[Master Mercurius 03] - Dishonour and Obey

by Graham Brack

  While I enjoy my food, I am not a glutton and I was very glad when Laurel announced that if we were to keep our appointment for the second part of the evening we must quit the place at once. It appeared that he had secured invitations to a rout somewhere, which seemed to be some sort of party with gambling and drinking, so Laurel procured each of us a bottle of claret wine to take with us, which passed as the price of admission. I have no idea where we were going, because something happened to prevent our passage.

  Mr Dawkins’ party had been in company with diverse actresses and dancers from London’s theatres. I think there is no need to describe what may have occurred there. Having torn themselves away from this, they were waiting at the rendezvous point where Laurel gave them each a bottle of wine to take to the rout. I was about to excuse myself and say that I would return to my room when there was a cry from Van Langenburg.

  ‘Where’s Wevers?’

  It was quite dark, but as we all stepped into the light of a door-lamp it was clear that he was not with us.

  ‘We thought he was with you,’ Bouwman explained.

  ‘No, we thought he was with you,’ replied Van Langenburg.

  ‘Then we must retrace our steps to see where he was last seen,’ I suggested. In this we were rather hampered by our lack of geographical knowledge and our hosts’ lack of sobriety, but Dawkins appeared to grasp the importance of our loss and it sobered him considerably.

  Leading the way, he took us back towards the point at which we had divided into two groups. Although I had completely failed to notice it earlier in the evening, it was now clear that we had separated outside the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, with my group having continued along the high road while Dawkins’ party had made for the waterside where they were more likely to meet with the kind of entertainment they wanted. The main road was busy and well lit, so we retraced Dawkins’ route and just before their first stop, a tavern called The White Cat which looked out on the river, we noted a small alleyway which led to the back of the tavern. It was littered with empty barrels, general rubbish, and the body of a fair-haired man.

  Wevers was lying face down on the sparsely cobbled surface. An ornate black and gold dagger protruded from his back just to the left of his spine. It looked slightly familiar, but I could not remember why.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Laurel asked, as much to himself as to anyone in particular.

  ‘We cannot leave him here,’ answered Van Langenburg. ‘We should carry him back to the Palace.’

  Pepys produced the King’s purse. ‘Let us procure a cart of some kind,’ he said, and sent Dawkins in search of one.

  ‘Before we move him, we should examine the scene for any clues,’ I announced, not in any great hope that I would find any, it being a dark alley with plenty of litter on the cobbles.

  Laurel had obtained a lantern by the light of which we could see rather better.

  I knelt beside the body and was surprised to hear Bouwman say, first in Dutch and then in English, ‘Please give the Master some space. He has experience of investigating murders.’

  ‘Murder?’ gasped Captain Hallow.

  ‘Well, self-evidently a man cannot drive a dagger into his own back,’ Pepys responded.

  ‘No, I … I suppose not,’ Hallow agreed, though he looked as if his wits were failing him.

  I remembered, somewhere in the back of my mind, what Dr De Graaf said some years earlier when he was examining the body of little Gertruyd Lievens in Delft. ‘Let us not touch until we have seen,’ he had said, and it was good advice. That way we can be sure that any marks on the corpse are of the killer’s making, and not of ours; and so I restrained myself from touching anything until I had committed the scene to memory. I can see it still, many years after the events.

  Wevers lay face down, his head turned to the right, his hat still attached but pushed back, presumably as he hit the ground. His eyes were open and there was no particular expression on his face. I had heard that when a man dies the last thing he sees is indelibly retained in his eyes, but I could see nothing except the look of sudden death.

  Blood dribbled between the cobbles from under the body at his right side, and his hair fanned out over his shoulders, almost reaching the top of the blade. By the lantern I could see something I had not previously noticed; the initials AV were stamped into the handle of the dagger, and it was then that I remembered where I had seen the dagger before. It had been in a matching short scabbard hanging at the belt of Antonij Vlisser.

