Sea Change (6 page)

'There is as yet' — Jupe cleared his throat — 'no word from Amsterdam, sir.'

'Too soon, Jupe.' Sir Theodore permitted himself a faint smile. 'Just a little too soon.'

The Gouden Vis was a small, well-run, brightly painted tavern near the Montelbaanstoren, a disused harbour-side watchtower to which a previous generation of Amsterdam's city fathers had added a clock, a decorative spire and a mermaid wind-vane. Spandrel had a good view of the tower from his room, as well as of the harbour, into which the Montelbaanswal canal ran past the front of the tavern. He watched the shipping plying back and forth, the comings and goings from the warehouses on the other side of the canal, the light silvering and fading over the city. He had little else to do for two whole days and a night, while he awaited his chance to turn the tables on Ysbrand de Vries and Sir Theodore Janssen. He could not wander the streets for fear of a chance encounter with the dreaded Hondslager or indeed with de Vries himself. Nor could he while away his time in the tap-room. He could not trust himself when in his cups. That was clear, painfully so, as his ribs and assorted other aches frequently reminded him. Not that he had the money with which to drink away the hours. The loan from Zuyler was strictly for necessary expenditure. And Spandrel's necessities — bed and board, a hammer and chisel to break open the chest in de Vries's study and a dark-lantern to find his way by — had consumed the greater part of it. There was nothing for it but to sit and wait.

Idleness, however, encouraged his mind to wander, even if his feet could not. What was in the despatch-box? What was the secret his death had been intended to conceal? De Vries and Janssen were old men as well as old friends. The answer might lie decades in the past. Or it might rest firmly in the present. Janssen's part in the South Sea disaster came irresistibly to mind. Did that have something to do with it? If so, Spandrel might be about to become involved in matters with which the likes of him should have no dealings.

But he was already involved. He had been from the moment he accepted Sir Theodore's offer. There was no way out — unless it was by plunging further in. His father would have told him to leave well alone. But then his father was partly responsible for the predicament in which he found himself. Dick Surtees, by contrast, would have urged him on. Spandrel had not thought of his harum-scarum schoolfellow in months, nor seen him in years; not since, in fact, Dick had thrown up the apprenticeship Spandrel had persuaded his father to offer him on the grounds that surveying was 'devilish tedious' and declared his intention of going abroad in search, he had told Spandrel, 'of adventures'. But Spandrel, he had added, should stay where he was. 'You're just not the adventuring kind, Billy. Take my word for it.'

Spandrel smiled at the memory. The joke was on Dick now. Adventures, it seemed, were not restricted to the adventuring kind. Anyone could have them. Even, perhaps especially, when they did not want to.

The weather changed during Friday afternoon, a stiffening breeze thinning and then clearing the cloud. The city changed with it, glowing in the sparkling light reflected from the harbour. When the sun set, it did so as a swollen scarlet ball, glaring at Spandrel across the Amsterdam rooftops. He knew then that his waiting was nearly at an end.

When the clock on the Montelbaanstoren struck nine, he went down to the tap-room and drank two glasses of brandy. Dutch courage, they called it, and he had need of some. But two glasses were as much as he risked. Then he went back to his room to collect the hammer and chisel, concealed in a sack. He lit the lantern and set off.

The night was cold. The breeze of the afternoon had strengthened to a bone-chilling wind. There were few people on the streets and those who were did not dawdle. Nor did Spandrel. He followed the route Zuyler had said was the easiest, even if it was not the quickest, along the Montelbaanswal to the Amstel. He crossed the river by the first bridge to the west and traversed a deserted market-place. From the far corner of the market-place a narrow street led off between the rear walls of the houses on the Herengracht and the frontages of humbler dwellings. This, according to Zuyler, would take him to de Vries's coach-house entrance, which he would be able to recognize by the lamp-bracket on the coach-house door, worked as it was in the form of a monkey. The lamp would be lit, in readiness for the coach's return. If not lit, it could only mean that de Vries had not gone to the concert for some reason, in which case the attempt would have to be abandoned.

