Pos was quite correct. Tonneman could smell it now. Remains of a bottle, perhaps. He’d seen it happen. A bottle of spirits left in the hot sun could explode with the force of a gunshot. He followed Pos below deck.
Here there was no stink of rotting flesh, but rotting food, scraps of clothing and the dark stains of blood and shards of glass. The cargo holds were empty of whatever cargo the ship had carried.
The smell of rum was strong, but not a barrel to be seen anywhere. All signs pointed to pirates, who not infrequently boarded cargo ships looking for rum from the islands of the Caribbean.
“What do you make of it?” Tonneman asked.
“Pirates. Either they killed the crew or the crew joined them.”
“I met a woman with two children on the road into town. Their cart had lost a wheel. Her man is a sea captain bringing his cargo to the city.”
They climbed back onto the top deck.
“Let me guess,” Pos said. “The name of his ship is The Portagee Spirit.”
“And that well may be what’s left of her man we found tied to the wheel.”
“Hallo, the ship.”
Asser Levy was as tall and broad as Tonneman. His coal-black eyes were deep set in a face darkened permanently from his youth in the Brazilian sun.
“You are welcome to come aboard.” Tonneman lowered the ladder.
Though older than Tonneman, Levy was strong and agile, still working with his sons in his slaughter house just beyond the Water Gate. He dealt with the climb up the rope ladder with little difficulty.
“Mister Tonneman. I believe you asked for me.” The leader of the Jewish community in New-York, Levy had thick features and a white beard. He was normally a genial man unless his people or his religion were attacked. He remained near the rope ladder, his nostrils twitching, uneasy.
“Thank you for coming.”
Levi sniffed the air. “There are dead aboard this ship. I cannot be here.”
“You are correct. I’m sorry.”
The old man held tight to the ladder, anxious to leave this impure place. “Please tell me quickly how I can help you. Do you believe the dead are Jews?”
“One man is dead. I don’t know if he’s one of your people, but I found this in his hand.” Tonneman showed Levy the gold mezuzah.
Levy did not touch the mezuzah. Bobbing his head, he mumbled a prayer.
Tonneman waited.
“A gold mezuzah. I have not seen one like this in many years.”
“You have seen one before?”
“Yes. In Recife before we came here. There were those who –” He stopped, frowning. “There is a way to discern if the dead man is a Jew. And if he is, I will send my people to prepare his burial. Who is he? How did he die? Where did this ship come from and where is the crew?”
“We don’t know. He might have been the captain of the ship or simply one of the crew. Murdered by a dagger in his chest. No sign of crew or cargo.”
“Piracy,” Levy said.
“Our feeling, too,” Pos said.
“A strange barge came aground near my slaughterhouse this morning. Its tow line had been severed.”
“Ah.” Tonneman held up the cut line. “The barge might well have been tied to this ship.”
“They could have come ashore last night. I will ask my people if anyone saw them.”
“Couldn’t be missed with their barrels of rum,” Pos said.
“I met a woman this morning,” Tonneman said. “She was travelling into the city with her two children. Her husband, captain of The Portagee Spirit, was bringing his cargo into New-York port. The name is Spinoza.”
Levy sighed.
“You know the name?”
“It is a name that echoes in the history of my people.”
“I will see if the dead man is a Jew.”
“You know what to . . .”
“Forgive me, Mister Levy. I have three sons and if I’m not mistaken, their mother is one of your people, which makes them Jews. We follow tradition.”
Levy did not respond. Since her marriage to Tonneman, a Christian, Racqel had not been accepted by the Jewish community, which was why she had prayed for his conversion, and why he had finally agreed to do so after the Jewish New Year. Levy knew this. Truth be told, Tonneman, who feared little, was in no hurry to take the necessary steps.
An angry yell rent the air. “Damn you, Tonneman, don’t touch another thing on that ship. Get off, now. You forget who is sheriff here.”
The outraged voice belonged to Sheriff Thomas Gibb. Standing nearly seven feet, Gibb was gaunt of body and face. His temper was choleric.
