The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  Tonneman was mounting Venus when Nessel-Vogel came along in haste. “Sheriff Gibb is on his way and he’s fit to chew tenpenny nails.”

  “Over what?”

  “He was told about a barge aground near here.”

  “Levy said as much.”

  “The Sheriff is certain the barge has something to do with the ghost ship. He won’t be happy to see you here.”

  Tonneman turned his snicker into a cough. “I’ll be on my way then, Nessel-Vogel. We wouldn’t want to upset Sheriff Gibb, would we?”

  Crumpled pewter clouds were darkening the sky. More rain was Tonneman’s guess. Venus slowed her pace. Tonneman reached down, stroked the four-footer’s withers and whispered into her ear. He nudged her into a trot as he took the long way home along the Wall to the Broad Way and down to Queen Street so as to avoid the angry sheriff.

  His boy Moses, sturdy, his mother’s dark hair, but Tonneman’s keen blue eyes, was sitting on their stoop waiting for him when Tonneman rode up.

  The boy leaped to his feet and carefully placed “The Book Of Proverbs” that Asser Levy had given him for his tenth birthday into a velvet bag. Printed in Spain, the Biblical proverbs were presented in Hebrew on one side and Spanish on the other.

  Moses rubbed Venus’s nose. “Mutti said for you to come in right away.” Venus, hungry, nipped Moses’ shoulder.

  Tonneman dismounted, patted Venus’s flank and turned the reins over to his son. “Give her a good rub down before you feed her.”

  The air was baking hot, stifling. A torrid breeze drifting in from the river just made matters worse.

  “Did you hear about the lottery?” Moses asked.

  “What lottery?”

  “Everyone’s talking about it. Are we going to buy a chance?”

  Racqel stood at the door holding a bowl of fresh water and toweling cloth. Tonneman removed his hat, lowered himself to the stoop, and washed the dust from his face and hands. She sat beside him, using the toweling to wipe at hidden dirt behind his ears. He quite forgot about the murdered sea captain, Pos and the barge being missing. He put his arm around her.

  “Not here in the open,” she said, though she didn’t pull away.

  “Why not?”

  “Our neighbours.”

  “From what Moses tells me, everyone is more interested in the lottery than in us.” He kissed her cheek and then her neck.

  “Husband,” she said sternly. “I have something of importance to tell you.”

  “Oh, very well,” he said, giving her a final kiss on the chin.

  “I saw the dead man when he was taken from the ship. He was not murdered. His brain exploded.”

  “Then he was murdered.”

  “His brain was not attacked from the outside. It was assaulted from the inside. It is my belief that his blood was pumping rapidly. It had no place to go, so it exploded in his brain.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I don’t. I deduced it. From the few facts I had at hand. Mainly from the one eye that was destroyed and filled with blood. Apoplexy.”

  “Which is?”

  “A rupture of a blood vessel. No blade or pistol killed him. Apoplexy ruptured one or more blood vessels and the apoplectic hemorrhaging killed him. If he was fortunate he swooned before the eye burst and then he died.”

  “But what of the knife in his chest?”

  “I saw no blood around the wound. The knife was introduced after his death.”

  Tonneman nodded. This made no sense. Unless . . . unless someone wanted them to think the dead man had been murdered. Why? To create a diversion. While we were concerned about murderous pirates, what real event was taking place right under our eyes?

  Day currents flowed south on the East River. The stream caught Pos quickly. His motion was sure and effortless as his oars propelled him forward with the current. He used it in dips and pulls to get across to Breukelen.

  Pos feathered his port oar and dug deep into the water with the other. He passed the barge, now empty. They were so busy carrying barrels up the cliff, they obviously hadn’t seen him rowing across, which was good. He counted six. No, seven. Two were Africans. He didn’t want to take on the lot of them, but if he captured their leader the rest would run. He hoped. This required careful thought.

  He came ashore well below where the pirates worked, dragged the ferry boat up behind a boulder and knelt, watching the scene. A sudden gust of wind blew his hat from his head. But there was no wind. He reached for his hat, which lay on the rocky beach and planted it back on his head. Again the wind blew it off. This time when he reached for it, he was surrounded by laughter. He leaped to his feet. He was also surrounded by men. All with swords drawn.

