They stared at the bloodstained page.
Alkmaar
JULY 21, 1636
At a sign from Cornelius, Jacobus shot forward, grabbed Wouter by his goatee, and pulled him so far across the table that their noses almost touched.
“You heard him, Winckel. We know what you have on your conscience. You’re going to get what blasphemers like you deserve.”
Wouter gripped the corners of the table and tried to pull himself free. His chin felt as if it were on fire. He yelped with pain, his eyes fixed on Cornelius, who stood beside the table with a shocked expression but made no move to help him.
“Cornelius.” Wouter heard his own voice like the voice of a deaf man, barely comprehensible because his mouth was being pulled open. “Aaargh . . . help me . . . “
Cornelius sneered. “I’m sorry, Wouter, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Wouter turned to look at Jacobus, whose face was contorted with the effort of holding on to Wouter’s beard. Suddenly, he let go with one hand, seized Wouter’s arm, and gave a violent tug, slamming Wouter down flat on the table. As Wouter reached out to tackle his assailant, Jacobus let go of Wouter’s beard and grabbed his other arm. Then he pressed Wouter’s wrists together and trussed them up with a rope that Cornelius handed to him.
Wouter struggled to pull himself upright, but the floor tiles were too smooth. Instead, his feet left the ground and Jacobus dragged him farther across the table. Jacobus bound the rope to one leg of the table and walked to the other side. Then, forcing Wouter’s legs apart, he took two more pieces of rope and lashed Wouter’s ankles to the legs of the table.
As Wouter struggled, the cords bit into his wrists and ankles. Suddenly two hands closed around his head and turned it to the side so forcefully that for a moment he thought this was the end. His time had come; they were going to break his neck. Jacobus’s hand pressed hard against the side of his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Wouter saw something moving. Before he knew what was happening, drops of burning tallow were dripping into his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth wide in a scream that never emerged. A rag was stuffed into his mouth, so deep that the fabric scraped the back of his throat. He let out a stifled groan. Then he tried to calm down and breathe through his nose. But panic welled up inside him, and he felt as if his lungs were about to burst.
A deranged cackling came from very close by, though it sounded far away. Wouter felt Jacobus’s lips against the tender flesh of his ear. “Those who refuse to hear God’s word will feel God’s wrath.”
Again, two hands closed in on his head and wrenched it around. The tallow that Jacobus poured into his other ear sealed out all sound. All he could hear was the rush of his blood and the pounding of his heart. He caught sight of Cornelius, staring at him in almost stunned horror. Hearing the muffled sounds he was producing, Wouter tried to put all he had to say into the look in his eyes. Cornelius slowly shook his head and turned to Jacobus. Wouter could see his lips moving. He tugged at the ropes, but they only tightened around his wrists and ankles.
Jacobus grasped Wouter by the hair, twisting it around his knuckles and yanking his head down to the tabletop. He raised the candlestick high into the air and brought it hurtling down.
THIRTEEN
They all looked at the old Dutch title printed in elegant type on the first page of the book.
COLLECTION
OF A MULTITUDE OF
TULIPS
RENDERED TREW TO LIFE
WITH THE NAMES AND WEIGHTS OF THE BULBES,
AS SOLD TO THE PUBLICK AT ALKMAER
IN THE YEAR 1637
Damian looked up. His eyes shone with excitement.
“How did Frank get his hands on this?”
“I have no idea. I’d never seen it before.”
“Unbelievable, the condition is stunning. This is an extraordinary specimen. The only other copies I know of are in museums or buried in archives. I can hardly imagine how much it’s worth.” Damian ran his fingers over the page. “Books like this were made in the seventeenth century, when the tulip trade was booming, and they were sold to generate interest in tulip bulbs.”
“Like catalogs,” Emma said.
“Exactly. There was a time when tulips were auctioned off not as flowers but as bulbs.” He carefully turned the page. “Here, look how beautifully this was done.”
The colors leaped off the page. The tulip’s petals were white flamed with red, on top of a gently curved stem. One of the three curled leaves was a little ragged on top, as if an insect had been nibbling at it. The other two petals each came to a point, one upright and proud, the other arched gracefully outward. The illustrator’s work was so skillful and precise that you could almost count the veins in the leaves.
“Some of the artists became quite famous,” Damian continued. “To promote sales of their bulbs, tulip traders commissioned pictures of the flowers in bloom. It was costly and time-consuming, but worth the trouble because it advertised their merchandise. At auctions, they could show potential buyers the flowers that were hidden in the bulbs. These illustrations are worth a fortune.”
“Could this book be what the killer was after?” Alec asked.
“Could be.”
The tulip on the page in front of them was planted in a mound of soil with a little nameplate protruding from it.
“Look.” Damian pointed. “Here’s the name of the tulip: Admirael van der Eijck. The amount shown here is the sale price. See, this handwriting is different. When a bulb was sold, the trader made a note of the price it fetched. At the next auction, he knew how much had been paid for the bulb in the past, so he knew how much he could ask for.”
“That price can’t be right, can it?” Alec peered at the figure in surprise.