And in his stormy wake, in sharp contrast to Gibb, the calm and collected Deputy Eric Nessel-Vogel, who stood just a few inches over five feet and was so muscular he didn’t appear to have a neck. The muscles simply went from his shoulders to his head. Nothing and no one distressed Eric Nessel-Vogel.
Gibb shouted, “I’ll have you leave this ship, Tonneman.”
“As you wish, sheriff, but first I must carry out a duty.”
Pos followed his friend to the wheel house, clapping him on the back. “Do you know why Gibb is always in a temper?”
“Pray tell.”
“Because he doesn’t drink beer.”
“I don’t drink beer. Or anything these days. Why aren’t I always in a temper?”
“Ah, that’s because you have Racqel.”
Tonneman laughed out loud.
“Tonneman!”
From Gibb’s shout Tonneman could tell that the sheriff was taking further offence. The Dutchman was not happy with the task he’d assigned himself. But he performed it as he did every chore over the course of his life. One thing at a time. He pulled the dead man’s pants aside.
“Poor sod,” Pos said.
Tonneman nodded. The dead man was a Jew all right. But being one of the Chosen hadn’t helped him any more than it had those who had been caught in the horrors of the Inquisition.
They returned to Asser Levy. The butcher was already on the rope ladder.
“He’s a Jew.”
Levy grimaced. “I’ll see to it.”
“I want to have a look at that barge,” Tonneman said, placing the mezuzah in his purse. It may well have belonged to the dead captain, in which case it was now his widow’s.
“Do so.”
“And Mister Levy, if our dead man is the captain and a Jew, then Mistress Spinoza and her children are your people as well. I told her to come to City Hall.”
“I will send someone to look for her.” The old man climbed down to the pier and approached the sheriff and spoke softly.
“When and only when I’ve investigated,” Gibb shouted. He grabbed at the rope ladder and missed, coming dangerously close to smashing himself between ship and pier, all the while cursing Tonneman and all who thwarted him.
Nessel-Vogel used the distraction to speak to Asser Levy. “If the dead man is one of your people, you may see to him after the sheriff inspects the scene.”
“You’ll have a look at that grounded barge?” Tonneman asked Pos.
“Of course. We can discuss it on the way to Whitehall. There’s the matter of First Councillor De Sille. I was sent to fetch you.”
“I will see him tomorrow. I take it you don’t know what it’s about.”
“You take it right.”
Pos was more than happy to accept Antje Ten Eyck’s offer of a tankard of beer while Tonneman went down to the river and doused his head with cool river water.
Before he drank his buttermilk, Tonneman laid the gold mezuzah on the table and gave Racqel and Antje Ten Eyck a quick account of what had been discovered on the ghost ship.
“The mezuzah was in his hand,” Tonneman said. “It was either his or it belonged to the man who killed him.”
“I would not like to think that,” Racqel said. But she knew it was possible. There were those of her people who could be as murderous as some gentiles.
“He may well have be
en the captain of the ship, murdered by pirates, the cargo carried off, the crew either tossed overboard or joined with the pirates.” Tonneman returned the mezuzah to his purse and told the women about Lily Spinoza. “We’ll see if Mistress Spinoza recognizes it.”
“Poor woman,” Antje said.
“Poor orphaned babes.” Racqel gathered her boys to her.
WEDNESDAY
The arresting, white-shingled building, once Pieter Stuyvesant’s Great House, now known as Whitehall, stood at the foot of Queen Street. As Pos knew well, Tonneman was never happy when he talked to his old boss, Nicasius de Sille. Impatient to get this meeting past, Tonneman raised the lion’s-head door knocker and sounded it several times.
A tall young African slave with high cheek bones and a serious aspect, opened the door. His clothing, yellow satin breeches, ruffled white blouse, and blue waistcoat, resembled that of a European courtier. His deep brown skin gleamed in the sunlight.
“Good day, Mister Tonneman, First Deputy Pos. The First Councillor is expecting you.” He escorted the men past dark wood furniture on Turkey carpets, their images reflected in mirrors with frames carved in gold leaf.
