The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Wanting to say a final farewell to Orabel, Aidan walked up to the bar and grinned with pleasure when Bram did not recognize the grime-streaked “boy” who asked for Sweet Kate. In response to Aidan’s question, Sofie lifted her head from the table where she dutifully watched a card game. “Kate has gone out already,” the older woman muttered, looked at Aidan through eyes smudged with exhaustion. Strands of hair had escaped from the knot at her neck and pasted themselves to her painted cheeks. “She should be free by now, so check the street. She left more than an hour ago.”

  Aidan went out into the streets, peering down alleyways and calling her friend’s name. “Orabel! Where are you hiding?”

  Then she saw her friend, pretty and relaxed, perched upon a barrel at the end of an alley. A clean-shaven gentleman in a feathered hat held her face and patted her cheeks.

  “Excuseert u mij,” Aidan called hesitantly. She knew she ought to leave, but she was desperate to say a final good-bye to her friend. She moved slowly down the alley, her hands tucked into her rope belt, trying her best to approximate a boy’s swaggering gait. “I’d like to speak to Kate for a moment, if you please.”

  The man turned his head, and Aidan had to bite her lip in order to suppress a gasp of recognition. This was the man who had leaped into Heer Van Dyck’s garden to stop their exercise in fighting! Why was Orabel with him? Quickly she donned a blank expression and backed away. “I—I’m sorry.”

  “Boy!” The man’s voice was rough and abrupt. “Do you know this unfortunate girl? I have just now found her dead!”

  Dead? Orabel? She couldn’t be dead! Perhaps she was asleep. She might have been beaten—such things happened occasionally to Lili’s girls.

  Aidan moved closer, her eyes fixed on the gray flesh, the bluish lips, the purplish black marks on the girl’s throat and neck. “She can’t be dead!”

  “I’m a doctor,” the man answered, gently placing one of Orabel’s hands upon the other. “I’m afraid I know death when I have the misfortune to see it.” He stood back and cleared his throat. “Do you know her? Did she have family we should contact?”

  Unable to face the awful truth, Aidan stepped back. Wave after wave of shock slapped at her, and she drew herself up and swallowed to bring her heart down from her throat. “Not dead,” she repeated, but the finality had left her voice. “She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone.”

  “Listen to me, young man.” Her ears filled with a strange buzzing, and Aidan heard the gentleman’s words as if from a great distance. He was saying something about how even a lady’s maid deserved a decent burial. Aidan clapped her hands over her ears and retreated further down the alley. Who was this man? And how could he talk about Orabel? He didn’t even know her!

  “Don’t run, boy!” The man called. “If you knew her, you must help me make the arrangements. Where did she live? Who were her parents? Who is responsible?”

  Aidan stopped and lowered her hands, her mood veering sharply to anger. She turned and took an abrupt step toward him. “How do I know you weren’t responsible for this murder?” she yelled, hearing her voice echo among the buildings of the alley.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy.” The man’s blue eyes, narrow with fury, bored into Aidan’s. “If I were capable of this girl’s murder, do you think I’d be standing here chatting with you now? No. I’d snap your skinny neck like hers, and I’d be off to sea, forgetting about the lot of you Batavian brats.”

  Aidan swallowed hard and gave him a hostile glare. Though she wasn’t certain she could trust him, he seemed to be a gentleman. But what would an English doctor know of life on Batavia’s streets?

  She leaned against the building and closed her eyes. “No one cared for this girl,” she said, spitting out the words in contempt. “She lived here by the taverns; her parents are dead and rotting in the sea, and there is no one to take responsibility for her.”

  “Then I shall.” The doctor turned back to Orabel’s body. “Run and fetch the constable, will you? We’ll make a full report of this, but it must be done quickly, for I’m due at the docks by nightfall.”

  Aidan trembled at his words. She couldn’t find a constable! The constable and his men knew the women of the wharf district nearly as well as they knew their wives. The chances were great she’d be detained … and questioned. But this man was willing to take care of Orabel, and surely any gentleman who would leap a garden fence to defend a lady’s honor could be trusted.

