The Legacy of the Lynx: Three people, two murders, one oath...

by Clio Gray

  ‘See who it is first,’ he said, and Isaac scurried off, Greta shoving as much food into her gullet as she could in case everything kicked off again. Isaac returned with someone Hendrik recognised but could not put a name to.

  ‘Pieter Dulke,’ the man introduced himself. ‘Was down in the cellar last night?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hendrik remembered: the man who had stated with such conviction that the fire was no accident.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ Pieter went on, ‘but I’ve done a bit of asking around…’

  ‘And you’ve found something?’ Hendrik asked quickly, stomach tightening with expectation and dread.

  ‘I have,’ said Pieter. ‘Quite a lot, as it happens. We know when the fire at your house started, and you know what I think about the how of it. The smell the young girl pointed out,’ Pieter nodded at Greta, ‘and the way everything was down there…well, after that, got talking to some of the folks round about. Seems there was a delivery to your home just before – one man, two barrels on a dray cart, far as anyone can remember, and someone who saw your wife leading him in through the house with a cask loaded onto his shoulders.’

  Pieter stopped briefly, looking at Hendrik, a big cog in the wheel of Deventer, someone Pieter could do with the backing of to get him back into the work he’d been lacking. What he said next was going to seal the deal, or ditch it down the nearest hole. But no point prevaricating.

  ‘The woman who saw this heard a sloshing in the cask, took it to be ale, took that to be the reason your wife might have led the man in through the house and not got him to send it down the chute, when all the lees would have swilled up and spoiled it.’

  Hendrik interrupted Dulke with a cough, a great black gobbit coming up and out from his lungs. He placed a napkin across his mouth to catch it, nodding for Pieter to go on.

  ‘It wasn’t ale, sir. I believe it was two barrels of some explosive material, that he coshed your wife so she couldn’t identify him in the unlikely event she escaped the following explosion. He set them on the straw bales for maximum burnage, got a fuse lit and then got out smartish. Several people reported a man rushing off down the Singel on an empty dray at about the same time, when there was a God Almighty bang…’

  Hendrik coughed again, put his napkin up against his face. So, as he’d expected then. A fire set deliberately, his house the target, Louisa surely not the intended victim but rather himself and probably Ruan Peat too. The straight lines in his mind became fluid, snaking left and right. He was remembering something, something he’d read about the Lynx – always the blasted Lynx, as Ruan would have said if he’d been here, but the blasted Lynx all the same. And Caro’s book. He couldn’t pin it down, it hovered in the background like a bee about a flower, a niggling remembrance of a document he’d come across, a name he’d stumbled over; a name he’d heard before, something Ruan – of all people – had at some time mentioned. He couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t get those lines in his mind back to the straight.

  ‘Did you get a description of this man?’ Hendrik asked, Pieter happy he could deliver a positive answer.

  ‘I did,’ he answered. ‘Several of the folk I spoke to commented on it. Tall and skinny, foreign looking, Spanish maybe, or Italian or Greek. Dark hair, bad skin, like he’d an almighty case of the smallpox when he was young.’

  Greta stopped stuffing food into her mouth, and not because the rolled-up herring she’d just tried was a little disgusting, but because – as Joachim translated this conversation for her – she realised she’d seen someone very like that herself. Not here, certainly, but at the Servants: that man pushing about his broom at the back of the refectory the afternoon she’d arrived, the man who’d paused at his sweeping when the food-providing Brother Eustace mentioned Grimalkin and Deventer in the same breath. Battle had been in her blood ever since she’d started off with the United Irish, and battle said don’t ignore coincidence, look for connections, look for the hidden string that ties two disparate events together.

  ‘I saw a man like that back at the Servants,’ she started to say, Hendrik’s head swivelling towards her, both halted by another knock at the library doors, and Isaac didn’t need to ask about it this time because here was the undertaker with his coffin and its bearers and Louisa’s priest coming in on their tail. Everyone stood up, hung their heads in solemn silence, everyone except Ruan who chose that moment to come thumping down the stairs.

  ‘What’s the what?’ he asked loudly as he turned the corner, his eyes immediately latching onto the table, apparently oblivious of the coterie of men making their way towards Louisa’s body.

