Assignment in Amsterdam

by Carrie Bedford

  “Not really. Just delays getting some of the paperwork we need. I’m sure it’ll work out okay.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to see the place.”

  “We’ll go straight there then. You can check in at the hotel later. I’m looking forward to seeing your reaction to the house. And there’s something I want to show you. I did some digging around over the weekend and came across something unusual. I’m hoping you’ll be able to explain it.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What kind of unusual?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Has it got anything to do with some rumors Alan mentioned? Have you heard about them?”

  For a second, Sam’s expression changed. A crease formed between his brows. But then he smiled. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “A place with that much history is bound to be a topic of gossip and speculation.”

  I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow. “What kind of gossip?”

  “Oh, the usual stuff. People who died under mysterious circumstances, lights in the windows at night. But all historical. Nothing recent. As I said, it’s what you’d expect for an old building. A maid trips over a cat in the dark. The next thing you know, there’s a wild beast roaming the hallways. A visiting dignitary falls down the stairs after a night of drinking and breaks his neck. But someone claims he was pushed. The tale is embellished as it passes from one person to another, so that it eventually bears no resemblance to the original incident.”

  My feeling was that he was protesting too much. It was almost as though he needed to convince himself that the stories weren’t true. But he was a down-to-earth, practical Londoner, unlikely to be upset by a few silly folk tales. Given his aura, however, I would take them seriously too.

  “How’s Josh doing?” he asked, not too subtly changing the subject.

  “He’s away, overseeing a project in Bristol. A new medical center.”

  “I like Bristol, but Amsterdam is amazing. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  The taxi pulled up outside a massive four-story house built of cream-colored stone. It stood apart from its neighbors on a corner, overlooking a canal that gleamed under the winter sun.

  “This is it,” he said. He grabbed my suitcase, carried it up a short flight of steps to a tiled landing and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. Was it my imagination or did he hesitate before unlocking the glossy black door?

  I stepped into a lobby with a high ceiling of white plaster and gold-painted beams supporting a massive crystal chandelier. On each side of the hall, a door of polished oak was set in the walls, and a wide staircase rose upwards in the middle. It had a nice old-world charm to it, but I was a little disappointed. With all of the talk of rumors, I’d been expecting a creepy old place hung with cobwebs.

  Sam walked over to a door off to one side and pressed a button. “We’ll take the lift. Even though we’re only going up one floor, to the apartment level. Not sure I see the point of that.”

  “Just wait until you’re seventy with bad knees.” I grinned at him. “You’d be glad of it then.”

  It was impossible to imagine Sam as old and infirm. He rarely sat still and, when he did, he simmered with pent-up energy. But something was wrong. Something threatened him. Could it be a health issue? It seemed unlikely. I followed him into the mirror-lined cubicle. Weirdly, I never saw auras reflected in mirrors, or glass or water. For a moment, I gazed at Sam’s reflection, free of the swirling air, and wished that was the reality.

  The lift rose at a measured pace and delivered us to a large landing at the top of the staircase. We walked through an arched opening into a massive sitting room lavishly decorated in the style of the early eighteenth century. Pale green walls were inset with large gilt-edged panels that held an array of oil paintings and mirrors in gold frames. Sconces threw a glimmering light over Persian rugs, red velvet couches and upright chairs upholstered in gold satin. The effect was almost overpowering, an onslaught of color and texture.

  “It’s like a museum,” I said. “Did the Janssens do the decorating?”

  “Yes. They renovated this entire floor about eight years ago. Apparently, it was uninhabitable when they bought it.”

  “Interesting choice of style. I mean, it’s luxurious, but not very practical. Sort of like living in Buckingham Palace, I imagine. Is the whole house like this?”

  Sam shook his head. “Hardly. They did a complete renovation of this floor, and a partial re-do downstairs. Just enough to create the entry lobby. The two upper floors haven’t been touched.”