  The man moved to lift Orabel, but Aidan interceded. “Wait!” She stepped up to her friend’s body. “Good-bye, dear Orabel,” Aidan whispered. She brushed her fingers across the silk folds of the golden gown. Why had she ever given that dress to Orabel? What sort of madman had it attracted?

  Suddenly her mind blew open, and her eyes moved to Orabel’s bruised neck. The necklace was gone! This wasn’t murder alone, it was robbery!

  “No!” she groaned, guilt washing over her. If she hadn’t given the golden cross to Orabel, she wouldn’t have been accosted, she wouldn’t be dead. Aidan had always tucked the necklace inside her bodice, hiding it from prying eyes, but Orabel had been so proud of her new dress. She had worn the cross at her neckline for all the world to see. And now she was dead.

  Orabel’s head lolled onto the doctor’s shoulder as he lifted her. Aidan stepped back, pressing her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, and fled the alley before the man could see her retreat and command her again.

  Watching from across the street, Witt Dekker saw a boy fly out of the alley, his face as pale as paper and his eyes glittering like a mad cat’s. Witt pursed his lips, then lifted his tankard to his lips and drew a deep draught. The boy had undoubtedly seen the body and was either running out of fear or rushing to get help. Or—another thought rose to goad him—perhaps the street urchin had been hiding in the alley and had seen everything.

  Prodded by an unfailing sense of self-preservation, Witt pulled himself off the wall where he’d been leaning and whistled for his dog, then followed in the direction the boy had fled. The slender figure was still ahead of him, darting like a scared rabbit through the milling crowd of seamen and loaders, heading steadily toward the docks.

  Suddenly a horse and wagon moved into the road, blocking the path, and Witt smiled. He’d catch the wharf rat now for sure. But to his surprise, the scamp darted under the wagon, losing his cap in the process. Just when Witt was sure the boy was gone, he reappeared long enough to snatch his cap out of the dust and dirt. Witt caught a glimpse of wet coppery hair, a long braid, and features almost too delicate for a boy.

  The wagon moved away, and Witt followed, his eyes fixed upon the advancing figure as the boy’s hurried strides led to the docks. The urchin paused for a moment at the harbor master’s desk, then turned toward the dock where the Heemskerk and Zeehaen were berthed.

  With Snuggerheid at his heels, Witt approached the harbor master’s desk. “A moment ago, sir,” he said, pushing his own cap up at a jaunty angle, “a boy came by here and asked for directions. About so tall—” He held his hand out at nose level. “—and pale skinned. Remember him?”

  The harbor master shrugged. “Ja. I remember.”

  “Well, do you know who he is?”

  “Ja, I know.”

  Witt stifled the urge to strangle the man. “What’s his name?” The harbor master shook his head. “He’s nobody. A ketelbinkie.”

  “A ship’s boy?” Witt’s patience began to unravel. “On what ship?”

  “The Heemskerk.”

  Witt smiled. Whoever the lad was, he had run straight into Dekker’s hands. “Did the ship’s boy give his name?”

  The man shrugged again. “Just a ketelbinkie,” he repeated.

  Witt scratched his chin. If this lad was traveling as a ship’s boy aboard the Heemskerk, there would be plenty of time to find out who he was and what, if anything, he knew about Sweet Kate’s murder. Dekker was in no rush. They would be on a long journey, one that would offer a thousand opportunities for unfortunat
e mishaps.

  “Well, Snuggerheid,” he murmured as he scooped the dog up into his arms, “it seems as if we will have two people to keep an eye on now.” He turned toward the sea, thinking. Though he’d have to deal with the old man eventually, the ketelbinkie probably knew nothing. And if he did, two could be washed overboard or cracked on the skull by a flying spar as easily as one. Accidents happened nearly every day at sea. Aidan O’Connor could wait until after the ship returned to port, for Dempsey Jasper couldn’t inherit a guilder until he had official word of the old man’s death.

  He turned back to the close-lipped harbor master. “Have you a pen and paper?”

  “You know I have,” the master answered.

  “Then take this down, and send the message straightaway to Heer Dempsey Jasper. Tell him that the old mouse is already in the trap and will not be returning to Batavia. I’ll expect his debt to be paid when I return.”

