[Master Mercurius 02] - Untrue Till Death

by Graham Brack

  ‘My name is Mercurius,’ I said, ‘and I must see the Stadhouder urgently.’

  ‘You obviously don’t have an appointment,’ said one of the guard.

  ‘Well, no, but who would at this time of night? Nevertheless, my business is urgent.’

  ‘And what is your business, Dominie?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ I replied. ‘It’s secret.’

  ‘But if you don’t tell me, how do I know if it’s urgent enough to disturb the Stadhouder?’

  ‘Trust me, it is. I would not have driven here from Leiden without any supper if it were not.’

  The mention of supper seemed to convince them, so one said he would just have to check with the captain of the watch. A few moments later a head appeared at an upper window.

  ‘Oh, it’s him with the pie. You can let him in.’

  Albrecht’s pie was plainly deeply engrained in their memories. As we walked through the corridors, the sentries returned to the theme.

  ‘That pie was a corker. Who cooked it?’

  ‘The kitchen master at the university.’

  ‘What — someone who cooks for a living?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not your wife?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Ye gods!’

  I took this exclamation to be a commentary on Albrecht’s nerve in accepting a chef’s pay rather than on the fact that I had remained unmarried.

  ‘We eat better than that, and the sergeant says we’re the scum of the earth,’ announced the younger guard proudly.

  They arrived at the point at which one of them had to go ahead to seek entry, so I took some time to think how I would break the news to the Stadhouder. I have never been terribly good at breaking bad tidings, though I never sank to the level of a colleague who was sent to tell a woman her husband had been killed in an accident at work and simply blurted out, ‘Mevrouw, you are a widow’, raised his hat and left.

  ‘They say you can go in,’ announced a guard, and held the door back for me.

  The Stadhouder was standing over a brazier of his revolting herbs, inhaling their smoke. He was wearing just his shirt, breeches and hose and appeared to be in some distress.

  ‘Mercurius,’ he wheezed, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Van Looy is dead,’ I answered. So much for breaking bad news to him gently.

  This may seem strange, but I swear that his asthma instantly improved. Perhaps it was the shock, but his eyes widened and he inhaled deeply before embarking on a bout of coughing such as I have rarely heard.

  He dismissed Pieters with a wave whilst he gathered his breath.

  The little secretary bowed to each and slipped from the room.

  ‘Sit!’ commanded the Stadhouder. ‘My chest — still tight — can’t talk well. Explain,’ he continued.

  I told him how we had found Van Looy, of my suspicions about the way that he met his end, and that the Rector had insisted that I must go at once to The Hague to tell him what had occurred.

  ‘Did he say why?’

  I am not a practised dissembler but I am a quick learner, so I judged it safer to say no. ‘He said you would tell me anything you thought I should know.’

  ‘Did he?’ He took a draught of something warm and fragrant, pulled a face as it crossed his tongue, and flopped into a chair. ‘That’s better.’ Here he launched into a colourful description of his illness that I do not propose to insert verbatim, but I suppose that being periodically starved of air by one’s own lungs cannot improve a man’s temper. ‘This is serious, Mercurius. That they would dare to do this shows that they believe they are strengthening.’

  ‘I don’t want to appear stupid, but who are these “they” of whom you speak?’

  ‘The De Witt faction, of course.’

  I was unaware that people who had been dismembered by a mob could still have a faction, and you may be sure that I would have resigned my membership at the first sight of blood if I had been part of it, but it was clear that the Stadhouder was in earnest.

  ‘You may find this hard to believe, Mercurius, but there are people around who prefer the De Witts to me.’

  ‘Astonishing!’ I wasn’t sure I really meant that, but I knew what was expected of me.

  ‘Their problem is that with both the brothers gone, there is no obvious figure around whom opposition can coalesce, but you may be sure that my agents are watching closely for the emergence of one so we can finish the job and give this country the stable government it needs.’

  I took “finish the job” to mean something along the lines of “emasculating and hanging the alternative candidate”.

  ‘Van Looy, as you call him, was one of my best men. He was watching a conspiracy closely and had recently informed us that he knew most of those involved but was waiting for the identity of the leader to become known before making a move. Sadly, he has died before being able to give us his full report.’

  I thought it my duty to point to a possible culprit. ‘I should tell you, Stadhouder, that I overheard Van Looy talking to a man the other day who was encouraging him to strike quickly.’

  ‘Did you see this man?’

  ‘Not his face. But he wore a very elaborate scabbard, capped in gold. Van Looy denied that such a meeting had taken place, but I know what I heard.’

  William pulled a face as if he had sucked a lemon. ‘You heard correctly. That would be Adam van Kamerik.’

  ‘Van Kamerik? I don’t know him.’

  ‘It’s a long story. He styles himself Lord of Kamerik, but I’ve never seen any paper to support the title. He was a colleague of my uncle, Frederick Nassau de Zuylestein.’

  Now, I had heard of him, and a nastier piece of work is hard to imagine, though I wasn’t going to say so in front of his nephew, who got on very well with him. Frederick was the illegitimate son of the Stadhouder’s grandfather and one of the fiercest supporters of the House of Orange. He married an Englishwoman and became William’s trusted adviser. It was widely believed that De Zuylestein was behind the lynching of the De Witts, though William maintained he had received no advice at all about that, except possibly not to hang around The Hague that day.

