Текст книги "The Enterprise of England"

Автор книги: Ann Swinfen

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Chapter Thirteen

It would be two days before I heard from Ettore. I found it difficult to occupy myself in a strange town where I did not speak the language, despite the fact that almost every person I met had at least a little English. On the first day after visiting Ettore, having kicked my heels at the inn for half the morning, I decided to visit the minister Dirck de Veen at his church, where I learned that no one had ever been brought to trial for the murder of Hans Viederman.

‘I fear the town authorities do not take very seriously the death of a beggar,’ the minister said sadly. ‘They say it was a falling-out amongst thieves, though Hans was no thief. And there would have been nothing in his cottage to steal. It was a tragic loss of a life. A man once so gifted. Such a waste, such a waste.’

‘At least his dog survived,’ I said hesitantly.

‘Ah, the poor creature! It ran off and was never found again.’

I realised, of course, that I had not seen the minister after Berden and I had headed south before Christmas. ‘I have the dog, Dominee de Veen,’ I said. ‘He followed after me. Indeed, he saved me from an attack by an armed man down near the Spanish lines.’

‘You have the dog!’ He gentle, worried face broke into a smile.

‘He is in London with my father. He was injured, helping me, but he is recovered and grown quite hearty now. I have called him Rikki, for I did not know his name.’

‘I do not think I ever heard Hans speak his name,’ de Veen said. ‘But this is good news indeed. One small spark of light in a sad business.’

‘So who do you think killed Hans?’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot say. Who would do such a thing?’

‘I think he was killed because he knew something. Something that was a danger to someone who took violent action to stop his mouth.’

He turned on me a look that was suddenly less unworldly, and I realised that I had perhaps underestimated him.

‘That may well be true. I only remembered, after you had gone, that other time. A man came asking where Hans lived, a day or two before you found his body. I was busy with some of my parishioners when he was here and it had slipped my mind.’

‘Was it Cornelius Parker?’ I asked eagerly.

He shook his head. ‘No, I know Mijnheer Parker. No, it was a slightly younger man. Now, what is his name? He used to be a merchant, fallen now on hard times.’ He ran his fingers through his bush of grey hair, leaving it standing on end.

‘Was it van Leyden?’

‘That’s the man! How did you guess?’

I shook my head. It did not want to involve the minister too deeply in this dark business. ‘It was but a guess,’ I said vaguely. ‘I had seen him with Parker, and seen Parker with Hans.’

I turned our talk to other things, which, since it was the commonest topic in Amsterdam, concerned the likely arrival of the Spanish fleet. The Hollanders themselves had a very small navy, nothing that could give battle to the Spaniards, but their shallow-draft vlieboten – something like our small carracks – could manoeuvre in the shallow waters off Flanders and Zeeland, where Philip’s large warships could not go. By forming a blockade they could hamper the embarkation of Parma’s soldiers on to the barges which were to take the invading army across the Channel to England. I knew that Admiral Justin was moving a squadron of these Dutch vlieboten in position to blockade Dunkerque.

‘I have heard,’ said Dirck, ‘that the Duke of Parma still lacks enough barges to transport his men. Some believe he may make a raid on the Zuiderzee to seize any craft that will serve his purpose.’

‘So close to Amsterdam?’

It was alarming news.

He nodded. ‘One of my parishioners overheard some of the English soldiers discussing how they were to be deployed guarding the docks outside the town, on the further banks of the Zee.’

‘Aye,’ I said slowly. ‘I do not suppose Parma will want to find himself caught up in a fight by coming too close to Amsterdam itself. Now that the Spanish fleet is on its way he will want no distractions.’

I pondered this news as I left the church. Parma would need both weapons and transport. Access to both would be difficult for him, though by now he must have commandeered every suitable barge in the Spanish Netherlands. Ettore had pointed out how convenient Cornelius Parker’s legitimate activities would be as a cover for smuggling arms to Parma. As a merchant with vessels of different sizes at his disposal, he might also be intending to supply barges. Every river and canal in this water-logged country thronged with barges. I had seen for myself the daily activity in the town, with barges being loaded and unloaded beside the merchants’ houses standing along the canals. The barges moved up and down the canals all day long, some with sails and oars, some only with oars, both within the town and out into the surrounding countryside. No one ever gave them a second glance.

