The Tulip Virus Page 4

  “Is that Dutch I hear?” said a soft voice with a slight French accent.

  The two boys stared at her in surprise.

  “You’re Dutch too?” Damian asked.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Well, half Dutch, anyway. How do you do? I’m Emma. Emma Caen.”

  Damian was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of approaching footsteps. The door at the end of the hallway opened, and his wife came walking toward him, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. He gazed tenderly at her, recalling Frank’s speech at their wedding.

  “My dear friends Emma and Damian, I have a confession to make. I’m jealous. Or, rather, I’m envious. What’s the difference, you ask? Let me explain. I wish you all the happiness in the world. But I’m envious because I don’t have the love that you share. I’m delighted you found each other, I truly am, but I’d like the same thing you’ve got. That’s what I’m trying to say. Your love for each other, the love that shines within you, has touched all our hearts. Just take a look around you.”

  Frank held out his arm and gestured toward the guests in front of the stage. Hundreds of faces were beaming up at them, full of expectation.

  “But love entails responsibility,” Frank continued. “You’ll have to make a life together. And I do mean together. Don’t let each other down. Good times are sure to come; you can take that as a given. But don’t forget that sooner or later there’ll be bad times too. And then you can look back to this moment and remember . . . me.”

  Hooting with laughter, Frank raised his glass.

  “But now it’s time for a toast. To the bride and groom!”

  “Come on, we have to go.” Damian’s voice was subdued. Emma looked him in the eyes and caressed his cheek.

  “Worried?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “About Alec?”

  He nodded. Standing on tiptoe, she gave him a kiss and nuzzled his chin with her nose.

  “It’ll be fine,” she murmured. “He’ll pull through.”

  The chauffeur opened the side door in the hall, and they passed through a narrow corridor into the private garage. He took the key ring out of the box that was mounted next to the door and pressed on the car key. The doors of the Maserati Quattroporte parked next to the silver-gray Aston Martin opened with a click.

  EIGHT

  Right, now Schoeller and then I’m done for the day, the funeral director thought as he made his way to the men’s room. Zorgvlied was not his favorite place to work; something about the cemetery put him on edge. Most funerals went well, but in recent years it had been so busy that mourners occasionally found themselves weeping over a total stranger, as if they’d walked into a cinema and found out after fifteen minutes that they were watching the wrong movie.

  Zorgvlied’s popularity was growing, and there was precious little they could do about it. It was partly the country’s aging population— and of course, the beauty of the place— but it was also the management’s willingness to tolerate ostentatious obsequies and eccentric headstones.

  Two hours had been reserved for the event. Because the mourners would include dignitaries and celebrities, he’d been forced to check the route to the grave earlier that day with a clutch of security guards, who goose-stepped after him in black two-piece suits and headsets. A few were now waiting at the open grave.

  He pulled the door of the men’s room shut behind him.

  “Are you there?”

  The hiss of static. “Yes, I’m in the parking lot,” his assistant said. “Over.”

  “And? Is there space for everyone?”

  “Well, most of them have chauffeurs, so we should be okay. Over.”

  “Lucky for us. I’ll see you inside.”

  Schoeller was lucky too, he thought as he looked into the mirror, lucky there was still a place for him. He straightened his tie. The section of the cemetery designed by landscape architect Jan David Zocher was in great demand— unsurprisingly, given the charm of its magnificent trees and the sandy paths that wound between the graves.

  He pulled his cuff links out of his sleeves and headed for the main entrance, passing through the assembly hall on his way. When he reached the door of the hall, he looked back. On the far wall, the little red light was weaving back and forth. The other camera was in the lobby, just inside the building, above the table where friends and relatives would come to sign the register.

  Half an hour later, every seat in the hall was filled. Tight rows of mourners stood packed along the walls. All eyes were on the coffin, adrift in a sea of flowers. On an easel next to it was a picture of Frank, gazing out at all his guests in black and white with a smile on his face and a skeptical twinkle in his eye, as if wondering whether he really merited so much attention. Tango music issued from the speakers.