  The man scratched the message over the parchment, then dipped his pen into the ink and offered it to Dekker. “Shall you sign it?”

  Witt backed away, unwilling to advertise the fact that reading and writing were not among his many skills. “No,” he answered, patting the dog so the harbor master could see that Witt could not be troubled with pens and paper at the moment. “Just send it right away, will you? I’m expected aboard my ship.”

  With a grunt and a nod, the harbor master sprinkled blotting sand on the wet ink, then shook it off and neatly folded the parchment.

  Witt smiled. His orders would be carried out. Dempsey Jasper would know that he was on the job. And both Van Dyck and the ketelbinkie would be well within his reach once they set sail.

  Whistling, he moved toward the dock, where the Zeehaen bobbed at anchor. They might not discover gold on this voyage, but it nevertheless promised to be a trip that would make Witt Dekker a very wealthy man.

  The sinking sun had not yet reached the tops of the masts when Sterling wearily made his way to the Heemskerk. Tasman would undoubtedly be angry that his surgeon and future son-in-law had disappeared for half a day, but tending to the girl’s burial had taken longer than Sterling had anticipated. At first the constable had glared at him with outright suspicion. Then once the man recognized the poor girl’s face, he had waved Sterling away as if he’d discovered a dead housefly. “Have no fear, we’ll bury her in the pauper’s grave.” The constable shrugged and moved away from the corpse, barely even glancing at the girl’s sweet face. “If nobody pays for the burial, that’s what she gets.”

  “Surely she deserves more,” Sterling had answered. “Look at this gown! This is a fine lady, someone of consequence! You can’t just ignore her!”

  “Look,” the constable said, running his hands over the paunch at his belly, “this is a port city. All kinds of people mingle down there at the wharf—pirates and their women, foreigners, and people who are running from trouble in Europe. Not every lady who wears a fine dress is rich, and not all of them matter, if you take my meaning.” He looked up and gave Sterling a conspiratorial wink. “Trust me, sir, if no one comes for her within a day or two, no one is missing her. But to please you, I’ll keep her in the dead house until sundown tomorrow. Then she goes to the pauper’s field.”

  Frustrated at the constable’s impertinence, Sterling produced a gold florin from his own purse, and, lest it disappear into the constable’s pocket, waited until the man grudgingly called the carpenter and commissioned a teakwood casket for the girl’s final resting place. Satisfied at last that the carpenter was an honorable man who would do his duty, Sterling left the girl’s body in the constable’s office and made his way to the docks.

  The Zeehaen lay at anchor in a berth beside the Heemskerk, and Sterling caught sight of Witt Dekker on the deck of the smaller ship as he passed by. Instinctively he lowered his head, not wanting to enter into conversation with that man unless absolutely necessary. In that respect, at least, his acquaintance and new affiliation with Tasman was a blessing. He would sail on the commander’s flagship, the Heemskerk, under commander Tasman and skipper T’jercksen Holman while Dekker served as first mate on the Zeehaen under skipper Gerrit Janszoon.

  He passed the Zeehaen and came upon the Heemskerk, a proud ship that heaved elegantly upon the swell of the tide, straining at her hawsers as if already eager to be under way. A horde of sea gulls dived and shrieked among her masts and rigging, their voices as raucous as the shouting of the seamen.

  Sterling paused before a heavy man standing watch at the gangplank. “Goedenavond,” he murmured, offering the man a casual smile. “I am to report aboard.”

  The man’s eyes raked over Sterling’s form, taking in his boots, his breeches, his worn shirt and frayed doublet. “Are you English?” His voice dripped with suspicion. “This is a Dutch ship, sir, commissioned by the V.O.C.—”

  “I know,” Sterling interrupted. He drew a deep breath and shifted his bag from one hand to the other. “I am Sterling Thorne, lately employed by Commander Tasman to serve as surgeon on this ship.”

  “Ah.” The man threw his head back, though a decidedly unpleasant look remained on his face. “You are the doctor.”

  Sterling straightened and attempted to bow, not an easy feat when one stood at the end of a shifting plank.

