Sea Change (3 page)

Unwise though he knew it to be, Spandrel let such thoughts fill his head. He had drunk his fill of despondency. For the moment, he could not resist the flavour of a sweeter brew.

Jupe delivered Spandrel's letter to his mother promptly, if peremptorily. Beyond assuring Mrs Spandrel that her son would be out of the Middlesex magistrates' jurisdiction throughout his absence and therefore not liable to arrest, he told her nothing and was gone almost before she had read the few lines William had written. They likewise told her nothing, other than not to worry, which naturally she did, especially when Annie Welsh expressed her certainty that Jupe was the man who had called there on Friday morning. William had been planning this since then at least, possibly longer. That much seemed clear. But nothing else was. And, until it became so, she would do little but worry. 'For that boy's sake,' she gamely informed Annie Welsh, 'I hope he's got a good excuse for leaving his old mother in the lurch.'

Whether his mother would regard his excuse as good or bad did not figure in Spandrel's thoughts as Sir Theodore's skiff nosed in to the dock at Deptford and drew alongside the Vixen beneath a gun-metal noonday sky. His confidence had already faded in the sobering face of a journey down the Thames during which the boatmen had said not a word to him, though they had exchanged many meaningful looks and mutters. He was cold and hungry and would soon be far from home. What was in the box? He did not know. He did not want to know. If all went well, he never would. And if all did not go well...

Why had Sir Theodore chosen him? And why had he not sent him by the Harwich route? There were questions, but no answers. Except one: he had to go through with it; he had no choice.

That would probably still have been Spandrel's conclusion had he been aware of the other sea crossing being made that day by a recent visitor to the house of Sir Theodore Janssen. Robert Knight was also on his way out of the country, boarding a private yacht at Dover by prior arrangement for the short voyage to Calais. When the Committee of Inquiry reconvened at South Sea House on Monday morning to continue his examination, it was going to find itself without an examinee.

In other circumstances, Spandrel would probably have enjoyed his journey to Amsterdam, a choppy crossing on the Vixen proving, somewhat surprisingly, that he did not suffer from sea-sickness. Anxiety was a different matter, however. Once he had delivered the box to de Vries, he would be able to relish the sights and sensations of foreign travel. Until then, he could only wish the days and miles away.

He tried to keep himself to himself, but a loquacious tile merchant from Sussex called Maybrick wore down his defences in the passenger cabin of the Vixen and insisted on accompanying him from Helvoetsluys, where they landed on Monday afternoon, as far as Rotterdam. For Maybrick's benefit, Spandrel claimed to be what he would so like to have been: a mapmaker thinking of applying his talents to the cities of the United Provinces.

He could not complain too much about Maybrick, though, since the fellow took him to an inn in Rotterdam that was comfortable as well as cheap and told him how sensible he had been to avoid the Harwich run on account of the grasping ways of Essex innkeepers.

Spandrel was nevertheless relieved to continue on his own the following morning, by horse-drawn trekschuit along winding canals through flat, winter-stripped fields. Rain of varying intensity, ranging from drizzle to downpour, fell out of the vast grey dome of sky and the trekschuit kept up a slow if steady pace. It finally delivered its passengers to Haarlem nine hours later, in the chill of early evening, bone-weary and, in Spandrel's case, fuddled by spending all bar a few minutes of those nine hours inhaling other people's pipe smoke in the cramped cabin.

But Haarlem was only three hours from Amsterdam. Next morning, washed and refreshed, Spandrel felt his fragile confidence return. Before the day was out, he would have done what Sir Theodore had asked of him. Nothing was going to stop him. And nothing was going to go wrong.

The rain persisted. The Haarlem to Amsterdam trekschuit seemed draughtier and damper than the one Spandrel had travelled on the day before. Or perhaps it was simply that his tolerance was diminishing. The vast stretches of water between which the canal ran through a scrawny neck of land created the illusion that they were voyaging out to an island somewhere in the Zuyder Zee, well enough though he knew Amsterdam's location from his father's collection of maps.

At length they arrived, the canal running out into the moat that surrounded the city wall. Above them, on the wall, windmills sat like sentinels, their sails turning slowly in the dank breeze. It was early afternoon and Spandrel was eager to press on to his destination. Spending money with a liberality he reckoned he could easily accustom himself to, he hired a coach from the city gate to take him to the de Vries house. 'Ik heb haast,' he told the driver, using a phrase he had picked up from merchant Maybrick. I'm in a hurry.' It was nothing less than the truth.

