The Traitor’s Mark (19 page)

I stood and wandered around the room, picking up items, turning over others, in the vain hope of finding some clue to what might have happened to the painter. I set the easel squarely on its feet and picked up the last painting he had been working on. I saw now that it was a self-portrait. I gazed at the familiar features – the fringe of dark beard in the German fashion, the serious, almost severe set of the mouth, the penetrating eyes that appeared more searching of me than I of them. Not for the first time, I marvelled at the skill of this remarkable craftsman, who could capture a likeness with such awesome precision. It struck me that I was looking at his last piece of work. Johannes Holbein
must, by now, surely be dead. I could not imagine that Black Harry and his ruffians would have wasted any time before killing him. I tried to picture the horror this place must have recently witnessed. I imagined the sadistic attackers inflicting as much pain as possible upon the victim before removing his body, perhaps in a sack to be disposed of later or slipped unobtrusively into the refuse-laden river.

After a last look round, I let myself out. As I turned the key in the door, something suddenly struck me as odd: why had I found the room locked when I arrived? If the gang found Holbein here and took him away – dead or alive – why would they waste more time getting the key off him and locking the door behind them?

‘What will you do now?' Ned asked when I returned to Southwark.

‘I must send word to Cranmer. Then I'll go to Chiswick to call once more on the Fleming. I must tell him about his friend, if he does not already know. But these things will have to wait until tomorrow. I'm weary now – to the very depths of my soul.'

The following morning – Monday 27 September – I despatched one of my men to the archbishop with my report. That done, I hired a boatman to row me up to Chiswick. If my discovery at Bridewell had been a shock, what met me at the elegant house of van der Goes was almost as disturbing. Two burly men with heavy clubs
guarded the door and demanded my business. Only when this information had been relayed within was I admitted. The sombre atmosphere inside was immediately apparent. I was shown into a small anteroom, where the goldsmith's English wife sat attended by two female attendants. She had obviously been crying and she still clutched a kerchief in trembling fingers.'

‘Whatever has happened?'I demanded.

‘Oh, Master Treviot,' she wailed. ‘Do you know aught of this business? My John has done nothing to deserve what those men did to him. Who are they? I thought they would kill him.'

I was gripped by terrible foreboding. ‘Was the leader a tall man with black hair?'

‘Yes, yes! In heaven's name, who is he? Why did he force his way in here at first light? What grievance can he possibly have had with John?'

‘Mistress, I am deeply sorry for your distress but 'tis vital I see your husband. May I go to him?'

She looked doubtful. ‘He is very weak ... but if it will help to catch these wretches.' She motioned to one of her companions who silently led me up the stairs to the main bed chamber.

The curtains of an impressive bed were drawn back. Van der Goes lay partially propped on the pillows. His head was bound with a cloth which bore traces of blood and his face was bruised and swollen. I seated myself on the bed. ‘Dear
God, what have they done?' I muttered as much to myself as to the recumbent merchant.

He partially opened his lids and, with evident difficulty, focused on me. ‘Brother Treviot, is that you?'

‘Yes, what has happened here?'

‘It was those enemies of Johannes Holbein. They came looking for him.'

‘Today?' I was confused. Or, more likely, it was van der Goes whose mind was fuddled.

The sick man nodded and winced with the pain. ‘Very early. I had scarcely risen.'

I pictured Holbein's lair as I had last seen it with its broken and scattered furniture. ‘But the ruffians were at Bridewell yesterday. I was sure they must have found Holbein.'

‘No. Their leader – a tall brute – said they spotted Johannes and followed him to Bridewell but he escaped them.'

‘How could he do that? There's only one way in and out.'

‘He has a key to a small store room next door and it has a trapdoor to the floor below. That was one of the reasons Johannes chose the place for his secret studio.' Van der Goes closed his eyes again and I feared he was lapsing into unconsciousness.

‘Why did they come here?' I asked. ‘Why did they do this to you?'

Van der Goes moaned. ‘They were angry – very, very angry about losing Johannes again.'

