Death of a Delft Blue mb-37

by Gladys Mitchell

  Her next idea — and one which proved fruitful — was to walk to the Stationsplein and take the steamer-trip along the canals. It was on the bridge which carried Leidse Straat across a canal that she spotted the first barrel-organ, but it was not the one she sought. However, thought Laura, always optimistic, at least barrel-organs were still in season and, presumably, had not gone on strike. Another commanded the left bank at the Fodor Museum, but it was not until she disembarked at the end of the round trip that she found the particular draaiorgel she sought. There it was, with a group round it, playing, of all things, the English tune of a demoded popular song, Amsterdam, Amsterdam. Laura was not unmusical and, besides, she had a tenacious memory. She could not recall that this particular tune had figured in the organ’s repertoire. What was more, when it ended it was followed by the tune which, as she very clearly remembered, had succeeded The Flowers of the Forest. The flowers of the forest, it was evident, certainly had ‘a’ wede away.’

  Laura knew nothing of the internal workings of barrel-organs, but she felt that here was something of interest. She waited until the barrel-organ moved on, and then she followed it. She had made a modest contribution and the men in charge appeared gratified by her continued interest. They covered a fairly long street, for the sounds travelled far and they were anxious to attract a fresh audience. Before they could set their instrument in motion, Laura seized her chance and addressed the older of the two operators.

  ‘I heard you some weeks ago,’ she said. ‘You played a tune I love very much. Have you still such a tune?’

  ‘And the name of the tune, please?’

  ‘It’s a Scottish air called The Flowers of the Forest. I so much enjoyed hearing it last time, but I noticed that this time you left it out.’

  ‘I know not the tune by name, mevrouw. I am sorry.’

  ‘I’ll hum it for you,’ said Laura, and she proceeded to do so. The men exchanged glances. Then the one who had spoken shook his head.

  ‘Mevrouw is mistaken. We never had such a tune. I regret. And now, pardon, we have our living to earn.’

  ‘Oh, ho!’ thought Laura. ‘Mrs Croc. was right, as usual. There has been dirty work at the crossroads and that barrel-organ is all mixed up in it somehow. I suppose it’s no good tagging on and trying to ferret something more out of those men?’

  With Laura, to think of a thing was tantamount to carrying it out. She looked thoughtfully after the organ-grinders and then set out to follow them. They went some distance, but halted at the end of a bridge which carried crowds of cyclists and pedestrians. Here one man began to turn the large wheel which rotated the cylinder, while the other picked up the collecting box. Laura walked on to the bridge and leaned on the parapet, gazing down at the waters of the canal as she listened to the music.

  The tunes followed one another, but there was no suggestion of The Flowers of the Forest. A small crowd soon gathered, and the collecting box made its rounds. Laura took out a florin and waved it. The man with the box came up to her. She said, before she put in the coin:

  ‘What happened to my favourite tune, then?’

  The man looked at her impassively.

  ‘Mevrouw is mistaken. We never had that tune — or else mevrouw did not sing it correctly.’ He said it politely, not insolently.

  ‘You did have it, you know,’ said Laura, staring into his china-blue eyes. ‘Didn’t you? Why are you unwilling to agree about it?’

  The man shrugged his heavy shoulders.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ he repeated. ‘I know nothing of such a tune.’

  ‘No?’ Inspiration came to her. ‘When did you last play outside a block of apartments near the Raadhuis?’

  She knew that she had scored, for the man dropped his eyes.

  ‘Many times,’ he answered sullenly, and turned away before she could put her money into the box. She watched him walk back and saw him speak to his companion, who stopped playing in order to listen. Then he changed places with him. The older man came over to Laura and rattled the collecting box. Laura put in her florin with a smile, but there was nothing smiling about the Netherlander. He said:

  ‘Thank you, mevrouw. And now please stop pestering us. If we have not the tune you wish, we have it not. If you do not believe me, you must listen until we have completed the tunes which we have, then you will be convinced that we speak the truth.’

