Then they left the canal behind, turning first right, then left, then right into a narrow alley lit only to the degree that it was less dark at its far end. Spandrel decided he had had enough. Lust had entirely deserted him. He hurried to catch Jan up, asking him to stop at the same time.
‘I’m not sure about this, Jan. I don’t feel—’
Suddenly, he tripped, on what he had no idea. He fell heavily to the ground and rolled into the central gutter, then struggled to his knees, looking around for assist ance. But he did not receive assistance. Instead, he received a boot in the midriff that drove the breath from his body and was followed by a wave of nausea. A second boot added a sharp, disabling pain to the nausea. Then something blunt and heavy struck him round the side of the head. He fell helplessly into the gutter, his senses grasping little beyond fear and the impossibility of escape. He had been taken for a fool and he had acted like one. They were thieves and probably murderers too. He was done for.
He must have vomited at some point. He dimly saw a pale smear of it on one of their sleeves and heard the owner curse him. It was Henrik. Or Roelant. He could no longer tell. It earned him another cuff to the head and a deepening of the blear through which his brain struggled to understand what was happening. The ale he had drunk dulled his pain but sapped his ability to think or to act. He was dragged into a doorway and hauled into a sitting position. Then they began rifling through his pockets. One by one they were emptied, till finally his money-bag was pulled out, tearing off the button fastening the pocket it was in with such force that it bounced back onto his face from the wall next to him. ‘Snel, snel,’ he heard Jan say. ‘Het zand.’ Something else was being put in to replace the money-bag – something heavy and bulky. Whatever it was, the same was being thrust into his outer pockets. Then he was dragged upright and carried along the alley, held by his arms across Henrik’s and Roelant’s shoulders, his feet scuffing the cobbles.
He glimpsed lamplight to left and right and the vague outline of a bridge. They must be near a canal. That fact was as much as he had grasped before he was abruptly released and found himself falling. He managed to brace his arms in front of him to take the impact. But it was not the cobbles he hit.
The water was cold and darkly turbid, a soundless world that wrapped its muddy coils around him and held him fast. He could not swim, but even had he been able to he would probably have been helpless, so heavy did he feel, so resistant did the water seem. He recognized the end that he now confronted: a drowned drunkard, far from home. He struck out against it. He saw a shimmer of lamplight, refracted through the water. He was close to the surface, but not close enough. He sank back, abandoning the effort and with it himself to the oblivion that folded itself around him.
Then something caught at his shoulder and lifted him bodily through the water. He broke surface and gulped in the air, coughing convulsively. There were stone stairs at his back, leading down from the street into the canal. A boat-hook was being disentangled from his coat as he was dragged up the lower steps. Somebody was behind him, hands beneath his shoulders, knees braced at his side. ‘Push yourself up,’ said a voice he vaguely recognized. ‘Push, damn your eyes.’
Spandrel did push, but it was the other man who did most of the work. When they were both clear of the water, he lay back, panting from the effort.
‘We can’t stay here.’ Now Spandrel knew who he was. ‘They may come back.’
‘Zuyler? Is that … you?’
‘Listen to what I’m saying,’ Zuyler hissed. ‘We have to go. Quickly.’
‘I can’t … move.’
‘You’ll have to.’ Zuyler struggled to his feet, pulling Spandrel half-upright as he did so. ‘Get up, man.’
‘I can’t, I tell you.’ Spandrel gave way to a bout of coughing. His clothes were saturated, the stench of canal mud rising in a plume around him. ‘I feel so weak.’
‘This will help.’ Zuyler bent over him, pulled something bulky from his right-hand coat pocket, then from his left, and tossed the objects into the canal. ‘Sand-bags,’ he announced. ‘To weigh down your corpse.’
‘Oh God.’
‘God will not help you, Spandrel. But I will. Now stand up.’
