The reader has already made the man's acquaintance, for the stranger is the notorious Dr. Harland Keen, as he introduces himself — without the "notorious," of course.
"And I, sir, am Squire Claus van Clynne, at your service I'm sure. It is always a pleasure to meet a man of the medical profession. There are not enough doctors in this world, that's my motto."
"And what, sir, is your profession?"
"I am a man of the world, a traveler and a philosopher, a person who sees needs and fills them — in short, I am a good man of business. I am currently engaged in an enterprise involving a little salt," added van Clynne in a confidential tones. "Salt which has been separated from me. Stolen, in fact."
"Ha! It serves you right," said the keeper, who'd been eavesdropping on the conversation.
"I am looking for a troop of bandits," continued van Clynne. "They were dressed in green coats and wore odd brown beanies, as if they'd caught some hideous cancer."
"Interesting," replied Keen, feigning not to know the significance of the coats. "And these were Loyalists or Americans?"
"Robbers, sir, no matter what flag they fly. These woods are filled with miscreants of every stripe. It is something about the air, I believe — the archbishop of Canterbury himself would think of lifting a man's purse if he rode here."
"It's the times, not the geography," replied Keen. "I have often thought that things have gone very much downhill since the Dutch ruled this land." "Indeed, you're very right, sir. Most observant. You say you're a doctor?" "I have passed the necessary examination." "I could tell you were a man of great learning the moment I set eye on you. That is your coach outside, no doubt." Keen nodded.
"Quite an interesting vehicle," said van Clynne, who naturally recognized it as having been made in England and had concluded that its owner was not only well — off but probably allied with the British. While this might shade van Clynne's attitude toward him, a man's allegiance was not necessarily a barrier to business in a time of crisis, especially as he showed proper deference to the squire's ancestry. "I have had occasion to deal with some similar carts in the past."
"I'd hardly call it a cart," said Keen quite lightly.
"True, I suppose you would call it a carriage, with the high wheels and all," allowed van Clynne. "Still, it is most impractical on these roads." "Impractical? I find it handy indeed." "It requires a driver, does it not? That's an added expense in these days of inflation." "My driver is most useful," said Keen. Van Clynne nodded, and turned to signal for another beer. "I don't suppose it's for sale then." "For sale? I think not. But perhaps we can do business on another front."
The Dutchman took this under advisement while he watched the innkeeper pour out a refill. Keen took a sip from his silver cup so slight that a bird would have been considered a guzzler by comparison.
"I am always ready to do business," said van Clynne when the keeper had gone. "Even with a British officer."
"Why do you think I'm a British officer?"
"Come, sir, let us be frank with each other. What rebel would dress as you, or display such wealth? And no Royalist could afford to be so bold."
"And your allegiance?"
"I am Dutch. My allegiance is my own."
Now the reader will realize that both men were jousting, each aware the other was more than he presented but not necessarily sure what that more was. Keen had the advantage, not so much because Bacon had told him of the Dutchman's strengths, but because while van Clynne was signaling the innkeeper he had sprinkled some dust from his hand into the bottom of the Dutchman's cup.
The active ingredient in the powder was largely distilled from jimsonweed, but a pharmaceutical analysis would fill several pages. More important to note was that its intended effect was as something of a truth serum; anyone who consumed a healthy dose found within a few minutes that they were amazingly agreeable and unable to dissemble. This condition lasted only a short time, for the belladonna at the formula's core tended to have a heavy impact on a person's consciousness, quickly delivering him into a state of extended drunkenness — or worse.
Except in this case. The scientist in Keen was quite intrigued by the Dutchman's apparent resistance to the drug, for his companion not only continued speaking coherently — if at enormous length — but drained the entire tankard of beer without any noticeable effect.
To keep the conversation going, Keen made up a story about wanting to buy wheat, but as he knew nothing about the prevailing prices made a suggestion so low that van Clynne quickly brushed the offer aside.
"If you see your way clear to triple the amount per bushel, we might have some grounds for discussion," said van Clynne, sliding his mug away and rising from the table. "But in the meantime, I have other business to attend to. And if that is your hat… " — the Dutchman pointed to the folded beaver on the post near the door — "… you would do well to get a sturdier one. It's quite ruined by your bending."
"Which way are you going?"
"Generally, north, though as I am in search of my salt, I could not say specifically." Van Clynne's suspicions had been raised by the low offer for the wheat — ordinarily British purchasing agents bid far too high. So he wondered if this man might actually be an American disguised so as to lure people of loose business ethics into a trap. Not that such a description would ever apply to him.
"Perhaps I can be of service," said Keen. "Would you like to ride with me?"
"Thank you, but I think not. With all due respect, sir, your wagon is quite a magnet for rascals of all sorts. I am best off sticking to my horse."
"A traveler who refuses hospitable company?"
"Surely, sir, I do not mean to insult you," said van Clynne, stroking his beard absentmindedly. "I am as great a follower of the etiquette of travel as any man on this continent, I dare say. But as I am currently on business, and on a sharp error, errand…" "Is something the matter?" "No, no, just a slight flutter in my eyes. It is nothing," said van Clynne. "Here, let me take a look." "I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, Dr. Quack!"
Blame the intemperate behavior on the late-acting drugs and van Clynne's natural aversion to the English. He pulled his lapels and strode to the door, fixing his large beaver on his head as he reached the threshold. Dr. Keen followed, and was by his side as van Clynne reached up for his horse — and fell straight to the ground.
Chapter Fourteen
Major Dr. Keen had his driver load the incapacitated van Clynne into the coach and then climbed into the cabin behind him. The Dutchman's reaction to the drug was atypical, to say the least; he seemed to have skipped not only the suggestive period but the hallucinatory phase as well, moving right on to sleeping — unless the British doctor was confusing his convulsions for loud snores.
No, a convulsive would hardly have such a benign smile on his face. Keen directed Percival to proceed down the road and then fell to searching the Dutchman.
His immediate attention was drawn to the ruby-hilted knife secreted in van Clynne's vest. The blade was an authentic sibling of the weapon in Keen's own possession; unless the Dutchman had succeeded in besting another agent, he must be a member of the dark brotherhood.