by Graham Brack
I could see the sense in that. ‘And I suppose your name isn’t actually Beniamino?’
‘No.’
‘What should I call you, then?’
‘Best stick to Beniamino. You don’t need to know my name, and if you found it out it might be unhealthy for you.’
I could feel my curiosity about his identity ebbing away at once. ‘Forgive my nosiness, but — just to ensure you mean me no harm, I suppose — how do you fit into all this? For whom are you working?’
‘That I can tell you. The Stadhouder asked the Heer van Zuylestein to arrange for me to follow you to see that you were kept safe.’
‘Follow me?’
‘The easiest way to follow someone is to openly go with them. How could I have followed you on the barge from Leiden except by pretending to be a fellow passenger? I couldn’t wait for the next barge, could I? So, whenever possible I followed you by walking alongside.’
‘I thought I was being followed a couple of days ago, but when I turned round there was only a courting couple there.’
Beniamino laughed heartily. ‘One of my best!’ he said. He stood up, turned his back to me and rested his arm against one of the posts so that his cloak dropped free. I then heard him propositioning a young woman and her giggling reply, even though I knew there was no girl there.
‘How do you do that?’
‘Necessary dissembling. Things you pick up in my line of business.’
‘And what exactly is your line of business?’
‘That’s not important right now. Suffice it to say that I am a sort of civil servant working for the Stadhouder.’
What was going on inside Molenaar’s head I did not know, but my own was spinning at this unexpected turn of events.
‘That’s a nice girl you’re walking out with, by the way,’ Beniamino declared.
‘Was walking out with. She wants nothing to do with me now.’
‘Well, that’s women for you. A fickle bunch. Any particular reason?’
‘She thinks it’s my fault her father was murdered.’
Beniamino was, for once, at a loss for words, but only for a moment. ‘So her father was the man who left the house in your cloak?’
‘That’s right. The murderer seems to have killed him, thinking it was me.’
Beniamino jerked his head in the direction of the man tied to the posts. ‘That’s the man who messed things up for you. If you want to give him a kicking later, just let me know.’
‘I’m a minister of God. I can’t go around kicking people.’
‘Suit yourself. Nobody would know except me, and I’m trained to keep my mouth shut. If you change your mind, just speak up.’
‘Thank you, but I won’t.’
‘If a man did that to me, I’d emasculate him at the very least.’
‘I suspect that’s a disciplinary offence for a university lecturer.’
‘Well, you know best.’
A thought suddenly struck me. ‘But if the murderer couldn’t tell us apart, why didn’t you follow Van Leusden when he left the house?’
‘From where I was standing, I could see his face. I knew it wasn’t you. I was very glad of that, because I wasn’t dressed for heavy rain. Following someone in a downpour isn’t fun, and people tend to notice you more readily. “Look at that idiot out in the rain,” they say. I like to be unobserved whenever possible.’
I shivered. These man-made caves are not the most luxurious of surroundings.
‘Are you cold? I’ll light a fire in a minute,’ Beniamino said. ‘I’ll need one anyway for my encouragers.’
‘Encouragers?’
‘Tools of the trade. Pokers, branding irons, whatever I can find around.’
‘Is that strictly necessary?’
‘That’s not my decision. It’s his. He can save himself a lot of anguish by confessing early. He’s going to confess anyway, so why put himself through all that?’ Beniamino put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I understand that you have qualms. This isn’t your world, Mercurius. It’s the one I live in, and one day I may be the one tied up while someone heats the poker. You may rest assured I’ll cause him the minimum pain necessary. But it’s naïve to think that I can do this without hurting him. Why don’t you go back to the Professor’s house to let him know you’re safe and let me get on with this? Come back here tomorrow, and I’ll let you know what I’ve found out.’
‘I have misgivings about this,’ I said.
‘Fine. Shall I let him go, then, and you can take your chances? Maybe he’ll be grateful and he won’t carry out his orders to kill you. But maybe he will.’
