‘It is to me that you should deliver the item. Not Lord Townshend. You follow? To me personally.’
‘I follow, sir.’
‘And to me that you should then look for advancement.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Which you will not do in vain.’
‘If I recover the item.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Would you really consider appointing a mere colonel to a rangership, sir?’
‘Well …’ Walpole smiled. ‘Perhaps a general would be more appropriate.’
‘Perhaps so, sir.’ For a moment, Walpole thought Wagemaker might break into a smile himself. But there was only the faintest softening of his expression to indicate his eagerness for the prize that could be his. ‘I’d best be on my way now, sir. I have work to do.’
Chapter Twelve
Out of the Frying-Pan
CLOISTERMAN HAD RARELY felt less at his ease than during the journey he undertook on Monday morning. It led from the cells of the Stadhuis to the Goudene Vis tavern on Montelbaanswal and thence, by a circuit of initially wrong but eventually correct turnings, to the chemist’s shop where Spandrel claimed to have been accommodated overnight in Zuyler’s lodgings.
Cloisterman’s unease was the result of a bad conscience. He had long believed his conscience to have been extinguished by the dulling effects of his vice-consular duties. To find that it could still be pricked and hence still existed was deeply disturbing and accounted in part for his distracted mood throughout the proceedings. The false nature of those proceedings was what troubled him. Spandrel believed that, if he could prove his claimed association with Zuyler, he would thereby prove his innocence. This belief could be seen shining in his pale and haggard face like a candle behind a mask. But he was wrong, as Cloisterman well knew. All he could achieve, if successful, was to prove his guilt in the eyes of the Sheriff.
They travelled in Aertsen’s coach, Cloisterman and Aertsen sitting next to each other opposite Spandrel and his guard, the aptly nicknamed ‘Big’ Janus, to whom Spandrel was handcuffed. Spandrel’s hands were also manacled together and Aertsen had supplied a constable to ride escort for them. A single glance at the prisoner suggested that these precautions were excessive, to say the least. Thin and weak from his confinement, Spandrel did not look capable even of trying to escape. Not that he was likely to, of course. He was in truth pitifully eager to do exactly what the Sheriff wanted him to do, though not, sadly, for the same reason. Cloisterman could hardly bear to look at him, knowing what he did. It was a rotten business and the sooner it was over the better.
The principal obstacle to its swift conclusion lay in Spandrel’s uncertainty about the route he had followed from the chemist’s shop to the Gouden Vis and the added complication of tracing it in reverse. Cloisterman wondered if there would ever be an end of trailing up one canal and down another, while Spandrel leaned out of the window of the coach, giving directions that then had to be translated by Aertsen for the benefit of the driver. Eventually, however, he saw true recognition dawn on Spandrel as they headed south along the Kloveniersburgwal. ‘Stop, stop,’ the poor deluded fellow shouted. ‘This is it.’
They were indeed outside a chemist’s shop, similar in appearance to dozens of others around the city, including the one where Cloisterman went for headache cures and condoms. The name of the proprietor was not displayed. A sign bearing the single word Apotheek hung above a grimy window filled with dusty jars. Steps led up to the shop doorway, while others led down to a shuttered basement. It would be in Spandrel’s best interests, Cloisterman knew, for there to be nothing to connect Zuyler with these premises. He found himself hoping that such would be the case. But he was aware that Spandrel would do everything he could to substantiate his claim. And the sly half-smile on Aertsen’s face suggested he would offer him every encouragement to that end. ‘I think,’ Aertsen said, ‘that we should go in, don’t you, Nicholas?’
Cloisterman’s consent was hardly needed and Aertsen did not wait for his answer. The party disembarked from the coach and entered the shop, Aertsen instructing the driver and escorting constable to remain where they were. ‘This is Barlaeus’s shop,’ chirruped Spandrel as he and Big Janus made their entangled ascent of the steps like a pair of reluctant and ill-matched dancers. ‘I’m certain of it.’