But it was lit. And there was the cast iron monkey beneath, grinning at him, it seemed, in the flickering glow of the lamp. Spandrel closed the shutter on his lantern, withdrew into the shadows and waited for the clock Zuyler had assured him was within earshot to strike ten, by which time Zuyler was confident the servants would all be in the basement, digesting their supper and regurgitating familiar complaints about their master.

It was a cold and nervous vigil that probably lasted no more than ten minutes but felt to Spandrel like so many hours. He half-expected the coach to return, or Hondslager to leap at him out of the darkness. Less fancifully, he feared a passer-by would notice him and become suspicious. But there were no passers-by, save one savage-looking cat carrying a mouse in its jaws, who paid Spandrel no attention whatever. Only the stars watched him. Only the night listened. Eventually, the clock struck.

The narrow door in the wall beside the coach-house entrance opened with barely a creak. Spandrel stepped through into a short alley leading to the garden. It appeared as a gulf of blackness between him and the house, where lights shone dimly in the basement. Otherwise all was in darkness. He opened the shutter on his lantern and made his way along the coach-house wall until he reached the lean-to shed at its far end. He raised the latch and eased the door open. There was the ladder, just inside, standing among the hoes and rakes. He took the hammer and chisel out of the sack and wedged them in his pockets in order to free a hand for the ladder, then set off across the garden with his burden, holding the lantern at arm's length in front of him to light the path.

He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the terrace, sweating despite the cold. He glanced down into what looked like a pantry, into which light was spilling meagrely from a room beyond. Mercifully, there was no-one to be seen. Nor, when he paused to listen, could he hear any voices. The coast was clear.

Telling himself to go slowly and carefully, he propped the ladder against the sill beneath the farthest window of the library — the one Zuyler had said he would leave unfastened — and clambered up. There was a moment's resistance from the sash. Then, with a squeak, it gave. He pushed it halfway up, hung the lantern from one of the handles on the frame and scrambled in.

He was back in the room where Estelle de Vries had plied him with tea and Ysbrand de Vries had taken his contemptuous measure of him. He imagined them sitting next to each other at the concert, Estelle relishing the music while Ysbrand relished only the envy of other men that the sight of her would inspire. Spandrel wondered if she would be secretly pleased by what he was about to do. He could not help hoping she would. Maybe it would somehow set her free. If so—

Angry with himself for wasting time on such thoughts, he turned and pulled the ladder up after him. Leaving it in position would be to invite discovery. He laid it on the floor, then retrieved the lantern and closed the window. Silence closed about him as he did so, a silence broken only by the ticking of a clock. He looked round the room, at the bookcases and the paintings and the classical busts. They, like Estelle, were emblems of de Vries's wealth and power. He had no other use for them. They meant no more to him than did anything or anyone else.

Spandrel crossed the room, listened for a moment at the door, heard nothing, then turned the handle. The door opened onto the unlit hallway. The servants must have shut themselves in downstairs. Otherwise he would surely be able to see a glimmer of light in the stairwell. But there was none.

He closed the library door carefully behind him and stood still for a second, his senses straining. Clocks ticked. The wind mewed. He could detect nothing else — no sound, no movement. His luck, their luck, was holding. He moved to the stairs and started up them, avoiding the middle of the treads for fear of creaks.

The door to the study, located directly above the library, was to his left as he reached the top of the stairs. Hurrying now in spite of himself, he strode across to it and opened it just far enough to slip inside. Then caution reasserted itself. He inched the door shut without letting go of the handle and slowly released it as the snib engaged. Then he turned and raised the lantern, his eyes casting about for the chest.

There it was, stowed against the far wall, between the fireplace and the window: a stout, brass-bound iron chest, fastened with a padlocked hasp. Spandrel walked over to it, ignoring the desk whose shadowy bulk he was aware of beneath the window to his right. He knelt down in front of the chest and tested the hasp with his hand. Zuyler was right, as he had been about everything else. It could be forced readily enough. There would be some noise made in the process. That was the biggest problem. But the servants were far from zealous. That was clear. Zuyler would no doubt be able to persuade them that any noise they did hear came from elsewhere. Spandrel set the lantern on the floor and took out the hammer and chisel.

