Sea Change (10 page)

One winter's morning which Spandrel had no way, in his confinement, of distinguishing from any other, but which most inhabitants of Amsterdam knew to be Friday 21st February in the New Style, saw the customary tumult of commerce on the Dam, the square in front of the Stadhuis. Barges were loading and unloading at the wharfside. Merchants from the nearby Exchange were clustering round the Weigh-House. At the fish and vegetable markets, business was brisk.

Nobody was minded, therefore, to pay much attention to the man striding about impatiently at the foot of the steps that led up to the main entrance of the Stadhuis. And a fleeting glance at his face — scarred and balefully forbidding — was enough to discourage prolonged scrutiny. It was evident that whenever he paused to stare up at the columned and pedimented frontage of the Stadhuis, he was not doing so to admire the statues representative of Prudence, Justice and Peace, but to look at the clock on the dome above them.

The clock showed it to be eight minutes after ten when a figure rounded the north-eastern corner of the building and hurried to meet him. The newcomer was breathless and irritably flustered, softer-faced and sleeker than the first man. Neither of them looked pleased by their meeting. There was no handshake, far less a bow, but a curt nod on one part and a scowl of greeting on the other.

'Captain Mcllwraith?'

'Aye. And you, I take it, are Cloisterman.'

'I am.'

'You're late.'

'I cannot order my affairs to suit your sole convenience. Had you arranged to call on me at my office, I dare say—'

'I've had enough of offices, man. There are no keyholes in the open air for clerks to listen at. The Amsterdammers seem to do their share of business here. It should be good enough for you.'

'Well, I'm here, am I not?'

'I was assured of your full assistance.'

'Then you'd best tell me what I can assist you with.'

'Spandrel. The fellow they have in there' — Mcllwraith crooked a thumb towards the Stadhuis — 'for the murder of de Vries.'

'I'm aware of the case.'

'An assassin in the pay of the Austrians, do you think?'

'I do not.'

'A dupe, then? A pawn in a deeper game?'

'Perhaps.'

'If so, shouldn't you be doing something to help him?'

'It's a matter for the Sheriff.' Cloisterman shrugged. 'Spandrel's a person of no consequence.'

'But the reason he came here is of consequence. It's crammed with consequences. And I'm here to unravel them.'

'I wish you luck.'

'I want more than your wishes, man. Zuyler stole the package Spandrel delivered to de Vries. He's been to The Hague trying to sell it to that booby who supposedly represents our nation's interests there.'

'You mean Mr Dalrymple?' Cloisterman looked unruffled by the disparaging reference to his superior.

'I mean the simpering clothes-horse who goes by that name, aye. He turned Zuyler away. But Zuyler's not returned here. Nor has the widow de Vries. They've gone in search of a buyer elsewhere. And some servant of Sir Theodore Janssen's called Jupe has gone after them.'

'Has he?'

'Oh, I think so. And I think I can guess where Zuyler and Mrs de Vries are heading just as readily as friend Jupe.'

'Where might that be?'

'Never mind. What concerns me is that I've never met Zuyler or Mrs de Vries. But Spandrel has.'

'Well, yes.'

'And he's had sight of the contents of the package he delivered to de Vries.'

'Presumably.'

'Why has the Sheriff not brought him before the magistrates for trial?'

'Who can say?' Cloisterman gave another shrug. 'The wheels of justice turn but slowly.'

'Not when a man of de Vries's standing in the community is murdered in cold blood by a foreigner.'

'Even so...'

'Why the delay, man? You must have some idea.'

'I could only guess.'

'Then do it.'

'Well, the sudden departure from the city of Zuyler and Mrs de Vries goes a little way towards supporting Spandrel's contention that they murdered de Vries. Only a very little way, it's true, but it may be sufficient to have persuaded the Sheriff that he should await their return before proceeding.'

'He'll have a long wait.'

'You think so?'

'And all the while poor wee Spandrel will moulder in gaol.'

'Inevitably.'

'Inevitably, is it? I don't think so.' Mcllwraith clapped Cloisterman round the shoulder, sending him staggering to one side. 'Time you were bestirring yourself, Mr Vice-Consul, on behalf of a fellow-countryman in distress.' Mcllwraith grinned crookedly. 'High time.'