  ‘Food!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘And thank God for it. I’m absolutely starving!’

  ‘Young man, desist,’ Joachim said sharply and Ruan raised his head briefly before swiftly lowering it again as he caught sight of the coffin. Not even Ruan could sit down and eat when a coffin was on the move and a body about to be nailed inside.

  Hendrik had wanted to keep the funeral ceremony small and quiet, but this was not to be. The moment the coffin, with Louisa in it, was processed out of the Athenaeum, men and women started falling into step behind. Hendrik Grimalkin was well known in Deventer, and news of the untimely death of his wife in such tragic circumstances had spread fast and wide.

  By the time the coffin arrived at Louisa’s church the latter was bursting at its seams with the great and the good, the not so great scrambling in behind them to squash themselves into the gallery, the latest arriving spillage of curious and well-wishing bystanders clustering about its doors and pathways.

  Hendrik was dismayed at the throng, but Joachim and Greta were stalwart and indiscriminate in clearing people out of his way, Ruan and Caro standing at his back like inanimate shadows. Louisa’s priest had never been so proud as he was this day and didn’t want to let slip such an opportunity for addressing the most important people in Deventer. Because of it he chose to use the occasion to further his own preoccupations, indulge in a little grandiloquent oratory, stretching his theological beliefs against the Protestant bounds he was not altogether comfortable with.

  The service, therefore, was longer than usual, strewn through with many references to biblical exegesis and the patristic books the pastor had studied throughout his long preaching life and, once done – everyone breathing a sigh of relief that all was nearly over – he led the largest congregation he’d ever had out to the cemetery, there to give his final closing words, that were undoubtedly Catholic in their leaning, just as he was himself.

  ‘On this sad day,’ he said, once at the graveside, ‘we must remember not only all those who have passed over, and the one we are burying today, but also that we must send up our prayers for the fathers over in Rome who have a far greater decision to make than we will ever be tasked with, soon to be in conclave, given the duty of electing the next man in line to be given Saint Peter’s Keys. For although we here, in the Low Lying Lands,’ he was quick to add, ‘may only be a small part of the Greater Nation of Christ and not driven by the bells of Rome, their decision will affect us all. Be in no doubt of that, my children, nor that every one of your prayers will be heard and counted and must be used to push that conclave towards the right decision for the greater good of the entire church, ourselves included.’

  And in those words Hendrik got his revelation. The niggle that had been at the back of his mind, the name he knew he knew but couldn’t latch onto. Straight lines. By God, but he could but see them now: fishermen chucking out their strings and hauling in a catch they’d not expected, Golo Eck doing the same, hooks chucked out into the world with awful consequence, the foremost of which was Louisa being dead so piteously soon after Hendrik had reclaimed her and she had reclaimed him.

  Straight lines converging here in Deventer; parts were missing here and there – exactly how and by whom Golo had been murdered, exactly why his own house had been set on fire – but straight lines nonetheless, originating in the same place. Only thing needed doing now was
to get back to the Athenaeum and find their source.

  Without any warning, Hendrik Grimalkin interrupted the priest’s matherings right as he was going into the earth to earth, ashes to ashes part of his speech as the coffin was lowered into its grave.

  ‘My apologies to the church!’ Hendrik shouted, fighting to keep his voice under control, ‘and to those of you who have chosen to attend the funeral of my wife. But this is not the time for me to be standing idly by and so I am going to cut things short. Food and drink, ladies and gentlemen, will be available for all in the Golden Globe in the Brink, but myself and my fellows will not be there. We have work to do, plots to uncover, and mark my words, friends, vengeance will not be far behind.’

  He bent down and scooped up a handful of loose earth and cast it onto Louisa’s coffin, every soft pattering of it heard in the stunned silence that followed his unprecedented outburst. Hendrik did not wait for any reaction, merely turned and strode away from the crowd who parted like the Red Sea before him, Caro and Greta tripping along behind, Joachim grabbing at Ruan’s arm as the latter grimaced and hesitated, plainly wanting to head for the Golden Globe with the rest.

