger against his lips, silencing Mutig. “I’ve been using the same trick myself for years. But you shouldn’t choose a sadistic madman as your target.”

  “Now he… tells me…” Mutig started coughing, turning his head sideways. Gouts of dark, sickly blood and bile escaped his lips, forming a pool on the quayside.

  “Where did this happen?”

  Mutig’s eyes darted sideways to the tavern. “But he’s gone now. Called away by his cousin.”