Afterwards the instinct for survival that lies dormant until it is most needed could alone satisfactorily explain to Spandrel how he was able to bludgeon his body into the action required of it that night. Quaking from the cold, and from the shock of what had happened, his clothes a chill, dripping weight around him, he somehow managed to follow Zuyler through a labyrinthine mile of alleys and canalsides to a chemist’s shop, the meanly furnished basement of which constituted Zuyler’s less than stylish residence.
Zuyler lit a fire for Spandrel to warm himself by, huddled in a blanket, his wet, mud-caked clothes discarded. A glass of schnapps and a bowl of soup slowly revived him, until he was able to offer the man who had saved his life some stumbling words of gratitude.
‘You thank me,’ Zuyler responded, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe before adding, with a rueful smile, ‘and I curse you.’
‘What?’
‘I curse you, Spandrel. For presenting me with such a choice.’
‘I don’t … understand.’
‘What do you think happened to you tonight?’
‘I … fell into bad company.’
‘Indeed you did. But why?’
‘Because I was …’ He broke off to cough. The pain in his side every time he did so had convinced him that at least one of his ribs was broken. But the throbbing ache in his head had the meagre merit of distracting him from the injury. ‘I was foolish.’
‘And that is all?’
‘What else?’
‘What else is what brought me to your aid. Cornelis Hondslager is not a—’
‘Who?’
‘Hondslager. The thin one.’
‘He said his name was Jan.’
‘No doubt he did. Aliases are a natural condition of his occupation.’
‘And what is his occupation?’
‘He is an assassin, Spandrel. A hired killer.’
‘Hired?’
‘To kill you. The other two I don’t know. His regular assist ants, I think we can assume.’
‘To kill me?’ Spandrel was having difficulty keeping pace with the implications of what Zuyler was saying. ‘But that means …’
‘It was arranged beforehand. Exactly.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I observed a meeting yesterday between de Vries and Hondslager. It was the purest chance. The coffee-house they chose for the purpose is not the kind of establishment where my employer is likely to be seen, in normal circumstances. That is actually why I sometimes use it. Well, clearly the circumstances were not normal. Another customer had alerted me to Hondslager’s occupation some time ago. I could have little doubt as to the reason for their meeting and fell to asking myself who de Vries wanted to have killed. Your arrival this afternoon provided a possible answer. It could have been a coincidence, of course. De Vries has many enemies. He might have felt obliged to eliminate one of them, though frankly I doubted it. It is not the kind of sanction de Vries would wish to invoke against a business rival, for fear another rival might be inspired to use it against him. No, no. A stranger to the city and its ways seemed much the likelier target. Your arrival therefore seemed anything but coincidental.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Because you don’t pay my wages, Spandrel. De Vries does, albeit reluctantly. My interests are not served by obstructing his affairs.’
‘But you obstructed them this time.’
‘Yes.’ Zuyler took an irritated swig of schnapps. ‘You can thank my conscience for that.’
‘I do. Believe me.’
‘Which will profit me precisely nothing. But there it is. What’s done is done. After de Vries had finished with me this evening, I decided to call at the Oudezijds Herenlogement on my way home to see that you had come to no harm. But you were alr
eady in Hondslager’s company, too drunk to notice me or indeed the trap that was closing around you. Where did you think you were going, by the way?’
‘A musico.’
‘Much as I thought. Well, you could say Hondslager’s done you a favour, Spandrel. At least you won’t have a dose of pox to remember Amsterdam by.’
‘It’s a great consolation.’
‘There was nothing I could do while you were in their hands. They’d have made short work of me. Fortunately for you, however, they didn’t linger after pushing you into the canal. They must have thought the sand-bags would keep you under. And they would have done if I hadn’t been standing by with the boat-hook. I’d guessed what they were planning for you. Drowning’s so much easier to explain than a knifing, especially for a newcomer to the city. If your body had ever been found, that is, which I doubt. There must be more than a few murdered men rotting in the mud at the bottom of our canals. So, I borrowed the hook from a barge moored round the corner and tried my hand at fishing you out.’
