Sea Change

by Robert Goddard

  ‘We may be close to McIlwraith and Spandrel, Colonel, but we’re all of us a long way behind the two people who actually have what we’re trying to retrieve. I fail to understand how you hope to catch up with them.’

  ‘I reckon we will.’

  ‘And on what is your … reckoning … based?’

  ‘It’s based on the fact that when Zuyler and Mrs de Vries reach Switzerland, they’ll have a hard choice to make. To cross the Alps? Or to take a boat down the Rhône to Marseilles, then look for a sea passage to Naples, say, and hope to travel up to Rome from there?’

  ‘They can’t go down the Rhône,’ said Cloisterman, suddenly beginning to follow Wagemaker’s reasoning.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of the outbreak of plague in Marseilles last summer. The port’s still closed. There’s no traffic on the Rhône. Most of Provence is reported to be in a state of chaos. Nobody in their right mind would try to go that way.’

  ‘So I hear too. Which way will they go, then?’

  ‘Over the Alps. They have to.’

  ‘At this time of the year? I’d think twice about doing it alone. With a woman … it’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘What choice do they have?’

  ‘They could wait for milder weather.’

  ‘But that could mean waiting for a month or more.’

  ‘So, they won’t wait. But I don’t think they’re equal to it. I think they’ll try the crossing and abandon the attempt when they realize how difficult and dangerous it is. And by then …’ Wagemaker’s right hand closed around an imaginary throat. ‘They’ll be within our reach.’

  ‘And within McIlwraith’s.’

  ‘Yes. Jupe’s as well. But if it had been easy …’ Wagemaker unclenched his hand and stared at his palm. ‘They wouldn’t have sent me.’

  The death from smallpox at the age of thirty-five of Secretary of State James Craggs the younger did not distract the House of Commons for many moments from its pursuit of the ministers named in the Brodrick Committee report. Walpole’s recommendation of impeachment before the Lords was ignored, though whether this displeased him or not was hard to tell. Instead, the Commons voted to hear the cases themselves, which happened to mean that Walpole would be able to play a full part in the trials and influence their outcomes … one way or the other.

  ‘The taking in, or holding of stock, by the South Sea Company for the benefit of any member of either House of Parliament or person concerned in the Administration (during the time that the Company’s Proposals or the Bill relating thereto were depending in Parliament) without giving valuable consideration paid,’ the House resolved after several days’ debate, ‘were corrupt, infamous and dangerous practices, highly reflecting on the Honour and Justice of Parliament and destructive of the Interest of His Majesty’s Government.’

  The charge was laid. Now, those accused would have to answer to it.

  The trial of the first of those accused, Charles Stanhope, was still pending when McIlwraith and Spandrel crossed the Swiss border just outside Basle, one long and gruelling week after crossing the Dutch border nearly five hundred miles to the north. They had been detained at Heidelberg for the best part of a day by the need to obtain certificates of health from a hard-pressed doctor appointed by the local magistrate. Without them, Swiss customs officers were sure to turn them back on the grounds that they might be plague-carriers who had crept into the Palatinate from France. Another wrangle over certification had followed at Freiburg, where they had strayed into the Austrian enclave of Breisgau. McIlwraith had raged against these delays and pressed ever harder on the road to compensate for them. Spandrel’s memory was of bone-weary rides in seemingly permanent twilight along frozen tracks through the snow-hushed fringes of endless forest. Travel, he had learned, was not the exhilarating experience he had dreamed it might be when gazing at his father’s maps as a child.

  Of Zuyler and Estelle de Vries there had been intermittent news suggesting that they were now only a few days ahead. Spandrel consoled himself with the thought that they were un likely to be enjoying the journey any more than he was. Of Jupe, however, there was no trace, which had prompted Spandrel to suggest he might have given up. But McIlwraith had poured scorn on this idea. ‘He’s had the good sense to travel alone, man. That’s all it is. I wish I’d followed his example, instead of hoppling myself with someone who rides like a nun on a donkey and never stops complaining.’

