The Tulip Virus

by Danielle Hermans

  “I guess he thought it was worth the risk.”

  “You may be right. In fact, that could also be why he sold those bulbs before the auction.” She sounded excited. “Suppose the tulip dealers found out about that sale. If the news was deliberately spread throughout the Dutch republic, then that would have pushed up prices. It’s like the stock market: the asking price depends on the most recent sale price. The dealers would have known in advance that the asking prices at the auction would be astronomical.”

  He nodded. “If that’s true, then before the auction even began, the bidders knew that enormous sums of money were going to be paid.”

  “And the orphanage director could be certain of much larger proceeds.”

  “But they must have known there was a chance that prices would plummet after the auction, at least temporarily. If our suspicions are right, then the orphanage director single-handedly orchestrated the collapse of the market.”

  “But why would he do that? How would it benefit him?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  A fierce wind was blowing, and most of the vendors had covered their books with transparent plastic weighed down with stones. Except for a few stray tourists, the book market on the Spui was almost deserted, unlike the café. Damian pushed the door open.

  Odors of coffee and toast drifted through the large, dark room. He looked around. Dick was sitting in the far corner, sunk so deep in thought that he didn’t even notice when Damian came over to his table.

  “Dick?”

  As Dick looked up, a hesitant smile crossed his anxious face. His eyes were bloodshot. “Hi, Damian, sit down.” His voice was weary. He removed his briefcase from the chair next to him and patted the seat. Damian draped his coat over the back and sat down. Dick was staring into space, rocking back and forth slightly with his hands clasped together.

  “Dick? What’s going on? You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone.”

  “That’s right. I’m not myself.”

  The waiter came over to take their order. Once he was gone, Dick leaned toward Damian, put his hand on his knee, and said, “Before we begin, there’s something I should tell you. Anyone who knows about this could be in danger. Don’t ever forget that. You’ve seen what happened to Frank and Simon. If you boys aren’t careful, the same thing could happen to you.”

  Damian’s eyes narrowed. “So you know a lot more than you admitted. What made you keep it to yourself? And why did you ask me to come here alone?”

  “Because I want you to decide how much to tell Alec. He was his uncle’s pride and joy. Frank would never forgive me if I put him in danger. Alec was like a son to him. So it’s up to you to decide what to do with the information I’m about to—”

  “You expect me to take all the responsibility?”

  “That’s right.” Dick grabbed Damian by the shoulder and stared intently into his eyes. “You can turn back now if you like. You can choose not to hear my story.”

  “It’s too late for that. Now that we’ve got ourselves tangled up in this, there’s no way back.”

  Dick nodded and let go of Damian. The waiter brought two cappuccinos. When he was gone, Dick said, “So you’re not giving up.”

  “And neither is Alec.”

  He nodded. With a deep sigh, he said, “Let’s get down to business. I did withhold information from you. Right from the start, I knew what Frank was up to.”

  “Well, now we know too.” Dick’s eyebrows shot up. Damian went on, “I assume you mean the Fund?”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Tara.”

  “So you talked to her. Then you know what the Fund was intended to accomplish.”

  “Yes, we do.” Damian told Dick what they had learned from Tara.

  “Did she know who else had been involved, besides Frank and Simon?”

  “She didn’t say anything about that.”

  “So she didn’t tell you that I’m a member.”

  “You’re a member? But I thought the members were—”

  “—businessmen with money and connections. That’s partly true. I’m involved in a different capacity, as a scholar, a researcher.”

  Then he leaned forward. Damian could see the fear in his eyes.

  “Damian, it’s all going wrong. This isn’t at all how we’d planned it. We never anticipated this kind of trouble.”

  “Is that why you’re so tense? Are you scared you might be next?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether Simon or Frank mentioned my name, of course. If they kept quiet, then I probably have nothing to worry about.” Dick gazed sullenly into the gloom, pursing his lips.

  Damian felt his impatience mounting. Bending forward, elbows on his knees, he said, “What do you want from me, Dick? Are you going to tell me what you know, or aren’t you? If not, then I’m wasting my time here. You were the one who wanted to talk to me.”

  Dick looked him in the eyes. “If you’ll give me just a little of your time, and if you can find the patience to hear me out, then I’m sure you’ll understand. At least, I hope you will. But remember, this is no game. Just look at what happened to Frank and Simon. If you can’t take it seriously, we’d better end this conversation right here and go our separate ways.”

  He got up and said, in a tone of quiet indignation, “So you tell me. Do you want to know why Frank was killed, or shall we forget the whole thing?”

  “Listen, I’m really sorry,” Damian said. He stood up and laid his hand on Dick’s arm. “I didn’t mean it that way. But I’m sure you understand how frustrating this is for us, especially Alec. We’re discovering that Frank had a second life that Alec knew nothing about. If Frank had ever talked about it, if he had once mentioned it to Alec, then maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe he’d still be alive today. That’s why I lost my temper. Please, forgive me.” He looked around. “Shall we sit down again? Everyone’s staring at us.”