  The murmuring died down when the first speaker stepped to the microphone. Thirty minutes, three speakers, and dozens of superlatives later, Alec came forward. He was quick to debunk the myth of the paragon of virtue in the casket.

  Frank, he explained, had been stubborn as a mule, a know-it-all, fiercely loyal, full of energy, and possessed of a sense of humor that some people thought too dark, too cynical. He’d been a bon vivant who knew no limits, a materialist with a heart of gold, a ruthless businessman, and a loving uncle. At the end of his speech, Alec gazed into the crowd with fire in his eyes.

  “Everyone here knows that Frank moved to England because his parents wouldn’t accept him for who he was. He never once regretted his decision, but that doesn’t mean it was easy. The first few years were especially lonely for him. Yet he pressed on and eventually achieved what he’d hoped for when he went to England: a life of beauty, happiness, and freedom. When I was seven years old, Frank took me into his home and into his heart, and became like a father to me. Now it’s my turn to be there for Frank. I will press on, just as he always did, until I find out who committed this ghastly crime. I will not rest until the killer has been brought to justice.” He paused for a moment and pointed at the people in the room. “You are my witnesses.”

  After a few seconds, the shocked silence gave way to uneasy shuffling and scattered coughs. At a sign from the funeral director, the guests rose to their feet, and the doors of the hall opened. Six men surrounded the coffin, slid it onto a bier, and solemnly wheeled it out. The guests slowly filed toward the exit, each taking a glass of champagne as they passed the table by the door, and followed the coffin out into the cemetery.

  Alec felt as though he had shaken thousands of hands. All he was conscious of was the palms of those hands, some limp and sticky, others firm and dry. He could feel every callus, the moisture, the pressure, as if all his senses were focused on those moments of physical contact. Little else penetrated his consciousness.

  He couldn’t shake off the image of Frank sprawled on the floor as he had found him. He felt suffocated and longed to get away. Away from the crowd, and the sickly sweet miasma of perfume and after-shave. Away from all the people who were smothering him with kisses— their saliva mingling on his cheek— and trying to console him, or looking for consolation he couldn’t give. The only thing he wanted was to walk back to the grave with Emma and Damian— and nobody else— to bid Frank one last farewell.

  “Mr. Schoeller?”

  He looked up.

  “Mr. Schoeller, first of all, my condolences on your loss.” Wainwright spoke without emotion. “I’m really very sorry.” Dawn stood behind him and off to one side, nodding in agreement.

  “Thank you.”

  Wainwright coughed. “About what you said in there. I hope you’ll leave things to us from here on in. People can’t just go conducting their own investigations; I’m sure you understand that. We’re trained professionals. This is our job. Maybe your emotion got the better of you, but—”

  “Of course,” Alec interrupted, “I just got carried away. I wouldn’t dream of starting my own investigation. I’ll leave everything to you.” He underlined his words with a dismissive wave of the
hand.

  “Good, good, that’s what we’re here for, just wanted to get that straight. No room for amateurs in this line of work.”

  Pulling out a handkerchief, Wainwright pretended not to notice the look in Alec’s eyes. He blew his nose intently.

  “Oh, and I wanted to mention that we’ll be taking the video of the service back with us, so that we can start analyzing it.”

  Dawn nudged Wainwright, murmuring, “The list.”

  “Ah, yes. Have you had a chance to get that list for me?”

  “Yes. I have it right here.”

  Alec reached into his breast pocket and pulled out four folded sheets of paper. His eyes followed the two detectives as they left the reception hall.

  “Who were they?” asked Damian, who had joined Alec with Emma at his side.

  “My friends from Scotland Yard.”

  “Scotland Yard?” Damian stared at him in surprise. “What are they doing here?”

  “They asked if they could come. They wanted to film everyone who came to the service, and they also asked for everybody’s name.”

  “Why?” Emma asked. “Do they think Frank’s killer could be here, now? It was a burglary, right? That’s what you said.”

