The Golden Cross (27 page)

The dark clouds above reminded him of Lina Tasman’s melancholy face as she told him good-bye. For one who had recently been betrothed with her parents’ blessing, the girl was the personification of somber formality. “I wish you Godspeed on your journey,” she had said, primly pressing her hand to his as he extended it in farewell. “But you should know that my heart, though pledged to you, will forever belong to another.”

Sterling had accepted her hand and her words with a grace that would have made her father happy. He was doing a noble thing, honoring a father who wished to make a good match for his daughter, and he was determined to be a good husband for the girl. Lina Tasman was nothing like Ernestina Martin, whose simpering and foolish affection had sent him running half a world away. In Lina’s eyes he saw a modicum of intelligence and sobriety, and if he couldn’t love her, he could certainly
respect
her. He had no desire to bully her, or force her love against her will, but it might have been nice to see at least a soft glance of affection in those dark eyes.

No matter. He would be gone a long time, perhaps even a
year, and the old folks did say that absence made the heart grow fonder. His mouth tipped in a wry smile as he wondered if time would work its magic on his heart as well.

Market Street lay just ahead of him, the boundary of the town’s wharf distract, and he unconsciously moved toward the center of the road, avoiding the crowds that milled outside taverns and flophouses even at this late afternoon hour. He had only to reach the docks, then find his ship. He’d settle into his quarters, inventory his supplies, and familiarize himself with the ship’s design. He’d already stocked his medicine box with such herbs as he could find at the physic’s shop, and he sincerely hoped that the good captain had thought to arrange for a roomy cabin or some other private space where his surgeon could work and think in peace.

A crowd of singing Dutchmen staggered out of an open doorway. Sterling dodged their boisterous approach, ducking into a narrow alley cluttered with the discarded casks and crates of various taverns and flophouses. He leaned against the wall for a moment, annoyed at the impediment to his progress, then caught a whiff of salt-scented air. He turned, feeling the breath of the wind on his cheek, and followed the alley. Perhaps he could find a shorter route to his destination.

He started in surprise when he saw a slender female form perched upon one of the discarded barrels. Clad in a fine golden gown of exquisite quality and design, the girl seemed strangely out of place. Her blond head rested upon her folded arms, her eyes were closed. A lady’s maid, perhaps, catching up on the sleep she had missed while her mistress cavorted in the night.

“Excuse me, mistress,” he whispered, reluctant to disturb the sleeping maiden, “but can you tell me if this alley leads to the docks?”

She did not respond or stir. Sterling stepped closer, his curiosity growing, and his practiced eye noted that her bodice did not rise and fall with the movement of breathing. He looked at her face, then dropped his bag with a startled cry when he saw that her full
lips were blue. He rushed forward and lifted her hand, fumbling to find the steady pulse of blood that usually ran through the wrist. Nothing. The girl was stone cold dead.

Wanting to say a final farewell to Orabel, Aidan walked up to the bar and grinned with pleasure when Bram did not recognize the grime-streaked “boy” who asked for Sweet Kate. In response to Aidan’s question, Sofie lifted her head from the table where she dutifully watched a card game. “Kate has gone out already,” the older woman muttered, looked at Aidan through eyes smudged with exhaustion. Strands of hair had escaped from the knot at her neck and pasted themselves to her painted cheeks. “She should be free by now, so check the street. She left more than an hour ago.”

Aidan went out into the streets, peering down alleyways and calling her friend’s name. “Orabel! Where are you hiding?”

Then she saw her friend, pretty and relaxed, perched upon a barrel at the end of an alley. A clean-shaven gentleman in a feathered hat held her face and patted her cheeks.

“Excuseert u mij,”
Aidan called hesitantly. She knew she ought to leave, but she was desperate to say a final good-bye to her friend. She moved slowly down the alley, her hands tucked into her rope belt, trying her best to approximate a boy’s swaggering gait. “I’d like to speak to Kate for a moment, if you please.”

The man turned his head, and Aidan had to bite her lip in order to suppress a gasp of recognition. This was the man who had leaped into Heer Van Dyck’s garden to stop their exercise in fighting! Why was Orabel with him? Quickly she donned a blank expression and backed away. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Boy!” The man’s voice was rough and abrupt. “Do you know this unfortunate girl? I have just now found her dead!”

Dead? Orabel?
She couldn’t be dead! Perhaps she was asleep. She might have been beaten—such things happened occasionally to Lili’s girls.

Aidan moved closer, her eyes fixed on the gray flesh, the bluish
lips, the purplish black marks on the girl’s throat and neck. “She
can’t
be dead!”

“I’m a doctor,” the man answered, gently placing one of Orabel’s hands upon the other. “I’m afraid I know death when I have the misfortune to see it.” He stood back and cleared his throat. “Do you know her? Did she have family we should contact?”

Unable to face the awful truth, Aidan stepped back. Wave after wave of shock slapped at her, and she drew herself up and swallowed to bring her heart down from her throat. “Not dead,” she repeated, but the finality had left her voice. “She
can’t
be dead. She never hurt anyone.”

“Listen to me, young man.” Her ears filled with a strange buzzing, and Aidan heard the gentleman’s words as if from a great distance. He was saying something about how even a lady’s maid deserved a decent burial. Aidan clapped her hands over her ears and retreated further down the alley. Who was this man? And how could he talk about Orabel? He didn’t even
know
her!