  Dick grudgingly slumped back into his chair. “Look, first of all, there’s nothing you or Alec could have done. Just put that out of your mind. In fact, if you had tried to get involved, you might have ended up like Frank and Simon.”

  He fell silent and hung his head, knotting his fingers. When he looked up again, he said, “I understand why you lost your temper, Damian. But remember this. The reason Frank didn’t say anything to Alec was to protect him, to make sure nothing would happen to him. That’s why we’ve all kept it secret. None of us have told our friends or families, the people we care about most. And now that our lives are at risk, it’s clear we made the right choice.”

  “So why did Tara know about it?”

  Dick shrugged. “I don’t know what Simon told her, or how much. She probably doesn’t know the half of it.”

  “But in the end, Frank did get Alec involved, and he must have had his reasons. He probably thought Alec could do something to help. I assume it was connected to the Fund.”

  “Maybe he did think Alec could help, but of course, at that point he had no alternative. That’s why I want you to know exactly what’s going on.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Alec and Emma looked up as Harold entered the room.

  “I see you two are still hard at work,” he said. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “We’ve been looking for more information about the murder of Wouter Winckel. Do you know anything else about it? Like the motive? Or the identity of the killer?”

  Harold shook his head. “All I know is what’s in the autopsy report. His head was bashed in and someone had shoved his pamphlet into his mouth.”

  “You mean a pamphlet like these?” Emma asked, sliding an open file folder over to Harold.

  “Yes, those are copies of pamphlets published that same year.”

  “So these were the newspapers of their day, right?” Alec asked.

  “More or less. In the seventeenth century, pamphlets were the usual
way of disseminating information or publicizing your views. They were like today’s opinion columns or letters to the editor.”

  He pulled a few sheets of paper out of the folder. “The language can be difficult to follow. But these have been translated into modern Dutch by a student of historical linguistics. The translations are attached to the copies.”

  “What about Winckel’s pamphlet? Which one is that?”

  Harold leafed through the copies and picked one out. “Here it is. It was published under a pseudonym, but it couldn’t have been written by anyone else.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Look at the signature.”

  Emma held it close to her face. “It’s hard to make it out, but I think it says Augustus Semper.”

  Harold looked at them expectantly. Seeing the uncomprehending look in their eyes, he said, “Sorry, I thought you’d know the name. There were a lot of pamphleteers in the Dutch republic, but Wouter Winckel was radical for his day, to say the least. Here’s the modernized version. Read it for yourself.”

  After a few minutes, Alec said, “I see what you mean. He seems to deny the existence of God as a higher power, and then he says that Nature should take God’s place. Here he actually writes, ‘God is Nature.’ His contemporaries must not have been too pleased.”

  “Wasn’t there freedom of expression in Holland back then?” Emma asked.

  “Compared to other Western European countries, Holland was reasonably liberal,” Alec said. “Religion was a frequent topic of discussion, and there were constant debates. But you couldn’t just say anything you wanted. There were limits.”

  “But the seventeenth century was Holland’s golden age of philosophy and natural science. It was the age of reason,” Emma said. “Some people even claim that the Enlightenment didn’t start in France but in the Dutch republic. We were tolerant— at least, more tolerant than other countries.”

  “Tolerant, hmm,” Harold said. “There are various schools of thought about that. The real difference was that we were a republic. There was no monarch telling people what to do, no sovereign making everyone work for his benefit.”

  “Other European states kept a close watch on what their citizens were up to, what they said and wrote. But it wasn’t like that here,” Alec said to Emma.

  Harold opened the thermos and poured them all another cup of coffee. “It’s true that here, people could talk about subjects that were off-limits elsewhere.”

  A wrinkle creased Alec’s brow. “But the freedom to say or write what you believed was limited. The church was powerful, and political leaders didn’t want to hear any complaints from the public.”

  “You’re absolutely right. When pamphleteers knew they were venturing beyond the limits, they used pseudonyms, or published anonymously. Their pamphlets were dropped off at inns or plastered on walls and nailed to doors at night.” Harold pointed to the pamphlet. “I have no idea who committed the crime, but this may have been the motive for killing Winckel.”

  Emma looked at him. “So he was killed because of what he wrote?”

  “It could be. He wouldn’t have been the first or the last person to be murdered by religious fanatics.”

  “Now that I’ve read his pamphlet, I see your point,” Alec added. “He takes a fairly extreme position here. It’s clear that he wants reform— and not just moral reform, but religious too.”

  “Exactly. He claimed that the truth about nature and all its secrets could only be discovered if there was freedom of thought, and that meant breaking free of religious dogma. He felt that scholars and researchers had to be at liberty to experiment, and to challenge prevailing theories and ideas.”

  “Ideas and theories that had always been based on belief in God,” Emma said.