“Yes, that’s right, one thousand and forty-five guilders,” Damian said. “And that’s nothing. Look at this one, here.”
The flower he pointed to was rounder and fuller than the last, and it too had flamed petals. The color started at the base of each petal in a solid area of deep purple and fanned out toward the top as if a feather had been dipped in paint and pressed lightly against the snow-white flower. The tips of the petals were streaked with just a few thin lines of purple.
“Look what it says here. This is a Viceroy, and there are two figures underneath it. It was sold once for three thousand silver guilders, and then a second time for forty-two hundred.”
“My God, forty-two hundred pieces of silver for a flower bulb,” Emma said. “But how much would that be in today’s money?”
“There’s no way to say exactly, but you can make a rough estimate. Skilled laborers earned about three hundred guilders a year in those days. These days, they might earn about twenty-one thousand euros after taxes. So you have to multiply the three hundred guilders by seventy to get the equivalent in euros. If you used the same formula, a bulb that cost forty-two hundred guilders back then would now cost . . . let’s see . . . two hundred and ninety-four thousand euros.”
“How can a tulip bulb be worth two hundred and ninety-four thousand euros? It’s crazy.” Alec crossed his arms and frowned at the book. “Anyway, this is all very interesting, but what was Frank trying to tell me? Why did he want me to hide the book? And why didn’t he want the police to know about it? I don’t get it.”
Damian looked at him. “What was it you said about Frank? Was he pointing at something?”
“He put his hand under the front cover, on the title page.”
Damian shut the book and carefully opened the front cover again. The page was blotted with rust-colored stains and streaks. Right beneath the date was a bloody fingerprint, so clear that each groove was visible.
“Sixteen thirty-seven,” Damian read aloud.
“Maybe Frank was trying to tell us his death had something to do with the tulip trade,” Emma said, “or with the seventeenth century. I certainly can’t think what else he might have meant. Alec, didn’t Frank ever talk to you
about this?”
“Never. As soon as I see Tibbens, I’ll find out what he can tell me. Maybe Frank said something to him.”
“Let’s hope so. Frank must have had a reason for giving this to you.” Damian leafed carefully through the book. “It must have some meaning.”
“Frank and the seventeenth century— what’s the connection?” Wandering over to the fireplace, Alec thrust his hands into his pockets. Then, casting a sheepish look at Damian, he said, “Sorry I was so short with you. I know you’re trying to help, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it. Please don’t worry about me. I’ve never felt so powerless in my life, but this time I’ll get through it clean and sober. I want you to believe that. Just trust me.”
Damian went over to Alec and threw his arms around him. The two men slapped each other’s shoulders awkwardly.
When Emma saw them standing there with adolescent grins on their faces, she cursed herself and wondered, not for the first time, whether they would all be better off if she disappeared from their lives completely. She knew the tension between Alec and Damian had a lot to do with her. In all the years they had known each other, they’d had their share of conflicts, but their friendship had never been as fragile as it was now.
Clearing her throat loudly, she said, “I know of one connection between Frank and the seventeenth century.”
They stared at her in surprise.
“But of course I can’t say whether it’ll be of any use to us.”
“What connection is that?” Damian asked.
“Dick Beerens.”
“How stupid of me!” Alec clapped his hand to his forehead. “I should have thought of Dick right away. I even saw him at the funeral. Of course he knows all about that period.”
“And the tulip trade,” Damian added.
Emma nodded. “Just what I was thinking.”
FOURTEEN
Tara switched on the light and kicked the bathroom door shut behind her. With a wild gesture, she swept her blond hair back into an elastic band and studied herself in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. The ponytail was so tight that her swollen eyes seemed almost slanted. After loosening the band a little, she massaged her temples with her fingertips and wiped the greasy mascara from under her bloodshot eyes.
Turning on the cold water, she splashed a handful of it into her face. Water dripped off her skin. With both hands, she leaned heavily on the sink, which groaned under her weight. Swearing, she clutched the sides and tugged until a wide crack opened between the sink and the tiled wall. Then she let go, panting.
“This is more than you’d bargained for, isn’t it, Frank?” she said, wiping a hand across her nose. “You had everything under control, right? So what’s next? What am I supposed to do now? Did you ever think about that? What was I supposed to do if you ended up like this?”
She snatched the towel off the heater and vigorously scrubbed her face with it. Then holding open her toiletry bag, she swept the contents of the shelf into it. Before leaving the bathroom, she took one last look in the mirror. Cold blue eyes under dark blond eyebrows, a flawlessly straight nose, high cheekbones, and a mouth pinched into a line. Her lips were bloodless and pale. She leveled a finger at herself and said, “You are going to work this thing out.”
Coming out of the bathroom, she went over to the bed, where she dropped the toiletry bag into a larger one. The newspaper lay beside the travel bag, open to page 3. For the umpteenth time, she read the bold headline above the photo of Frank in a tuxedo: dutchman MURDERED IN LONDON. The article left nothing to the imagination, describing in gruesome detail how he was tortured. According to the reporter, the police were still in the dark about the killer’s identity, and the motive was just as baffling, considering that nothing had been taken from the house. There were also a few words about Alec Schoeller, whose photo was next to Frank’s. The article noted that he was an artist and mentioned the rumor that he stood to receive a large inheritance.