  My nature is to be open, but I was learning that there are some things the wise man keeps to himself rather than blurting them out to all and sundry, so I said nothing about what I had seen until we were back at the Palace. Pepys had secured the use of a small chamber in the cellar where we could store Wevers’ body and mount a guard to prevent any interference with it.

  We crowded into the room as the porters carried Wevers in and laid him on a board upon two trestles. Lord Arlington, who had joined us, called for lights.

  ‘This is indecorous,’ Arlington pronounced. ‘Can we not at least place him in a position of repose?’

  ‘That would require us to remove the dagger,’ I began.

  Having thus drawn attention to the object, which could now be seen much more plainly, it did not surprise me when Captain Hallow spoke out. ‘Is that not Mr Vlisser’s dagger?’

  Vlisser acknowledged that it was so.

  ‘And yet you did not say so before?’ Pepys asked.

  ‘I did not see how it could be mine,’ Vlisser remarked, ‘because I knew my own dagger to be here in safe keeping.’

  When we had arrived at the Palace, some of our company had had weapons of varying kinds upon them. These were mostly ornamental, the sort of thing our young gallants swagger about town with, but it is not the done thing to bring a weapon into the presence of the King, so we had all surrendered them. They had been returned at the end of the audience, and then re-confiscated each time the King appeared. So far as I knew, our party had all decided to leave their weapons in their trunks for the duration of the stay. It was not impossible that Vlisser had decided to wear it again before stepping out in the town, but the look on his face showed that he had not done so; or, I suppose, that he was a great actor.

  Arlington screwed his face up in the manner of one who has just stepped from his front door into a fresh pile of manure. ‘It grows late, and we can do nothing to help Mr Wevers. Let us lock this chamber and post guards here. We will attend to him in the morning. Meanwhile, Mr Vlisser, we should, with your permission, examine your trunk to verify that this is indeed your dagger.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vlisser mumbled.

  ‘It would not be appropriate to imprison a member of an official delegation from a friendly nation,’ Arlington declared, ‘but I trust we have your word that you will not leave the Palace without the King’s permission?’

  I think we all knew that the guards on the gates would be told that Vlisser was not to leave, whatever international incident might arise by detaining him, but before Vlisser was able to assent, Van Langenburg intervened. ‘As leader of this mission, I give my word that none of us will do so,’ he said, thus neatly skirting around the question of whether any one person might be detained and reminding the English that a Dutch citizen answered to him, and not to the English King.

  Much of the party dispersed, but Van Langenburg, Arlington, Pepys and I mounted the stairs to Vlisser’s chamber. I had not been invited, but my curiosity was piqued and I had an idea that the Stadhouder would want me to do so.

  Van Langenburg spoke up again. ‘Master Mercurius has some experience of these matters in the Stadhouder’s service,’ he explained, ‘and has brought many a criminal to justice.’

  The sin of pride reared its head for a moment, before a small voice inside my head noted that unless you can define “six” as “many” I had not brought too many to account; and, to tell the whole truth, I allowed one to escape, and another died before he was tried. On
the other hand, nobody here needed to know that. I was pleased to see Arlington look me up and down with a new respect — or, at least, a different kind of supercilious contempt.

  ‘I am sure we will be pleased to have the Master’s powers to support us,’ Arlington replied.

  I had not yet become attuned to the English way of speaking, and I was unsure whether the tone was one of rank condescension or polite disbelief. Anyway, we arrived at the room and Vlisser pushed the door open. It was not locked, because guests’ rooms in palaces are generally left open for the maids to go about their business. As leader of the delegation Van Langenburg had a guard stationed outside his room. The rest of us shared a couple of soldiers who roamed the corridors to keep us safe.

  Vlisser indicated his trunk, which was on the floor beneath one of the windows. It was made of wooden panels fixed to an iron frame, with a hinged lid. Two large iron bands wrapped round it, but there was no lock as such. A bar passed though loops on the lid and hasps on the face of the chest to hold it shut, and a peg could be driven in each end of the bar to secure the trunk for travel, though, of course, the pegs were not in place now.