“Don’t run, boy!” The man called. “If you knew her, you must help me make the arrangements. Where did she live? Who were her parents? Who is responsible?”

Aidan stopped and lowered her hands, her mood veering sharply to anger. She turned and took an abrupt step toward him. “How do I know
you
weren’t responsible for this murder?” she yelled, hearing her voice echo among the buildings of the alley.

“Don’t be a fool, boy.” The man’s blue eyes, narrow with fury, bored into Aidan’s. “If I were capable of this girl’s murder, do you think I’d be standing here chatting with you now? No. I’d snap your skinny neck like hers, and I’d be off to sea, forgetting about the lot of you Batavian brats.”

Aidan swallowed hard and gave him a hostile glare. Though she wasn’t certain she could trust him, he
seemed
to be a gentleman. But what would an English doctor know of life on Batavia’s streets?

She leaned against the building and closed her eyes. “No one
cared for this girl,” she said, spitting out the words in contempt. “She lived here by the taverns; her parents are dead and rotting in the sea, and there is no one to take responsibility for her.”

“Then I shall.” The doctor turned back to Orabel’s body. “Run and fetch the constable, will you? We’ll make a full report of this, but it must be done quickly, for I’m due at the docks by nightfall.”

Aidan trembled at his words.
She
couldn’t find a constable! The constable and his men knew the women of the wharf district nearly as well as they knew their wives. The chances were great she’d be detained … and questioned. But this man was willing to take care of Orabel, and surely any gentleman who would leap a garden fence to defend a lady’s honor could be trusted.

The man moved to lift Orabel, but Aidan interceded. “Wait!” She stepped up to her friend’s body. “Good-bye, dear Orabel,” Aidan whispered. She brushed her fingers across the silk folds of the golden gown. Why had she ever given that dress to Orabel? What sort of madman had it attracted?

Suddenly her mind blew open, and her eyes moved to Orabel’s bruised neck. The necklace was gone! This wasn’t murder alone, it was robbery!

“No!” she groaned, guilt washing over her. If she hadn’t given the golden cross to Orabel, she wouldn’t have been accosted, she wouldn’t be dead. Aidan had always tucked the necklace inside her bodice, hiding it from prying eyes, but Orabel had been so proud of her new dress. She had worn the cross at her neckline for all the world to see. And now she was dead.

Orabel’s head lolled onto the doctor’s shoulder as he lifted her. Aidan stepped back, pressing her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, and fled the alley before the man could see her retreat and command her again.

Watching from across the street, Witt Dekker saw a boy fly out of the alley, his face as pale as paper and his eyes glittering like a mad
cat’s. Witt pursed his lips, then lifted his tankard to his lips and drew a deep draught. The boy had undoubtedly seen the body and was either running out of fear or rushing to get help. Or—another thought rose to goad him—perhaps the street urchin had been hiding in the alley and had seen everything.

Prodded by an unfailing sense of self-preservation, Witt pulled himself off the wall where he’d been leaning and whistled for his dog, then followed in the direction the boy had fled. The slender figure was still ahead of him, darting like a scared rabbit through the milling crowd of seamen and loaders, heading steadily toward the docks.

Suddenly a horse and wagon moved into the road, blocking the path, and Witt smiled. He’d catch the wharf rat now for sure. But to his surprise, the scamp darted under the wagon, losing his cap in the process. Just when Witt was sure the boy was gone, he reappeared long enough to snatch his cap out of the dust and dirt. Witt caught a glimpse of wet coppery hair, a long braid, and features almost too delicate for a boy.

The wagon moved away, and Witt followed, his eyes fixed upon the advancing figure as the boy’s hurried strides led to the docks. The urchin paused for a moment at the harbor master’s desk, then turned toward the dock where the
Heemskerk
and
Zeehaen
were berthed.

With Snuggerheid at his heels, Witt approached the harbor master’s desk. “A moment ago, sir,” he said, pushing his own cap up at a jaunty angle, “a boy came by here and asked for directions. About so tall—” He held his hand out at nose level. “—and pale skinned. Remember him?”

The harbor master shrugged.
“Ja
. I remember.”

“Well, do you know who he is?”

“Ja, I know.”

Witt stifled the urge to strangle the man. “What’s his name?” The harbor master shook his head. “He’s nobody. A
ketelbinkie.”

“A ship’s boy?” Witt’s patience began to unravel. “On what ship?”

“The
Heemskerk.”

Witt smiled. Whoever the lad was, he had run straight into Dekker’s hands. “Did the ship’s boy give his name?”

The man shrugged again. “Just a ketelbinkie,” he repeated.

Witt scratched his chin. If this lad was traveling as a ship’s boy aboard the
Heemskerk
, there would be plenty of time to find out who he was and what, if anything, he knew about Sweet Kate’s murder. Dekker was in no rush. They would be on a long journey, one that would offer a thousand opportunities for unfortunate mishaps.

“Well, Snuggerheid,” he murmured as he scooped the dog up into his arms, “it seems as if we will have two people to keep an eye on now.” He turned toward the sea, thinking. Though he’d have to deal with the old man eventually, the ketelbinkie probably knew nothing. And if he did, two could be washed overboard or cracked on the skull by a flying spar as easily as one. Accidents happened nearly every day at sea. Aidan O’Connor could wait until after the ship returned to port, for Dempsey Jasper couldn’t inherit a guilder until he had official word of the old man’s death.

He turned back to the close-lipped harbor master. “Have you a pen and paper?”

“You know I have,” the master answered.