  Despite the frequency of such insults, Spandrel had grown strangely fond of his companion. McIlwraith seemed to be just about the only person he had met since leaving England to have told him the truth, uncomfortable though it sometimes was. It was not so much that Spandrel trusted him, as that he felt safe with him. There was a reassuring solidity of body and purpose to the man. He had driven Spandrel hard, but nothing like as hard as he had driven himself.

  In Switzerland, it seemed clear, their journey would reach its crisis. With the Rhône closed, the only route to Italy lay over the Alps. And in late winter, the only pass worth considering was the Simplon. McIlwraith expected the chase to end there. How it would end he did not say. Perhaps he did not know. Or perhaps, Spandrel reflected, he did not think it wise to disclose.

  They left Basle early next morning and crossed the Jura ridge in fine, dry, cold weather. Spandrel had anticipated that the Alps would be craggier and perhaps snowier versions of the Black Forest peaks they had passed. When he first saw them massing on the horizon ahead, however, vast and white and forbidding, he realized just what kind of a barrier they represented and could hardly imagine that there was a way through them.

  ‘They strike fear into your heart, don’t they, Spandrel?’ said McIlwraith. ‘But remember. They’ll do the same for our soft-bred Dutchman and his lady love. We have them now. Like rats in a trap.’

  They descended from the ridge into the Aare valley and followed its winding course south as far as Berne. The city occupied a steep-banked lobe of land jutting out into a deep eastward loop of the river. They arrived at dusk, entering by one of the gates in the defensive wall on the western side. It was, for Spandrel, just one more in a succession of tired, travel-stained, twilit arrivals. Berne appeared no different from anywhere else they had been. The gateman recommended an inn: the Drei Tassen. They made their weary way to it along ill-lit, cobbled streets. They took a room, stabled the horses and went to the tap-room in search of food and drink. It was a routine they had followed in half a dozen other cities.

  After the meal, McIlwraith lit his pipe and gazed broodily at the fire. This too was his custom. There had been no repetition of the drunken reminiscences he had permitted himself in Cologne. Spandrel was warm and replete now. Soon, he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. He hauled his aching limbs out of the settle and announced he was off to bed. McIlwraith nodded a goodnight to him and stayed where he was. Spandrel knew it could easily be another couple of hours before the captain turned in. But he would still be up again before dawn. Sleep was not something he seemed to need much of.

  Spandrel, on the other hand, needed every hour he could snatch. He paused in the passage leading to the stairs, then turned and headed for the yard at the rear of the inn. Cold as it was outdoors, a visit to the jakes before he crawled between the sheets could not be avoided.

  A few minutes later, he was on his way back across the yard, hugging himself for warmth. As he neared the inn door, a figure stepped into his path from the darkness beyond the reach of the lantern that burned above the lintel.

  ‘Spandrel.’

  The voice came as no more than a whisper. Even so, Spandrel knew at once that he recognized it. He could not put a name to the voice, however. Stopping just before he collided with the man, he squinted at him through the shadows cast by the lantern.

  ‘What are you doing here, Spandrel?’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Don’t you know me?’

  ‘I … I’m not sure.’

  The man stepped back, allowi
ng the light from the lantern to fall across his face. Now Spandrel saw him plainly for who he was.

  ‘You.’

  ‘Yes.’ The man nodded. ‘Me.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘An answer to my question. You’re supposed to be in prison in Amsterdam, awaiting trial for murder. So, what are you … and your new-found friend … doing here – exactly?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Handful of Air

  ‘I THOUGHT YOU were away to bed,’ said McIlwraith, frowning up at Spandrel from his fireside chair. Then he looked across to the man who had accompanied Spandrel back into the tap-room. ‘Who’s this spindle-shanks?’

  ‘I am Nicodemus Jupe, sir.’

  ‘Sir, is it? I like the sound of you more than the look of you, Jupe, I’ll say that. I suppose we were bound to tread on your coat-tails before long. But I didn’t expect you to call on us to pay your respects. What do you want?’