  De Zuylestein’s influence had come to an abrupt end in October 1672 when he was killed in a battle, curiously enough at Kamerik.

  ‘According to Adam, when my uncle lay dying he bestowed the honour of Kamerik on his faithful officer. It’s just possible. They were of an age, and Frederick couldn’t give him any money.’

  ‘Do you believe the story, Stadhouder?’

  William shrugged. ‘We know that Frederick sent for him. And, to be frank, if Adam made the story up he’d have chosen a much better gift than Kamerik. It’s a midden.’

  ‘And you suspect this Adam was the man I heard arguing.’

  ‘If he wore a scabbard with a gold top, it sounds like it may be. Besides, I sent him.’

  This was getting murkier by the moment, and all my instincts were telling me that this was the moment to ask for a passport so I could go to Sweden to study some important theological papers, if I could think of any that were convincing enough. Or, if not Sweden, then maybe Poland. Scotland, if there were absolutely no alternatives.

  There was a very awkward silence. In a conversation between equals, I might have felt at liberty to question the actions of anyone who had done this, but this was not such a dialogue. The Stadhouder did not have to explain himself to me; in fact, this particular Stadhouder believed that he did not have to justify his actions to anyone.

  ‘I can see that you’re puzzled, Mercurius. Very well — I’ll tell you the whole story. But if I do, you must swear to hold it a secret. If you are to serve me well, there are things you must know, but it is only fair to point out that while I am a generous master to those who do their duty, so I am merciless to those who fail me.’

  I thought that I was going to be given the chance to think about this and maybe follow my initial inclination, which was to get back to Leiden as quickly as po
ssible and have nothing to do with any of this, but he continued at once, taking my acquiescence for granted.

  ‘Have an apple,’ he said, passing the bowl to me.

  I like apples, but I was beginning to associate them with unpleasant missions, death and disaster. Besides which, I really wanted a proper dinner. Nevertheless, I thanked him and took one.

  ‘You’ll recall that my late mother of blessed memory was the daughter of the King of England, Charles the first of that name, father of the present king. When she came here she brought various ladies-in-waiting with her, one of whom married De Zuylestein. She also brought some lesser ladies, one of whom was her favourite seamstress. She also married, and her son was Van Looy. His real name was Dekker or Dekkers, something like that. He was brought up to speak English by his mother and Dutch by his father. As an only child, they concentrated their attention on him and he proved to be gifted. However, they hadn’t the resources to send him to the universities, and this was twenty or so years ago. I was a babe, and my father was dead. He had nobody here to be a patron to him.’

  William poured a tumbler of brandy and handed one to me without asking. I had assumed it would be diluted with something, but the first swig told me otherwise.

  ‘You may have observed his pride. I knew his mother, who always insisted that she was paid for her work, as opposed to being a servant. This arose when she married and left the household, and she and her mistress came to some kind of arrangement for her to go on making her dresses in her own home. Thus he inherited this sense of status from his mother, and it was accentuated when his mother spoke to her patroness about him. My mother could not send him to England because the royal court was in exile then, but he became a member of the household of the King’s brother, the Duke of York, at Breda, which did nothing to diminish his pride. When the English returned to their kingdom, Van Looy went with them, but he left when the wars between us and the English began and found work as a tutor in Germany, somewhere near Brunswick. So far as I know, that was where he came to the attention of De Zuylestein, who reintroduced me to him shortly before he died at Kamerik. So there you have it.’

  I wished I had been able to make notes, but somehow the gist of it remained with me. De Zuylestein was William’s man, and Van Looy was De Zuylestein’s. ‘And this Adam chap, Stadhouder?’

  ‘It was difficult for Van Looy to leave Leiden to report to me. Had he come here and been seen, news might have leaked back there. Thus I employed Van Kamerik as a messenger between us. He is a good man, fiercely loyal, but he has no patience and he seemed to regard his role as managing Van Looy. That they argued does not surprise me. But he is not the killer, I assure you.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’ I asked.

  ‘For two reasons. First, because it would displease me, and he would not wish to do that. Much more importantly, because if Van Looy was killed today, then it is impossible for Van Kamerik to be the murderer, since he is in Haarlem.’

  ‘May I ask how you know he has gone to Haarlem, Stadhouder?’

  ‘Because I sent him. But I get your point. At present, I suppose I don’t. But he will return tomorrow with a report from the Mayor, and his arrival with it will prove his innocence. You’ll stay here overnight and we can talk to him when he returns. Be a good fellow and call for Pieters, and I’ll get him to give you a room. Do you need anything else?’

  The conventional and polite answer would have been no. ‘Some dinner would be nice,’ I said. And one without apples would be even better, I thought.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  To give Pieters his due, although the kitchens had retired an hour or so before, he rousted out a cook who produced a fine dish of eel for me, served with a mess of soft peas and a hunk of fresh bread. Years of living off Albrecht’s fare had almost led me to forget that food could taste like this. For a start, none of it was black.