‘You’re a good fisherman, Zuyler. I’ll say that.’
‘Thank you. It’s not often a mere secretary has the chance to save someone’s life.’
‘If saving me’s what you had in mind, I’m afraid your work’s not done yet.’
‘How so?’
Spandrel sighed. His thoughts were ordered enough now to reveal the bleakness of his plight. He was alive. But, in many ways, he might just as well be dead. De Vries could have had no reason to commission his murder other than as a favour for a friend – his oldest friend, Sir Theodore Janssen. Janssen had wanted Spandrel to deliver the box to de Vries. But he had not wanted him to return with proof that he had done so. That was clearly not part of his plan at all.
‘Spandrel?’
‘The letter Sir Theodore sent ahead of me to de Vries.’ He looked sharply at Zuyler. ‘Did you see it?’
‘No.’
‘So you don’t know if, in that letter, Sir Theodore asked his good friend Ysbrand to ensure I didn’t leave Amsterdam alive.’
‘Do you think he did?’
‘What else am I to think?’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he required the services of a discreet and reliable courier.’ Now Spandrel knew why he had been chosen for the mission, rather than Jupe or some other lackey. He was easily suborned and eminently expendable; he was the perfect combination. ‘You understand, Zuyler? There’s no more discreet kind of courier … than the dead kind.’
Chapter Six
Plot and Counter-Plot
SPANDREL SLEPT LITTLE that night. He and Zuyler sat talking by the sputtering fire into the small hours, and even when Zuyler had retreated to his bed in the back room, leaving Spandrel to find what rest he could on the cot beside the chimney-breast, sleep proved elusive. His ribs pained him and there was no position he lay in that did not chafe a tender spot.
None of that would have kept him awake, however, so physically weary did he feel. It was the whirl of thoughts in his head that would give him no peace. It was the compulsive gaze of his mind’s eye into the uncertainty of his future.
He was alive. De Vries, and hence soon Sir Theodore Janssen, must think him dead. But he was not. That represented his one advantage over them. Unhappily, it was outweighed by more profound disadvantages. He had delivered the despatch-box, but the receipt de Vries had signed for it had been stolen, along with all his money. He could not ask de Vries for a replacement without exposing himself to the danger of a second attempt on his life. But he could not return to England and demand Sir Theodore honour their bargain without such a replacement. Not that he supposed Sir Theodore would honour their bargain, under any circumstances. His debts were not going to be can celled. The map was not going to be finished.
What to do, then? He had no money with which to pay for safe passage out of the city. He scarcely even had clothes to his back, those in which he had been dragged from the canal being so badly soiled by mud and dirty water that it was doubtful he could wear them again, save in dire emergency. Zuyler had lent him a night-shirt, but he could hardly be expected to offer him the run of his wardrobe.
Zuyler had, in truth, already done enough. He had seemed, on first encounter, to be an arid, unbending sort of fellow. But his actions had spoken louder than his cautious words. The account he had given Spandrel of himself had revealed that they were alike in many ways. Educated above his station by a clever but impecunious father, Pieter Zuyler had learned English from the many English students attending the university in his home town of Leiden. He had befriended one of the more prosperous of them, who had offered him employment as a clerk in his father’s shipping office in Liverpool. Zuyler had spent three years there before his talents had come to the notice of Ysbrand de Vries through a recommendation from the Dutch East India Company’s Liverpool agent. The opportunity to return to the country of his birth had proved irresistible. But he had come to regret seizing that opportunity.
‘De Vries is a hard man,’ Zuyler had said, his tongue loosened by schnapps. ‘Who expects anything else? Not me. But there’s hard and hard. De Vries is granite, through and through. Also mean, vicious and cunning. As you’ve found out.’
‘What manner of life does that mean Mrs de Vries leads?’