I found that my feet had taken me around the corner of the church and down the narrow alleyway towards Hans’s pitiful cottage. In the snowy winter months the place had seemed no worse than shabby and poor, but now in the height of summer, the alley stank like a sewer. The narrow kennel running along the centre of the cobbled way was intended to carry waste down to a canal that I could see at the far end of the alley, but it was blocked now with nameless rubbish. This had dammed up the flow of the contents of piss-pots which had been emptied into the alley and which had now spread in a stinking pool across the cobbles. I picked my way round it, holding my breath. On my previous visit I had been impressed by the cleanliness of Amsterdam, but this place was as filthy as any back-alley in London.

The last house on the left, Hans’s old cottage, looked more derelict than ever. No one could be living in it now, not even a beggar, for there were great holes in the thatched roof. Most of the houses here in the town, even quite modest ones, were roofed in terracotta tiles, but this ruined place must be a relic of some older time. I averted my eyes as I passed it, remembering with a shudder the moment when I had found Hans’s body, its throat cut, lying in a pool of frozen blood.

I came out of the alleyway into bright sunlight and there at my feet was yet another of the town’s many canals. There were no grand merchants’ houses here, though a line of a dozen barges lay moored along the canal bank. Just round the corner from the derelict cottage there was another similar building – single-storied, small and dirty, and with a thatched roof, although this one was intact. The single window was shuttered. Considering its look of poverty, it was strange to see that it had a stout new door. And the stout new door was secured by an elaborate lock, clearly also new and shiny, with a lock plate as long as my hand. Curious.

This remote part of the town seemed almost deserted, though I noticed a group of four men walking toward me along the edge of the canal. There was no reason to suppose them in any way unfriendly, but my scalp prickled at the sight of them, walking so purposefully towards me, or perhaps towards that heavily secured building. I withdrew into the alley again and walked rapidly back to the church, then on to my inn.

The next day, still having heard nothing from Ettore, I decide to investigate that remote canal further. I did not return to the point where I had found it before. Something warned me to stay away from the locked hut. Instead I found the canal easily enough by turning down the other side of the church and walking parallel to Hans’s alley, along another street which was wider and cleaner. At this point there were no moored barges and indeed this canal, one of the smaller ones, seemed hardly used at all. For the most part, the buildings along the waterside turned their backs on it. As I followed it in the direction that would lead me out of the town, the canal was on my left hand, while on my right for most of the way there was a blank run of brick walls enclosing gardens of houses which faced in the opposite direction, towards a pleasanter part of the town. Finally I came to a large warehouse where a few men were working. Beyond that the canal wandered off into the countryside, heading roughly west of south and soon disappearing amongst dense reed beds.

I wonder, I thought. If a man wished to move barges quietly out of the town, would there be any better way than this? But perhaps this canal does not go anywhere. It may simply be one of those that the Hollanders dig to drain their fields.

The paved path which had accompanied the canal to this point petered out, though it was possible to follow the line of water further, along a strip of beaten earth through the reed beds, running parallel to the canal but about two yards from it. Perhaps it was one of the jaagpaden, as Captain Thoms had called them, used by men or horses towing barges. I headed slowly along it for perhaps half an hour, through deserted countryside, encountering no one. There was no sound but the soft incessant whispering of the reeds in the slight breeze and the occasional call of a bird. I disturbed a heron who made off with those long, slow wing beats which look too casual to lift the heavy body and trailing legs, yet somehow manage to propel the bird effortlessly upwards. I sat down on the ground, watching it fly as far as the nearest tree, a pollarded willow. There were few enough trees in this flat country of reeds and water, but from a bundle of twigs perched amongst its branches, I guessed that the heron had its nest there.

The silence and the warmth of the midday sun stole over me, so that I lay down on my back amongst the reeds, watching, through half-closed eyes, a grasshopper clinging, above my head, to a swaying stem. The reeds were alive with the leaping of these small green grasshoppers and the faint chirp of crickets, almost on the edge of hearing. Sleep was stealing over me, when the grasshopper above my head suddenly sprang from the stem and disappeared. At the same moment the heron, who must have made a silent return, clattered up from the edge of the canal. Suddenly I was aware of what they had heard, the sound of oars and men’s quiet voices.