Before First Councillor Nicasius De Sille became so high and mighty, he and Tonneman had been shipmates together on the brigantine The Princess of India. Over the years Nick’s demeanour and appearance had altered with his station. He’d come far with the English.
Nick had grown a flamboyant English moustache and was bulkier of form. He doused himself with great amounts of lavender scent, wore a stylish wig, and said “rather” and “bloody” and “damned” all the time as if he weren’t Dutch but an Englishman born.
The First Councillor’s office was elegant, with silver candelabra, satin and velvet on chairs, an ebony cabinet, and a French carpet. A majestic chandelier hung from the ceiling, its candles lit. The room was suffocating.
De Sille filled his pipe with tobacco from an ivory box, held a candle on a silver stick to flame the burly leaf. “Tea, gentlemen?”
Tonneman kept a smile on his face. “There’s a murdered man on an empty ship at Coenties Slip. Let’s get on with it, Nick. What can I do for you?”
“Bloody hell, don’t you think I know that? I was expecting a shipment of fine Cuban rum. Now some damned pirates have stolen it from me. One hundred and ten barrels. I want you to get it back.”
“Isn’t that a problem our brave British navy could accomplish faster and better than I?”
“Yes. If the bloody thieves are still at sea. My spies tell me they are in the area peddling my precious cargo to the bloody taverns up and down the Hudson. If we don’t act quickly, there will be nothing left of my rum.”
“Bloody sad,” Tonneman said, ignoring Pos’s cough.
“Rather. What? Very amusing. Find my rum.”
“And?”
Nick heaved a great burst of air. “I will pay you five percent of the profit I earn on the shipment.”
Tonneman considered five percent fair. He doubled it. “Make that ten percent . . .”
“Done.”
“. . . of the total price you get.”
The First Councillor’s eyes narrowed. “Done.”
“May the sun shine on all your . . . bloody . . . enterprises.”
On the Strand once more, Tonneman saw Pos conversing with De Sille’s slave. The slave gave Pos an oblong package. When Pos joined him, Tonneman said, “Help me find the rum and I’ll share the fee with you.”
“‘Done,’ as the First Councillor would say. But I’d like a bonus. One bottle of rum for my own personal use.”
“Done. What have you there?”
Pos removed a small telescope from the leather case. “I thought it might be helpful.”
“Good thinking for a bloody English deputy.”
Pos grinned. “Where do you suggest we look?”
“We start with that barge that ran aground near Asser Levy’s slaughter house.”
As Tonneman and Pos approached the Water Gate and Asser Levy’s property near the Wall, a woman’s pitiful cry pierced the thick and humid air.
“A widow’s wail,” Pos said.
Tonneman dismounted in front of Levy’s house and tied Venus’s reins loosely to the post, among other horses including the gelding and the cart whose wheel he’d replaced the day before. Levy came out on his stoop.
“Have a look at the barge while I talk to Levy,” Tonneman told Pos.
“The dead man is Captain Isaya Spinoza,” Levy said. “He has been cleansed and shrouded. We are awaiting only the pine coffin. He will be buried before sundown.”
“The widow and her children?”
“The Nathans have taken them in. She is, of course, desolate.” He seemed about to say something else, then paused, shrugged.
“Mister Levy?”
“Most peculiar, Mister Tonneman.”
“You mean her apparel.”
“Yes. Of course, a woman travelling alone some distance must be wary. We live in perilous times. Most of their possessions were on the calamitous ship.”
“Perhaps she will speak to me. I would like to express my sympathy and return to her the gold mezuzah, which undoubtedly belonged to her husband.”
Levy looked doubtful, but before he could respond, a group of women in black garments came from the outbuilding behind his house. Lily Spinoza, her face ravaged with sorrow, was among them.
To Levy Tonneman said, “I must tell you that Councillor De Sille has given me the task of finding out what happened on the ship. It seems that the cargo was meant for his warehouse. I could use the eyes and ears of your community.”
“Of course.” Levy beckoned to Lily Spinoza. “Mistress Spinoza. Mister Tonneman would like to express his sympathy for your loss.”