  ‘Look,’ said Laura, ‘you can surely admit that you did have the tune I hummed to you. It isn’t a crime to change the cylinder. But if you persist in denying that you once had a different cylinder, one which had this tune, it will make me think that there is something fishy going on.’

  ‘Fishy?’

  ‘Wrong. Bad. Criminal.’

  The man gave her a hard look.

  ‘You are molesting us,’ he said; and, to Laura’s astonishment and dismay, he left her abruptly and went over to a policeman. In a few moments the policeman was beside her, with the organ-grinder in tow.

  ‘This man,’ he said, in careful English, ‘complaint is making.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Laura.

  ‘He says you are giving offence.’

  ‘But I’m doing nothing of the kind. I merely asked him to play a favourite tune for me.’

  ‘He says you follow him and offend him.’

  ‘I had no intention of offending him.’

  ‘So — no more. In Amsterdam is an honourable work, the street organ. No?’

  ‘Yes, of course, if you say so.’

  ‘So! No more to follow, no more to speak. No more to annoy. Yes?’

  ‘All right.’

  The policeman nodded and took himself off. The older man returned to his companion. Laura stood her ground, in spite of the wide-eyed stares of three children who had dismounted from their bicycles to hear what the policeman had to say. The organ bawled on. Laura recognised the tune. The cylinder had come full cycle. She was glad of this extra confirmation that The Flowers of the Forest no longer formed part of its repertoire. She waited until the organ moved off and then, very thoughtfully indeed, she walked all the way back to her hotel.

  ‘Something nasty in the woodshed all right,’ thought Laura, ‘and the Colwyn-Welch family is indicated. Now, do I contact Mrs Croc. or do I carry on by myself?’

  The fact that she had a doubt made her come to an abrupt decision. Her meal over, she had the porter call a taxi and went to the apartment of Binnen and her daughters. She had primed herself with all sorts of reasons for originating the visit, but none of them proved to be necessary. She was shown in at once, and, to her considerable astonishment, there was Sweyn van Zestien. This explained why the apartment was not locked up.

  ‘Welcome, Mrs Gavin,’ he said, making her a little bow before giving her his hand. ‘I think we have come here on the same errand.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I don’t quite know why I’ve come,’ said Laura. ‘I suppose I was going to look for something, but, if it was here, you’re certain to have found it by now.’

  ‘Found it? But — found what?’

  ‘The cylinder from the barrel-organ.’

  Sweyn looked puzzled, as well he might.

  ‘I’m afraid I do not understand,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no, of course not, and I don’t suppose there’s anything in it at all. It’s just that it’s one of those things,’ said Laura, waving her hand. ‘You see, I wouldn’t think anything of it if they hadn’t been so crazy.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The men with the barrel-organ. It used to play The Flowers of the Forest, but it doesn’t any more, and, when I asked why, they told the police about me. Not very subtle, what?’

  Sweyn said:

  ‘What do you think of the bust?’

  Laura had not noticed it. It was on a high shelf and did not show to advantage, so she stretched up on her toes to obtain a better view. Sweyn, who was even taller than she was, lifted it down and placed it on top of a bookcase. Laura studied it critically.

  ‘So it’s not i
n bronze. They’ve painted it gold,’ she said. ‘Yes, it’s good, but does he often have quite such a petulant look?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ Sweyn replied. ‘He has been spoilt by my father. And now, this about the police and the barrel-organ. Are you to be arrested?’

  Laura answered his jesting smile with a straight stare and replied:

  ‘Hardly. You know, this is difficult. You see, I’ve got a feeling that the cylinder is in this house, but, even if it is, I don’t see how I can prove anything from it, and, after all, the Colwyn-Welch family are your relatives, aren’t they?’

  ‘From which I am to infer…?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Laura. ‘I suppose there’s no news of Florian?’

  ‘Well, yes, there is, in a way,’ answered Sweyn. ‘I came over because Derde thought there might be a clue here and he asked my aunt Binnen for the keys to the apartment.’

  ‘Was she willing to give them up?’ asked Laura sharply. Sweyn looked surprised.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked in his gentle voice. ‘She is greatly worried about the disappearance of Florian. She blames herself. Except to say that he was going to Hoorn, he left no word at all, and she feels she should have discovered his plans.’