I rolled over on my stomach and peered through the reeds. At first I could see nothing, then a barge came into sight, rowed by four men and towing another larger one. The sails were furled, for there was not enough of a breeze to aid their labours. Between the two pairs of oarsmen lay a bundle in canvas, perhaps a yard or more long and about as large around as my arms would reach. The following barge was piled high with more bundles, all the same size and shape. In its stern there were three large barrels.

Giving thanks that the reeds were thick here, I pressed my head down against the ground, my left cheek painfully against a sharp stone. My clothes were dull in hue and unlikely to draw attention amongst the reeds unless one of the men were to turn and look in my direction. With the instinct of a hunted animal seeking sanctuary, I closed my eyes and held my breath, until I could no longer hear the sound of the oars and the heron had returned to his fishing.

Slowly I sat up. The sunlight reflected off the water of the canal danced in stars before my eyes. Those canvas bundles meant only one thing to me. I had seen similar ones in Dover Castle. They contained army muskets, half a dozen in each. The barrels might be anything, but my guess was gunpowder or shot. As for the barges, I recognised the leading one by a careless streak of green paint across the bow. I had last seen it outside the locked hut, no more than a few yards from Hans’s door.

When I arrived back at the Prins Willem, a message from Ettore awaited me. He had not discovered much. He had managed to find out nothing of Mark Weber. Cornelius Parker, however, was known to have returned from his latest voyage and unloaded a substantial cargo of his usual goods, mainly rich fabrics from the Near East, and a fresh supply of the more expensive spices which were his most lucrative stock in trade. How easy, I thought, to stow those canvas bundles I had seen in amongst the innocent bales of cloth, which would also be wrapped in canvas for protection. An obliging customs official would take a cursory glance at a few bales of damask and nod the cargo through, for a small consideration. Barrels of more lethal goods could stand amongst the barrels of spices, and that same customs official would check the lading manifests and pass them through without opening them. The valuable spices, after all, must be kept carefully sealed, away from dirt and damp.

Ettore had also learned that van Leyden had been seen in Amsterdam about two weeks ago, but not since, nor did anyone know where he was living. After his flight from Leicester’s quarters before Christmas, he was not known to have taken any other lodgings in Amsterdam. Ettore believed he had probably been out of town until recently, possibly even out of the country.

I regret, he wrote, that I have no more detailed information for you, but I will continue my enquiries. Parker’s house is located on Sint Nikolaas Straat, not far from the church of Sint Nikolaas. Van Leyden may be living there.

Ettore Añez.

At these words, I looked up suddenly, searching my memory. When I had first met Dirck de Veen, he had said he was the minister of . . . aye, the church of Sint Nikolaas. I had forgotten that until now. I had never know the name of the street. If that was Sint Nikolaas Straat, then Cornelius Parker’s house could well be one of those whose garden backed on to the canal I had been following, only a few minutes’ walk from the locked hut and the moored barges.

If only I could see what was in that hut! It was becoming more and more clear that Hans had seen or heard something and perhaps threatened Parker with his knowledge. Threatened, perhaps, to tell the Dutch authorities or the Earl of Leicester. Had Mark Weber also discovered the same thing? He had seemed to the innkeeper to be on friendly terms with Parker, but he could have been playing the part of an agent for the Spanish. Walsingham’s agents often needed to pass themselves off as belonging to the enemy. Sometimes they were indeed double agents, but I knew that both Phelippes and Walsingham believed Weber to be trustworthy. Where was Weber now? If he had discovered something about the supply of arms, why had he not sent word to London?

I sat in the inn parlour with Ettore’s letter before me, brooding over a mug of thick Dutch beer. One voice in my head argued for going to the hut after dark and breaking in. It was vital for Walsingham to know what Parker was up to. But I also remembered Parker’s look of barely suppressed violence behind that falsely jovial façade and I remembered Hans lying with his throat cut from ear to ear. The other voice in my head was pure terror.