The other women waited, bristling, like a small band of crows. Pieter Tonneman was a gentile who had married one of their own. Racquel had set a bad example.
“You are kind, sir,” Lily Spinoza said, weeping profusely. “Kind to help me on the road and kind now.” More sobbing. “My poor orphaned children.”
“I believe I have something that belonged to your husband.” Tonneman took the gold mezuzah from his purse.
Lily Spinoza gasped through her tears. She fell to her knees in front of Tonneman, clutching the mezuzah to her breast, ignoring the shocked cries from the other women. “You have brought me peace, sir. It belonged to his father and before that, his grandfather. My husband never parted with it. I thank you with all my heart and soul.”
Casting a disapproving look at Tonneman, Asser Levy helped Lily Spinoza to her feet.
“Mistress Spinoza,” Tonneman said. “What port did your husband sail from?”
“Madagascar.”
“A long journey.”
“They were to take on provisions in Cuba.”
“Your husband’s crew. Did he know them well?”
“Oh, sir, do you think –” She began to sob again. “They were not his usual complement. His own men had come off a long voyage and dispersed after they were paid. Then a contract came of a sudden with a bonus if the cargo was delivered quickly, so my husband, blessed be his name, had to hire a new crew.”
At the Water Gate, the sentry dozed in the sultry heat, leaning precariously on the side of the guard shed.
“The Indians are coming, Kendall,” Tonneman called. To his right were the river and the long pier to Levy’s slaughter house.
Kendall blinked, staggered, then toppled over as Tonneman rode past. “That wasn’t very nice,” the soldier shouted.
“A fine guard you are,” Tonneman said. “We could all perish.”
Pos fixed the glass to his eye, looking north toward the tanneries. A wonderful instrument, yet nothing of interest appeared. He looked across the river. Again, nothing. But wait. A flash of colour on the rocky Breukelen shore that didn’t seem pure, as Racqel Tonneman liked to say. Yes, indeed, a truly wonderful instrument. Breukelen. Of course. The cargo would be sold most easil
y to taverns on Long Island. They were unloading barrels from a barge much larger than the one he was standing on. Pos chuckled. He could taste the rum already.
No time to wait for Tonneman. After strenuous poling northward along the shoreline, Pos hid the barge in a spot thick with brush near the Dircksen farm. He scrambled up the grey stone slabs and shouted for the ferryman.
Not getting a response, Pos made for the barnyard along with dozens of fat pigs and piglets coming from all directions. Johann Dircksen, strewing ears of corn, was soon surrounded by his hungry pigs and piglets. Johann, like his father and grandfather before him, ran the ferry to Breukelen.
“I’m busy,” Dircksen said. “I have a farm to run. You’ll have to wait.”
“There’s no waiting. I’m appropriating your ferry boat,” Pos told him.
“You say?”
“An order from First Councillor de Sille. I must get to Breukelen right away.”
“And I must be paid.”
“You’ll be paid. Submit a bill to Whitehall.” Pos was on his way down to the river when Dircksen called out to him.
“What?”
“When I win the lottery, I’ll have no need for ferrying.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as Tonneman tied Venus near Levy’s slaughter-house. When she nickered her objection to the scent of blood, he rubbed her nose and fed her a carrot from his ration bag, then walked down the rocky path to the inlet where Levy had told him the barge had run aground.
“Halloo, Pos?” Tonneman expected to see Pos dawdling about the barge, but both Pos and the barge were nowhere to be seen.
“Sweet Jesus!” Tonneman roared, loud enough for Josiah, one of Levy’s sons, to come running along the extended pier that led to the slaughter-house. “Forgive me.”
Josiah could barely suppress his smile at the Dutchman’s discomfort.
“Have you seen what happened to the barge that went aground here?” ”
At the young man’s head shake, Tonneman continued. “First Deputy Ludowyk Pos? He should be here with the barge.”
“No,” the youth said. “The barge was here this morning. I saw nothing of First Deputy Pos.”
Perhaps Pos found rum on the barge. Just like him to have a nip or two and think it a wonderful prank to play.
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits Page 46