  I am not sure how much sleep the Stadhouder (or, more probably, Pieters) got that night, but in the morning I received a dossier full of information about Van Looy — or, as I now knew him to be, Carolus Dekkers. His mother called him Charles and his father called him Carel, so it seems that they compromised by giving him a Latinised name, as happens to so many of us. I am pleased to say that nobody has ever tried to call me Mercury.

  There were also a few leaves dealing with Adam van Kamerik. Since all the documents appeared to be originals, I could not take them away, but Pieters had provided a single page of summary notes for me to retain.

  I passed the morning reading the information, pausing only to spring to my feet every time the Stadhouder came through to see how I was progressing.

  ‘I want the killer found, Mercurius. Found and punished.’

  ‘Yes, Stadhouder.’

  ‘My uncle in England had the men who beheaded his father hanged, drawn and quartered. It hasn’t happened again, Mercurius.’

  You couldn’t argue with that. There is nothing like killing all the culprits to ensure that they don’t repeat their offences.

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘The first question I must solve, it seems to me, is who could have known that Van Looy was your man. He wasn’t killed because he was a meddling secretary, after all.’

  ‘It was a secret mission, Mercurius. Maybe he let it slip.’

  ‘With respect,’ I began — and I know that this introduction guarantees that what follows conveys no respect at all — ‘if the Rector did not know exactly what Van Looy was doing in Leiden, I doubt if Van Looy himself was the source of the information. And if the Rector, who saw him every day, did not know, I doubt if anyone in Leiden could have done. I must make a list of everyone here who would have known.’

  ‘Pieters will do that for you. It won’t take long, because very few knew.’

  The Stadhouder was right. When Pieters produced the list, there were only a handful of names on it.

  The Stadhouder — well, obviously.

  Adam van Kamerik — because he was the intermediary who collected and delivered messages between Van Looy and the Stadhouder.

  William Nassau de Zuylestein, the son of the one I have been talking about, and now one of William’s leading advisers.

  Cornelis de Ring, the treasurer who was responsible for paying Van Looy’s salary and expenses. While he was not formally told, he may have guessed what Van Looy was doing when examining his expenses claims.

  Abraham Dekkers, the cousin of Van Looy. He had been told that Van Looy was absent from The Hague on state business when he came looking for him, but he was not told the assumed identity or the nature of the work Van Looy was doing.

  Of course, any of these might have let the secret slip. I discounted the Stadhouder on the grounds that he had no reason to wreck his own plans, he was plainly shocked by Van Looy’s death, and he was paying me to conduct the investigation.

  The Stadhouder vouched for William de Zuylestein, though he would not have been the first ruler to be betrayed by a trusted lieutenant, so I decided not to scratch his name through (though it seemed prudent to let the Stadhouder think that I had).

  That left Van Kamerik, who was taking his time returning from Haarlem, Abraham Dekkers and De Ring.

  ‘Do we know where Abraham Dekkers lives?’ I asked.

  Pieters scratched his chin. ‘Not precisely, Master. But they are a local family here in The Hague. I could make enquiries, if you wish?’ He tipped his head to one side, smiled ingratiatingly and waited for my approbation. To my eyes he looked like one of those monkeys that hurdy-gurdy players have sitting on their shoulders in tiny suits with white collars about their necks. I half-expected him to rattle a tin cup in my direction.

  ‘That would be kind, thank you.’

  He wrote the task on his daily list of things that must be done. I could not help noticing that he left a few blank lines between that job and the one above it, as if he hoped that several more important duties would come his way.

  ‘And where would I find this Cornelis de Ring?’

&nbs
p; ‘Why, he is just along the corridor, Master. I will lead you to him, whenever you are ready.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m ready now.’

  ‘Then, if you will be so good as to follow me — that is, if you do not object to my preceding you?’

  ‘Not at all. It is the only sensible arrangement.’

  The fact that it was sensible did not mean, of course, that it would be the unvarying practice of the Stadhouder’s court. I did not doubt for a minute that one or other of William’s courtiers would have whipped Pieters thoroughly for preceding him through a doorway. We Dutch are an egalitarian people, and therefore ridiculously punctilious about things like orders of precedence. Almost all university ceremonies involve an unseemly wrangle between members of staff who think that they should go before someone else. My own preference is to go right at the end, not because I am extremely humble, but because the last one in is also the last one out and I enjoy watching the others getting wet when it rains.

  Pieters was indicating a door, through which I stepped, to find myself in a magnificent chamber. Large book-cabinets lined the walls, a warming fire crackled in the hearth, and happy scribes sat at splendid desks. The university is comfortable, but this was quite a different setting, and I could imagine that a lifetime spent here would be as near to heaven as I expect to find on earth. All I needed to make my happiness complete would be young women moving between the desks dispensing free beer and keeping the occupants well supplied with tasty victuals.

  An elderly gentleman with a long grey beard and a square black cap glanced up as I entered. I detected an element of suspicion in his countenance.

  ‘Master Treasurer,’ Pieters addressed him, ‘I bring Master Mercurius of the University of Leiden, who has been entrusted with an enquiry by the Stadhouder. Could you spare him a few minutes?’