Andrew! I thought. Andrew was anxious to return to England as soon as possible with the men he had recruited, but must wait until the ship commandeered for Walsingham’s business was ready to take me back. Surely it would be reasonable to ask for his assistance? The sooner I was able to follow the trail Weber had laid and find him, the sooner we could both return home. And if there was an illegal trade in arms passing along that canal, it must be stopped. I shrank from approaching the Dutch authorities myself. I had papers from Walsingham, but I knew my youth would tell against me. As for Lord Willoughby, I had already had a taste of my reception there. But Andrew held an officer’s rank in the army. Even without Willoughby or the town officers, he could act.

I fetched paper and ink from my satchel and wrote a brief note to Andrew.

I need your help. I believe I have found what Weber was investigating: an illegal supply of arms and barges to the enemy. Can you come to the Prins Willem about dusk? In case I am mistaken, do not speak of this yet to any other. Kit

I folded the paper and sealed it, using for the first time the seal Arthur Gregory had made for me all those months ago. It gave the letter a more official appearance than I felt it merited, but if Andrew and I broke into the hut together, we could both bear witness to what we found there. If there was anything to be found, that is. If there was not, well then, I would not have made a fool of myself to anyone but Andrew, who would most certainly laugh it off. He might make fun of me afterwards, but no harm would have been done. At least I hoped not.

Marta, the innkeeper’s wife, assured me that one of the servants would ride out to the army camp and deliver my letter.

‘It is no trouble, Dokter. I know you are here to help us in these dangerous times.’

I gave her a weak smile. I hoped that what I was doing would help, and not cause a scandal. I begged a candle lantern from her, saying that I would need to go out after dark and was not sure when I would return.

I was in such a state of agitation that I could not eat anything, while I waited for the summer dusk to fall at last. Feeling somewhat foolish, I strapped on my sword, which I had not worn since leaving England. It still felt awkward, slapping against my thigh, and I was far from being confident that I could use it. Standing in my room, I tried drawing it once or twice. It came smoothly out of the leather scabbard, but I was slow, far too slow. Sweat began to form on my back and trickle down my spine. Jesu! I thought, I am no hero. I am not cut from that cloth. My stomach churned with nausea.

My window faced west and I watched the sky grow bright with clouds flushed crimson and gold as the sun sank slowly, interminably slowly, towards the Spanish Netherlands. How near, I wondered, had that vast fleet drawn now? Parma would need to have his troops in readiness to be carried across the Channel. If Andrew and I did not leave soon, we might find ourselves trapped in the Low Countries.

At last, as the sky had faded to lemon yellow, there came a tap on my door.

‘Dokter Alvarez?’ It was Anneke, the innkeeper’s daughter. ‘There is an English soldier here, asking for you.’

‘I am coming,’ I called. I slung my cloak about my shoulders. Even though it was summer, nearly the end of July, it might be cold after dark. I had heard a wind rattling the shutters outside the window. Besides, I still had Simon’s cloak, a good, dark colour. It would help me to blend into the shadows. I swallowed. There was an unpleasant, metallic taste in my mouth, the taste of fear. I picked up the candle lantern and opened my door.

Andrew left his horse at the inn and we began to cross the town on foot. As we made our way to Sint Nikolaas Straat, I told Andrew everything I had discovered. First, the murder of Hans Viederman when I had been in Amsterdam before Christmas, the behaviour of Parker, the plot which he and van Leyden had seemed to have contrived to poison Leicester.

‘Jesu’s bones!’ Andrew cried. ‘I knew nothing of this!’

‘It was kept quiet. No need to cause panic. Van Leyden disappeared. My evidence about Parker seems to have been ignored. But now it appears that Mark Weber may have discovered more evidence of treachery, and I think I know what it is.’

Quickly I recounted all that I had found since arriving in Amsterdam this time, and what I thought it meant.

‘So you want us to break into this locked hut?’

It sounded absurd on Andrew’s lips.

‘I may be quite wrong . . .’

‘No, I think you may have stumbled upon something. But we need tools – a crowbar at least.’

I gaped at him. What a fool I was! Certainly I was unfit to be an agent. I spoke airily of breaking in, but I had seen the size of that lock. Of course we would need tools of some sort.

Andrew slid an amused glance at me.

‘We’ll spy out the building first,’ he said, ‘then decide what we need. From the way you describe the lock, it will not be easy to pick, and I’ve little skill in the art, though my sergeant has.’

‘Should we fetch him from the camp?’

‘He’s still in England. Unfortunately.’ He jerked his head. ‘Down here, is it?’

