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Authors: Robert Goddard
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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.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
Breaking and Entering
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
'Too soon, Jupe.' Sir Theodore permitted himself a faint smile. 'Just a little too soon.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
Breaking and Entering
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
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