But Spandrel’s certainty only took them so far. The proprietor, a thin, stooped fellow in a skull-cap, did not answer to the name of Barlaeus and displayed no flicker of familiarity with the name of Zuyler either. Aertsen insisted that he close the shop, then questioned him for some minutes, too quickly for Cloisterman’s grasp of Dutch, before reporting what he had said. ‘He is Balthasar Ugels. He has traded from these premises for nearly twenty years and says he has never had a lodger. He lives here with his wife and daughters. He says the rooms below are used for storage only. The family lives above. He says he is famous for his gout cure. Have you heard of the Ugels gout powder, Nicholas?’
‘I do not happen to suffer from gout, Henrik,’ Cloisterman replied with a measured sigh.
‘Nor I. But it is perhaps—’ Aertsen broke off at the appearance from the rear of the premises of a plump young woman with raven-black hair and eyes to match. ‘One of the daughters, I presume.’ Aertsen turned to Ugels and asked him in Dutch to confirm this, which the fellow did, adding something Cloisterman failed to catch. Whatever it was caused Aertsen to chuckle.
‘Care to share the joke?’
‘He says she knows nothing. But nothing about what? The denial betrays him, I think.’
‘It does nothing of the kind.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ put in Spandrel. ‘Surely if—’
‘Be silent, man,’ snapped Cloisterman. ‘Let me deal with this.’
‘But—’
‘Silent, I said.’
Everyone was struck dumb for a moment by the force of Cloisterman’s words. Looks were exchanged. Ugels nervously licked his lips. The daughter began to tremble. Aertsen took a few slow steps towards her. ‘Juffrouw Ugels?’ he gently enquired. She nodded mutely in reply. He went on, asking her slowly and simply enough for Cloisterman to understand whether anyone had lodged in the house recently and whether the name Zuyler meant anything to her.
‘Nee,’ she said each time. ‘Nee.’ But her face coloured as she spoke and she could not meet Aertsen’s gaze. There was no doubt about it. She was lying. Cloisterman watched a tell-tale bead of sweat trickle down her father’s brow.
‘We will visit the store-rooms, I think,’ said Aertsen. ‘And see exactly what is being stored there.’
Ugels received this announcement with twitching anxiety and the implausible objection that he had mislaid the key. Aertsen let him babble on for a moment, then told him coldly and abruptly that he would be arrested and thrown into gaol if he did not do as he was told. With that, the key was found.
Ugels led the way to the front door and opened it. Cloisterman followed Aertsen out, expecting him to carry on down the steps. But he stopped dead on the landing at the top of them, so suddenly that Cloisterman collided with him. Before he could protest, however, he saw what had halted Aertsen in his tracks.
The coach was gone. So was the constable. They had been told to wait. It was unthinkable that they should have disobeyed. Yet gone they were. ‘Wat betekent dit?’ said Aertsen irritably. ‘What does this mean?’ It was a good question.
Suddenly, it was answered. A figure burst out from beneath the steps and rushed up towards them. Cloisterman barely had time to recognize McIlwraith before he also realized that the Scotsman was carrying a double-barrelled pistol in each hand. ‘Get back,’ McIlwraith shouted, clapping one of the pistols to Aertsen’s head and pointing the other at Cloisterman.
They stumbled back into the shop. Cloisterman heard the girl scream. Then McIlwraith kicked the door shut behind him. ‘Tell her to be quiet,’ he said in Dutch to Ugels, who whimpered some plea to his daughter that reduced her screams to sobs. ‘That’s better,’ h
e declared in English. ‘Now, I’m sorry to interrupt the pantomime, gentlemen, but I can wait upon the law no longer.’
‘McIlwraith, are you mad?’ asked Cloisterman disbelievingly.
‘Far from it. Simply in a hurry. These pistols are primed and cocked. The longer we stand here debating my state of mind, the greater the danger I’ll forget myself and blow Mijnheer Aertsen’s head off. Is that understood?’
‘It is understood,’ said Aertsen in a wavering voice.
‘I want Spandrel. Tell the big fellow to release him.’
Aertsen turned slowly round, the twin muzzles of the pistol pressing into his head as he did so. His face was fixed in a grimace of fear and there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He murmured an instruction to Big Janus. The guard hesitated. He spoke again, more loudly. Now the guard responded and began sorting through the keys that hung at his waist.
‘Be quick about it,’ said McIlwraith. A glance over his shoulder through the window of the shop suggested he was more nervous than the steadiness of his tone implied. Perhaps he was worried that the constable might return. How he had got rid of him and the coachman in the first place Cloisterman could not imagine.
