David Bishop - A murder in Marienburg

“Good. Now, get out of my sight. I’m expecting a visitor and the last thing I want her to see when she walks in is your vile, repulsive presence.” Henschmann tossed a few gold coins against the door. “Take those as a down payment for your services, and get you gone.”

The informant was scrambling to retrieve the coins before they had settled to the wooden floor. He gathered them in his yellowed fingers and scuttled out of the bedchamber, doffing his black cap to Henschmann as he left. Bescheiden was still making his way down to the ground floor when a beautiful, raven-haired woman clad in alluring silks of red and black appeared at the foot of the stairs. She waited until he had passed before venturing up to her client for the afternoon, not bothering to acknowledge Bescheiden’s lecherous attention.

Willy by name and willing by nature-that was Bescheiden’s motto. If only the ladies had been as willing, he might not have had to spend so many of his bribes buying their affection. But he doubted his entire life’s earnings would be enough to purchase the attentions of the woman ascending to entertain Adalbert Henschmann. Courtesans like Madame von Tiezer were few and far between in this city, her clientele only the richest and most powerful people. Travelling to Three Penny Bridge took Kurt most of the morning because he decided to arrive on foot. Streets and thoroughfares in Marienburg were perpetually crowded during the hours of daylight by travellers, peddlers and citizens, but the problem doubled on any given Marktag. The grand traditions of the market day may have eroded over the years, but most housewives still chose Marktag as their day to go shopping and gossiping. Craftsmen and artisans sent their apprentices out on the streets to sell items that would otherwise have to be scrapped, while farmers and fishermen ventured into the city with fresh supplies of their latest crop or catch.

With so much money changing hands, Marktag was also the busiest day of the week for pickpockets and thieves, plunderers, pilferers, brigands and bullies. The war had made the overcrowding worse, with crippled soldiers lining the streets begging for scraps, while deserters lurked in taverns and bordellos, trying to vanquish their sorrows and guilt.

Kurt could hardly walk a hundred paces without hearing somebody scream from a dark side alley, or without being accosted by some citizen or merchant left out of pocket by fraud or theft. The Black Caps’ headgear had been chosen for a reason. It made the watchmen easier to spot in a crowd and offered them some slight measure of protection from the outrages perpetrated on ordinary citizens. He told them all where he was going and what he planned to do there, and his path miraculously cleared-until the next cry for help, the next belligerent victim stepped in his way. Eventually he removed his cloth headgear and found progress faster. Overhead gulls wheeled and squawked in the air, the cacophony of their cries a constant presence for any who chose to live in Marienburg. Kurt had been told you got used to the sound of the gulls after ten or twenty years. In the meantime he did his best to ignore the birds, even if their cries echoed the mocking laughter of the captains in that grand office.

The sun was directly overhead when Kurt eventually set foot on Luydenhoek. Another hour elapsed before he reached the western end of Stoessel, so narrow were the streets of Suiddock and so dense the constant press of people, animals and carts. He knew to walk in the shadow of the overhanging buildings at either side of the streets. Only newcomers walked down the central cobbles, where urine and faeces ran along a gutter searching for an outlet. But it was the unexpected dowsing from a brimming chamber pot emptied out a first floor window that caught most new arrivals in the city unawares. Few made the same mistake twice.

Kurt heard a crier calling two o’clock as he got his first glimpse of Three Penny Bridge. The structure itself was little different from many other bridges around Marienburg. Houses and shops stood along either side of the span, such was the lack of space available for construction elsewhere in the city. Buildings hung out over the cut slicing between the much larger Rijksweg canal to the north and Bruynwarr canal to the south. Kurt was always amazed that those precariously perched structures did not topple into the water more often, but most had stood for more than a hundred years. No doubt most would stand for another hundred-barring outside intervention. But which of them was the abandoned station? Kurt paused near the foot of the bridge, letting his eyes become accustomed to what little light fell on Three Penny Bridge, looking for clues about which building housed his new quarters.

A line of heavily fortified homes lined the northerly side of the span, all of them looking like they were expecting war to break out at any minute. No doubt they were burgled or attacked on a frequent basis, Kurt surmised. Several looked like they had been abandoned altogether, while another was a burnt-out shell, smoke stains above the charred windows resembling the kohl eye make-up favoured by whores.

Three structures dominated the southern side of Three Penny Bridge-an abandoned temple at the Stoessel end, a fish market at the Riddra end, and a large, menacing structure in the middle. Working girls hung from the first floor windows, calling out to the men passing below, offering them fun, laughs and a good time. Drunks were sprawled in front of the entrance, lending the structure a disreputable air. Kurt could hear laughter and revelry spilling out from within, the familiar sounds of men gambling and arguing. Above the entrance jutted a twisted metal strut, and from this hung a battered and broken wooden sign. The word “Watch” had been obscured by a new name for the establishment: the Abandon Hope Tavern.

Kurt realised his first task would be reclaiming the abandoned station, and it would not be easy. Make a mess of this and he would quickly prove the captains had been right to mock him. “At least I won’t be on my own,” he muttered. “My recruits should have got here before me.”

He studied the throng shuffling back and forth across the most infamous bridge in Marienburg, searching for likely candidates, the best of the best that he’d been promised. But his heart sank like a stone on seeing the raw material he’d been supplied.

Seven men were lingering beside the fish market, trying to look like they didn’t know each other and certainly not as if they were meant to be there together. They all appeared bored, dishevelled and unfit. Several were leering at passing women, others were sipping covertly from bottles that no doubt contained liquor, and the remainder appeared quietly terrified. Not one of them was in the full regulation uniform of a watchman and none were wearing their black cap.

Guiltily, Kurt realised he had also removed his distinctive headgear. He retrieved it from his leather waist belt and positioned the cap proudly atop his head. If I lead by example, they should follow, he hoped. Time to find out if all the things his mentor had taught him would work as well on the Three Penny Bridge as they did in gentle Goudberg.

“Good afternoon, men,” Kurt said firmly as he approached them, trying to make his voice sound more positive than he felt. “You’ve all been assigned to that station, correct?” He jerked a thumb toward the Abandon Hope Tavern, not bothering to acknowledge the travesty it had become.

Nobody replied.

“I asked if you’ve all been assigned to that station. Is that correct?” Kurt repeated, letting anger seep into his voice, making certain all seven of them had heard him clearly. They started to straighten up, realising their new leader had arrived and he meant business. A few guiltily slid their black caps back on their heads. Eventually a small, insipid member of the group stepped forwards to speak.