  Alec said nothing.

  “Alec?”

  “Well, actually, there are a couple of things I haven’t told you yet.”

  “What sort of things?” Damian asked.

  “I’ll tell you later, when we get back to the house, okay?” Alec looked around. The last remaining guests were headed out the door.

  “Come on, let’s go say good-bye to Frank.”

  Alkmaar

  JULY 21, 1636

  Just as Cornelius was growing impatient, he heard a metallic jingle, followed by the scrape of a key in the lock. He pressed his hand to his thigh to stop its incessant trembling. Sweat ran down his back, soaking his undershirt. He could smell the fear on the boy, Jacobus, who was standing just behind him.

  The door of the inn swung open. Wouter Winckel’s stout form filled the doorway.

  “Cornelius, come inside, my friend,” he bellowed. “Good to see you. And who’s this you have with you?”

  “Evening, Wouter, good to see you too,” Cornelius said, stepping to one side. “This is Jacobus, Jacobus Riemers.”

  Wouter gave the young man a friendly smile. “Welcome,” he said and waved them inside.

  Cornelius slipped past Wouter’s ample paunch. As Jacobus went by, Wouter wrinkled his nose. Even after the boy had entered the inn, the foul odor of sweat lingered by the door as if it hated to see him go and hoped to draw him back outside again.

  Jacobus was the first to enter the taproom. The smell of pipe tobacco and stale beer assailed his nostrils. He looked around, surveying the paintings and prints that filled the walls: ships at sea, landscapes, portraits, and still lifes. The dark brown, black, and gilded frames were closely packed together, and the walls seemed to groan under the weight of it all.

  The left-hand wall was filled with a single group portrait, militia guards in full regalia. It was clear that each guard had paid for his own portrait. The wealthier guildsmen had been portrayed in full, while the less prosperous ones were visible only from the shoulders up. As Jacobus walked past the painting, the men’s eyes seemed to follow him.

  “Have a seat.” Wouter was standing at one of the tables in the middle of the room, moving the stools from the tabletop to the floor with practiced ease. Then he pulled the two candlesticks toward him and lit the candles.

  “Something to wet your whistle?” he asked, making his way to the bar. When he returned to his guests, he had three mugs in one hand and a pitcher of beer in the other. After filling the mugs, he sat down.

  “So, gentlemen, how can I help you?”

  Wouter’s light blue eyes gazed amiably at them, his copper-colored curls spilling over his shoulders and cascading down his broad white collar. The ends of his chestnut-brown mustache curled proudly upward. His goatee came to a sharp point, the result of constant tugging and twisting.

  Wouter Winckel was one of the richest men in Alkmaar. At first sight, he was dressed no differently from the town’s other innkeepers, but the fabric of his trousers and his smock was of a much higher quality. The silver buckles on his shoes proclaimed that he was very wealthy indeed.

  Jacobus had not yet said a word. He kept his eyes fixed on Wouter, like a cat getting ready to pounce. Sweat trickled over his temples, pearled on his downy upper lip, and collected on the pimples along the edge of his mouth.

  Cornelius glanced at Jacobus, and seeing the look in the boy’s eyes, gave him a sharp kick in the shin. If Wouter smelled a rat, it would make their job that much more difficult, and it was hard enough already. They had to avoid raising the slightest suspicion.

  Jacobus’s face clouded for a moment. Then the boy slumped back and began to look around with a semblance of interest. His eyes lingered far too long on the large cabinet against the back wall of the taproom, and Cornelius gave him another kick, keeping his eyes on Wouter.

  “To your health, my friends. I bid you welcome on this beautiful, warm summer night,” Wouter said, taking a swig of beer.

  “My apologies for bursting in on you at this hour, but I have something to ask you, something of the very greatest importance. I hope you will answer me frankly.”

  Wouter’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Rest assured, Cornelius, I would never lie to you. Now, out with your question.”