  I stopped to look up at a towering chandelier that hung over a decorative marble table, but Sam kept going, so I hurried to catch up with him. We peeked into a formal dining room dominated by a mahogany dining table the size of the bedroom in my London apartment.

  And the Janssens’ kitchen was bigger than my entire flat. Lit by a line of windows that overlooked the canal, it was chock-full of commercial grade stainless steel appliances and gleaming zinc countertops.

  “I’ll make some tea if you want some,” Sam offered.

  “Sounds good.” I’d had a very early start that morning and the tea on the plane had been awful. “The owner doesn’t mind if we use the kitchen?”

  “Not at all. As we will practically be living here for the next week, Mrs. Janssen said we’re welcome to use the facilities. She even had the maid bring in a few supplies for us.”

  I sat down at a vast glass-topped table while Sam put the kettle on. Under the bright LED lights, his aura rippled.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  Startled, I turned and saw a middle-aged woman coming into the kitchen. She wore a knee-length brown wool skirt and a pale pink twinset. Her greying hair was pulled back into a severe bun. A bun over which the air rotated rapidly.

  “Tessa De Vries,” she said. “I’m Eline Janssen’s personal assistant. Call me Tessa.”

  The sight of that aura made me forget my manners. I ignored the hand that she held out to shake mine, my eyes fixed on the swirling air over her head, but Sam jumped in. “I’m Sam Holden. This is Kate Benedict.”

  “Very nice to meet you both. I understand you’re going to buy the house?” She spoke good but strongly accented English.

  “Well, we’re here to clear contingencies and prepare a feasibility study,” Sam said. “But, yes, in principle, my client is planning to buy the property.”

  “Good, good. That will make Mrs. Janssen very happy.” Tessa bustled over to the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. “English tea, I assume?”

  “Er, yes, please. Thanks.” Sam looked a bit flustered, probably at the idea of having someone waiting on him. I was flustered, too, although for a different reason. Two auras. What the heck was going on in this crazy house?

  I leaned my arms on the table to steady myself while I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

  Sam gave me a puzzled look. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed.

  I shook my head and mustered a smile, sitting up straight. I had to work this out quickly. Were Sam and Tessa facing the same danger? It seemed unlikely. They didn’t know each other and they had no connection that I was aware of.

  Tessa handed me a porcelain mug of tea and conjured up a plate of ginger biscuits from somewhere.

  “Please join us.” I pointed to a chair.

  “Well, thank you,” she said, quickly preparing a third mug of tea. She sat down opposite me, next to Sam, which was a bit disconcerting, as I could see both of their auras swirling. Tessa’s, I noticed, was moving faster than Sam’s. In my experience, rapid movement was a signal that death was close.

  As I’d done with Sam earlier, I shot a series of questions at Tessa, and she seemed happy to answer them all. She’d been working for Eline for about eight years, mostly assisting with her busy calendar.

  “She’s very involved with a couple of charities in the city and organizes several fundraisers each year,” Tessa explained. “So, I help with her schedule and handle her correspondence, mak
e travel arrangements— that sort of thing.”

  Her brows drew together. “Of course, it’s all different now, since Tomas died. I try to keep her busy, to keep her distracted, but the poor dear is bereft. She moved out of the apartment a few weeks ago, which was a very good idea in my opinion.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Tessa glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening. “The house is… she didn’t feel comfortable… Well, it’s just too big for one person, isn’t it?” She stood up abruptly and rinsed her mug out in the sink. “Do let me know if there’s anything at all I can do to help you. I live just ten minutes away. Here’s my phone number. Please, really, don’t hesitate. The sale will be good for Eline, give her an opportunity to move on. Me too. When I’m sure she’s settled, I’ll move back home. My mother lives in The Hague. I want to go back and look after her. She’s in her eighties now.”

  Tessa smoothed down her skirt and then straightened up. “Good luck.” She sighed deeply and then tilted her head, looking at Sam. “You seem like a very nice young man. I wish that… I hope nothing goes wrong. Look after yourself.”