  ‘Hoorn? That’s not far from here, is it?’

  ‘Not far. He told her that he was going fishing.’

  ‘She didn’t mention any of this to Dame Beatrice.’

  ‘She is becoming old. Things do not register themselves in her mind, perhaps, as they used to do.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the explanation, but I do think she might have mentioned Hoorn. Have you told Dame Beatrice?’

  ‘Yes, she will know by now. What about this cylinder from the barrel-organ. You think it is important?’

  ‘Well, as I indicated, if it isn’t important why should those two men stall about it and report me to the police and all that? It must be important.’

  ‘Only in the eyes of some ladies, perhaps. Some ladies are not in proportion.’

  ‘Thirty-six twenty-four ninety-two?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Sorry! I think you meant that some women lack a sense of proportion.’

  ‘I am sure that is what I meant. Thank you. I refer, of course, to my cousins Opal and Ruby. Now, this cylinder. You will help me search?’

  ‘When I came here,’ said Laura, with her usual candour, ‘I was prepared (if able to obtain permission) to turn the joint upside down to look for it. But, honestly, I don’t see how the cylinder could prove what I want to prove, so I don’t think I’ll bother. Thank you for your help. So long!’

  ‘No,’ said Sweyn, ‘do not go like that. Tell me your suspicions. I do not like my cousins. You will not offend me, whatever you may say.’

  ‘So all the cats jump the same way, do they? That’s worth knowing, I suppose.’

  ‘I am not anxious for cats.’

  ‘Nor me, neither. Give me a good stupid horse that will eat his oats.’

  Sweyn looked perplexed.

  ‘The English are so fond of animals,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Fonder than they are of human beings, I think you mean, but I’m not English,’ said Laura. ‘Are you going to Hoorn to pick up the trail?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I cannot think why my aunt did not mention Hoorn sooner.’

  ‘So all that stuff about the Dolomites was so much mashed potato!’

  ‘The Dolomites? Oh, we never thought that Florian would go to the Dolomites.’

  ‘Your cousin Opal seemed to think he would.’

  ‘Opal? She has strange ideas, like other lonely people. One takes very little notice. Tell me, Mrs Gavin, have you seen the Saxon cross at the church of Hope in Derbyshire, England?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Why?’

  ‘You should go there. It would interest you. Not all of the cross remains, but there is enough to show Danish influence in the knot-work panels. I am sure you will perceive an affinity between it and the rune-stones. The Saxon cross in the churchyard at Eyam, in the same county, is quite a perfect example, but bears little relationship to the rune-stones. It is carved in spiral markings similar to those on the wall of the queen’s megaron in the palace at Knossos in Crete — the maze of the Minotaur, you know. There is a more unusual Saxon cross in the churchyard at Leek.’

  ‘Look here, Professor,’ said Laura, ‘you’re trying to tell me something. Can’t you come right out with it?’

  Sweyn smiled and shrugged.

  ‘There are limestone caves in Derbyshire,’ he said. ‘I think Florian may have gone to England from Hoorn.’

  ‘More likely than that he’s in the Dolomites, I should think. But, if he’s in England, why hasn’t he gone back to his granduncle?’

  ‘I do not know, and there is no point in trying to guess. Are you fond of diamonds?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Yet you have a very fine diamond in your ring.’

  ‘Yes, I had to be bribed into becoming engaged to be married. You understand diamonds, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my father has always been interested in diamonds, so, of course, I know a little about them. So we look, or we do not look, for this cylinder?’

  ‘If what I suspect is true, it won’t still be here, and, anyway, it’s lousy of me to snoop about in your aunt’s place.’

  ‘What could the cylinder tell us if we could find it?’

  ‘Well, that’s just the point. It couldn’t tell us anything unless we could try it out on a barrel-organ, and we’re hardly likely to be able to do that.’

  ‘But, if we could… ?’

  ‘Well, at some point or other, it would play a tune called The Flowers of the Forest. This is it.’ She began to hum. Sweyn shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry. I do not know it,’ he said. ‘What is the connection between this tune and the disappearance of Florian?’