‘But why come to you?'

‘They discovered that I own the warehouse and let out the space. They thought I'd know where Johannes has gone.'

‘But you don't?'

‘If Johannes is not at Bridewell, I know not where he is,' the injured man said, with great difficulty.

‘You don't suppose ...'I could hardly bring myself to mention the fearful question that occurred to me. ‘He must have been terribly distressed to know that his sons had fallen into Black Harry's clutches. Is it possible he might have been overwhelmed with remorse. Could he have ...'

‘Taken his own life? I don't like to think it ... Yet ... He was very broken when he heard about the children ... Poor Johannes! Is there anything to be done?'

‘I can try the Steelyard. Someone there might know something.'

‘Yes,' van der Goes said, ‘that is our only chance. Pray God you find him there or hear news of him.' His head fell back against the pillow.

I stood up. ‘I must let you rest. Take care of yourself. You have been a good friend to Holbein. I would not want to see you suffer more for him than you already have.'

‘Thank you,' van der Goes muttered weakly. ‘You, too, have tried to help him, Brother Treviot. Perhaps if I had trusted you more at the beginning.'

‘Please, do not think like that. We have both made
mistakes. I pray God grants us wit and time to put them right.' I crossed to the door. ‘I promise to send you any news I have.'

As I was rowed back downriver I tried to make sense of the latest turn of events. Holbein must have had enough warning of the gang's approach to slip into the neighbouring room and make his escape. But where to? I went straight to the Hanse wharf. I climbed the stair in the shadow of the great crane which was busily hoisting bales of wool on to the quay. I asked the guard for Andreas Meyer and he sent a boy in search of the Steelyard's pastor. A chill autumnal wind was now blowing across the river and I began to get cold waiting on the open wharf. It was some minutes before the rotund figure appeared but when he did come bustling through the archway from the residential area, he was all affability.

‘Master Treviot, how good to see you again, though I imagine your errand is not of the happiest.'

He led me through the complex of buildings to All Saints Church, the Hanse community's chapel. We passed through the building with its austere interior of white walls bereft of statues and pictures. A door close by the large pulpit led to Meyer's house and we were soon seated in his small study overlooking Thames Street. He called for beer and the taste of this beverage, still frowned on by many of my own countrymen, brought back memories of my visit to Antwerp some years before.

‘Once again I come to you in search of Johannes Holbein,' I said.

‘And once again I have to tell you that he is not here,' the pastor replied.

‘But he has been here since I called.'

‘Oh, yes. In fact, you have only missed him by a few hours.' ‘He is still alive, then.'

Meyer nodded gravely. ‘Alive, yes, but deeply troubled. I have spent much time counselling him. As you know too well, his two boys have been abducted by the desperate men who have been pursuing him.'

‘Yes, I'm anxious to find him to tell him that his sons have been found and are safe.'

Meyer's face lit up in a broad smile. ‘Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. I've been praying constantly for them. Oh, that is good news.'

‘So where can I find Holbein to tell him?'

‘I do not know, Master Treviot. I genuinely do not know. Perhaps it would be best if I explain to you from the beginning how I came to be involved in Johannes' complicated and troubled life.' He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes in an effort of memory. ‘It is very difficult because he has only ever told me what he thinks it necessary for me to know. Whenever I press him for detail he replies that my safety lies in ignorance. I have no idea what he is involved in. I've only pieced together his story from scraps of things that he has said.'

‘Perhaps you could tell me – briefly – what you do know, so that I may continue my search.'

‘Of course. Well, it all began almost a month ago. I recall it was the first day of September. That was when the plague really began to affect us. We always have a feast on St Augustine's Day – that's the twenty-eighth – but we had decided to cancel it—'

‘Yes, yes, Pastor Meyer,' I interrupted. ‘If you could just give me the facts. Every minute might be vital.'

