The Golden Cross (25 page)

S
tepping from his coach at the intersection of Broad and Market Streets, Dempsey Jasper automatically pressed his handkerchief to his nose against the sharp smells that rose to invade his nostrils. Though the Broad Street Tavern was too rough even for his tastes, he often visited other establishments in this area under the cover of darkness. Then the scents and sights of the wharf did not seem nearly so disagreeable as in the bright and unforgiving morning light. This place belonged to the darkness.

A brief ray of sunlight broke through the cloud cover that promised a respite from Batavia’s insufferable heat. Dempsey slowly sauntered toward the Broad Street Tavern, looking for a man who fit the description of one called Witt Dekker. This Dekker, Dempsey’s streetwise groom had assured him, was rough, dependable, and completely at ease with whatever action might be required of him. The groom had sworn that Dekker could be found within or near the Broad Street Tavern, and so was certain to know the girl who had lately left Heer Van Dyck’s house.

Dempsey strode into the tavern and paused for a moment to peruse his surroundings. The cavernous room was quiet, for the real business of the place would not begin until after dark. Only four people were on the premises: a dour-faced woman sat before a table counting a stack of guilders; in a far corner a musician blew forlornly upon a horn for a sleepy boy, and behind the bar stood a burly man with arms as big as a bull’s thigh. An empty stool stood near the big man, so Dempsey made his way toward the bartender.

“Goede middag,”
he murmured, taking a seat on the wooden stool.

The burly bartender lifted his gaze, then frowned. “If you’re from the reverend or the constable, I can assure you that nothing untoward happened here last night. I’ll give you a drink, but nothing more, for we already pay the constables enough to keep a horde of elephants away.”

“I can assure you, sir, that I represent no one but myself,” Dempsey answered, glancing behind him. A group of sailors noisily came in and moved to a table; the old crone lifted her eyes, then continued her counting. Dempsey turned back to the bartender, fished a guilder out of his pocket, and dropped it to the bar. As the coin spun in a wobbly circle, Dempsey lifted his brows and looked up at the barkeeper again. “I’m looking for a man who is a regular customer. I mean him no harm; I only mean to employ him.”

“Who would that be?” The bartender’s busy brow rose in mock surprise. “We have few regular customers, for the ships are in and out again—”

“Witt Dekker.” Dempsey suppressed a smile as a mask of indifference fell over the barkeeper’s face. “And don’t try telling me you don’t know him. I know he stays here when he’s in port, and I know he’s in port now. I could probably identify which harlot kept him company last night, but if you’ll tell me where I might find this man, I’ll give you this guilder and another besides.”

Greed and conscience wrestled briefly in the man’s dark eyes. “Leave the gold on the table,” he whispered gruffly. “Go out of the tavern, walking toward the harbor. Turn into the first alley, and knock on the first door you come to. That’s the women’s room, and Dekker’s inside, still asleep.” An odd mingling of wariness and amusement shone in the man’s eyes. “I’d be careful about waking him if I were you.”

Dempsey dropped another guilder on the table and moved outside, his resolve strengthening with every step. He had been
half-afraid he would actually run into Aidan in the tavern, but apparently the girl had more sense than to return to her old haunts. And despite what he had said last night, Dempsey did not think Schuyler Van Dyck would return his prized pupil to the rough streets. He had undoubtedly found a safe place for her to live while he was away, but Dempsey did not have the time or the freedom to search all of Batavia for one lousy wharf rat.

He found the door the bartender had indicated, then pushed it open without knocking. “Witt Dekker?”

In the semi-gloom of the windowless harlot’s den Dempsey could see two forms—a blond girl in a glimmering gown, and a bulky masculine shape sprawled across a pallet on the floor. The girl rose from a low stool as Dempsey closed the door behind him. Her wide blue eyes flickered toward him only for an instant as she moved away from the man on the mattress.

Dempsey began to move forward, then reconsidered his bold intrusion. Remaining in the doorway so that he blocked the girl’s exit, he tilted his head and studied her for a moment. Too bad this one had fallen; she bore signs of real beauty. Cornflower blue eyes dominated her delicate features, but already her face bore the hard lines of grief and sorrow. Soon that ivory skin would develop the disfiguring pockmarks of venereal disease. She would not live to be thirty, if she lived that long.

“Girl,” he called, his eyes piercing the short distance between them, “know you a wench called Aidan? She is often in this vicinity, I hear. A lovely creature, with red hair and a fiery temper to match.”

“There is no one by that name here, sir.” The girl fixed her gaze on the floor. “She is not in Bram’s employ.”

“I only want to know where she is.” Dempsey tempered his tone and gave her his most charming smile. Still blocking her escape, he stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the girl’s waist. As he nuzzled her lovely neck, he whispered into her ear, “I mean her no harm, love.”

The figure on the mattress groaned and stirred. Dempsey abruptly released the blond and took a quick step toward the man. He stopped abruptly when he heard a low growl from the shadows. A mongrel terrier rose to its feet, its hackles raised, its brown eyes fixed on Dempsey.

“Kate?” The man looked up and peered at Dempsey through bleary, red eyes. “Who dares disturb my sleep?”

“I don’t know him,” the girl answered, lowering her eyes again. Her hands fluttered nervously over the front of her bodice, pale butterflies against golden silk. She dropped her voice and whispered intensely: “Please, sir, let me pass.”

“Of course, my dear.” Dempsey lowered his head in a stiff bow as the girl grabbed up her skirts and ran out of the room. The man on the mattress sat up and sleepily ran a hand through his wiry hair, but his eyes, when they fastened upon Dempsey, flickered with wariness.

“Witt Dekker, I presume.” Dempsey stepped into the room. “I hear that you are a good man to make problems disappear.”

