A Familiar Warmth

“How is your promotion going? Malguinem Port is a big place,” Belle asks, taking a breath as she lowers herself into her chair.

The chair is still upholstered in that old, frayed fabric. Greyed by years of use, patched over with similarly coloured cloth. Its timber frame is strong, dark wood, no doubt the most expensive part of it, whenever it was made. And the smell, soap, wool, smoke. So familiar.

This place was my home for a long time. Belle was a good landlady. She got the house after her husband died in the war, but she never let it show. And she always made the best cakes. I’m going to miss them when I go back.

“Hmm,” I reply, my mouth half full.

“Finish that before you answer!” she snaps, in that very maternal way. The familiar tone makes me smile.

She straightens her glasses, watching every movement.

“It’s going well,” I say finally. “Never knew how much I’d miss this place.”

“Well, Oakheart misses you too,” she replies with a smile. “That fool they got to replace you was terrible.”

“So I heard. Incompetent too?”

“Oh, definitely. No backstreet copper could replace you, dear.”

“I’m sure they’ll find someone, Belle. I was never that good a policeman.”

“No,” she says firmly, “that’s because you’re a born detective. The constabulary saw that. That’s how you earned the promotion. You’re moving up in the world.” Her smile softens. “Makes me so proud.”

I smile. Though she wasn’t my mother, I always thought of her as one. When I came back from the war, I had nothing left. My family dead, my friends as broken as I was. She gave me a home. A place to recover.

Clothes, warmth, everything I could ask for. Even if the clothes were cheap wool grown on the surrounding farms, brown jumpers knitted by an army of old ladies who always seemed to be nearby. In winter, I didn’t care how badly the wool smelled. Only how warm the hearth was, and the tea in my hand.

That hearth is the same as ever. In the city, houses are fitted with the new magi-tech heaters. This feels different. A welcoming warmth. The scent of burning wood. The crackle of the fire.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “tell me, dear. What have you been up to?”

“In my first few months I helped take down a serial killer,” I say. “Stumped the department for over a year. Horrible man. Drained people of blood.” I shudder.

“I heard you brought down a crime family.”

“Joint effort,” I reply. “Started long before I arrived.”

“Amazing. So why have you come back?” She tilts her head. “Not just to see me, I assume?”

“I’m investigating the death of Sergeant Price,” I say carefully.

“Oh.”

“And Constable Johnson.”

“Oh, I—”

“And Constable Smith.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes widen, just a fraction.

“We have a cop killer in town,” I continue. “The Chief thought my familiarity with the place might help.”

“So, you’re working,” she says brightly. “On an important case. Detective Nicholas Carpenter!”

“Hmm.”

“Has it helped you?” she asks. “Found the killer yet?”

“I have a good lead.”

“Oh,” she says, chuckling softly.

…

“All three men were killed in different ways, each in their own homes. The murderer didn’t bother to cover their tracks. Each death followed a break-in.”

Nicholas is so serious as he speaks. He was always a clever boy; I knew that when I took him in all those years ago.

Broken and beaten after years at sea. Going from place to place, only to return with nothing. Nineteen, I think. Conscripted the moment he turned sixteen. Such sad days. Can’t say now is any better.

He always loved the idea of being a copper. Helping people. Enforcing whatever justice they decided was right. He deserved that promotion. I thought it would be the last I’d see of him.

“I assume the killings were inexperienced, unplanned,” he continues. “The killer knew the victims. The motive feels personal, not maniacal.”

“Is that so, dear?” I say, finishing my tea. “You really have come a long way. The city’s been good for you.” I set the cup down. “Have you been to temple since returning?”

“We found fabric on a broken window,” he says, gently steering the conversation back. “Wool. Hand-knitted. Local.”

“A difficult clue, dear,” I reply lightly, a small chuckle escaping me. “Everyone wears that wool around here.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Except we found a connection between the victims.”

“Oh, really?”

“You didn’t hear?” He exhales slowly.

Perhaps it’s time for a drink. “Would you like a refill, dear?” I ask, pushing myself to my feet.

He sighs, passing me his cup. “Yes, please.”

Time for a warm drink. I set the kettle over the hearth. Reminds me of when he was younger. Telling me about his training, the idiots he worked with, eyes fixed on the fire while the water boiled.

“The victims were all ex-soldiers,” he says. “Fought at the southern point of Nims Pass. Same battalion.”

He pauses. I’m facing away, but I can feel his eyes on the back of my head.

“The same one your husband served in, I believe.”

Clank!

They went home. He never did.

“Oops! Sorry. One of the good mugs.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear,” he continues. “With all the war documents that were recently released.”

“I—um.”

“They were dishonourably discharged,” he says calmly. “Deserted just before the fall of Grenshall Cay.” A pause. “A bloody battle.”

“Those were terrible times,” I murmur, steadying myself as the kettle rattles. “How about that drink, hmm?”

I lift the kettle. I’ve done this a thousand times. Second nature.

But not like this.

Just a little rat poison. He won’t taste it. Just a little.

“Why did you do it, Belle?”

He doesn’t sound like the boy I took in. He sounds like a detective.

“What do you mean?” I reach for the tin. Careful now.

“We found footprints in Johnson’s blood,” he says. “Small. Feminine. Short gait, elderly.”

My hands shake.

“Price’s neighbours confirmed it. Said they saw a short figure near the house that night.”

“Two sugars,” I say automatically. “As always.”

“I’m here to arrest you, Belle,” he says gently. “We recovered one of the murder weapons. And I would recognise that rolling pin anywhere. I’ve eaten enough of your cakes.”

The tea sloshes dangerously as I carry it over.

“Drink up, dear,” I say, forcing a smile. “And I’ll tell you everything.”