"A murder in Marienburg" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bishop David)

CHAPTER TEN

Lothar Holismus thought he was dreaming, his consciousness replaying the nightmare that had plagued him for years, tormenting him with the past. His brother Joost would appear in Lothar’s sleep, whispering in the younger man’s ears, telling him about the salvation to be had by becoming one with Chaos. Lothar had worshipped his elder brother, looked up to him as a father figure. Lothar had never known his real father, and with Joost being so many years older, it was only natural for Joost to fill that role in the Holismus household. Joost was everything Lothar wanted to be-brave, a charismatic leader, a well-respected figure across Suiddock. When Joost was made captain of the station on Three Penny Bridge, it was the proudest day of Lothar’s young life. He had been among the citizens who stood outside the station when it opened, cheering as the new captain announced his intention to make the district safe for honest, decent, hard-working men and women of Marienburg.

Joost’s breakdown was not long in coming. He spent more and more time at the station, until the rest of the Holismus family did not see him for months at a time. Lothar heard whispers his elder brother was unwell, even unstable, making decisions that defied belief and endangering the lives of Black Caps assigned to Three Penny Bridge.

The youth came home early one day and found his mother sobbing in the kitchen, clutching a scrap of paper covered in blood, only four words visible on it: Save me, your son. The writing was close to illegible, but Lothar could still recognise his brother’s hand. After comforting their mother, Lothar ran to the station to confront Joost. He arrived in time to see Joost mortally wound one of the Black Caps, before the deranged captain took a dagger to his own face. The last anyone saw of Joost Holismus was when he dove off Three Penny Bridge and never resurfaced.

But Lothar was haunted by visions of his brother every night, and followed by whispers about Joost’s surrender to the dark tyranny of Chaos. To know your sibling, the person you had worshipped, could slaughter innocent lives and commit suicide, all in the name of Chaos… It had been too much for Lothar. He took to drinking, drowning his sorrows, blotting out reality.

After one particular binge he woke to find himself a member of the Watch, having signed up for ten years in the Black Caps during a drunken stupor. Since then he had staggered from one station to the next, disgracing his family name and the uniform he wore. Lothar did not dare sleep without the aid of alcohol, for when he slept sober Joost would appear in his dreams, taunting and tormenting him. The once noble face was a horrific parody of itself, the features warped and twisted, the lips contorted, the tongue inside that hissing, spitting mouth a black and suppurating apparition, as if a serpent lived inside Joost now. So Lothar drank himself to sleep every night and kept the daemon at bay, blocking out his brother’s spectral presence with ale and anything stronger.

When Lothar arrived at Three Penny Bridge, he knew this was his last chance for redemption. How ironic, it should come at the place that apparently drove his brother to shame and suicide, and that had destroyed his mother. The apothecary said she died of a heart attack, but Lothar knew it was a broken heart that claimed her.

As he set foot inside the station, Lothar made a silent pact with himself. He would not drink, no matter how things got, no matter how much his nightmares tormented him. If he didn’t want to end up like Joost, he had to put the bottle aside and make a new life for himself. Lothar was grateful when Sergeant Woxholt suggested his name for the graveyard shift, hoping that sleeping in daytime might keep Joost’s ghost at bay. When he staggered upstairs with Raufbold and Narbig to the newly installed sleeping quarters at the back of the station, Lothar even let himself hope for his first real sleep in years. No hangover when he woke up, no pounding headache in the middle of his slumber. Just close your eyes and rest, for the first time in such a long, long time.

“I can lead you to salvation,” the voice had whispered, sibilant and coaxing.

“Leave me be,” Lothar muttered in his sleep, tossing and turning.

“Accept salvation and you shall never know pain or fear again.”

“I said leave me be!” Lothar shouted, waking with a start. He sat bolt upright in bed, convinced he would find Joost’s wraith-like presence looming over him. Instead all he saw were the surly faces of Raufbold and Narbig unhappy at having been woken up.

“Put a boot in it, Holismus,” Raufbold snarled from his bed in the opposite corner. “Otherwise I’ll come over there and do it for you, understand?” The murderous look on Narbig’s face suggested he was more than willing to assist.

“Sorry,” Lothar murmured. “Bad dream, I guess.”

“Go back to sleep,” Narbig hissed, before turning over and facing away from Holismus. Raufbold did the same, muttering further threats and curses under his breath.