  ‘Your brother believes that Florian’s dead.’

  ‘I know. I do not agree with him. But the tune?’

  ‘It’s the words, actually.’ She sang them. ‘It’s a lament for the young men who fell at the battle of Flodden.’

  ‘I see… yes. A lament for young men. And you think that the young Florian — yes, I see. And you think Aunt Binnen knew these words and knows — or suspects — that Florian is dead and so she finds the tune unacceptable and has purchased the cylinder from the barrel-organ people. It is a theory, that. Lost in a cave — hungry, perhaps hurt. Dead — I think not.’

  ‘What made you think of Derbyshire, though? asked Laura.

  ‘During the Occupation many of our people lived in caves. Then, when the war was over, I went to England many times. I was interested in caves. I think I have visited all the English caves.’

  ‘Did you do any pot-holing?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I did pot-holing. Well, I shall be on my way. May I escort you to any place?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’d better go back to my hotel. By the way, when we met just now you said you thought we’d come here on the same errand. You don’t still think so, I take it?’

  ‘No, I was too hasty in speaking. I meant that in this apartment I hoped to find some clue to the disappearance of Florian, but there is nothing. Shall we go to Hoorn this afternoon? I had intended to go and should be glad of your company. Is Dame Beatrice with you in Amsterdam?’

  ‘No, she’s still looking for news of Florian in Maastricht and Valkenburg. I’m here on my own for a day or two. Right. Let’s do Hoorn together. Have you had lunch?’

  Hoorn, forty kilometres from Amsterdam, proved to be a charming small town with a couple of hotels and some picturesque brick-fronted houses, fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth-century churches, the great dike of the IJsselmeer, a Stadhuis built in 1613 and a finely-fronted museum with wrought-iron gates, a good collection of pictures and some fourteenth-century cellars.

  Sweyn and Laura visited this museum and described Florian to the attendant but there was no news of him.

  ‘I don’t
quite know why he decided to come here,’ said Laura, when they were in the street.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? It is merely that Albion, the sculptor, has a studio here. I think we ought to visit him and find out what he knows.’

  ‘I thought Albion lived in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Yes, a great deal of his time. Mostly, I think, in winter and early spring. There is more work for him in Amsterdam, of course, but he lives out here when he can. He finds it pleasant.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No. We will go to the harbour and ask the fishermen. He has painted some of them and their boats. They are certain to know where he lives.’

  ‘Not necessarily, I should have thought. The person who would be bound to know is an art-dealer. There would be such a man in a place like this, I suppose?’

  ‘We will try the market square.’

  A double-fronted shop in the Rode Steen, once a place of public execution, displayed good reproductions of pictures by Rembrandt van Rijn, Franz Hals, Thomas de Keyser, Bartholomeus van der Helst, Pieter de Hooch and Jan Vermeer.

  ‘This is it,’ said Laura. ‘Will you do the asking or shall I?’

  ‘I will ask in Dutch,’ said Sweyn. He did this and apparently received a satisfactory reply, for he smiled, bowed his thanks and escorted Laura from the shop.

  ‘Can you walk a little?’ he asked. ‘He lives on a farm not far from here.’

  ‘I’d love to walk,’ said Laura, with enthusiasm. ‘Lives on a farm? That’s enterprising of him.’

  ‘I do not suppose the farm belongs to him. He lodges there, I think.’

  Milking a Frisian cow was a fresh-faced girl in a checked apron and the small lace cap of the neighbourhood. She directed them to the farmhouse and an older woman wearing glasses invited them in and said that Mijnheer Albion was resting, but that she was certain he would be pleased to have visitors. She seated them in a room containing Delft china, a silver soup-tureen, a table like a polished mirror and a dozen or so family portraits, one of which was in oils and depicted the woman who had answered the door.

  ‘An original Albion, no doubt,’ said Laura, getting up to obtain a closer look at it. ‘I don’t know a great deal about painting, but to my untutored eye it seems a pretty fair bit of brushwork. Do sculptors usually paint as well?’