  With that, she walked out.

  “That was odd,” I said, shaken by her words. Was she warning Sam about something? Something to do with the house? Something to do with his aura?

  “Funny old bird,” Sam said, apparently undisturbed. “Shall we get on? We have lots to do.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I ran out of the room and down the stairs. “Tessa!”

  The woman stopped on the bottom stair.

  “I wondered… what did you mean when you said you hope nothing goes wrong?”

  As I walked down the stairs to join her, Tessa eyed the front door as though considering a hasty retreat. Then she turned to look at me and attempted a smile. “I have a nephew about the same age as Sam. I’m always telling him to look after himself too.”

  “It seemed like it was more than that.” I knew there was more to it. Sam and Tessa were both in danger, and I was sure Tessa knew something that might help me save Sam— and her too, if I could.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really have to go. I’m late for a meeting. I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.”

  She reached out and patted my arm before turning away and letting herself out of the front door. I stood for several seconds, trying to decide whether to chase after her.

  “You coming?” Sam called from the top of the stairs.

  I went up to join him. In the kitchen, I picked up the card Tessa had left with her number on it. I’d call her later, see if I could set a time to see her. I had a lot of questions.

  3

  “Do you want to look at the plans and paperwork?” Sam asked, dragging my thoughts away from Tessa and her strange words.

  “I’d rather see the rest of the house first and whatever it is you found over the weekend.”

  “Okay. Follow me.” Sam paused to pick up two rechargeable torches and handed one to me. While I was wondering why we needed them, he led the way out of the kitchen along a hallway decorated with gilded fleur-de-lis wallpaper and lined with doors.

  “Bedrooms.” Sam pointed to the row of doors on our left. “Five of them, with en-suite bathrooms and a room that was probably once an office. We’ll look at those later.”

  At the end of the hall, we came to what appeared to be a solid wall but, when Sam pushed on it, I heard a click. The wall turned out to be a door that opened away from us into a dark space. He switched on his torch to reveal a narrow staircase, its wood treads scratched and hazy with dust.

  “These were the service stairs,” he said. “They’re now the only way to access the upper floors because the Janssens removed the main staircase from the apartment up.”

  “That’s odd. Didn’t they intend to renovate the rest of the building then?” I asked as we began to climb.

  “I don’t think so. Strange, considering there are two huge floors up here, each about the same size as the refurbished apartment, and then there’s the ground floor with the lobby and dozens of unused rooms.”

  Sam stopped when we reached a small landing. “I call this the blue floor. You’ll see why.”

  Tall windows along the front wall illuminated a massive salon with eggshell-blue paneled walls. Black-spotted mirrors hung on the walls and white sheets covered sofas and tables.

  “The house stood empty for about fifty years before the Janssens bought it,” Sam said. “It seems as though they just left these upper floors as they found them. The electricity isn’t working up here or on the top floor.”

  “No, but these front windows are magnificent,” I said.

  We walked the length of the building, peering into old bedrooms and antique bathrooms with rust-streaked tubs. Each room was decorated in a shade of blue, from aquamarine to cobalt.

  Towards the far end of the long hallway, Sam led me into a bathroom. The first thing I noticed was a jagged hole large enough to walk through. It was centered in one of the blue-paneled walls, which were streaked with black mold. The room reeked of mildew.

  “I was worried about the evidence of water damage in this room, so I broke through the panel yesterday,” Sam explained. “Hoping to find the source of the water and work out how big of a problem it might be.”

  “Not exactly your job is it? To fix plumbing.” I chuckled.

  “True, but there was no point in waiting for the building contractor to do it. And I found this.”