The houses of Herengracht were elegant and uniform, their high, narrow frontages lining the canal in a display of prosperity that convinced Spandrel he was entering the very heart of the city's mercantile community. The de Vries residence, which the coachman had seemed to know well, looked very much like its neighbours, a broad staircase leading up to a loftily architraved entrance at mezzanine level. Gazing up from the street, Spandrel noticed the hoist-beams jutting out above its topmost windows. Every house had such devices. His eye followed them round the curve of the canal. Suddenly, and unwelcomely, he thought how like a row of Smithfield meat-hooks they looked, waiting for a carcass. Then he thrust the thought aside and climbed the steps.

An elderly manservant answered the door. He had an unsmiling air of truculence about him, as if he sensed that Spandrel was not so important as to merit any show of respect. The fellow communicated by grimaces and hand signals, presumably because he spoke no English. He admitted Spandrel no farther than the marbled hall and left him to wait on a low chair literally overshadowed by a vast oriental urn on a plinth.

Five minutes passed, precisely timed for Spandrel by the long-case clock he was sitting opposite. Then a tall, dark-eyed man of about Spandrel's own age appeared. He had an intent, solicitous expression and was immaculately if plainly dressed. But there was also a languor about him, an impression of unstated superiority. And in those sea-cave eyes there was something else which disturbed Spandrel. He could not have said what it was. That was what disturbed him.

'Mr Spandrel,' the man said in perfectly enunciated but accented English. 'My name is Zuyler. I am Mijnheer de Vries's secretary.'

'Is Mijnheer de Vries at home?'

'I regret not.'

'I must see him. It is a matter of some urgency.'

'So I understand.' Zuyler cast a fleeting glance at the satchel. 'You are expected. But the time of your arrival was unknown. And Mijnheer de Vries is a busy man.'

'I'm sure he is.'

'My instructions are to ask you to wait here while I fetch him. He is at the Oost Indisch Huys. It is not far. But I cannot say how... involved in business... I may find him. Nevertheless...'

'I'll wait.'

'Good. This way please.'

Zuyler led him towards the rear of the house and into what was clearly de Vries's library. Well-stocked bookcases lined the walls and the windows were shaded against the depredations of sunlight, an unnecessary precaution, it seemed to Spandrel, in view of the grey weather he had travelled through. Sure enough, more light was coming from the fire burning in the grate than from the world beyond the windows.

'I will return as soon as I can,' said Zuyler. And with that he was gone, slipping silently from the room with disconcerting suddenness.

Spandrel looked around him. Busts of assorted ancients were spaced along the tops of the bookcases. Lavishly framed oil paintings of less ancient subjects — Dutch burgher stock, for the most part — occupied the space between them and the stuccoed ceiling. Above the mirror over the fireplace was a painting of a different order, depicting a castle of some sort in a tropical setting, palm trees bending in an imagined breeze. An armchair and a sofa stood either side of the fireplace. There was a desk in front of one of the windows and a wide table adjacent to a section of bookcasing given over to map drawers. Spandrel was tempted to slide the drawers open and see what they contained, but he resisted. He did not want to complicate his presence in the house in any way. He wished, in fact, to know as little as possible about its owner; and that owner, in turn, to know as little as possible about him.

But that was easier thought man adhered to. There was a clock in this room too, ticking through the leaden minutes. Spandrel sat down in front of the fire, stood up and inspected the paintings, sat down again, stood up again. And all the while he kept the satchel in his hand.

Twenty minutes slowly elapsed. Spandrel had little hope that de Vries could be swiftly extricated from his place of business. He stood glumly in the centre of the room, examining his reflection in the mirror. It was a clearer and fuller version of himself than he had seen for many months and the hard times he had lived through during those months had left their mark — there was no denying it. He looked older than his years. He had acquired a faint sagging of the shoulders that would become a permanent stoop if he did not mend his posture, which he thereupon did, to encouraging effect. But it was only that: an effect. It could not last. As if admitting as much, he let his shoulders relax.

At which moment the door opened behind him and a dark-haired young woman in a blue dress entered the room. 'Excuse me,' she said, her accent sounding genuinely English. 'I did not realize...'

'Your pardon, madam.' Spandrel turned and mustered a bow. 'I was bidden to wait here for Mijnheer de Vries.'

'You may have a long wait, sir. My husband is at East India House. I am not expecting him back before six o'clock.'