  “I am Francois Jacobsz Visscher, pilot major of the expedition as well as first mate of the Heemskerk.”

  Sterling pushed down his increasing irritation. “I’m honored, sir. Now, if I might pass, I believe the commander is expecting me. I was detained at the wharf this afternoon by a bit of unpleasant business.”

  Visscher eased away from the plank and allowed Sterling room to pass. He hefted his bag and moved ahead, one hand clinging to the insubstantial rope that served as a railing, and prayed that they would soon be under way. Cuts, bruises, broken bones, and weak bowels he could handle, but he had neither the patience nor the skill for shipboard politics.

  Organized chaos reigned on the deck. Bodies darted to and fro, popping up through hatchways and dropping suddenly out of the rigging like hanged men. The sails that would send them to parts unknown lay in ivory stacks upon the deck, their upper folds billowing in the breeze. At other points a steady stream of native loaders sidestepped sailors as they carried livestock, barrels, crates, and trunks of supplies for the voyage.

  Sterling moved forward until he came to the mainmast at the center of the ship. There he paused, trying to stand out of the way until he could catch sight of Abel Tasman. He was astonished, however, when the first familiar face he saw was that of a distinguished older man who stepped out of a small cabin beneath the forecastle. Sterling paused, trying to fix the face in his memory. This man hadn’t been aboard the Gloria Elizabeth, this memory was fresher …

  The man looked up and caught Sterling’s eye. For a moment confusion clouded his eyes as well, then a smile twitched into existence within the neat thicket of his beard. “My friend the defender!” he cried in careful English, opening his arms as if Sterling were a long-lost relative. “Are you sailing with us?”

  “Yes.” The pieces fell into place, and the memory of their meeting brought a wry, twisted smile to Sterling’s face. “I am the ship’s surgeon. But you—”

  “I am the voyage cartographer,” the old man supplied. “Francois Visscher is the pilot major and keeper of the charts, of course, but the Company has hired me to produce a map of the lands we will discover and explore.”

  “Of course.” Sterling tipped his head back and looked at him. “Since we will be traveling together, we certainly should be properly introduced. I am Sterling Thorne, and I am pleased to be at your service.”

  “I am very honored to meet you, sir,” the man chuckled, “and now I understand why you were so eager to preserve life and limb when you came to my ward’s defense. I am Schuyler Van Dyck, and I am most pleased that we shall be friends.”

  “Your ward, sir?” Sterling tilted his head. “The young lady was your ward? I was not certain of the association between you, bu
t it did appear odd that you should be teaching her to duel with fisticuffs.”

  The older gentleman coughed and blushed crimson. “Ah, well, yes. The girl is most unusual, there’s no disputing that fact. And I must apologize for the way she, er, attacked you.” He gave Sterling a bemused glance. “I did not expect her to jump on your back. I hope you were not hurt.”

  “Not at all.” Sterling shifted his shoulders, slightly embarrassed by the memory. “I can only assume that you were teaching her to fend for herself since you were going away. Though it is unconventional, still, it seems that there was no harm done.” He smiled at a distant memory. “I have two sisters who used to regularly pummel me and my brothers.”

  “You are quite right; that is exactly what I was doing.” Van Dyck nodded in emphasis. “Teaching her to take care of herself. And she took to my teaching like a duck to water, I believe.” He cocked his head and looked at Sterling, his eyes glowing with pleasure. “She is a right pretty thing. Did you get a look at her?”

  “No, I’m afraid I did not.” Sterling smiled and wondered if Heer Van Dyck was as eager to marry off his ward as Abel Tasman was to betroth his daughter. “But I’ve discovered that the Dutch are great judges of beauty. If you say she is one, I will not doubt your word.”

  “Beauty and morality,” Van Dyck answered, nodding. “You cannot have one without the other, though both are too often counterfeited. As a painter, I value beauty wherever I see it, and as a Christian man, I cherish morality and virtue. My late wife possessed both beauty and a pure heart … and I miss her dreadfully.” His eyes glazed as he stared out to sea. “Are you married, sir?”

  “Not yet.” Sterling shifted his weight as the conversation grew burdensome. “Though I plan to be as soon as we return to Batavia.”