  He turned on his torch and stepped through the opening. I followed suit and found myself in a wide corridor hung with cobwebs. The flooring was bare stone and thick with dust. The air smelled musty. I sneezed violently and pulled up the collar of my jacket to cover my mouth and nose.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “It’s not a very hygienic environment, but I need you to see what I found. There are the utilities, as I expected.” He pointed the torch at the old iron pipes and fraying electrical cables that ran along the brick wall at the back. Then he walked off into the dark shadows, with me close behind, playing the beam of my torch along the brick walls, keeping an eye out for spider webs. I wasn’t keen on spiders.

  Sam came to a sudden stop. It took me a second to realize that the light from his torch was illuminating a block of concrete.

  “It’s a pillar,” he said. “I worked out that it’s about six feet square. See, there’s space along the back for all the utilities, and just enough room to squeeze through on this side.”

  Without hesitation, he turned sideways and edged through the tight space between the wall and the pillar. I swallowed hard. Claustrophobia was right up there with my fear of spiders.

  “Are you coming?” Sam’s voice echoed around the concrete slab.

  Holding my torch firmly in one hand, I pressed myself into the narrow opening and inched my way through. The rough cement scuffed against my favorite jacket. That was good. It gave me something to worry about other than being stuck here forever, unable to move backwards or forwards.

  I felt Sam’s hand on my elbow and then I emerged into the corridor beyond the pillar. Sam was right. The pillar was about six feet square and rose from floor to ceiling.

  “Is it structural?” Sam asked.

  “Definitely not,” I said, shining the light up and down its grey, rough sides. “We’re very close to the back wall of the house, which provides all the required structural support. This didn’t show up on any of the plans you sent me.”

  “That’s what I thought. I walked all the way to the end, assuming there would be an access point for the water pipes and the electrical cables, but the corridor just stops at a brick wall. There seems to be no way to get in or out, so how would they have got in here to do repairs?”

  “Maybe they didn’t do repairs,” I said. “That would explain all the water damage.”

  “So what is this pillar thing?”

  “Perhaps someone’s buried in it,” I joked.

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s going to be in the way. C
an we demolish it?”

  “We can think about it, but let’s get out of here,” I said, anxious to leave the dusty, cramped space. Overcoming my nerves, I worked my way back through the narrow opening with Sam close behind me.

  I thought about the pillar as we clattered back down the service stairs. Sam was right that it was going to be in the way of whatever we decided to build up there. We needed to work out what its function was, but nothing immediately came to mind.

  “Let’s look at the plans again,” I suggested. “Maybe they will shed some light on that pillar.”

  Back in the kitchen, I sat at a vast glass-topped table while Sam pulled out papers from his briefcase and spread them out on the table.

  “You have digital copies of these,” he said. “The plans, such as they are. We have a complete layout for this level, and our contractor verified its layout and measurements, but only to the paneled wall. He didn’t know about the corridor behind it. Or about the pillar of course.”

  “You have a structural engineer coming?”

  “Yep, although there was a delay. He was supposed to arrive last Friday, but they decided to send someone else instead. He’ll be here later this morning.”

  I flipped through the rest of the papers, some of which were in Dutch. “Who built the house originally?”

  “A chap called Jacob Hals. He was a co-founder of the Dutch East India Company, or, in Dutch, the Verenigde Oost-Indiche Compagnie. The VOC, as it was commonly known.”

  “Thank goodness. I couldn’t get my tongue around the Very… whatever you called it.”

  Sam chuckled. “Me neither. Not more than once anyway.” He stood up to fill two glasses with water and brought them back to the table. “The house was built to impress, as you can tell from the size. By the mid-1600s, Hals accumulated incredible wealth and he wanted everyone to know it.”

  “He made his money with the VOC?”

  “He and many of his peers. At its height, the VOC was worth more than the combined value of Amazon, Apple and Google today, which is hard to imagine. They created it to develop and protect trading routes with the East Indies for spices, tea, silk, all that. They issued stock, letting the public buy shares, which was a whole new way of operating. And, get this, they established an army and built their own warships to protect their interests. They were very successful colonists.”