  Arlington maintained his pretence that Vlisser was a gentleman whose words and actions were not to be questioned. ‘Perhaps, Mr Vlisser, you would be kind enough to show us where you put your dagger?’

  It suddenly dawned on me that Arlington was speaking Dutch — of a sort — which must have perplexed Mr Pepys. I was later to discover that Mr Pepys had a little French, Italian and Spanish but was wont to mingle them in the same sentence, particularly when talking about his lady friends.

  Vlisser lifted the lid of his chest, took out some gloves and shirts which were folded on top, and thus revealed the scabbard below them. As anticipated, it was empty.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Vlisser,’ Arlington said. ‘Gentlemen, I think there’s no more to be done tonight. Let’s to our beds and meet again in the morning to recount this melancholy episode to His Majesty.’

  Thus we all returned to our chambers, where I sat on the edge of the bed pondering what I had seen. There were at least four things that I thought needed some explanation; five, if you included the question as to why Vlisser would intend any harm to Wevers.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I woke in the morning with the strange feeling that there was a passage of scripture that might throw some light on this affair, though I could not recall it precisely. After a bit of searching, I found it in the seventh chapter of the book of Proverbs. Irretivit eum multis sermonibus, et blanditiis labiorum protraxit illum. Statim eam sequitur quasi bos ductus ad victimam, et quasi agnus lasciviens, et ignorans quod ad vincula stultus trahatur: donec transfigat sagitta jecur ejus…

  It describes a man who is travelling and comes across a seductive woman. Roughly translated, it says “Her fancy words made him give way, the flattery from her lips overcame him. He chased after her like an ox going to the slaughter or a fool to punishment in the stocks: till a dart pierced his liver.”

  Wevers was a handsome man. Meg had confirmed that to me. Was it possible this was just an argument over some woman or other?

  But Wevers had been so self-contained. If he had wanted a woman, Meg would have obliged him, I had no doubt. He might have had cause to regret it, because women who are so wickedly unchaste are often full of the pox, but then so could be any other woman he met. Besides, none of us recalled seeing him during the evening. It was likely that he had been killed very soon after we had separated, in which event he cannot have had much time to get himself into any kind of trouble. From St Martin-in-the-Fields to the lane was barely a hundred paces, five minutes’ walk at most. Given the busy nature of the thoroughfare outside the church, he could not have been killed there, so he must have walked to his fate himself. But where had he been going? Was he just straggling at the back of Dawkins’ party?

  I was convinced that despite his carefree air, Dawkins would have been warned strictly against letting any of us get into trouble. How could he have mislaid a Dutchman and not noticed for the whole evening? Unless, of course, he did not think Wevers was ever part of his party. Had Wevers struck out on his own, in a city he did not know?

  Or did he?

  We gathered together for breakfast. When I say “we” I mean the Dutch party, except for Vlisser, who had no appetite. It was a sombre meal, partly out of respect for our departed comrade, but also because we all had an unvoiced suspicion that this may not be the end of our troubles.

  Van Langenburg addressed us, asking that we remain circumspect in any comments we might make and encouraging us not to speculate vainly on the events of the evening before. He had, he said, no doubt of Vlisser’s innocence, though he did not say what made him so sure. For myself, I had reached the same conclusion but only because I could not imagine Vlisser being able to take Wevers by surprise. I thought back to Wevers’ quick action when he saw Preuveneers under attack and his general air of someone who knew how to use a sword. Admittedly he did not have a sword when he was killed, but he did not appear to have struggled either, although all I knew about him suggested that he would not give up his life easily. Vlisser was a ruthless businessman, I have no doubt, but that is a very different thing from killing a man in cold blood.