‘I don’t know. She never complains. Not to me, at any rate. She behaves as the model wife. And he parades her on his arm as a trophy, to make his rivals hate him the more. I comfort myself with the thought that he would not wish his trophy to be’ – Zuyler had cast Spandrel a meaningful glance – ‘damaged.’
‘You think him capable of that?’
‘I think him capable of anything.’
‘A formidable enemy, then.’
‘Extremely.’
‘How can I hope to elude him?’
‘By fleeing. And fleeing far. There is no other way.’
‘I have to consider my mother.’
‘It seems from what you tell me that you’ll have to let her think you’re dead. Janssen would be sure to hear of any communication between you.’
‘Is that what you would do in my position?’
Zuyler had stared long and hard into the fire before replying. ‘No. I confess not.’
‘Then what would you do?’
‘There comes a time, my friend, when a man must turn upon his enemy. I cannot say if that time has come for you. But, for me, in your shoes …’
‘It would have done.’
‘Yes.’ Zuyler had nodded at him. ‘I think so.’
And that was what Spandrel thought too as he lay on the cot and gazed sleeplessly into the darkness. If he fled, he fled from everything. There was nothing he could take with him, not even his past. And his future would be a blank sheet, a mapless void. This was his fate at the hands of powerful men. This was as much as he could hope for. Unless …
It was a drizzly dawn in Amsterdam. Spandrel saw the grey sheen of it on the pavement as he looked up through the basement window. He had found a twist of coffee and brewed it in a pot. The aroma woke Zuyler. They sat by the remains of the fire, drinking it, strangely shy of talk at first, perhaps because each of them was waiting for the other to mention the topic they had wrestled with so unavailingly a few hours before.
‘I must be gone soon,’ said Zuyler eventually, through a thin-lipped smile. ‘De Vries does not appreciate lateness.’
‘I should be gone soon myself.’
‘Take any clothes that you need. Mine are all of a much-ness. And all likely to be a little long in the arm and leg for you. I can’t help that, I’m afraid. You could do worse than ask my landlord to bandage your ribs.’ He nodded upwards. ‘Barlaeus is a kindly sort. And a better doctor than many who call themselves doctors. I could spare you a guilder to see you on your way.’
‘My way to where?’
‘Far from Amsterdam is the only suggestion I can make.’
‘You made a different suggestion last night.’
‘It
’s true. I did. Have you decided to act upon it?’
‘Yes.’
The two men looked at each other, coolly and soberly acknowledging the momentousness of Spandrel’s answer.
‘What should I do, Zuyler? How am I to strike back at him?’
‘Are you sure you want me to tell you?’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure.’
‘Very well.’ Zuyler leaned forward, an eagerness for intrigue lighting his features. ‘Your only chance, as I see it, is to retrieve the box you delivered and find out what it contains. Then you will know why it was deemed necessary to have you killed. And with that knowledge … you may be able to bring down your enemies.’
‘De Vries and Janssen?’
‘I think they stand or fall together in this.’
‘But how am I to lay hands on the box now? De Vries will have it under lock and key.’
‘Indeed he will.’
‘Well, then?’
‘It would be impossible, without the help of someone close to him.’
‘Such as his secretary, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’ Zuyler grinned at him.
‘You’ve risked enough for me already. I can’t—’
‘You misunderstand, Spandrel. The extreme measures taken against you convince me that the contents of that box can be used to break Mijnheer de Vries. To bring him down. To ruin him. Do you think, after all I have endured as his … creature … that I would baulk at a few small risks to bring about such a satisfying result?’ Zuyler’s grin broadened. ‘Your salvation, my friend. And my pleasure. What say you to that combination?’
Spandrel said yes, of course, as he was bound to. And so Pieter Zuyler and he became co-conspirators. Zuyler had no doubt where the despatch-box was. De Vries kept all his most valuable – and secret – possessions in an iron chest in his study. The key to the chest never left his person, clipped as it was to his watch-chain. It would be necessary to break the chest open. But that was the beauty of Zuyler’s plan.
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