  “You’ve won part one.” Pennies flowed to the wagerers as they were assured by Nando that winning early meant they had a better chance of winning late, and they were convinced to increase their investment.

  “No matter the calendar, no matter the day of the week, I call this Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras,” Nando said. “Let me see your ticket. Aha! You’re a winner.”

  More pennies flowed. “Now is the time to increase your wager. You are fated to win even more. Happy Fat Tuesday. Happy Mardi Gras.”

  The city was like the famous Bedlam madhouse in London, or maybe, as Tonneman thought, more like the tulip auction fever in the Old Country, which resulted in a panic. His father had lost everything and Tonneman had to leave university in Leiden and go to sea. Now he saw grown men and boys running up and down the streets and lanes and alleys of New-York stumbling over roaming pigs, nearly run down by carts, selling lottery tickets and half lottery tickets, and one-tenth lottery tickets, while others shouted, “I won, I won.” Staid married women sat on their stoops counting their puny winnings, wagering more.

  Nando had cleverly set up Before-the-Big-Lottery lotteries, separate from the main contest. They paid very little, perhaps a penny for a thruppence wager. But they paid off often and noisily as Nando and a brightly clad boy, to the accompaniment of drums and cymbals and horns, demanded to see gamblers’ tickets.

  Tonneman stood on the Strand watching the furious proceedings, which centered around The Queen’s Stallion. He shook his head in disgust. Where in God’s name was Pos? He should have returned by now.

  “Tonneman!” Johann Dircksen came on horseback from the direction of Whitehall. His cheeks were puffed up and red and he was bristling with anger.

  “What is it?”

  “Your man Pos went off with my ferry and never came back.”

  “How so?”

  “Said he couldn’t wait while I fed my pigs. Had to get to Breukelen on the First Councillor’s business. De Sille says you’re in charge. I want my ferry. I hold you responsible.”

  “Come now, Johann. You know Pos is not one to go off like that. Something’s happened to him.”

  It was late afternoon when Tonneman lowered the sails of De Sille’s yawl and beached it on the barren Breukelen shore amid sparse, dry grass, boulders, half eaten fish carcasses and empty oyster shells. Breukelen was a desolate place, though with so many new arrivals, people were taking land here and building farms. But, no port, no thriving business. He saw no future in Breukelen.

  What had brought Pos here? And what was so important he could not wait for Tonneman?

  A faint hot breeze followed him as he walked along the rock-strewn beach. The sun was edging toward the western horizon when he came upon Pos’ hat. Concerned, Tonneman picked it up, looked it over, relieved to see no sign of blood. He shaded his eyes and scoured the cliffs, then called, “Halloo, Pos!”

  At once there came a muffled response, but from where? It wasn’t until he walked farther up the beach that he saw the upside-down prow of Dircksen’s ferry boat nosing from behind a huge boulder.

  And it was bucking like a goat.

  He flipped the boat over and was struck by the explosive smell of rum. “Sweet Jesus!” Pos was trussed up like a Christmas goose, a red silk neck cloth in his mout
h. He reeked of rum. Tonneman pulled the cloth from his mouth.

  “Horse piss! Get me out of this. Those treacherous bastards soaked me in rum with no way to drink.”

  THURSDAY

  “I’ll have their heads,” De Sille squealed like a stuck pig. “And yours for not moving fast enough.”

  Tonneman had just told Nick, “I guarantee that there’ll be a barrel of rum in every tavern on Long Island, not to mention a bottle here and there where the tavern keeper couldn’t afford the toll for a barrel.”

  Pos added, “They’re going overland because they surely would have been spied at sea.”

  “Bah. I’ll send soldiers across the bay to warn the tavern keepers.”

  “It would be too late,” Tonneman said. “I took it upon myself last night to make a deal with Keyser. One barrel to him if he and his sons can find the booty and capture the pirates.”

  “That comes out of your commission, Tonneman,” De Sille said.

  “From nothing comes nothing,” Tonneman said.