As he did so, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, some strange discrepancy in the shadow of the lantern. He turned and saw a dark, liquid patch on the floorboards and on the rug laid in front of the desk. He picked up the lantern and raised it, directing the beam of light towards the patch.

It was blood, inky black in the lantern-light. And on the floor next to the desk lay a human figure. Spandrel caught his breath at the sight of Ysbrand de Vries's snowy white hair and at his own immediate certainty that the old man was dead. He had not gone to the concert after all. He had gone to meet his maker instead.

Spandrel stood slowly up and stepped towards the desk. He could see de Vries's face now, distorted by the agony of his death. There was blood on his chest and a thick pool of it beneath him where he lay. The toe of Spandrel's shoe touched something. Looking down, he saw a knife lying on the rug, its blade glistening. He looked back at de Vries, at the fixed grimace of his lips, at the staring blankness of his eyes. He tried to think what he should do, how he should react. It was the last thing he had expected, the very last. Whatever secrets the despatch-box contained, they could not hurt de Vries now.

Suddenly, the door was flung open. Light flooded into the room. Spandrel spun round to see the elderly manservant who had admitted him to the house on Wednesday standing in the doorway, holding a candle-lamp. The fellow's jaw dropped open as he took in the scene. Then Zuyler appeared at his elbow, holding a lamp in his left hand — and a pistol in his right. He moved towards Spandrel, his face expressionless, the weapon raised.

'You've killed him, Spandrel. You've murdered Mijnheer de Vries.'

'What? No. What are you—'

The truth silenced Spandrel in the instant that it burst upon his mind. The friendship unlooked-for; the ingenious plan; the unguarded house: they were all pan of a plot in which he was a victim along with de Vries. He had been taken for a fool once again. And this time no-one was going to come to his rescue.

He made a lunge for the door, but it was too late. Even as he moved, Zuyler clapped the pistol to his head, halting him in mid-stride.

'Stay exactly where you are, Spandrel,' said Zuyler, cocking the firearm as he spoke.

'But for God's—'

'Shut your mouth.'

The muzzle of the pistol was boring into Spandrel's temple, forcing him back against the edge of the desk. Zuyler's eyes were in shadow, but Spandrel could sense they too were boring into him.

Zuyler flung a volley of Dutch over his shoulder. The old fellow nodded and hurried away, his footsteps pattering down the stairs. 'I've sent him to alert the watchman,' Zuyler said, the tone of his voice altering now they were alone. "They'll call out the Sheriff for this. The murder of an eminent citizen in his own home is a grievous thing. But it could be worse. At least the murderer didn't escape. Of course, he may still try. In which case, I'd have no choice... but to shoot him.'

'You're mad.'

'Far from it. I'm appalled and indignant at the slaughter of my cherished employer. Now, put the lantern on the desk.' Spandrel did so. 'Drop the hammer and chisel.' Again, he obeyed. They thumped down onto the rug. 'Walk over to the body.'

The pressure of the pistol relaxed just enough to let Spandrel move. He took three halting steps, shadowed by Zuyler, until they were both standing over de Vries.

'Kneel down.' Spandrel lowered himself to his knees. He felt the dampness of the blood seeping through his breeches. 'Lay your palms in the blood.' Spandrel hesitated for no more than a second, but it was enough to bring the pistol prodding at his temple. 'Do as I say.' The calmness in Zuyler's voice told Spandrel clearly that defiance was useless. With a shudder, he flattened his hands on the floor in front of him. 'Now, smear them across your chest.'

Spandrel did as he had been told, glancing up at Zuyler as he plastered the blood over his shirt and coat. 'Why did you kill him?' he asked, almost pleadingly.

'The question, Spandrel, is why you killed him. Stand up.'

'If you mean to shoot me, you may as well have done with it.'

'I'm not going to shoot you unless you force me to. I'd rather you were taken alive. Now, stand up.'

Spandrel began to rise, wondering if this was his best chance of springing at Zuyler. He had to do something before the Sheriff and his men arrived and convinced themselves of his guilt. He might be able to overpower Zuyler, perhaps even force the truth out of him. He braced himself on one knee, then lunged at Zuyler's midriff.