  Cornelius cringed imperceptibly. Even now, he hoped it wasn’t true, that the whole story had been made up by some despicable rogue jealous of the fortune that Wouter had amassed in recent years. Or perhaps there had been some mistake. Yes, he hoped with all his heart that it was just an idle rumor. That the guilty party was not Wouter but somebody else. That the whole affair actually had nothing to do with him. Then he wouldn’t have to go through with this business.

  “It’s about the pamphlet,” Cornelius said softly, looking Wouter straight in the eyes.

  “What pamphlet do you mean? New ones come out every day, and they drop them off here by the dozen. You know how it goes. Sometimes they’re full of nonsense or outright lies, but sometimes they tell the truth. Which one are you referring to, precisely?”

  “I think you know exactly what I mean, so there’s no point in feigning ignorance,” Cornelius said with sudden vehemence, narrowing his eyes. “I mean the pamphlet everybody’s talking about, the one that has the whole town up in arms. The pamphlet they say you wrote and distributed. That’s the one I’m talking about.”

  “I still have no idea what you mean. You’re being awfully vague,” Wouter said calmly.

  “The pamphlet in which you deny the existence of God and idolize science instead. In which you not only equate nature with the Divine but glorify nature as if it were God himself. And in which, worst of all, you claim that man can take God’s place!” Cornelius made the sign of the cross. “That’s what I’m referring to. Is that blasphemous pamphlet really your work, as people say it is?” His face was contorted with anger and his eyes flashed fire. As Cornelius spoke, Wouter leaned farther over the table. His face was flushed.

  “Ah, now I understand which pamphlet you mean. Yes, I’m familiar with it. In fact, I read it with great interest. There’s no law against that, is there? But what makes you think it denies the existence of God? Either you haven’t read it carefully, or you haven’t understood it properly. And besides, what gives you the idea that I have anything to do with it— let alone that I wrote it myself?”

  Wouter regained his composure and laid his hand on his friend’s.

  “Cornelius, you know better than anyone else what I think of the church, but that’s never hurt our friendship in the least. As far as I’m concerned, you can believe what ever you like. I believe freedom of thought is mankind’s greatest treasure, and I always had the impression you felt the same way.”

  Cornelius jerked his hand away from Wouter’s.


  “Can we possibly be talking about the same country?” He spat the words across the table. “The same republic? Are you really so shortsighted? Don’t you see where this will lead? Nothing is permitted to us, do you realize that? Nothing. We cannot move freely or talk freely. We are under attack from all sides. We cannot think or write or be who we wish to be. When we pray to our Lord, we must do so in secret so as not to offend anyone. So we huddle together in clandestine churches no bigger than closets, in musty, stinking attics, always behind closed doors. They treat us like animals!”

  “I know, I know,” Wouter said reassuringly. “It hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’m aware of all the obstacles you face. They’re certainly troubling, but on the other hand—”

  “There is no other hand. What you don’t realize, what no one seems to realize, is that things are getting worse every day. Soon we’ll have nowhere left to go. Nowhere! And that pamphlet of yours will only make things worse. It’s a weapon in the hands of our enemies. You know that perfectly well. Better than anyone.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Wouter asked, seething with rage. “That I wrote it? You must have a very high opinion of me. Imagine me, an innkeeper, a man of humble birth, writing a pamphlet that inflames all who read it, whether they agree or disagree. I’m actually flattered you’d think I’m the author, because I have little quarrel with its contents. In truth, I agree with almost everything it says. But it does surprise me that you, of all people, were persuaded to confront me about this. Couldn’t they find anyone else? Who put you up to it? What are you hoping to achieve with this conversation? Or did you volunteer for the job? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  With these words, Wouter stood up, kicking aside his stool. He slammed his fist on the table, and the heavy keys on his belt clanged against the wood.

  “We are family, Cornelius, but I thought we were friends too. It seems I was wrong. And now I would like you to leave my inn.”

  By now, Cornelius and Jacobus had risen to their feet, and in the faint glimmer of the candles the three men glared at one another.