‘You are to call here in one week’s time to carry my lord’s report back to Sir Francis,’ he said, looking down his long nose which seemed to quiver with contempt at any person under the rank of lord.
Once, I might have given him a sharp answer, that I was commanded by Sir Francis and not his master, but two years in Walsingham’s service had taught me discretion in holding my tongue – most of the time, at least. I merely nodded and left, cursing my loss of time.
Out in the street, I turned in the direction of Ettore Añez’s house. It was well past dinnertime and my stomach ached, but I was anxious to learn whether he could help me in the matter of finding Mark Weber. He was as welcoming as before, and if he was surprised at seeing me again only six months after my previous visit to Amsterdam, he did not show it. Moreover, he must have detected something in my looks that told him I had not dined, for he summoned cold meats and bread to be brought, and himself carried a bowl of early apricots over to the table placed between us.
‘Apricots?’ I said, surprised.
He smiled. ‘I had a shipment coming in from Italy, and my agent there always sends some fruits. They come to ripeness earlier in the south. Now,’ he looked at me shrewdly, ‘I think this is more than a visit of courtesy.’
Before leaving London I had discussed Ettore with Phelippes. It seemed he had, from time to time, acted for Sir Francis in small matters and was to be trusted. As I took the edge off my hunger, I laid before him the matter of Mark Weber – his disappearance and what I had learned from Niels Penders about his having departed in company with Cornelius Parker.
Ettore shook his head.
‘That is not good news,’ he said. ‘There is a growing conviction amongst us – I speak of the Amsterdam merchants – that Parker has definitely been supplying arms to the Spaniards. Oh, certainly, they have their own sources from home, but to reach the Low Countries they must either come overland through France – and as you know, Philip of Spain is not on good terms with the French – or else they must come by sea up the Channel, and run the gauntlet of English ships. The Spanish captains are wary of El Draque and his fellow pirates, or privateers, as I think you English call them.’
He grinned.
‘Parker trades in silk fabrics with the Turks, who are also excellent gunsmiths. And he is known to have connections with Prague, where they have been developing further uses of gunpowder. Because his ships fly the flag of the United Provinces, they sail up the Channel unmolested by English ships and, since they are known to the Spaniards, also unmolested by them.’
He paused, tapping his teeth with his fingernail.
‘He would not be so incautious as to put in boldly to one of the ports held by the Spanish, Sluys or Gravelines or Dunkerque. That would quite give his game away. No, he lands his goods quite openly in Amsterdam.’
‘Are there no customs officers here?’ I asked. ‘No port officials who inspect the cargoes coming in?’
‘Most certainly. But it is always possible to find one who will turn a blind eye for a consideration.’
‘But he must then move his guns and other arms south and west to the Spanish lines.’ I remembered with a shiver my alarming journey in that direction with Berden.
‘Aye. He might use pack mules, but I think it more likely he would send his goods by water. This country is criss-crossed with rivers and canals.’
‘I remember.’ I took a final pull of my ale. ‘But why do you think Mark Weber would have left in his company, apparently on friendly terms?’
‘He must have convinced Parker that he was an ally, Kit. Do you know much about this man Weber?’
‘Not a great deal. Like Parker, he is half English, half Dutch. Phelippes and Sir Francis both believe him to be trustworthy. Not all of the agents are. Some play a double game.’ Like Robert Poley, I thought, my personal enemy, who is as trustworthy as a snake.
‘So unless he has turned traitor, he must be trying to spy out Parker’s activities,’ Ettore said, ‘to report back to Sir Francis.’
‘That would not take him over three weeks.’
‘No.’ He looked at me soberly. ‘Some serious mischance may have overtaken him.’
‘That is what I fear,’ I said. ‘He may be dead.’ I had not put it into words before, but now that I did, it somehow seemed more real.
He nodded.
‘If you can wait a day or two, I will set some enquiries in motion. They need to be discreet, even casual, but I will find out what I can. Someone may have heard or seen something about the movement of Parker’s goods from Amsterdam, which will give you a starting point.’
It was more than I could have expected. I was reluctant to endure even this short delay, but I would need to be content.
Chapter Thirteen
It would be two days before I heard from Ettore. I found it difficult to occupy myself in a strange town where I did not speak the language, despite the fact that almost every person I met had at least a little English. On the first day after visiting Ettore, having kicked my heels at the inn for half the morning, I decided to visit the minister Dirck de Veen at his church, where I learned that no one had ever been brought to trial for the murder of Hans Viederman.
‘I fear the town authorities do not take very seriously the death of a beggar,’ the minister said sadly. ‘They say it was a falling-out amongst thieves, though Hans was no thief. And there would have been nothing in his cottage to steal. It was a tragic loss of a life. A man once so gifted. Such a waste, such a waste.’
‘At least his dog survived,’ I said hesitantly.
‘Ah, the poor creature! It ran off and was never found again.’
I realised, of course, that I had not seen the minister after Berden and I had headed south before Christmas. ‘I have the dog, Dominee de Veen,’ I said. ‘He followed after me. Indeed, he saved me from an attack by an armed man down near the Spanish lines.’
‘You have the dog!’ He gentle, worried face broke into a smile.
‘He is in London with my father. He was injured, helping me, but he is recovered and grown quite hearty now. I have called him Rikki, for I did not know his name.’
‘I do not think I ever heard Hans speak his name,’ de Veen said. ‘But this is good news indeed. One small spark of light in a sad business.’
‘So who do you think killed Hans?’
He shook his head. ‘I cannot say. Who would do such a thing?’
‘I think he was killed because he knew something. Something that was a danger to someone who took violent action to stop his mouth.’
He turned on me a look that was suddenly less unworldly, and I realised that I had perhaps underestimated him.
‘That may well be true. I only remembered, after you had gone, that other time. A man came asking where Hans lived, a day or two before you found his body. I was busy with some of my parishioners when he was here and it had slipped my mind.’
‘Was it Cornelius Parker?’ I asked eagerly.
He shook his head. ‘No, I know Mijnheer Parker. No, it was a slightly younger man. Now, what is his name? He used to be a merchant, fallen now on hard times.’ He ran his fingers through his bush of grey hair, leaving it standing on end.
‘Was it van Leyden?’
‘That’s the man! How did you guess?’
I shook my head. It did not want to involve the minister too deeply in this dark business. ‘It was but a guess,’ I said vaguely. ‘I had seen him with Parker, and seen Parker with Hans.’
I turned our talk to other things, which, since it was the commonest topic in Amsterdam, concerned the likely arrival of the Spanish fleet. The Hollanders themselves had a very small navy, nothing that could give battle to the Spaniards, but their shallow-draft vlieboten – something like our small carracks – could manoeuvre in the shallow waters off Flanders and Zeeland, where Philip’s large warships could not go. By forming a blockade they could hamper the embarkation of Parma’s soldiers on to the barges which were to take the invading army across the Channel to England. I knew that Admiral Justin was moving a squadron of these Dutch vlieboten in position to blockade Dunkerque.