‘What’s happening, sir?’ Spandrel whispered. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Just do as he says.’
There was a metallic clink as the handcuffs opened. ‘The manacles too,’ said McIlwraith. But Big Janus had anticipated that and was already working on them.
‘I don’t want to escape,’ said Spandrel stubbornly. ‘I’m not trying to.’ But in the next moment the manacles were off him. Whether he desired it or not, liberty – of a sort – was his.
‘Come over here, Spandrel,’ McIlwraith ordered. ‘Move, man.’
‘I can’t. I have to stay.’
‘I’m offering you your only chance of freedom. I suggest you grab it with both hands.’
‘No. I can prove my innocence. Here. Now.’
‘You’ve gulled him good and proper, haven’t you?’ McIlwraith glared at Cloisterman. ‘Well, it’s time for a little enlightenment. Tell him the truth, Mr Vice-Consul.’
‘The truth?’ Incomprehension was written across Spandrel’s face.
‘You cannot prove your innocence, Spandrel,’ said Cloisterman, perversely aware at some level far below his fear of what might be about to happen that he welcomed the course of action McIlwraith had forced upon him. ‘If Zuyler can be shown to have lodged here, it will be taken as proof that you and he conspired together to murder de Vries.’
‘What?’
‘Once that’s been proved to the Sheriff’s satisfaction, you’ll be prevailed upon to admit it.’
‘And by “prevailed upon” he doesn’t mean by weight of reasoned argument,’ said McIlwraith with a grim smile. ‘Understand?’
Spandrel did understand. He looked at Cloisterman, who nodded towards the door in as open a gesture of approval as he dared risk. The girl was whimpering, but nobody else made a sound. Aertsen caught Cloisterman’s eye and held his gaze for a moment. There was going to be some form of reckoning for this. And it was not going to be pleasant. But that lay in the future. In the present, Spandrel took several hesitant steps towards the door.
‘De sleutel,’ said McIlwraith to Ugels. ‘Snel.’ The key to the door was proffered in a trembling hand. ‘Take it from him, Spandrel.’ Spandrel did so. ‘We’ll lock the door behind us, gentlemen. I advise you to be in no hurry about breaking it open. I’ll not scruple to kill any man who follows us.’
‘We will not follow,’ said Aertsen. ‘You have my word.’
‘For what that’s worth, mijnheer, I’m only a very little obliged. But thank you anyway. Open the door, Spandrel.’ Spandrel obeyed. ‘Your servant, gentlemen.’ McIlwraith backed out onto the landing and nodded for Spandrel to follow. ‘Close it, mijnheer. If you please.’
Aertsen stretched forward and pushed the door shut. McIlwraith and Spandrel were now visible only as blurred shadows through the frosted glass of the window. There was a click as the key turned in the lock. Then the shadows vanished.
No more than a second of silence and immobility followed. Then Aertsen rounded on Cloisterman, anger supplanting his fear. ‘I hold you responsible for this.’ He was ashamed. Cloisterman could see that. His parting assurance to McIlwraith – ‘We will not follow’ – had been a craven and probably unnecessary surrender. ‘You encouraged this … this madman.’
‘Henrik—’
‘And you’ll answer for it, I assure you.’
Cloisterman summoned a smile. ‘Do I have your word on that?’
Aertsen stepped closer. ‘What does he intend to do?’
‘At a guess, I’d say he intends to go after Zuyler and Mevrouw de Vries. He needs Spandrel to identify them and the article he delivered to de Vries, which McIlwraith believes them to be carrying.’
‘“At a guess”. That is all, is it? Just a guess.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘If I find any evidence that you knew what he was planning …’
‘Shouldn’t we be taking steps to catch them rather than arguing about who’s to blame? There’ll be a back door out of here, I’ve no doubt. Unless, of course …’ Cloisterman looked Aertsen in the eye without flinching. Normally, he deferred to the judicial authorities in all matters. Now, however, the time had come to show a little defiance – a little, it occurred to him, of the spirit of McIlwraith. ‘Unless you intend to honour your promise. And let them get clean away.’