We had reached the alleyway. ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Down to the end and round the corner on the left, facing the canal.’

It was impenetrably dark in the alley and we had not yet lit the lantern, so that we could not avoid the noisome liquid which had spread even further than before, but when we emerged at the canal-side, the reflection of the sliver of moon off the water gave us light enough to see the hut and – all too clearly – the massive lock on the door. Andrew shook his head at the sight of it.

‘There’s no hope of breaking that, Kit, nor the door. It looks to be cross-planked in oak.’ He tried to get his fingers round the edge of the shutters which barred the window, but they too were made of thick oak boards.

‘I wonder–,’ I said.

‘Aye?’

‘Perhaps we could find our way through the back. The cottage round the corner in the alley, the one where Hans lived, is quite derelict. We could easily get in, but I cannot remember whether there was a way out at the back. If there is, it might be possible to approach this building from behind.’

‘Worth trying,’ he said, turning back at once.

Standing before the half-open door of the cottage, my nerve nearly failed. My reason tells me that ghosts do not exist, but it took every ounce of courage to enter that cottage in the dark, with the memory of that murdered man lying on the floor as vivid as if it were still there.

‘Best light that lamp,’ Andrew said.

I nodded, and fumbled with flint and tinder, for my hands were shaking. I had it alight at last, but shielded it from the street with my cloak as we crossed the threshold. It would be as well to avoid being seen.

The place was even more forlorn than I remember. The few sticks of furniture were gone, looted by other poor cottagers for their own houses or smashed for fuel during last winter’s cruel weather. There were a few shards of pottery lying beside the cold ashes on the hearthstone, and the floor spat and crunched under our feet with grit blown in from the street. There was a rustling in the battered thatch from nesting birds or mice, but living creatures did not frighten me. Once we were inside and Andrew had dragged the door as closed as possible on its sagging hinges, I raised the lantern and looked around. In front of me a patch of the beaten earth floor was stained a darker colour.

‘That was where he was lying,’ I whispered.

Andrew nodded absently, but this place held no horrors for him. He had walked over to a far dark corner where there was another door that I had not noticed before. He struggled to open it, but it would not move, either warped or blocked by something on the outside. He heaved with his shoulder, but still it would not budge. I joined him, holding the lantern out of harm’s way and together we threw ourselves against the door. It shivered and cracked apart, sending Andrew sprawling half inside and half outside, while I just managed to grab at the splintered frame before I fell on top of him.

He clambered to his feet, brushing away fragments of rotten wood and rubbing his knee, which had struck a large rock. It had been wedged against the door from the outside, intended to prevent its being opened. He took the lantern from me and held it up beyond the gap where the door had been. The flickering candlelight revealed a small yard enclosed on two sides by this cottage and the adjacent locked shed, and on the remaining two by the blank walls of two other houses. As we had hoped, there was a door into the other building from the yard.

Without speaking, I pointed across the yard, where a row of barrels stood, like those I had seen on the barge. Andrew nodded. He seemed to be searching the ground for something. There was a clutter of rubbish strewn about and he stepped out into the yard to examine it.

‘This might serve,’ he said softly, holding up a piece of bent metal. ‘Near enough to a crowbar.’

It hardly seemed necessary to keep our voices down. The noise we had made breaking down the cottage door must have been heard as far away as the church. I picked my way around the ruins of the door and walked over to the other building. This back door did not bear a vast lock like the front, but it was almost certainly bolted from the inside. I doubted whether Andrew’s makeshift crowbar would be sufficient to lever it open.

‘There is another window here,’ I said, hardly above a breath. ‘The shutters are old. I think we might be able to open them.’

He came up beside me.

‘Too small.’

‘I think I could get through.’

He sized me up with a quick glance. ‘Perhaps you could.’

It proved easier than we had hoped. Andrew set the lantern on the ground and inserted his metal bar under the bottom edge of the right-hand shutter. Almost at once it swung out, snapping the hook that had held it shut. Then he reached up and grabbed the second shutter, which swung out unresisting. I took off my bulky cloak and laid it on the ground next to the lantern.

‘Give me a leg up, then pass me the lantern.’