  “Those damned pirates stole the telescope and De Sille is insisting I pay for it,” Pos complained as they walked down the crowded Strand. The sun, already a hot ball of fire, had yet to burn off the steamy morning mist. “If Keyser captures them he’ll try to keep the telescope as scavenge, that thieving bastard.”

  “I let him know that De Sille expects it back.”

  “You are a good man, Tonneman.” Pos paused outside The Queen’s Stallion, where a boisterous line of men and women were gathered around the gypsy Nando vying to buy lottery tickets. Children ran about screaming and barking four-footers chased them. “I think I’ll add to my collection,” Pos said.

  “Collection? Don’t tell me you’re buying into this fever?”

  “I picture my big winning, guinea upon guinea, a trunk full of them. I might consider taking a wife.”

  “You are all mad. It’s the bloody tulip fever all over again. And you marry? May I live to see the day.”

  He left Pos to the lottery and inspected the idle vessels in the bay. A new ship had arrived in spite of apathetic winds. Its crew was busy at work on board. He looked closer. Well, well, well. No new ship at all, but The Portagee Spirit, and she was being revived by a new crew.

  Who had bought The Portagee Spirit so quickly? De Sille, perhaps? He had the most money. But Nick had said nothing about it.

  Tonneman was curious. At least the Widow Spinoza would have some money for her woe. He came down to the shore, where boys with baskets were digging for oysters to sell door to door. Shading his eyes, he saw a small boat put off The Portagee Spirit heading for shore.

  He would soon get the answer to his question.

  As they came close Tonneman was astonished to see Lily Spinoza herself sitting in the boat, rowed by a brawny man with olive skin and a bright yellow cloth round his forehead.

  “May I be of service, Mistress Spinoza?” Tonneman offered the woman his hand.

  Lily Spinoza, in dark trousers and a sea captain’s coat, swung herself from the small boat. “You are most kind, sir,” she told Tonneman. “I am capable.”

  “So I see. How are your children faring?”

  “Well. Babes have no sense of loss,” she said. “Your wife offered to take care of them while I was seeing to my ship.” Lily Spinoza removed her hat and fanned herself. Her black hair hung in ringlets past her shoulders.

  She was an odd one, he thought. “Your ship?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are preparing it for sale, then?”

  “Oh, no. I’m hiring on a crew and I will sail home.”

  “Then you will sell it.”

  “Not at all. I plan to carry on my husband’s business.”

  Tonneman saddled Venus and rode to the Water Gate. There was no sign of Pos.

  “Have you seen First Deputy Pos?” he asked the dozing sentry.

  Kendall blinked, twitched, squinted up at Tonneman, then pointed his thumb to Asser Levy’s Tavern, just this side of the Water Gate. Pos’ horse, head in the trough, was tied to the rail outside.

  “No surprise,” Tonneman muttered. He dismounted and stood in the door of the tavern. Pos was drinking beer, regaling all of his adventure with the pirates in Breukelen.

  “Deputy!”

  “Ach and my saviour has arrived.” Pos drained his tankard. “Duty calls. I regret I must leave you, gentlemen.”

  Tonneman growled.

  “You might be of better humour if you imbibed a tankard or two.”

  “I leave that to you, old friend,” Tonneman said.

  Beyond the Wall the noise of the city receded. Queen Street was the southernmost and lowest point of Manhattan Island. From there the rise was steady all the way to the northern, densely wooded hills.

  Not too far beyond the Wall was a section of marshlands, low and wet, dense with grasses, rushes, tall, reedy cattails, home to mosquitoes, frogs, and water snakes. It was followed by a thick wood on the sharp rise of a hill, falling off gradually to accommodate Shellpoint, a deep, clear freshwater lake, one of the many basins that collected the run-off from the hills and brooks and provided drinking water for the city. On the far side of Shellpoint free Africans had built a village on land given to them.

  Just past Shellpoint, the stink of the tannery hit them, all the more foul smelling in the heat. The tanneries had been banished beyond the Wall by Pieter Stuyvesant because of that very stink.

  “Couldn’t do this without beer,” Pos said, gasping. “What do you wager the greedy toad has been successful?”