The Secretary of State is dead; long live the Secretary of State. That same Friday, dated eleven days earlier in England, was the first day in office of Lord Stanhope's successor as Secretary for the Northern Department. Charles, Viscount Townshend, had good reason to be pleased with himself as he sat behind Stanhope's desk in the Cockpit building off Whitehall. Four years previously, Stanhope and his great ally Sunderland had succeeded in ousting him from the very same post by playing on the suspicions of the King that he and the then First Lord of the Treasury, Robert Walpole, had deferred overmuch to the Prince of Wales during one of the King's sojourns in Hanover. Walpole, who happened to be Townshend's brother-in-law as well as his best and oldest friend, had resigned along with him. Now, thanks to the grievous inundations of the South Sea, they were back.

Walpole, it was true, had presently to be content with the post of Paymaster-General of the Forces. But he was certain to succeed Aislabie as Chancellor of the Exchequer in due course and, if the Brodrick Committee unearthed damning evidence against Sunderland, as it well might, he could soon be in sole dominion at the Treasury. Their partnership would then be fully restored. Yes, on the whole, Townshend had every reason to be delighted. An ill wind had blown much good to a deserving pair of plain-mannered Norfolkmen.

But much good was not all good. The Paymaster-General was, as it happened, presently slumped in the chair on the other side of the desk, chewing at an apple and scratching his stomach through the gap between two straining buttons of his waistcoat. The smile he often wore was absent. He had not even been cheered by the news Townshend had just conveyed to him that the Secretary for the Southern Department, James Craggs the younger, Stanhope's supposedly brilliant pupil, was mortally ill with the smallpox. Something was clearly amiss.

Townshend knew only too well what it was. The reason for the prevailing glumness was to be found amongst the papers scattered across the desk between them. Or rather, it was not to be found there. Its absence was the reason.

The slew of papers comprised Stanhope's most recent correspondence. Among the material that had arrived since his death was a bundle of documents sent posthaste from Brussels after their confiscation from Robert Knight following his arrest near the Brabantine border. They did not include a certain green-covered ledger by which so many set such very great store. And without that what they did include was of little significance. Bar one disturbing communication from charge d'affaires Dalrymple at The Hague.

With a sudden oath, Walpole plucked what remained of the apple from his mouth and flung it into the fire, where it buried itself sizzlingly among the coals. 'Dalrymple should be grateful he's out of my reach,' he growled. 'Otherwise I'd be tempted to roast him on a spit for what he's done.'

'He was following orders, Robin,' Townshend ventured.

'As he wastes no time in pointing out. What can Stanhope have been thinking of ? To reject Kempis so... bluntly... was madness.'

'Stanhope took him for a rogue. It's understandable. We all assumed Knight would have the Green Book about him.'

'I assumed nothing. I hoped. That is all. Kempis should have been kept dangling till we knew for certain.'

'Stanhope seems to have been in no mood to temporize. Perhaps he was already unwell when he wrote to Dalrymple.'

'More likely Sunderland didn't trust him enough to explain how important the Green Book is.'

'I'm not sure I understand that myself.'

'None of us will, Charles.' Walpole paused to prise a fragment of apple skin from his teeth. 'Until we see for ourselves.'

'In that case, wasn't Stanhope right to rebel at the very notion of paying a hundred thousand pounds for it?'

'A hundred thousand may come to seem like a bargain.'

'Surely it could never be that. Unless—' Townshend broke off and eyed Walpole thoughtfully. 'Well, you always knew more of such matters than me, Robin.'

'The less you know the better.'

Walpole shaped a smile that failed to reassure his brother-in-law, but succeeded in deterring him from further enquiry. It occurred to Townshend that there was a distinct similarity between his own relative ignorance and that in which Sunderland had evidently kept Stanhope. The only difference was that Sunderland was a shifty and self-serving manoeuvrer, whereas Walpole, his boon companion and dear wife's loyal brother, would never betray him. Of that he felt certain.