Put like that, I could see the advantages of Beniamino’s way of doing things.
The Professor had gone to bed when I knocked at the door, so it was not until the morning that I was able to recount the events of the previous evening.
‘I must admit that I do not like the thought of subjecting a man to violence to obtain a confession,’ I said, fully expecting Gijsbert Voet to agree with me.
‘We cannot be squeamish when a man’s soul is at stake,’ he replied. ‘He was, as you describe matters, taken red-handed in attempting to kill you. That alone would earn him some severe earthly punishment. And, if our suspicions are correct, he is a traitor and must expect a traitor’s death. Compared with that, and what awaits him after his death, this interlude will seem a trifle.’
‘I fear he will be stubborn and suffer greatly, but Beniamino is sure he will confess in time.’
‘Excellent. Confession of our sins is the first step towards righteousness. Without it he will surely be damned. And let us not forget that he is part of a conspiracy whose other members must be uncovered before they do further harm.’ Voet rose unsteadily to his feet and tottered to his bookshelf, returning with a pamphlet. ‘How is your French?’
‘I manage,’ I said, omitting to mention that I had been ordained priest in the Francophone part of Flanders.
‘Read that. It’s one of the ghastly scribblings that was circulated during the French occupation here. You will read that the population was well-disposed towards the invaders; that they refused to allow William of Orange to enter the city; that they committed unspeakable barbarities in the Dom and rejoiced in the fact; and that they were heard to say to the French authorities that they would rather be French than subjects of the Prince of Orange.’
There did not seem to be much point in reading the pamphlet after that. He must have covered the content quite comprehensively.
‘Is it true?’ I enquired.
‘True? What does the truth have to do with it? It is propaganda. The point is that it was believable. Undoubtedly some of the population, being Catholics, found the French occupation congenial. They probably did renounce any allegiance to the Prince of Orange, and some of them hoped the French would stay. They burned most of the fittings of the Dom, which we are only just finding the money to replace, and we have had to remove the most offensive papist images. And it is true that the regent, that idiot Martens, refused to open the city gates to William. He said he feared the troops would loot the place — as if the French troops wouldn’t.’ He took a deep breath and flopped into his chair. The anger he felt was exhausting him. ‘That is what we are guarding against. Those days must not be allowed to return. Under the De Witts, Catholics were allowed too much latitude. I have nothing against them myself, you understand. They are heretics and will pay for their heresy in the fires of Hell, but at least they are Christians, and it is easier to convert Christians than heathens. The House of Orange has been pleased to grant toleration to Catholics and we are bound by our loyalty to accept that. I make no complaint. But without William, I have no doubt that this country will divide on religious lines and there will be great bloodshed. Your work, Mercurius, is of the greatest importance, do you see? It is not just a matter of the murder of two men. It is preventing the slaying of many more.’
I began to see how things were. I had thought that those ranged against William wer
e all adherents of the De Witt faction and proponents of democracy, but they were surely not numerous enough to be a real threat. They had loud voices, of course; protesters often have. But when you added to them the large number of Catholics and other non-Reformed inhabitants, you could see why William’s rule was thought precarious. These were volatile times. Just look at the English, as dull a nation as you could wish to meet; in barely a quarter of a century they had beheaded their king, set up a republic, brought back the king’s son, who had been in exile in the Netherlands, which he then showed his gratitude towards by declaring war on us, made peace, started another war, pretended that they had ended that war and made it impossible for the French to attack our coast by sending their navy to get in the way. If these things could happen, who was to say that the Netherlands might not become French, or Spanish, or even English?
I begged leave of the Professor to go to see how Beniamino’s work was progressing. The Professor entreated me earnestly to get Molenaar to confess his sins and throw himself on the mercy of Almighty God. I undertook to do so without having the least belief that it would prove possible.
The warehouse door was shut, but I knocked and announced my name in a loud hiss. Beniamino opened the door with a smile.
