Mr. Zondervan looked up, took my measure, and surprised me by offering me a bow of an impressive depth; I could do naught but return the salutation.
“I like your manners, young sir,” said he intelligibly enough, though with a bit of an accent. “Come over here, let me show you this vase.”
I came forward (noticing as I did that the butler remained standing in the doorway) and looked with some interest at the object in Mr. Zondervan’s hands. He surprised me a second time by handing it to me.
“You will be careful of it, of course,” said he. It was in the nature of an order. “You are no doubt surprised at its lightness.”
And indeed I was careful, though I was not surprised at its negligible weight. In that way, as in nearly every other, it was a duplicate of that which belonged to Lord Mansfield. It differed only in the design or picture which it bore upon its side. Whereas the one I held presented a noblewoman gesturing in a pacifying manner, the other, as I recalled, offered a dragon in an unusual pacified posture — head down, its scaly feet stretched out before it in an attitude of obeisance. No doubt it illustrated some tale well-known to the Chinese.
“Yes,” said I, “it is wonderfully light. Even more impressive is its beauty.” I offered the vase back to him.
“Ah, a true connoisseur,” said he, taking it.
“I am flattered.”
“You should be. I am the greatest of connoisseurs. For me to name you as one also puts you in truly exalted company.”
At that, he erupted into laughter. I do not believe that he thought it such a great witticism. Perhaps he wished only to signal to me that it was indeed a witticism and not spoken in earnest. When at last his fit of laughter subsided, he placed the revered object upon the mantel and studied it for a moment.
“This vase has a mate. Did you know that?”
I had vowed to myself that I would plead ignorance in this matter — and I kept my pledge. “Why no,” said I, “have you seen it? How do you know that this mate exists?”
“I held it in my hands last night.” He shrugged. “But even before that, I knew that this mate existed, that it had to exist.”
“Oh? How is that, sir?”
“Well, you see, there is a Chinese proverb — is that the word, ‘proverb’?”
I nodded reassuringly.
“And the proverb says something like this, ‘Even the fury of the dragon can be stilled by words of comfort from a beautiful woman.’ “
“You have the beautiful woman, and so the mate to your vase must picture …”
“The dragon, yes,” said he, “exactly so. It is a most unusual sort of dragon, for he grovels before her. In every other way the vase is exactly like the one here on my fireplace. Same size exactly, same shape … Och, I would love to own it!”
“Well, why don’t you buy it? Make an offer?”
My questions were left unanswered. Of a sudden, he turned round and looked sharply at me. “Charles says you are from the Bow Street Court, and you wish to offer an invitation.” Then did he shift his gaze beyond me and call out, “Is that correct, Charles?”
“That is correct, sir,” said the butler.
“And so, young sir,” said Mr. Zondervan, “what sort of invitation is it? To dinner? To coffee? To Newgate?”
He caught me with that. “Newgate, sir?” I laughed. “Oh no, not to Newgate. It is my understanding Sir John wants merely to meet you.”
“To meet me? Has my fame spread so far? How would he hear of a simple Dutch trading man like me?”
“Why, from Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, sir. I believe you met him last night, did you not? It was at some dinner or other.”
Then a look of realization appeared upon his face. “Och, ja! The Irish doctor! I brought him last night to his home.”
“And I brought him away again.”
“You? I don’t understand.”
“Simple enough,” said I. “There was a murder last night, and I was sent by Sir John to fetch Mr. Donnelly to the location of the crime. He is, though you may not know this, the medical examiner for the coroner.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Zondervan, “I do believe I heard that.”
“Yes sir, well, coming from this dinner parry, he was full of your stories and talking of how well you told them. I believe they were tales of some town in Holland, one with a rather comical name. I can’t quite …”
“Ja,ja, Dingendam!”
“That’s it, of course. But Mr. Donnelly could not remember them properly, nor could he do them justice in the telling.”
“I daresay,” said he, puffing up a bit.
“But Sir John heard enough so that he was eager to meet you.”
“To tell him the stories?”
“Oh, perhaps one or two, but just to meet you, sir. He leads a rather humdrum life, poor man. We’re after him constantly to expand his circle of acquaintance, but he is shy of it — his affliction, you know.”
“Affliction?”
“Perhaps you didn’t know, sir, but he is blind.”
“Yes, yes, I heard something of that.” He fell silent then, considering the matter. Then, rousing himself: “Charles, have we any reason to doubt this young man is who he says he is?”
“None that I know, sir,” came the response of the butler from behind me.
“Well then, I believe that we can spare Sir John Fielding an hour or two, don’t you?”
“As you say, sir.”
“Have the coach brought round. I must attend to something before we go.” And then to me: “You will accept a ride in my coach back to Bow Street, I assume?”
“With pleasure, sir,” said I to him.
“Good. If you will wait for me at the door, I shall join you there.”
With that, Charles, the butler, ushered me out into the corridor and we began our march to the street entrance. As we set out, I could not but notice that the door to the room across the hall — the former picture gallery — had mysteriously (and noiselessly) been closed. Then did I note that all the doors along the way, some of which had earlier stood open, were now likewise shut.
The butler left me at the vestibule, promising that the master would be along shortly. “I must go summon the coach, or you and he will both be kept waiting.” Then, turning, he left me.
When I stood at that same place a few minutes before, I had heard sounds of considerable activity from a place or places in the depths of the house. So was it again. The hammering, the sound of heavy objects pushed across the floor, all of it heard, but dimly, suggested to me that preparations were underway to move Mr. Zondervan’s entire household a considerable distance. There were voices, too, of course, yet so muffled and indistinct that it was impossible to make sense of what they were saying. Yet as I listened, I remembered that Sir John had often said that each voice had its own song, its own pitch, and its own key. And it seemed to me that I knew the song one of those voices was singing. It was a song I had heard before. This one, it seemed to me, came from somewhere below stairs, and though I could understand little or nothing of what it said, I sensed the emotion it expressed: It was anger, no mistaking that — and this, too, seemed right. Where had I heard it? Who was it? Whence such anger?
I know not how long I stood there, deep in concentration, trying to answer those questions. Yet when I heard footsteps down the hall, I looked up, smiling, to greet Mr. Zondervan. He stepped briskly into my sight, the very picture of male elegance in dress; he wore a cape about his shoulders, and in his hand he carried his tricorn and his gloves.