'The question now,' said Walpole, slapping his thighs for emphasis, 'is what's to be done?'

Cloisterman had several reservations about the course of action he had embarked upon. The most serious of these was the impossibility of deciding what his masters in Whitehall, whoever they were following Stanhope's death, would later declare they had wanted him to do. Should he be helping Mcllwraith, or obstructing him? Dalrymple had committed nothing to paper on the subject, presumably so that later he could either take credit for Cloisterman's actions or disown them, according to which way the wind blew. There was no way of extracting specific guidance from Dalrymple. Cloisterman knew better than to try. And the Consul had eagerly delegated full responsibility to him. 'I always leave dealings with the Sheriff to you, Nick. You have a sure hand in these matters.'

Cloisterman could only hope the Consul was right. A sure hand he certainly needed to play. Fortunately, Sheriff Lanckaert was a cautious and patriotic man, who could be expected to resist consular representations on behalf of the prisoner Spandrel. Mcllwraith's suggestion, which Cloisterman had agreed to pass on, was that Spandrel should be given the chance, under close escort, to locate the chemist's shop beneath which, he claimed, Zuyler had lodgings, lodgings, indeed, where Spandrel said he had passed the night following the alleged attempt on his life. Zuyler had vanished before he could be questioned on the point, but de Vries's servants all said Zuyler lived in the house and had no outside lodgings. Nor was a chemist called Barlaeus known to anyone. But lies so easily nailed were scarcely worth the telling. It made no sense for Spandrel to make such things up. Perhaps, therefore, he had not made them up. Perhaps Zuyler had taken secret lodgings as part of the deception and given Spandrel a false name for his landlord just as he had for the hired assassin. If a chemist of some other name could be found who had recently let his basement to someone matching Zuyler's description, matters would be turned upon their head and Spandrel might be released — into Mcllwraith's waiting arms.

But Cloisterman did not expect that to happen. He did not expect Lanckaert to agree to any part of the exercise. And if Lanckaert should confound his expectation, he did not foresee the result Mcllwraith anticipated. Implicating Zuyler in de Vries's murder would not exonerate Spandrel. Spandrel might as easily have been his accomplice as his dupe, the lies he had told, if lies they were, merely desperate attempts to talk his way out of trouble.

From Cloisterman's point of view, Lanckaert's likely intransigence was a godsend. He would have assisted General Ross's representative as best he was able, without that assistance altering events in any way that could subsequently be laid at his door. Mcllwraith would charge off in pursuit of Zuyler and Mrs de Vries, leaving Cloisterman in peace, with a ready answer to any criticism, readier still should that criticism emanate from the slippery Dalrymple.

It was thus with no apparent reluctance but very little enthusiasm that Cloisterman presented his request to Lanckaert's English-speaking deputy, Aertsen, in his cramped office beneath the eaves of the Stadhuis that Friday afternoon. Aertsen and he were occasional combatants in closely fought games of chess at Hoppe's coffee-house and pursued their official discussions in a similar vein, with every allowance for each other's tactical acumen. They had both questioned Spandrel and formed their views on the case. But their views were irrelevant and so they wasted no time on them. Lanckaert's judgement was all that mattered. And there Aertsen had a surprise for Cloisterman.

'An interesting proposition, Nicholas. I rather think it may commend itself to Mijnheer Lanckaert.'

'You do?'

'You look surprised.'

'I am. Are you sure?'

'I cannot be sure. But I am optimistic'

'Why?'

'Because Mijnheer Lanckaert wishes to discover an Austrian conspiracy. Indeed, he needs to discover one. The V.O.C. expects it of him.'

'I'm asking for Spandrel to be given an opportunity to exonerate, not incriminate, himself.'

'You cannot have one without the other.'

Zuyler's flight had marked him down as Spandrel's co-conspirator, perhaps the arch-conspirator. That, Cloisterman clearly saw, was how it was. And now he had volunteered to help the authorities prove their point. Freedom would be dangled like a carrot in front of Spandrel, only to be snatched away once he had led them far enough in pursuit of it. It was the way of the world. It could not be helped. Certainly not by Cloisterman. He shrugged. 'So be it.'