‘You don’t think skulking up to a door and whispering furtively might draw attention to the place?’ he asked in a tone that suggested amusement at my folly.
‘I don’t know what the form is for all this cloak and dagger stuff,’ I snapped, and pushed past him.
A horrible sight presented itself to me. Molenaar was sitting on a chair, his legs bound to the chair’s legs. He was naked apart from some smallclothes and his chest was a mass of torn flesh — as if he had been flogged. His face was battered, and one eye was closed by swelling which extended down his cheek and up to the corner of his mouth. His wrists were tied to the arms of the chair and I suddenly realised the top of one of his fingers was missing.
‘Was that necessary?’ I snarled at Beniamino.
‘Yes,’ he answered coolly. ‘You see, each hand has fourteen such joints, so he knows I can put him through that pain twenty-seven more times if I have to. Cut an ear off, and I can only do it twice. Fingers are much more effective. For a start, before removing the top joint I can pull out the finger nails and give the exposed area a few minutes’ work with a hammer. Compared with the pain of that, losing an ear is a trifle.’ He lifted some papers from the top of a barrel. ‘However, that will not be necessary, because, as I predicted, Molenaar has told me what we need to know, I think. I’ll tell you what he said, and you can see if there are any more questions we need to ask before I nail him in a crate and transport him to The Hague. I think the Stadhouder will want to supervise his execution himself.’
The jovial, vulgar, boisterous lutenist I had known had been repulsive company, but there was something yet more appalling about this cold, mechanical tormentor. He seemed completely detached from his work and, having obtained the intelligence he required, he was now showing considerable solicitude towards Molenaar, offering him a cup of water and holding it for him as one would a child’s beaker with great patience and gentleness.
‘How can you use him so roughly and then nurture him like that?’ I whispered.
‘He is a man,’ said Beniamino. ‘He has played the game and lost, and he will pay a heavy penalty. He knew that would be the case if he did not triumph. We all do. But we can be magnanimous to a vanquished opponent.’ He motioned to me to sit on a barrel while he did the same. ‘Molenaar has admitted that he is one of a cell of three.’
‘With Van der Horst and Terhoeven?’
‘If you already knew that, you could have saved Molenaar a deal of pain.’
‘I did not know. I suspected,’ I said haughtily.
‘Their task was to work amongst the students at Leiden discovering those who were well-disposed towards the De Witt faction, and to foment unrest there, but in particular to discover fanatics who would join them in an attack on the Stadhouder’s person.’
‘An assassination attempt? But surely they would pay with their lives?’
‘They did not expect to survive. So long as the Stadhouder died, they did not mind if they did the same.’
‘Van Looy suspected that there were three of them. He even wrote a cryptic secret note.’
‘Which said?’
‘“You do not need to grind the nest.”’
Beniamino laughed immoderately before wiping eyes with a kerchief and looking at me with some amazement in his face. ‘You don’t see it, do you?’
‘Whatever “it” is, no.’
‘Van Looy was giving you the names. He wrote it in English, but if you translate it the right way into Dutch, it’s clear enough. Who grinds things?’
‘Why, a miller I…’
Of course. The English word “miller” is “molenaar” in Dutch. To need can be translated as “hoeven”, as when we say that it behoves us to do something. And horst is a rather poetic or archaic word for a bird’s nest. I do not mind saying that I felt a complete fool, and the really galling aspect was that this thug had worked it out on the spot. No doubt he was one of those fellows who always gets the answers to riddles quicker than I do, of whom they are many, because I am not good at riddles.
‘Who gives them their orders?’ I asked.
‘He doesn’t know. And I think that’s genuine, because he carried on sobbing that he didn’t know while I was pouring burning candle wax on his genitals. That’s a great loosener of tongues, by the way. You may find it handy to know that someday.’
For the record, I have never had occasion to use that trick, though sometimes during university Senate meetings I have been sorely tempted.