Spandrel registered the disconcerting fact that this woman was de Vries's wife. She could not be much above twenty-five, but Sir Theodore had described de Vries as a man of about his own age, so Mrs de Vries had to be more than thirty years his junior. To make matters worse, she was quite startlingly attractive. Not classically beautiful, it was true. Her nose was too long, her brow too broad, for that. But she had a poise and an openness of expression that overrode such considerations. Her blue dress set off her hair and eyes perfectly. There was a curl of some nascent smile playing about her lips. Her eyebrows were faintly arched. Around her neck she wore a single string of pearls, at her breast a white satin bow. Confined for so long to the female company of Cat and Dog Yard, Spandrel had forgotten how intoxicating close proximity to a well-dressed and finely bred woman could be. And even Maria Chesney had lacked something that Mrs de Vries quite obviously possessed: a confidence in her own womanhood that made her marriage to the crabbed old miser Spandrel had suddenly decided de Vries must be less a mockery ... than a tragedy.

'Have you come far to see my husband, Mr...'

'Spandrel, madam. William Spandrel.'

'From England, perhaps?'

'Indeed.'

'It is always a pleasure to hear an English voice. You will have guessed, of course, that I am only Dutch by marriage. My husband speaks excellent English. So do most of the household. But...' She trailed into a thoughtful silence.

'I met Mr Zuyler.'

'Well, well, there you are. A fluent example, indeed. But fluency is not quite authenticity, is it?' She smiled.

'No,' Spandrel said hesitantly. 'I suppose not.'

'Where is Mr Zuyler now?'

'He has gone to fetch your husband.'

'To fetch him? With the expectation that he will wish to be fetched, I assume. You must be an important man, Mr Spandrel.'

'Hardly.'

'Has no-one offered you tea?'

'Er... no.'

'Then let me do so.' She moved past him to the bell-pull beside the fireplace and tugged at it. 'When did you arrive in Amsterdam?'

'This afternoon. By barge from Haarlem.'

'Then tea you will certainly need.'

'Thank you.' Spandrel smiled cautiously. 'It would be most welcome.'

'Please be seated.'

'Thank you.' Spandrel was aware of repeating himself. He sat down in the armchair and self-consciously lowered the satchel to the floor beside him.

Mrs de Vries sat on the sofa opposite him and seemed on the point of saying something when the door opened and a maid entered. There was a brief conversation in Dutch. The maid withdrew.

'How long,' Spandrel began, feeling the need to speak even though there was little he could safely say, 'have you lived in Amsterdam, Mrs de Vries?'

'Nearly three years, Mr Spandrel.'

'You speak the language,,, very well.'

'Not as well as I should. But Mr Zuyler has been as assiduous a tutor as his other duties will allow.'

'What part of England do you come from?'

'An obscure part. But your accent betrays you as a Londoner, I think.'

'You're correct.'

'How is the city these days?'

'The city is well. But the spirits of its citizens are generally low.'

'Because of the collapse in South Sea stock?'

'Indeed. I see you're well informed.'

'My husband is a man of business, Mr Spandrel. How should I not be? Besides, the South Sea Company has scarcely fewer victims here than in London. And those who have not thrown their money down that drain have consigned it to the pit of the Mississippi Company instead. Did London hold itself aloof from that?'

'I think not.' Spandrel had read various references to the Mississippi Company in the third — or fourth-hand newspapers that were his only informants on the world. It had been France's imitation of the South Sea scheme. Or was it the other way round? He could not rightly remember. 'But it seems... you know more about such matters than I do.'

'You would be unique among my husband's business associates if that were the case.'

'But I'm not his associate, madam. Merely the servant of one.'

'And would your master be Sir Theodore Janssen?'

Spandrel flinched with surprise. He had not expected to be seen through so easily.

'Forgive me, Mr Spandrel.' Mrs de Vries smiled at him reassuringly. 'The deduction required no great acuity on my part. Sir Theodore is my husband's oldest friend. My husband mentioned receiving a letter from him recently. Sir Theodore lives in London. You come from London. And Mr Zuyler hastens off to fetch Mr de Vries from the midst of his mercantile deliberations. You see? Simplicity itself.'

'Only when you explain it.'

'You flatter me.' Her smile broadened and Spandrel realized that flattery had indeed been his intention. Then there came a stirring of the latch. 'Ah. Here's Geertruid with our tea.'

Geertruid it was, somewhat out of humour to judge by the sighs that accompanied her arrangement of the cups, plates, spoons and saucers. A rich-looking cake had arrived along with the tea and, as soon as Geertruid had left, Mrs de Vries cut him a large slice and watched approvingly as he tasted it.

'Travel makes a man hungry, does it not, Mr Spandrel?'

'It does, madam, I confess. And this is... excellent cake.'