'I will speak to Mijnheer Lanckaert as soon as possible.' Aertsen smiled, which had the disquieting effect of exaggerating his squint. 'And we shall see if I read him aright.'

But as to that there was no doubt. Aertsen was no more likely to advance an unfounded opinion than an undefended pawn. Cloisterman already had his answer. And it was not the one he wanted.

When, the following afternoon, the guard he knew as Big Janus opened the door of his cell, the last thing Spandrel expected him to say — the last thing he would have dared to hope — was that he had a visitor. Big Janus seemed to sense this and went so far as to smile. 'Mijnheer Cloisterman,' he announced, as if genuinely pleased on Spandrel's account. He jangled the keys in his hand, then seemed to decide that manacling Spandrel was unnecessary. He stepped back, holding the door open for Cloisterman.

'Mr Cloisterman,' Spandrel said, struggling to control the surge of hope that had overcome him. 'Thank God.'

'Good afternoon.' Cloisterman's gaze revealed nothing. 'Are you being well treated?'

'Well treated?' Spandrel caught Big Janus's eye over Cloisterman's shoulder. 'I... have no complaints.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'I thought... I'd been...'

'Forgotten? Nothing of the kind, I assure you. I've been doing my very best for you.'

'Thank you.' Spandrel would have fallen at Cloisterman's feet had he thought the gesture likely to be appreciated. 'Thank you, sir.'

'And I have secured for you a significant concession.'

'Thank you. Thank you so much.'

'Do you think you could lead us to Zuyler's lodgings?'

'His... lodgings?'

'Yes. Where you went after he rescued you from the canal.'

'The canal.' Spandrel's mind grappled unfamiliarly with the process of connected thought. 'Of course. Zuyler's lodgings. Beneath the chemist's shop.'

'Exactly. Could you lead us there?'

'Yes. I... think so. I... I'm sure. I would know the way from... the tavern.' For the life of him, Spandrel could not remember the name of the tavern where he had spent the night before his ill-fated return to the house of Ysbrand de Vries. But he would eventually. It would all come back to him in time. 'I could do it, Mr Cloisterman. I could.'

'I believe you. And you're to have the chance.'

'When?'

'Monday.'

'And when is...' Spandrel tried to calculate how many days had elapsed since he had last heard the church bells ringing for the sabbath. Was it five, or six? He shook his head helplessly.

'It's the day after tomorrow,' said Cloisterman, taking pity on him.

'Thank you. Of course it is. The day after tomorrow. And this... will help my case?'

'It may do.' Cloisterman hesitated, then said, 'We'll find out, won't we? On Monday.'

Although the Paymaster-Generalship of the Forces was a relatively lowly office, it enjoyed certain significant privileges. The most lucrative of these was custody of the Army pay-roll, which was handed over by the Treasury at the beginning of each year and gradually disbursed, the balance being invested by the Paymaster for his personal benefit until it was called upon. In time of war, when the Army was so much bigger, this practice could make a man fabulously wealthy. The Duke of Chandos, Paymaster-General during the War of the Spanish Succession, had been desperately trying to find ways of spending his money ever since and was rumoured to have lost £700,000 on South Sea stock without batting an eyelid. In time of peace, the riches that accrued to the fortunate incumbent did so at a slacker pace, but accrue they nonetheless did. This was Walpole's second spell in the post and he was now what careful husbandry of his Norfolk estate could never have made him: a man of considerable means.

He was also in occupation of the Paymaster's official residence, Orford House, attached to the Royal Hospital at Chelsea. It was a residence entirely suited to the dignity and pre-eminence he had resolved should be his and he had no intention of surrendering it when he assumed a more senior role in government. Indeed, as he took his Sunday morning ease there, strolling on the lawns that ran down to the Thames in sunshine warm enough for spring, he was already turning over in his mind ways of annexing more of the hospital's buildings and grounds for his private use. His wife had expressed a wish for an aviary and he himself thought a summer-house would look rather fine on the terrace where a few pensioners were currently taking the air. Yes, changes there would be, here and in Norfolk, when he came into his own.