  Harold nodded. “But this was the seventeenth century, and if your ideas conflicted with those of the church, your life was in serious danger. To make things worse, Winckel emphasized the spiritual side of religion, people’s freedom to believe what ever they wanted and practice their faith in any way they chose, any way that suited their needs and preferences. His goal was a true brotherhood of men— and women too, for that matter— regardless of their personal backgrounds. He strongly believed that different religions could coexist in peace. Winckel didn’t care what church a person went to. What mattered to him was empathy and humanity.”

  “That must have horrified the religious hard-liners,” Alec said.

  “It wasn’t just Winckel’s theories that had them worried,” Harold said. “It was also his fortune. Wouter Winckel didn’t spend his money on his own comfort. He had a purpose in mind for the money that he earned by trading in tulips. He gave a large portion of it away. Not to friends and acquaintances, but to—”

  “—science.”

  “That’s right, Emma.”

  Just like Frank, Alec thought. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Frank had deliberately hidden the coded message in the very book produced for the auction of Wouter Winckel’s tulips. Was Winckel his shining example? Had Frank hoped to raise funds for science through the tulip trade, just like Winckel in the seventeenth century? As far as Alec knew, that wasn’t how Frank had made his money. So far, they had no indication that tulips had brought Frank anything but trouble.

  In the car on the way home, Alec said, “Suppose someone planned the whole thing and knew in advance exactly what would happen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, wasn’t it common knowledge that after Winckel’s death his children would go to the orphanage?”

  “I guess so. What’s your point?”

  “So everyone knew that if he died, his collection of tulips would be auctioned off, and the orphanage would keep a share of the proceeds. Dick said that was how it always worked in those days. Whenever an orphanage took in children, it got to keep a percentage of their property. Suppose it was all a scheme, worked out in advance?”

  “But van Benthum said the motive for Winckel’s murder was probably religious. They choked him with his own pamphlet.”

  “Yes, but what if they just wanted to make it look that way? What if their real objective was to get Winckel’s tulips into the hands of the orphanage, for pure financial gain? The next step would be to drive up the prices of the bulbs artificially, so the auction would bring in more money.”

  “And they could do that by spreading rumors of bulbs that were sold in advance for outrageous prices.”

  Alec nodded.

  “So you think the religious motive was really just a cover? It was all about the money?” Emma frowned. “I’m not so sure. Those were the glory days of Calvinism. The extremists condemned all forms of luxury and excess.”

  “And the whole tulip craze was based on greed,” Alec muttered.

  “I can imagine that some people hated the excesses of the bulb trade: all the money that changed hands, and the extravagant lifestyles of successful tulip dealers. Religious fanatics must have been infuriated.”

  “Emma, if this is true, if that’s really what it was like, then it’s a revelation. It would explain why the market collapsed from one day to the next. Maybe the tulip trade had enemies, people who wanted to bring it crashing down.”

  “It’s certainly worth considering,” she said softly.

  “Em, I just thought of something. The pseudonym that Winckel used in his pamphlet. Augustus Semper. We forgot to ask how they linked that name to Wouter Winckel.”

  Emma picked up her phone. “I’ve got Harold’s card in my bag.”

  She punched in the number that Alec read to her. Harold picked up right away.

  “Sorry to bother you, Harold, but there’s something we forgot to ask,” Emma said. “That pseudonym, Augustus Semper.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did Wouter Winckel use that name?”

  “It was a reference to the tulip Semper Augustus.”

  “The tulip?” she repeated. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at Alec.

  “Yes, the
most precious tulip of all time. There were rumors that Wouter Winckel owned a Semper Augustus bulb. So everyone knew from the pseudonym that he had written the pamphlet.”

  “Was the Semper Augustus sold at the auction?”

  “No, that’s the funny thing. We have the sale list, and it doesn’t include the Semper. Emma, before you hang up, there’s something else. After you left, I was thinking about Alec’s last name. I checked our records, and another man named Schoeller visited the archives a couple of years ago, also asking about Wouter Winckel. I didn’t talk to him myself. Another archivist told me that he’d been here. I’ve found the visitor card that he filled in.”

  FORTY-NINE

  “It all started with the death of Paul Rijen, a good friend of mine. We’d known each other since we were students,” Dick said.

  “So Frank must have known him too.”

  “They’d met a few times, sure. A couple of years back, I heard that Paul had committed suicide. It came as a great shock. I felt it was his personal decision, and I respected it, but for some reason I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. He’d never seemed like the type to take his own life. He loved life, he had a family, and he was passionate about his work. Of course, you never know what’s going on in a person’s heart, but I always thought there was something strange about his suicide, something that didn’t quite fit. Yes,” he mused, “it just didn’t add up. The truth is, he lived for his work, and life lost its meaning when it all went wrong. But I didn’t realize that until later.”

  Dick took a sip of his cappuccino. “About two months after he died, his wife wrote and asked me to come and see her. She showed me his suicide note and gave me a CD-ROM. Then she told me what Paul had been doing, the secret project he had concealed from all of us. On the CD there was a document.”

  He bent over, opened his briefcase, and took out a report. Pursing his lips, he drew circles on the cover with his index finger.

  “Is that it?” Damian asked.