  ‘He thinks we should—’

  ‘Let him speak for himself,’ barked McIlwraith, cutting off Spandrel’s explanation. ‘Well?’

  ‘Could we find somewhere a little more private?’ Jupe glanced around. ‘I’m sure you won’t want our affairs widely known, sir.’

  ‘Our affairs?’ McIlwraith grunted. ‘There’s a reading-room of sorts on the other side of the passage. With no fire lit, we should have it to ourselves. The chill will keep you awake, Spandrel, even if Jupe’s conversation fails to enthral. Lead the way.’

  A few moments later, they were in the reading-room, with the door closed behind them. There were desks and chairs spaced around wood-panelled walls. A large bookcase held an assortment of atlases, almanacs and Bibles. A single copy of a Bernese newspaper lay on the table in the centre of the room, beneath a chandelier in which barely half the candles were lit. It was, as McIlwraith had predicted, breath-mistingly cold.

  ‘Say your piece,’ growled McIlwraith, propping himself against the table to listen. ‘You can begin with how you knew we were here.’

  ‘Apparently, the gatemen always recommend this inn, sir. No doubt the landlord makes it worth their while.’

  ‘Are you staying here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then you were looking for us?’

  ‘I knew someone would follow. It was inevitable. I’ve been … keeping my eye open.’

  ‘But lodging elsewhere. Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ll explain that in a moment, sir.’

  ‘Stop calling me sir. You’re not in my troop, thank God.’

  ‘Very well … Captain.’

  ‘How much has Spandrel told you?’

  ‘Only that you’re an agent for the Brodrick Committee. I was afraid you might represent the Government.’

  ‘What do you care who I represent?’

  ‘I care a good deal, Captain. We want the same thing. The Green Book.’

  ‘Which your master did his best to put out of the committee’s reach. The same thing? Aye. But not for the same reason.’

  ‘Circumstances have changed. Our reasons now coincide.’

  ‘How do you reckon that?’

  ‘Sir Theodore’s best hope of lenient treatment by the committee is to help them. By surrendering the Green Book to them rather than the Government. He and Mr Knight originally planned to force the Government to protect them by threatening to publish the contents of the book. You see I tell you so quite openly. I’m concealing nothing.’

  ‘And poor Spandrel here was to die to make sure that threat could be safely made.’

  ‘It seems so. But that wasn’t my fault. I only did what Sir Theodore told me to do.’

  ‘And no doubt you’re still doing his bidding.’

  ‘Sir Theodore instructed me to retrieve the book and prevent it falling into the wrong hands. There’ll be a Government agent not so very far behind you and I can’t risk him succeeding where you or I might fail. My chances of securing the book alone are slim. I need your help.’

  ‘But do we need yours, Jupe? That’s the question.’

  ‘You do. Because I know where the book is.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ McIlwraith pushed himself upright and took a step towards Jupe. ‘Well, why don’t you tell us?’

  ‘May I see your House of Commons warrant first, Captain?’ Jupe stood his ground unflinchingly. ‘I need to be sure you’re what Spandrel says you are.’

  ‘Hah!’ McIlwraith laughed, as if impressed by Jupe’s steadiness of nerve. He plucked the warrant out from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Satisfied?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Perfectly.’ Jupe handed the warrant back. ‘Your intention would be to deliver the book to General Ross in London?’

  ‘Or Mr Brodrick. It makes no matter. But that is what I mean to do.’

  ‘And you’d be willing to afford me safe passage back to London with you?’

  ‘I could see my way to doing that, aye.’

  ‘It’s all I ask.’

  ‘Consider it done. If you lead us to the book.’

  ‘I can do that very easily.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Zuyler and Mrs de Vries arrived here yesterday.’