The dog released a warning bark, but Dekker silenced the animal: “Down, Snuggerheid!” The terrier obediently dropped to its belly on the floor, and Dekker’s gaze moved back to Dempsey. “When a man is properly motivated, almost anything can be made to disappear. It all depends upon what sort of problem a man is facing.”

“My problem is a simple one—a woman.”

Dekker released a scornful laugh. “I have never had a
simple
problem with a woman.”

Dempsey drew a deep breath. “My problem is a wench called Aidan, who used to work as a barmaid in this tavern. A certain gentleman has taken a fancy to her, a fancy that will cost his family thousands of English pounds.”

Dekker’s brows rose in surprise, then he let out a long, low whistle. “That’s some fancy. But I don’t know the girl; perhaps she’s worth the price.”

Dempsey shook his head. “No woman alive is worth that amount. And the gentleman is not fond of her as you or I might be fond of a wench. She has convinced him that she is better than she is, and he has written her into his will. When the old man dies, she will share in his estate, and I’m certain you can understand why his children would rather that she not appear to stake her claim.”

Dekker pinned him with a long silent scrutiny, then smiled. “So who are you, and what is your interest in this matter? I know no Aidan, and you are a stranger to me. Why should I help you?”

Dempsey wasn’t certain how one introduced oneself to a hired killer, but he bowed as if this were a formal introduction and inclined his head in a deep gesture. “I am Dempsey Jasper, formerly of London, presently of Batavia. My wife is daughter to the gentleman I mentioned. We are not thinking of the financial profit, of course, but of the scandal that would ruin my wife’s happiness.”

Dekker closed his eyes while a wide smile slowly spread across his face. “Ah, I see. Well. What is your wife’s happiness worth to you then? This will have to be a quick job, for I am due to sail within a fortnight. If I cannot find this wench—”

“She left my father-in-law’s house last night,” Dempsey answered, his patience growing thin. “Heer Van Dyck has probably arranged for her to stay in some safe house, but she is a woman of the streets, and I am certain she will be returning to her old haunts. We hoped to have this settled as soon as possible, for Heer Van Dyck is scheduled to depart soon, as well. He is sailing with Abel Tasman and one cannot know what might happen on the uncharted sea.”

“Sailing with Tasman?” The man’s watery eyes held absolutely no expression. “I shall meet him then, for I, too, am sailing with Tasman. I will serve as first mate upon the
Zeehaen
.”

Dempsey felt a sudden lurch of his stomach. This ruthless killer would be leaving with Heer Van Dyck. He closed his eyes, considering. What would a certain accident upon the high seas cost?

He opened one eye, scarcely daring to breathe his thoughts. “If you find the girl and can guarantee that she will not step forward to claim her inheritance,” he said slowly, forcing the words out, “I will pay you five thousand pounds. And if, by some chance, Tasman returns to Batavia and announces that my wife is now fatherless, I will pay you double.”

“Ten thousand pounds to kill two people?” Dekker propped his arms upon his bent knees. “It is a decent wage.”

“Are we agreed?”

Dekker nodded with a taut jerk of his head. “Consider it done. I shall begin with Sweet Kate, for she knows everyone in these parts. If the wench is to be found at the wharf, Kate will know where she is.”

Dempsey drew in his breath as the image of the blond girl flickered across his mind. Of course! He should have seen it sooner, but had been so intent on finding this red-haired temptress—

“By all means, find the blond harlot,” he said, smiling grimly. “She knows. She is wearing the gown Aidan wore from Van Dyck’s house last night.”

Sitting at a table in a quiet corner of the tavern, Aidan pulled her sailor’s cap down over her head and chewed the tip of her thumbnail. Orabel moved through the growing crowd like a graceful sylph, a vision of loveliness in the golden gown. Aidan resisted the urge to smile at her, then turned her thoughts toward a more pressing worry. For the past two hours she had mentally debated whether or not she should share her plans with her mother. Lili would not want Aidan to embark on this journey. She would think it a foolish, reckless, mindless act, and everything in Aidan warned her to forego the farewell to her mother and walk straight to the ship.

But Lili was her
mother
. And if, God forbid, something happened on the high seas and Tasman’s ships did not return, Lili deserved to know what had happened. She shouldn’t have to
spend her life waiting for a daughter who would never come home. Orabel had urged her to visit Lili, of course, but Aidan knew if she didn’t go, Orabel would still keep her secret.

Aidan closed her eyes and dropped her head on her folded arms. She’d spent the morning in the bar, but had passed the night outside, curled into a small corner at the intersection of two buildings. Anyone who saw her would have thought her just another young sailor without money enough to buy anything but a bowl of morning gruel.

Her eyes flitted to the place where Orabel stood at the bar, a gaggle of eager, bug-eyed seamen around her. Aidan smiled slowly, then reluctantly rose from her chair and tugged again on her cap. Street grime streaked her cheeks, mud marked her shirt and breeches. She knew she looked like a typical street urchin, but she could not help feeling nervous as she stepped out of the tavern and walked toward the chamber where Lili and the others rested during the day.

She pressed on the door and entered without knocking. Sofie and Frederica lay sprawled upon mattresses, their mouths slack with sleep. Lili herself sat against the back wall, a drunken sailor snoring in her lap. Her eyes were closed, her hair disheveled and askew, her bodice marked with stains and the drunken drool of last night’s guest.

Lili looked up and squinted toward the widening beam of sunlight as Aidan entered. Frowning, she sheltered her eyes with her hand. “What do you want here, boy?” she demanded. “There’s no one here for you now. Come back tonight.” She chuckled hoarsely. “Faith, why don’t you wait and come back when you grow a beard?”

Steeling herself for this last difficult task, Aidan closed the door and leaned against it. “Mama,” she said simply. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”