Chapter Thirteen
Over the Water
‘WE’LL BE WALKING away from here as calmly as two professors on a promenade, Spandrel,’ said McIlwraith, uncocking the pistols and slipping them into the pockets of his greatcoat. ‘If you attempt to break away, however, I’ll shoot you down without a moment’s hesitation. Be in no doubt of that. I have need of you, but my need’s not so pressing that I’ll brook any resistance. And you’re an escaped prisoner, remember. I’d probably be re warded for my pains. We have a little way to go to a place of safety. Once there, I’ll explain what I want from you. Until then, you’ll keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Now, walk straight ahead.’
The simplicity of these instructions was strangely welcome to Spandrel. Who – or what – McIlwraith was he had no idea. But the fact remained that he was no longer in a cramped cell beneath the Stadhuis, nor were manacles chafing his wrists. He was free – up to a point. And, to judge by what Cloisterman had said, not a moment too soon. There was treachery everywhere. No-one could be trusted. But, for the present, he was walking the streets of Amsterdam and breathing the clear, sunlit air. It was enough. It was, in truth, all he had recently longed for.
The route they followed led through a busy marketplace, then steadily north, by a series of alleys and canalside streets, to the harbour. As they reached the bustling waterfront, a view opened up between the rooftops to the east of the Montelbaanstoren. But they headed west, along the wharves and over the canal bridges. Slowly, Spandrel lost his sense of conspicuousness. Nobody knew who he was and nobody cared. By rights, he should have tried to flee the city. But out on the long straight roads through the flat fields of a country he did not know he really would be conspicuous. The city that had been his prison was also his only refuge.
At length, they entered a quieter district at the western end of the harbour. The warehouses here were mostly shuttered and unattended. A windmill loomed ahead atop a seaward bastion of the city wall. Some way short of it, McIlwraith directed Spandrel down an alley between a high wooden fence on one side and a row of warehouses on the other. Sawing and hammering could be heard from over the fence, but they had the alley to themselves. The far end was a wharf on some inlet of the harbour. A barge drifted by in the distance as they walked.
‘This is far enough,’ McIlwraith announced suddenly. They stopped by the doors of a warehouse that looked to Spandrel just like all the others to left and right. The number 52 and the word SPECERIJEN were st
encilled over the lintel. McIlwraith took out a key and opened the wicket, then motioned for Spandrel to enter.
The interior was dark and cold as a tomb, but dry, the dust scented with sweetness. McIlwraith lit a lantern that hung from a beam, but its circle of light stretched no further than a nearby jumble of upturned boxes and a bench, on which stood a wicker hamper. Spandrel was left to imagine how far off the rear wall might be. There were patterings and scurryings from the darkness.
‘We’ll be here till nightfall,’ said McIlwraith. ‘There’s coal and a brazier somewhere, so we’ll not freeze to death. And …’ he crossed to the bench and unstrapped the hamper ‘the rats haven’t gnawed through this yet, so we’ll not starve either.’ He raised the lid. ‘Bread. Cheese. Ham. A flagon of ale. And some tobacco. Plenty of everything. Just what you’ll be needing after a couple of weeks on prison rations.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Not because I’m sorry for you, Spandrel, if that’s what you were hoping. My help comes with a price.’
‘I have no money.’
‘But you can pay me back, nonetheless.’
‘How?’
‘Eat something, man. You need to build your strength up.’ McIlwraith kicked a box into position next to the bench and gestured for Spandrel to sit. He pulled a hunk of bread off a loaf and passed it to him with some thick slices of ham. Then he uncorked the flagon and stood it on the bench near Spandrel’s elbow. ‘Good?’
The bread was fresh and doughy, the ham lean and succulent. Their flavours surged through Spandrel. He coughed and took a gulp of the ale, then looked up at McIlwraith. ‘Good,’ he announced.
‘Don’t bolt it or you’ll bring it up no sooner than you’ve got it down. There’s plenty of time.’ McIlwraith stowed his pistols away, then lit a pipe and sat up on the bench while Spandrel ate and drank more slowly. ‘I’m Captain James McIlwraith. Acting on behalf of General Ross for the House of Commons Secret Committee of Inquiry into the South Sea Company. The Brodrick Committee, as it’s known. Heard of it?’
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