  ‘They’re in Berne?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve made no move to leave as yet. I’ve taken a room in the lodging-house they’re staying in. They don’t know me, of course. But I know them. Mr and Mrs Kemp, they call themselves. The Drei Tassen was obviously too popular for their liking. They preferred somewhere quieter. But not quiet enough. It didn’t take me long to find where they’re hiding. They’ve not been out much. When they do leave the house, they lock their door securely. But I expect they take the book with them wherever they go, so there’d be no point forcing an entrance when they’re not there. And when they are there …’ Jupe shrugged. ‘Mijnheer de Vries’s fate suggests Zuyler would be quite prepared to kill anyone trying to wrest the book from them.’

  ‘Which is why you haven’t tried to do so single-handed.’

  ‘It is. I admit it.’

  ‘Why haven’t they headed on south?’

  ‘Gathering their strength for the crossing of the Alps, perhaps. Making inquiries as to the best way to go about it. Who knows? You could ask them yourself, though. This very night.’

  ‘So I could.’ McIlwraith smiled. ‘And so I believe I will.’

  It was late now, but the taverns remained busy and a few hardy chestnut-mongers were still stooped over their braziers at the corners of the streets. They headed east along the main thorough fare of the city, past a squat clock tower and on between tall, arcaded housefronts. A chill mist thickened as they neared the river, blurring the light from the lanterns that hung between the arches.

  Whether McIlwraith had any doubts about the wisdom of what he seemed set upon doing Spandrel did not know. The captain was armed, of course, and had loaded his pistols before they set off. For his part, Spandrel felt torn between an eagerness to share in the humiliation of the two people who had happily let him take the blame for their crime and a suspicion that things could surely not fall out as simply as they promised to. Jupe had explained himself logically enough. And to take them unawares was the tactic most likely to succeed. Yet Spandrel could not rid himself of a nagging doubt. This silent march through empty streets reminded him of the night he had broken into the de Vries house in Amsterdam. His expectations had been confounded then. And, for all he knew, they might be again.

  A slender church spire stretched up into the night sky behind them as they started to descend to the river, then was blotted out by the mist. Jupe led them down a narrow side-street and stopped at a door above which a lantern burned, illuminating the sign Pension Siegwart over the bell. He looked up at the windows on the upper floors, then pressed a cautionary finger to his lips.

  ‘There’s a light in their room,’ he whispered.

  ‘No matter,’ McIlwraith replied, his own whisper sounding like a file scraping on rough wood. ‘We’ll take them as we find them.’ He closed the shutter on
the lantern he had been carrying and handed it to Spandrel. ‘Open up, Jupe.’

  Jupe slipped the pass-key from his pocket, unlocked the door and pushed it carefully open. There was a single lamp burning in the hall. More light – and a burble of voices – seeped up from the basement. They stepped inside and Jupe closed the door. ‘Their room is the first floor front,’ he said in an undertone. ‘The best in the house.’

  ‘Well, that’ll save us a clamber up to the attics, won’t it?’ said McIlwraith. ‘Lead on, man.’

  Jupe set off up the stairs. McIlwraith signalled for Spandrel to follow and brought up the rear himself. There were a few creaks from the treads as they climbed, but Spandrel still caught the ominous click of a pistol being cocked behind him. He wanted to stop and ask McIlwraith if he was sure he was acting for the best. Above all, he wanted to slow the pace of events. But he knew it made no real sense to do so. McIlwraith was the hardened soldier and was well aware of the advantage of surprising the enemy. It was not an advantage he had any intention of letting slip.

  But surprise comes in many guises. They reached the landing and doubled back to the door at the far end. A wavering line of light could be seen beneath it. And a moving shadow, as of someone pacing up and down between the lamp and the door. Then, as they drew closer, Spandrel caught the distinct sound of a sob. The voice, he felt sure, was female.

  ‘A lovers’ tiff, perhaps,’ McIlwraith whispered in his ear. ‘That could suit us well.’ He moved past Spandrel to Jupe’s shoulder. ‘They lock the door when they go out, you said. What about when they’re in?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then try it, man.’ McIlwraith stepped back and raised one of his pistols. ‘Now.’

  Jupe reached out, turned the handle and pushed.