  The crowd sucked closed again once Hendrik’s small party had passed, their excited whispers growing into clamour and crescendo, immediately thereafter breaking into small groups, no matter the pastor’s exhortations for them all to stay, ignoring him, flooding away like a tidal bore from the graveside to the Brink and from there to the Golden Globe where they fell upon the feast that was going on someone else’s tab, rumours and theories abounding, everyone thrilling with having been present on this most unusual of days.

  There was only one man who did not follow the ebbing tide of the graveyard gaggle as they eased themselves excitedly away towards the Brink. He took a quieter path, a more silent street, Hendrik Grimalkin’s words at his heel like a pack of vengeful hounds, wondering what the Jesus Hell he’d got himself him into, and how the Jesus Hell he could get himself out.

  35

  GEORGE AND THE GUILDSMAN

  Hendrik went down the Athenaeum’s main aisle like a rat down a sewer, Caro beside him, worrying at the dark bubbles of blisters on Hendrik’s head now that Joachim’s liniments had dried up in the meagre day’s sun. Greta was next in with Joachim and Ruan, Isaac bolting the doors behind them.

  ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’ Ruan grumbled, soon as he’d breath to do so, putting his hands to his sides to stop the stiches. Greta and Joachim had no idea, but weren’t going to say so in such blunt terms. They hung around for a few minutes until Hendrik re-emerged from the basement, dusty as a sandman, arms filled with papers held in place by his chin, reaching the nearest desk and spilling them out, starting frantically to burrow through them, scanning first one document and then the next.

  ‘Hendrik,’ Joachim said, reaching out a hand but not touching Hendrik, who was totally focussed on his task, whatever that might be.

  ‘It’s in here somewhere,’ Hendrik mumbled. ‘I know it is. I saw it. When I was following up Golo’s notes in Caro’s book.’

  Ruan rolled his eyes. So it was all about the Lynx. That figured. Obviously obsession was catching. He shook his head.

  ‘Jesus, man,’ he said, exasperation in every syllable. ‘It’s just a load of old crap written by a load of old men a couple hundred years ago.’

  Hendrik lifted his head sharply and fixed Ruan with a look he recognised. This way led to madness. He’d seen it in Golo and knew there was no arguing with it. He held up his hands, turned away, intending to have at the food he’d not had the pleasure of getting acquainted with earlier. If he couldn’t get to the Brink then this was the next best thing.

  ‘Don’t you ever get sick of being an idiot?’ Greta was standing in his way with her hands on her hips.

  Ruan coloured, not with embarrassment but anger.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ he replied sharply. ‘God damn bloody blasted Lynx is all I’ve ever lived with and look what it’s led to: Fergus disappeared, Golo dead, Louisa dead, George dead. Christ knows why the rest of us aren’t dead too.’

  Greta narrowed her eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, stopping Ruan with that fist again.

  ‘I don’t mean anything,’ Ruan shouted crossly, everyone looking involuntarily in his direction, ‘just an awful big coincidence we were all almost crushed to death by a couple of boulders when we left Loch Eck, and that everyone connected to the Lynx is getting bumped off, including your monk over there, who’s obviously been shot through by something or other. Can see the blood from here, front and back. So who’s the fool now?’

  Greta stared at him, then dropped her arm and let Ruan pass. Straightaway he went to the desk with the food, sitting himself morosely down on one of the chairs but not immediately eating anything. Hendrik looked at Joachim, and Joachim looked back at his son.

  ‘Is this true?’ Hendrik asked softly, dropping his eyes to his father’s chest and seeing there a small round splotch of blood.

  ‘A fowler’s accident,’ Joachim said, embarrassed to have his weakness so publically announced, immediately covering the spot with his hand. ‘An arrow that went astray.’

  ‘And when did this arrow… go astray?’ Hendrik asked.

  Joachim swallowed. He didn’t want to remember the day he thought he was going to die, nor how profound his fear had been despite his faith.

  ‘About three weeks ago,’ Joachim murmured, Hendrik unexpectedly nodding his head.

  ‘About the same time I was sending letters off to Golo’s lawyers for Ruan and getting some answers back,’ Hendrik said. ‘About the same time I began looking hard into the history of the Lynx.’