When I was sitting on the sill, with a leg on either side, I leaned toward the inside of the building and moved the lantern from side to side. Like Hans’s cottage, it consisted of just one room, but this room showed no sign of being lived in. It was stacked high, all along the wall to my right, with more of those long canvas bundles.

‘I’m going to take a closer look,’ I said, and dropped down inside, tripping over my wretched sword and falling flat on my face in the dirt. The lantern tipped crazily sideways, but I managed to right it. The candle flickered wildly, but did not go out.

The bundle on the top of the nearest stack was just a few feet away. I felt it all over with my left hand, still holding the lantern in my right. The contents seemed to be long tubes of metal, but I could not be sure. In irritation, I put down the lantern and tugged at the end of the canvas. One fold fell open and finally I could see what lay within.

I stumbled over to the window.

‘Aye,’ I hissed. ‘It’s muskets. Dozens of them.’

‘Do you think you can lift one of the bundles out of the window?’ I could not see him, but he must be just below the sill. ‘We need evidence.’

‘I think so.’

It was heavier than I thought, but I managed to drag one of the bundles to the outside wall. Raising it to the window was more difficult, but as it teetered on the sill I felt Andrew take the weight.

‘Better get out of there now,’ he whispered. ‘I thought I heard someone coming along the canal.’

I realised that this would be more difficult than climbing in, for there was no one to give me a leg-up. I could heard the approaching footsteps myself now. More than one man. I passed the lantern out of the window.

‘Douse it!’ I said. ‘The light may be visible through the cottage.’

One of the barrels, I thought. I could climb out by one of the barrels. I grabbed the nearest and started to roll it under the window. My hands were slippery with sweat and I kept losing my hold on it, but at last I had it in place. They might notice that it had been moved, but that was a risk I had to take.

Something troubled me. There had been an unmistakable stench over by the barrels. I realised that I had been half aware of it before, ever since climbing in, but had been too caught up in examining the guns to attend to it. My eyes had grown accustomed to the near dark of the room and while we had been here the quarter moon had climbed a little higher, throwing an oblique shaft of silver light through the window, just catching the edge of something in the corner beside the barrels. Torn between the need to escape and the anxiety to put to rest the fear that stench had awakened, I crossed quickly to the far wall and looked down.

I had not been wrong. A man lay there, huddled into the corner, where he must have been flung some days before. I crouched down and lifted his flaccid arm, although I already had my answer. He wore a simple signet ring on his hand, which his killers had not troubled to remove. I recognised the design, like the ring I wore on a chain round my neck. I slid it off the unresisting finger and dropped it down the neck of my shirt. Then panic seized me and I scuttled toward the window and escape. As I climbed on to the barrel and threw myself on my stomach over the window ledge, I could hear a key scraping in the lock on the other side of the room.

Andrew grabbed me by the back of my doublet and dragged me down on the other side. I fell into the yard, scraping the palms of my hands and jabbing my side with the hilt of my sword. As I scrambled to my feet, I could just make him out in the gloom, pushing the shutters back into place.

Without speaking, we each caught hold of an end of the bundle of muskets and were stepping over the threshold into Hans’s cottage when I remembered.

‘My cloak!’ I whispered.

I darted across to get it, and as I did so a line of light appeared between the shutters. The men had a lantern. Any minute now they might notice that I had moved the barrel.

I was back at the cottage in a moment and picked up my end of the bundle, tucking my cloak under my arm.

‘I have the lantern,’ Andrew said, barely above a breath. ‘Don’t want to leave anything to draw attention.’

Then we were out of the cottage and stumbling as fast as we could up the alleyway.

When we reached the church, Andrew stopped suddenly, so that the muskets hit me smartly in the belly.

‘Careful!’ I said. ‘That hurt.’

‘I’m sorry. But look, we can’t go through the streets of Amsterdam carrying this. I don’t want to have to stop and explain to the Watch.’

I sat down suddenly on the church steps. My legs had begun to shake and I realised I was drenched with sweat.

‘I found Mark Weber,’ I said. ‘He’s dead.’

Andrew gasped. ‘He was in there?’

‘Aye. Thrown into a corner like a pile of old rags. Dead at least a week, I’d say. Probably longer.’

He shook his head. ‘They must have found him out,’ he said soberly. ‘So you have done what you came for.’

‘Not as I had hoped. What shall we do? Go to Willoughby?’