Lothar lay back down on his bed, feeling the pounding of his heart slowly easing. There was a window behind his mattress, overlooking the Bruynwarr and southern Suiddock, but they had hung a blanket over it to block out the daylight. Lothar thought he saw a shadow fall over the blanket, but knew that was impossible. The sleeping quarters were on the upper floor of the station. Outside the window was nothing but a straight drop down into the cut that linked the Bruynwarr with the Rijksweg. There was no ledge, no balcony, nothing to stand on even if someone had been crazed enough to clamber sideways across the station exterior from one of the adjoining buildings. Light danced across the blanket again, catching Lothar’s eye. It was probably just a gull, hovering outside, casting shadows across the window.

“Accept salvation…” the voice whispered.

“Hey, did you hear that?” Lothar called out. “Jorg Joachim-did you hear that voice?”

“What voice?” Narbig replied wearily.

“We didn’t hear any damned voice,” Raufbold growled. “Go to sleep, for the love of Manann!”

But Lothar couldn’t sleep, dared not sleep. He knew his brother was back, lurking at the edge of his dreams, waiting to reveal himself. All he could do now was wait for him to return.

“Accept salvation and you shall never know pain or fear again,” the voice hissed at him.

Now convinced the voice was whispering to him from beyond the window, Lothar twisted around on the bed. His hand trembling he reached towards a corner of the blanket. As his fingers touched the coarse, scratchy fabric, sunlight bathed the window and the clear silhouette of a human head appeared on the blanket. Willing himself on, Lothar lifted back the material and saw a face staring at him, eyes blazing malevolently, the mouth a cruel parody of a smile. Water dripped from the warped, twisted features and a black tongue slithered and snaked about those contorted, ugly lips. “Join me, brother,” Joost Holismus whispered. “Join me and know salvation as I have known it. Become one with Chaos, Lothar!”

“He called me what?” Henschmann snarled at the cowering figure on the floor in front of him. “Did you say that whelp Schnell called me Casanova? In front of everyone on Three Penny Bridge?” Oosterlee looked up long enough to hurriedly nod confirmation of this fact before returning his attention to the floorboards beneath his flabby legs. “He shall pay for insulting me like this. I will make the insolent upstart understand that I command Suiddock and all who reside or work here-they do so at my say and under my sufferance. Anyone who dares call me by that name again shall suffer an egregious, ignominious death!”

Oosterlee wished the wooden floor would swallow him up, rather than having to remain where he was and listen to Henschmann’s rantings. It was embarrassing enough being forced to act as a messenger boy for a common criminal, however powerful that criminal might be-the scion of a once formidable merchant family should never be so humiliated. But it was frightfully unnerving to have to prostrate himself on the floor in front of this raving psychopath, especially since Oosterlee knew what Henschmann was prone to doing when presented with an idle or unwelcome report.

No matter that Adalbert was Master of the League of Gentlemen Entrepreneurs, his philosophy in such matters could best be summarised by three simple yet heart-stopping words: garrotte the messenger. Now Oosterlee was the messenger and Henschmann was positively spitting with rage, the veins on his neck and temples bulging alarmingly.

The ranting continued for several more minutes before burning itself out. Henschmann sunk into a chair at the far end of the Directorate’s meeting table, leaving the unfortunate Oosterlee still clinging to the floor by the door. “However, it would not do to strike this Schnell down directly. I have made certain assurances and thus the new captain must be allowed to hang himself, if possible. Better to make him suffer by serving punishment upon one of his recruits. Do you have any suggestions?”

Oosterlee realised he was being asked a question and popped his head back up. “Suggestions?”

“Yes, I need to know which of Schnell’s Black Caps I should punish in his stead.”

“There was a woman with him-young, rather striking, quite beautiful in her way. I’m sure her suffering would be of great torment to the captain, if you so chose.”

“I would, but until lately she was the apple of the commander’s eye. To hurt her might be interpreted more as a stab at his heart, instead of a dagger to the spirit of Captain Schnell. No, it will have to be one of the others. Did you see any other suitable candidates?”

Oosterlee shook his head, not daring to say any more.

“Very well,” Henschmann decided, standing up once more. “I shall leave the final choice to one of my enforcers. Better to delegate the responsibility in any case. Deniable culpability, and all that nonsense.”

“Indeed.”

Henschmann paused beside the craven figure on his floor. “Well? What are you waiting for, slug?”

“There was one other element of the report I have thus far failed to convey.”