  ‘But what of it?’ Greta asked, alerted by the name of the Lynx popping up again, the mention of Fergus jolting her, reminding her why she was here in the first place, about to take out the letter when Ruan – as usual – interrupted.

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said, suddenly standing up and turning towards her. ‘Who the hell are you anyway? And what the buggeration does any of this have to do with you?’

  Greta’s turn to colour now, because he was right. She’d never explained herself to anyone since she’d arrived, although Joachim knew the gist. There’d simply been no time. She was about to launch into her defence when Hendrik held up a hand.

  ‘Enough,’ he said, the schoolmaster back in his voice, glancing at the untidy heap of papers on the desk, but they could wait.

  ‘Everyone sit,’ he commanded, and everyone did, only Hendrik standing, towering above them all.

  ‘Let’s try and get everything straight,’ he said, thinking of those lines again and the gaps in them. ‘Let’s start with you, Ruan.’

  Ruan let out a breath but didn’t say anything.

  ‘What are these boulders you mentioned?’

  Ruan shrugged.

  ‘Bit of trouble on the way down to the Holy Loch,’ he said, wondering why he’d bothered to mention it, why in the heat of the moment it had tumbled from his lips. ‘One bloody great rock near rolled us all down the ravine, second one came down soon after.’

  ‘And that didn’t strike you as odd?’ Hendrik asked.

  Ruan shook his head. ‘Why would it? It’d been raining, like it always rains up there. Makes for landslides all the time.’

  ‘But it impeded your journey?’

  ‘Not as much as the buggering ferry being holed,’ Ruan replied quickly and then slowly looked up, pushing one hand over the other, cracking his knuckles, making both Greta and Joachim wince, ‘and before you ask, no. I didn’t think much of that either, because that’s just every day up there in the wilds. Things go wrong, things take a while to fix and then they’re fixed and everything goes on.’

  Coincidences, Greta was thinking, and more of them.

  Hendrik nodded. ‘And all this held you up by how long?’

  ‘A few days,’ Ruan said. ‘But the Collybuckie was still in dock, captain had got sick s
o sailing was delayed.’

  ‘And if he’d not been sick and if the sailing hadn’t been delayed?’ Hendrik persisted.

  ‘Then we wouldn’t have been in that blasted storm!’ Ruan said hotly.

  Hendrik blinked slowly. ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant that…’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ Ruan interrupted. ‘I’m not an idiot,’ he cast a quick withering glance at Greta. ‘What you’re saying is that someone was deliberately trying to stop us leaving Scotland and yes, if the landslide hadn’t slowed us down and if the ferry at the Holy Loch hadn’t been holed and if the Collybuckie hadn’t still been at anchor, then I reckon we’d’ve been stranded in Port Glasgow another couple of weeks. Get more tickets sorted. Find out what was going where and who would take passengers close into anywhere near Deventer and over to Ireland too.’

  ‘A couple of weeks,’ Hendrik said, splaying his fingers out on the table as if to make a point.

  ‘But it’s all nonsense!’ Ruan remonstrated. ‘Random accidents! Next you’re going to tell me that all that guff Golo went on about his mail being intercepted was true too!’

  He could have bitten off his tongue, because it was plain to him that everyone about the table seized on this latest piece of information as if it was a revelation of the first order.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he muttered, but subsided quickly enough. Let them make of it what they would. Conspiracy theories were not for him. Let him get his goods and gear and the moment Golo’s Will arrived he’d be out of here. He rubbed his fingers on his nose and looked at Greta, who had put her two elbows on the table and was resting her chin on her hands.

  ‘I think there’s something here I might be able to add,’ she said. ‘Ruan, why did Fergus come to Ireland, and not with you and Golo?’

  Ruan held out his hands in a quick gesture before dropping them onto his lap.

  ‘It’s just more of the same,’ he sighed. He was sick of being dragged back into all this Lynx shit again and was keen to shift the focus but knew the only way to do that was to get it all said and done with when, with any luck, the rest of them would understand at last how ludicrous Golo’s plans had been.