  “What would you do for a barrel of rum?”

  “What wouldn’t I do.”

  Keyser’s tannery, a prospering business, was on a knoll, and always a beehive of activity, what with his two sons, and their six apprentices all busy carrying buckets of water from here to there, scraping decomposing flesh from hides, tending fires which went day and night, boiling bones, making caustic dyes, soaps and candles.

  The three buildings were open to the front because most of the work was done outside in cauldrons and pots with carts rolling back and forth. The noise was usually deafening. Not today. Though the fires burned, there appeared to be no living creature about except for the cats that prowled the site amid thick hordes of black flies and mosquitoes, feeding on large chunks of rotten meat that teemed with maggots.

  “What do you think?” Pos asked. He was peering up the hill to where Keyser and his family lived: One house for Keyser, his wife, who kept milk cows, and younger son Willem, the other for his older son Adolphus, his wife, and children. A large barn was set well back of the houses.

  Tonneman said, “I think we should see why all the cows are milling round outside the barn.”

  At the top of the hill they tied their horses to the hitching post in front of the house. Groans, curses and many voices came from out back of the barn. They nodded at each other and squeezed through the shifting cows to see why the beasts had been displaced.

  Barrels. The barn was filled with barrels.

  “Fifty-five, by my count,” Pos said.

  They slipped quietly from the barn and edged around back. Keyser stood over a massive ditch leaning on a shovel urging speed as his sons and his apprentices rolled barrel after barrel into the ditch.

  The sound of Tonneman’s sword leaving its scabbard didn’t register with Keyser standing over the ditch. Two women, Adolphus’ pregnant wife, and Freyda Keyser, and three children watched. Freyda Keyser turned at the sound of the sword. All industry stopped with her scream.

  “Thirty-two barrels of beautiful rum,” Pos said. “Buried in the earth for the toad’s profit.”

  “Eighty-seven out of a hundred and ten. Not too bad,” Tonneman said. “Nick should be grateful.”

  “He won’t be,” Pos said. “He has to pay you ten percent. And you have to buy off one barrel for Keyser. And then there’s your old friend Pos.”

  FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY

  The sale of lottery tickets continued with s
teadily increasing frenzy before the Jewish Sabbath began at sundown on Friday. Tonneman, returning from his meeting with De Sille, could hardly make his way through the crowd in front of The Queen’s Stallion.

  On Sunday, the Christian Sabbath, the taverns were closed by law. Gambling was not permitted either and the sale of lottery tickets was deemed gambling by the First Councillor and the various chapels and churches. Still, human nature being what it was, there was no law preventing people from buying lottery tickets on the sly.

  In addition to the boy, Nando had acquired two aides, Africans, tall, well built, their skin oddly scarred, their heads wrapped in colourful cloth. They stood over his trunks, guarding the coins of every description.

  “Slaves?” One Eye said, not liking the look of them. Especially as the trunks and the Africans were positioned behind his tavern.

  “Free Africans,” Nando said, emptying another bag of coins into one of the trunks. “Sailors, they say, waiting for a ship.”

  “How much do you think we’ve collected?” Greed fairly oozed from One-Eye’s pores.

  Nando gave him a broad wink. “Enough for thirty taverns, partner.”

  Sunday night arrived with no respite from the intense heat and with the knowledge that the name of the winner of the lottery was to be drawn on Monday at high noon. The city was fraught with anxiety and avarice. Sleep was uneven. Taverns were filled with revellers. The heavens, laden with rapidly moving clouds, crackled. Occasionally a strange light flashed across the northern sky, but there was only a sliver of moon. Darkness fell heavily on the restless city.

  MONDAY

  One hour after the Night Watch called midnight, a sharp wind came up from the southwest, bringing great crashes of thunder, followed by torrents of rain that fell in such quantity the city was threatened with flood.

  In the Tonneman house, a child screamed. Racqel woke from a deep sleep. Tonneman groaned. Two-year-old Daniel slept on a pallet next to their bed.

  “Mutti.” He gripped his mother’s arm with icy fingers and climbed over her, then settled in between them.

  “Daniel, are you having a bad dream?”