Tara sank to her knees at the foot of the bed. Hunched over the newspaper, she stared at Frank’s photo, mumbling, “What did you tell them, Frank? How much did you give away? Did you say anything about me? Well, did you?”
When she’d last seen him, two weeks earlier, they’d reviewed their progress and decided their budget would stretch to at least two years of research. At last, everything was settled, and she could start. They finally had the money, and now this? Cursing, she slammed her fist into Frank’s photo. Would she have to abandon the project? From the moment he’d offered her this opportunity, it had utterly consumed her; it was the only thing she could think about.
She stood up, went to the closet, and tossed some clothes into her travel bag, then added her laptop. Thank goodness it held a copy of all the data, she thought. After what had happened to Frank, she didn’t dare go back to the lab. In the streets, she had the feeling everyone was watching her, keeping her under constant surveillance, as if they knew she was up to something.
No, she would press on, what ever happened. This was her chance to show the world what she was capable of, to show she was at the top of her field. She wasn’t about to let anyone take that away. No, all the energy she’d put into the project would not go to waste, what ever the cost.
Straightening her back, she picked up her bag from the bed and left the room. As she shut the front door behind her, she glanced around nervously. Then she hurried across the street and got into her car.
FIFTEEN
Alec and Damian stepped into the lobby of the Faculty of Arts, a glass, steel, and concrete structure built in the 1980s. They gave their names at the reception desk and were told where to go. Dick Beerens’s office was on the second floor. When they got there, Alec knocked and pushed the door open.
The two men were surprised to see Dick standing on the swivel chair next to his desk, using a pole to push open a small upper window. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.
“Dick?”
The professor of Dutch history turned around, causing the chair to wobble precariously. His short legs trembled and he stumbled backward, flailing his free arm. Alec started toward him, but with a few improbably elegant motions of his short, stout body, Dick managed to steady the chair.
“Ah, you made it. Alec, Damian, welcome. Gentlemen, welcome. One moment, I’ll be right with you.”
His cigarette wagged as he spoke, and a clump of ash dropped to the floor. He leaned the pole against the wall and carefully shuffled around on the seat until he had his back to them. Then he took hold of the armrests and stepped down from the chair. With the tip of his shoe, he ground the fallen ash into the carpet before coming over to greet them. His face, still flushed with exertion, looked mournful.
“What a tragedy, boys, what a tragedy. Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?”
He stood in front of Alec, grasped him by the shoulders, and hugged him firmly to his chest.
“This must be a nightmare for you, son. We’ll all miss him terribly.” His eyes grew moist.
Dick took a step back and looked him in the eyes. “I’m glad there’s something I can do, some way I can help— at least, I hope I can.” Then he extended his hand to Damian. “How’s life treating you?’
“Fine, thanks.”
“How’s Emma?”
“She’s doing well too.”
“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it.”
“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice, Dick.”
“Sure, Alec, don’t mention it. Er, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have they made any progress with the investigation?”
Alec shook his head. “Not as far as I know. They haven’t arrested anybody yet. I think they’re still groping in the dark.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” Dick said, his voice betraying his emotion. “Even now, it hardly seems real. I still see his face every day. Here, take a look.”
He went to the desk and picked up a framed photo, which he handed to Alec.
“You see him sitting there?”<
br />
Alec nodded. From behind him, Damian looked on. A group of young men were seated at a table set for a formal dinner. The silverware and white plates gleamed in the light of the large candelabras. The photographer had taken the picture from the head of the table. The students were leaning forward and raising their glasses. Frank was the slender one in front, looking jovially into the lens. A young Dick Beer-ens sat beaming opposite him.
“Our college club,” Dick murmured, gazing at the photo. He put it down with a cough. “Alec, last night when you called, you said you had found something at Frank’s house and wanted my help. Can you tell me what it was you found?”
“Yes, I . . . that is, we think his death may have something to do with tulips. I know it sounds a little strange, but—”
“Frank? Hold on a second, Alec. Frank and tulips?” Dick’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “What makes you think that?”
“We’d rather not say right now, if you don’t mind. But there are indications that his death was somehow connected to the seventeenth-century tulip trade.”
“So it has to do with this thing found at Frank’s place?” Dick ventured. When Alec gave no reply, he shook his head. “Listen, boys, it’s highly improbable that there’s any link between Frank’s death and the tulip business. Oh, maybe if we were living in the seventeenth century, but nowadays? Anyway, if he’d been thinking about the seventeenth century, I’m sure he would have mentioned it to me. Because when it comes to the Dutch Golden Age, sooner or later everyone comes to Dick Beerens, know what I mean?”
“That’s why we thought of you. We thought maybe he had asked you something, or talked to you about it.” Alec sounded hopeful.
“Well, we talked about my research now and then, but he never asked me for any particular information. What were you thinking he might have discussed with me?”
The Tulip Virus Page 6