He nodded, but continued with his leisurely narrative. ‘Indeed, indeed. Well, Johannes arrived all hot and begrimed. He looked terrible. He said he'd been waylaid on the road back to London from the royal court, somewhere east of the City. I assumed he had been attacked by highway robbers but from other things he let slip I realised there was more to it than that. He wanted asylum for a few days and, of course, we were happy to help. He was very agitated. He believed enemies were close on his trail.'

‘Yes, yes. I know all this. Did he name his pursuers?'

‘No. He was more concerned for the safety of his children and their nurse. He begged me to give them shelter also. Of course, I went immediately to his house – in person ...'

‘You were presumably too late.'

‘Indeed, the neighbours told me about the horrible crime and ...'

‘So you told Holbein,' I prompted.

‘Poor Johannes. He was distraught at the news. He was
convinced evil men must have taken his boys. He shut himself away here and would see no one. I had no chance till later to tell him that people had come here looking for him.'

‘People ? I was not the only one, then?'

‘No, another came that very afternoon.'

‘A tall man with black hair?'

‘Oh, no. This man was of average build, a gentleman ... very well dressed ... some might say overdressed.'

‘Did he give his name?'

Meyer frowned. ‘He did not. He was a haughty fellow ... thought I should be impressed by his talk of coming from the royal court. Popinjay! I made certain to tell him no more than he told me.'

‘So when I called on 2 September, Holbein
was
here?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid I was a little less than wholly honest with you. But he did leave again that very night. He said to stay here would put his friends' lives in danger.'

I sat back with a sigh of exasperation. ‘If only you had let me see him so much tragedy might have been avoided.'

Meyer was crestfallen. ‘I'm sorry. I really am but you can see why I was cautious, can you not? I didn't know who was looking for poor Johannes; only that he was very afraid of them. The only thing I could do was feign complete ignorance. However, I did, as you will recall, direct you to Master van der Goes, who is Johannes' closest friend. Was he not able to help you?'

‘So you've really no idea where Holbein went after leaving here?'

‘No. Later I worked out from odd things he said that he had two or three secret refuges but he would not tell me where they were. He had a powerful obsession about being hunted. If he was here in this room now, he would be repeatedly going to the window and peering down into the street. Once he snatched the door open in the middle of our conversation, convinced there was an eavesdropper outside. I tell you, Master Treviot, our friend lives in a very strange world; a world of secrecy, subterfuge and violence.'

‘Master van der Goes told me that Holbein has been here again more recently.'

The pastor smiled. ‘Simple people in my country believe in the
wichtel
, a fairy creature who comes and goes, appears and disappears at will. Johannes has something of the
wichtel
about him. We never know when to expect him. He was here ... it must have been two weeks ago. He said he'd found his boys and was looking for a shipmaster to carry the three of them secretly across the German Sea. That was not easy to arrange. Hanse merchants are very wary of getting into trouble with your government. If they are caught carrying the king's enemies out of England, they have their vessels and cargoes confiscated. However, a deal was struck. But then, last Wednesday, he was back again to say that he would not need a passage after all.'

‘And that was not the last time you saw him?'

‘No, he was here, just for a few minutes this morning. He was in a terrible state; almost out of his wits. He came to make his confession. You will understand I cannot go into detail about our discussion. Let me, instead, pose a theological question – hypothetical, of course. If a man surrenders himself to an enemy in the certain knowledge that that enemy will kill him, is he, thereby, guilty of the sin of suicide?'

‘Hmm, I see.'

‘I'm sure you do. I pray for him and I beg that you will do so too.'

‘Of course. And if he “appears” again, in God's name tell him that his boys are safe with me and that I must talk with him. Urgently!'

Chapter 14

That evening Ned and I sat until late examining from every angle a situation that was becoming more complex by the day. I reported my conversation with Meyer.

‘He had little to say, then?'Ned asked.

‘Oh, he had a great deal to say but very little to tell. Heaven grant I never have to listen to one of his sermons. He did, however, make clear his great anxiety for Holbein. He fears our friend may rush headlong into some desperate deal. That's a concern I share.'