Difficult to believe, though. Leaving his nationality aside, van Clynne did not cut the robust figure Major Dr. Keen took to be typical of the species. But perhaps that was his secret efficiency. Clearly he had some intelligence — he had quickly discerned that Keen was British, and knew enough to steer away from him behind enemy lines. It might even be that his reaction to the truth drug was the result of some far-reaching general antidote ingested prior to entering the inn.
If so, the doctor was highly interested — so far as he knew, there was no known remedy, even for a fatal overdose.
Van Clynne's coat and vest had a large number of interior pockets. All number of documents were deposited within them, mostly testimonials to his honesty and safe passages of conduct. It appeared he could go anywhere in the world he wanted and produce the necessary permission; here was a voucher from the King of Spain, here a recommendation from Guy Carleton, governor of Canada. The sheer number convinced Keen they must be forgeries, but all looked most convincing, and when the doctor compared a pass purported to have been signed by General Howe to an authentic one he owned himself, he could discern no difference in the hand.
The Dutchman also carried representative samples of the currency of every major legitimate nation in Europe and at least half the illegitimate ones in the New World. Indented bills from Maryland, Connecticut warrants, a note from Massachusetts, and leaf-inscribed papers from New Jersey were among the most plentiful. They were numbered where required and appeared authentic, or at least good copies — the quaint “to counterfeit is death” warnings the notes boasted notwithstanding.
There was no counterfeiting the coins in his several purses. Here Spanish doubloons mixed with old British crowns, French money mingled with German, loose wampum lay next to a mysterious coin that looked old enough to be the Biblical widow's mite. If the rotund squire was not a spy then he was a veritable walking bank.
British gentlemen in general were so prejudiced toward their own racial superiority that most would quickly conclude van Clynne must be in their service, for the colonists could never manage to attract, let alone pay, such a man. Major Dr. Keen, however, was remarkably free of prejudices and blinding opinions. His entire nature rested on firm philosophical principles; he believed one must not jump to conclusions not directly supported by empirical evidence. And evidence as to van Clynne's loyalties, the knife aside, was lacking.
His snores were not, however. As a young man, Keen had spent some time traveling in the Levant, gaining ancient knowledge. He had witnessed a particular practice among Syrian tribesmen involving the butchering of a live bull ox. The animal's wails were remarkably similar to van Clynne's, except that the Dutchman's were louder. The carriage shook with every inhalation, and the crushed velvet curtains at the sides flew fiercely apart every time he exhaled.
Keen flicked the two assassins' blades back and forth as he contemplated the situation. The most expedient thing to do was to kill the Dutchman and be done with him. Another dose of the truth powder ought to prove fatal, despite van Clynne's strange resistance to it; Keen could always claim it was an accident if it was subsequently discovered that the Dutchman was indeed a legitimate member of the Secret Department. On the other hand, this might deprive His Majesty of an effective if unusual agent.
Two, actually. Bacon's hint notwithstanding, such an "accident" very likely would be deemed unforgivable if discovered.
Besides, there was no art involved in killing a man who was already sleeping; a thief or coward could do that, and Major Dr. Keen was neither.
If this Dutchman did prove an imposter, he would be a fitting subject for several experiments Keen had long hoped to perform. The fact that all would undoubtedly prove fatal was unfortunate; it meant he'd only be able to perform one or, at best, two. In the meantime, a way must be found to discover his allegiance.
The ringed jewels on Keen's hand sparkled as he reached up and pulled the silk string near the coach door. The string rang a small bell near Percival on the driver's bench, and they immediately stopped.
"Help me with him," said the doctor as he got out. The two men had a difficult time retrieving the rotund Dutchman from his resting place and ended up half dragging him to the woods, where they tied him to a tree.
The only effect the ropes had on van Clynne was to make him snore louder. Keen wondered if one of those famous American moose might think this a mating call and come for an inspection.
"We'll let him untie the knots and escape, then follow along and see what he does," said Keen. "Sooner or later, his true nature will come clear. Since he still has the knife, he has not yet discharged his duty."
"How long will he be like this, Major?" asked Percival. The driver was well used to the sounds of torture, but these wails twisted his large, ox like face through fearsome contortions.
"Ordinarily the drug wears off in six hours, but I've never seen it follow this specific course," said Keen, returning van Clynne's ruby-hilted blade to his coat. "Take a few coins from his purse to make him think it was a robbery. The big purse that's so obvious. Drop a few and he'll conclude we were startled away when he wakes."
Which proved to be the case when van Clynne came to barely twenty minutes later.
"Came to" perhaps does not correctly describe his mental state. He did come to something, but it was more like a dazed drunkenness. His inability to focus and the slurring of his thoughts into one another alarmed him in no small degree, though it must be noted that the realization he was missing money from one of his several purses sobered him considerably. Van Clynne immediately began cursing the downtrodden times; as his wits slowly regrouped, he realized that his hands were just loose enough to reach into the back of his belt where he kept a finger-sized razor.
"Rascals didn't even take the time to tie proper knots," complained the Dutchman as he undid himself. "And left coins on the ground. Does no one know the proper way to rob a man anymore? They leave after rifling only one purse, and the most obvious one at that. In the days of Stuyvesant, a man was left penniless when he was robbed. Those were halcyon days, to be sure."
The grumbling picked up steam and within a short time the Dutchman's verbal apparatus had returned to normal. His vision, however, remained somewhat corrupted, and the communication between his head and feet had been scrambled to such a degree that he found it difficult to proceed. He stumbled from the tree, flopped into the dust, and spent a good ten minutes floundering on the ground. Regaining a vertical position, he steadied himself on a thick tree and took another dive toward the roadway, proceeding with all the stability of a wobbly top.
The Dutchman's unsteady progress was studied through a spyglass from a distance of several hundred leagues by Major Dr. Keen, who had secreted himself and his carriage in the woods off the roadway. The recovery from the drug astounded him; Keen found himself wishing, nay, praying, that the Dutchman would turn out to be a rebel so he could dissect his brain with a clear conscience and see what chemicals it possessed to ward off the belladonna and attendant drugs.
"Be sure to keep our distance," the doctor told Percival as he mounted the carriage to sit alongside him at the front. He reached beneath the seat and removed a large weapon that attached to a metal brace in the middle of the open compartment. With an oversized, ornate stock and a thick barrel, it looked like an antique blunderbuss, but was in fact a newly adopted naval swivel gun. A light canvas container with perforated sides held a collection of grapeshot; the devastating ammunition was quickly loaded, a fresh flint secured in the lock.
"Be a shame to waste this on our friend," the doctor confided to his assistant. "But with some luck we'll run into a rebel patrol."