  Lord Arlington had insisted that all the Englishmen present on the previous evening remained at the Palace until the King dismissed them. Buckie had objected strongly that there was no reason to suppose that any of them was the killer when it could very easily have been a mere pavement footpad, but he was firmly told the King required it. I doubt that the King knew the first thing about it at that stage, because I was fairly sure I had seen the royal carriage returning just before I came down for breakfast and decanting a sleepy occupant who was probably looking forward to a long nap in his bed.

  I was quietly chomping on a piece of bread and cheese when Lord Arlington himself appeared. We respectfully began to stand, but he flapped us down impatiently and headed straight for Van Langenburg, with whom he exchanged a few words. Since these words were accompanied by the pair of them looking at me, I began to feel more than a little uneasy, and rightly so, because Van Langenburg beckoned me to come to him.

  ‘Master Mercurius, your fame flies before you. His Majesty wishes to speak to you about the death of poor Wevers. Will you please go with Lord Arlington?’

  ‘Gladly, mijnheer.’

  Arlington began walking away and I made to follow, only to have my sleeve plucked by Van Langenburg, who hissed into my ear. ‘Impress him, Mercurius. Get this right and it will grease the machinery of courtship.’

  For some reason, my mind began to imagine what a machine used for courtship would look like and which bits might need greasing, then I realised it was just a figure of speech. I am altogether too literally-minded sometimes.

  We weaved our way through the passages once again. At least twice I was convinced that Arlington was lost but just kept going as if to give the impression that he knew where we were, but at length we came to a corridor with a couple of armed guards outside a room. To my surprise, we walked past that door and turned in at the next, which was empty.

  ‘I thought we might be going in that room we just passed,’ I said, as much to break the silence as anything.

  ‘Hardly,’ Arlington replied. ‘That is His Majesty’s privy.’

  ‘Ah. That explains the guards.’

  Arlington looked at me as if I had designs to steal the King’s commode. Fortunately, at that moment the door was flung open and the King entered, looking rather dishevelled in his nightshirt and a gold and black overgown. He was wearing his wig, but it was not quite straight. ‘Arlington. Mercurius,’ he greeted us before flopping back on his bed. ‘This is a damnable business.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ Arlington oozed.

  ‘There are people who don’t want this wedding to go ahead, but I didn’t think they’d stoop to this.’

  ‘They are desperate men, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I want them caught, A
rlington. Then I want them hanged. We may have to have a trial of sorts in the middle, but I’m not precious about that. I will not have my plans thwarted in this way.’ The King turned his attention to me. ‘Forgive us, Master Mercurius,’ he said. ‘We are neglecting you shamefully. If your English fails, no doubt Arlington will translate. He claims not to speak Dutch, but we know otherwise. Who is the dead man?’

  ‘Constantijn Wevers, Your Majesty,’ I said.

  The King’s eyebrow arched as if this was a promising but ultimately inadequate identification.

  ‘A young man with yellow hair, quite reserved,’ I added.

  ‘Oh, the spy! Yes, I noticed him.’

  ‘Spy, Majesty?’ I stuttered.

  ‘Oh, come, Mercurius, don’t say you didn’t know?’

  ‘I didn’t, sir, I swear.’

  The King chuckled. ‘Well, I don’t suppose they would tell you. Every embassy includes a spy, Mercurius. If things go badly and the two parties fall out, he can give some guidance to their armies and navies when diplomacy is being conducted by other means.’

  ‘His Majesty means war,’ Arlington explained.

  ‘I sincerely hope it will not come to that,’ I stammered.

  ‘Don’t worry, he hadn’t got far. And he was being followed, wasn’t he, Arlington?’

  Arlington looked as if he had eaten an unripe plum.

  ‘Come on, Arlington, out with it, man!’

  ‘He gave our man Morley the slip at St Martin-in-the-Fields, sir.’

  ‘More fool him. Morley might have protected him had he still been in touch. How did he get away?’

  ‘He was not a novice, sir. He stepped into a tavern, hid behind the door until Morley entered, then slipped out behind him, we think.’