‘What he will say is that Van der Horst was their leader, but he was very cautious. Terhoeven was always encouraging more action.’
‘We should arrest them both quickly, before they realise that Molenaar has spoken.’
‘He says Terhoeven has vanished.’
‘Van der Horst planned to spend the summer in Leiden. We may find him there.’
‘We’ll go there as soon as we have concluded matters here.’
‘Does he admit to killing Van Looy and Van Leusden?’
‘Yes and no. Or, more accurately, no and yes. He killed Van Leusden thinking it was you. His orders were to end your life, so when he killed the wrong person he stayed here to have another go. But he denies killing Van Looy. He says Terhoeven did that. Van der Horst and Molenaar were furious because he had received no orders to do so. He acted on his own initiative.’
‘I must report at once to the Stadhouder,’ I said. ‘What else must we do?’
‘Not so fast. This man has committed a murder in Utrecht. He should be tried here. We have to persuade the city authorities to send him to The Hague for examination there first. Then, if he survives further questioning from servants of the Stadhouder who lack my finesse, he can be brought back here to hang for murder.’
Looking at Molenaar’s face, I would not have dared to use a word like finesse myself. ‘Won’t he be tried for treason?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. The Stadhouder may not want to draw public attention to the fact that there are any disloyal elements in his realm. A nice quiet execution in Utrecht for a completely unrelated crime might suit him very well. So long as Molenaar dies, the Stadhouder won’t mind too much how it comes about.’
This attitude made my blood boil. ‘There is such a thing,’ I expostulated, ‘as justice!’
‘Is there?’ said Beniamino. ‘Let me know when you find it.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Beniamino declined to accompany me when I attempted to solicit the Professor’s support to have Molenaar shipped to The Hague, citing the importance to his future usefulness of maintaining a very low profile. This seemed a bit rich if, like me, you had seen him standing on a tavern table singing a vile song about a Frisian milkmaid and her excessively friendly approach to livestock, but I suppose I cou
ld understand what he meant. There was always the chance that a traitor would see him and recognise him at some time in the future when he needed to remain incognito.
I decided not to go to the Professor single-handed, and found my way to Johannes’ home to lay the matter before him first. He was very welcoming and listened intently to my account of the arrest and interrogation of Molenaar.
‘What do you propose to do now, Master?’ he asked.
‘Well, we must somehow get Molenaar to The Hague. I assume Beniamino will have some idea about how best to do that. Then we must arrest Van der Horst and look for Terhoeven.’
Johannes contemplated the contents of his glass of madeira wine. We Dutch drink a lot of Portuguese wines, if only to annoy the Spanish.
‘Why do you suppose Terhoeven killed Van Looy? Assuming, of course, that Molenaar is telling the truth.’
‘Why wouldn’t he tell the truth?’
‘Well, if he has regard to the future state of his soul after his inevitable execution, then of course he will tell the truth. He would be stupid to do otherwise. But if his desire is merely to stop the pain of his torture, he might say anything that came into his head that may satisfy our curiosity.’
‘Beniamino is convinced of his sincerity.’
‘Beniamino will want to be thought effective, so he would say that, wouldn’t he? But think for a moment. Suppose you and I had not met, and Molenaar had blurted out my name, would you think that enough to arrest me?’
It was a good question. Without further evidence, why would we arrest someone on the basis of an allegation?
‘We need more, don’t we?’ I conceded reluctantly.
‘I think we do,’ agreed Johannes. ‘But we cannot ignore what we have either. However, I repeat my question: why do you suppose Terhoeven killed Van Looy?’
‘Presumably because Van Looy was about to expose them.’
‘And how could they know that?’
The Voets had asked this before, and I still had no answer. Van Looy was a clever and prudent man. A complete pain in the posterior too, but that does not detract from his intelligence. He would hardly have told his quarry that he was hunting them down, so how did they know? I could only assume that, like me, they had overheard something said.