“Sigmar’s beard, man! Try speaking in plain words, for once in your fat, indigent existence.”

“Yes, of course. It’s about the golden guilders you gave me as a gift for the captain…”

“What have you done with my coins?” Henschmann scowled.

“Schnell tore them from my hands and threw them all into the air. I tried to recover them, but the vast majority were taken by the scum that frequent Three Penny Bridge in daylight.” Oosterlee reached into a pocket and produced three, lonely guilders. “That was all I recovered, I regret to say.”

“Then they shall be your payment.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Swallow them.”

“But you said if I did as you asked, you would forgive my debts.”

Henschmann’s face darkened. “You singularly failed to achieve any of the tasks I sent you to do. As of this moment, your debts have doubled-due compensation for your spectacular failure.”

“Doubled?” Oosterlee quailed, his voice close to breaking.

“I will allow you to keep those three guilders, if you swallow them. Here. Now.”

The prostrate man stared at the coins in his fat, sweaty fist. “In that case, I’ll have to decline your generous offer and leave the guilders here with you.”

“It was not an offer, Oosterlee. It was an order. Swallow them. Now.” Henschmann watched as his minion tried to swallow the first coin. Within moments Oosterlee was choking the golden guilder caught in his windpipe, refusing to descend any further. He coughed and spluttered, his breath fast becoming a desperate wheeze for help. “What’s that?” Henschmann asked. “Having trouble getting it down?” Oosterlee nodded, his face turning purple as feeble fingers clutched at his throat, miming for a drink. Henschmann picked up a silver goblet of white wine and poured it over Oosterlee’s head, laughing as the liquid burned its way into the dying man’s eyes. “Helga, could you come in here? I believe my guest needs assistance.”

The big, butch bodyguard stomped into the meeting room, her sour face curdling with disdain at the sight of Oosterlee losing consciousness on the floor. “Did you have to do that in here?” she asked.

“Help me… p-please…” Oosterlee gasped, his hands going into spasm. His body jerked and twitched once, twice-and no more. A pool of yellow liquid oozed out from beneath the corpse as Oosterlee’s muscles relaxed and his bladder emptied its waste.

“See?” she said, pointing at the mess on the floorboards. “Not only do I have to get rid of this fat lump, now I have to mop up after him. It would have been much easier if you’d left him to me.”

“But where would the fun be in that?” Henschmann wondered aloud. “Toss that carcass out the privy chamber downstairs.”

The privy chamber was a set of doors on the ground floor of the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club, supposedly leading to the bar’s water-closet. In fact they opened directly on to the Bruynwarr, giving drunken newcomers an unpleasant surprise once they passed beyond the doors. “It strikes me that I need another set of eyes and ears inside Three Penny Bridge station.”

Helga frowned. “That weasel Bescheiden isn’t enough?”

“He’ll sell himself to the highest bidder. I need someone who’s loyal without question, if needed.”

The bodyguard stroked her chin thoughtfully. “One of the Black Caps posted there buys crimson shade from our dealers. Control his supply and you control him, body and soul.”

Henschmann smiled appreciatively at the irony of this suggestion. “Excellent. What’s his name?”

“Calls himself Gorgeous Jorg.” Scheusal was not due on duty until sunset, but he returned to the station early, hoping to enjoy some more of Gerta’s cooking. The woman had quickly become a favourite among the Black Caps on Three Penny Bridge, partly due to her wild claims about all the crimes she’d committed but mostly thanks to her skills in the station’s rudimentary kitchen. She could transform the simplest of ingredients into a stew that set the mouth watering, while her herring broth and sourdough bread was beyond compare.

Besides, Scheusal was finding himself thinking about Gerta a lot since her arrival. Perhaps it was because Scheusal himself was built more like a beer barrel than a ship’s mast, but he’d always been partial to women with child-bearing hips and a rump you could get a good grip on. And then there was her smile, all rosy cheeks and dimples, with a smattering of comely freckles across her nose, framed by that lustrous hair. Scheusal quickened his pace as he approached the station and took the steps up to the first floor three at a time. So when he burst into the kitchen, he was more than dismayed to discover Bescheiden smiling sweetly at Gerta and asking for another helping of her dumplings.

“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 door?”

“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 staring 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.”

“Lea-Jan Cobbius?”

Mutig nodded, the colour draining from his face. “Tell the captain… I’m sorry that I didn’t…”

Jan leaned closer, trying to hear what the Black Cap was saying. But Mutig was dead.