The Tale-Teller
Nella and Cornelia try and catch sleep, upright in two of the rosewood chairs dragged up from the salon. They twist uncomfortably as Marin sighs and moans in the bed.
When Nella wakes, the bells are ringing eight o’clock. There remains a disturbing scent in the room; organs exposed, faeces, blood and vulnerable flesh. The fire is out. Around it are the futile scatterings of weak lavender heads, the silver ewer knocked on its side in Marin’s agonies. She realizes she is an hour late for her husband.
Frantically, she pulls the curtains apart. Cornelia opens her eyes, springing towards the bed. ‘I have to go to Johannes. Now.’
‘You can’t leave me,’ Cornelia pleads. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Marin’s pillow is soaked in sweat, and Thea, wrapped in a blanket, is asleep on her chest. At the sound of their voices the new mother flicks her eyes open. Beneath the salt-sheen, her skin still smells faintly of nutmeg, and Nella breathes it in. She must go to the Stadhuis, but she feels uneasy leaving Marin like this.
‘Nella, go and tell me what they’re doing to him,’ Marin says, her voice even weaker than the night before. ‘Go. Cornelia, stay with me.’
Cornelia takes Marin’s hand and kisses it with the intense affection of a child. ‘Of course, Madame. Of course I will.’
Nella goes round to the foot of the bed. The cord is still inside Marin, the end coiled upon the mattress. She tries to pull it, as if that will unstopper something – this sense of dread, but it is stuck, and Marin moans with pain.
‘She needs to sleep,’ says Cornelia. ‘We should leave her.’
‘I know you want to call for someone, Nella,’ Marin whispers. ‘But nobody must know.’
Marin’s stomach is a little deflated now that Thea has made her escape, but there is still a lump inside it. When Nella presses it, Marin flinches. This isn’t right, Nella thinks; none of this is right. The lump is hard, unyielding, and for a moment she wonders if there is a second child in there, a quieter twin, reluctant to emerge into the chaos. She wishes she knew more, she wishes her mother was there. Never has she felt more powerless.
The breath catches in Marin’s throat. Cornelia swoops Thea away as Marin ravages her lungs. ‘Madame?’ says Cornelia, but Marin bats the air with her hand, a visual echo of her brother.
Thea, on hearing her mother’s extraordinary sounds, begins to make more of her own. They are heartbreaking, exhilarating; short, homing squeals of a brand-new voice. Under the cover of the cries, Nella motions Cornelia to join her in the corner. ‘Look, Madame, look,’ the maid whispers, peering miserably at Thea. ‘What are we to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It doesn’t seem possible. It cannot be true!’
‘Find Smit’s List,’ Nella hisses, ignoring her. ‘And bring a wet-nurse, a midwife – anyone who might understand what’s happening to her.’
Cornelia looks at the baby in terror. ‘But Marin will kill me.’
‘Cornelia, just do it. Johannes keeps guilders in the chest in his study. Give the woman whatever it takes to keep her quiet. And if there isn’t enough, then – sell the silver.’
‘But, Madame—’
Nella flees the room, too desperate to stop.
Running to the Stadhuis, breathless and red-faced, she arrives to find the gallery already full and proceedings underway, and has to take a seat at the back. Drained and delirious, her head aches, her eyes so tired and dry, her fingernails rusty with the residue of Marin’s blood. Nella wants to shout to Johannes what Marin has achieved, what magic lies waiting for him back in his house, but she knows she can’t. What kind of world do we live in, she wonders, where I might cause Thea harm by announcing her very existence?
She looks over the heads of the gallery spectators, down into the chamber. Johannes is holding his racked body very still upon a chair, with his head held high. Slabbaert is at his desk, the schepenbank lined up by his side. Jack is now among the spectators downstairs, watching Frans Meermans perched upon a chair in the centre of the flagstones.
Why isn’t Agnes there with him? What have I missed? She spies the back of Pastor Pellicorne’s head, his body inclined; excited, anticipating. ‘Did Agnes Meermans give her testimony?’ she asks the woman next to her.
‘At seven o’clock, Madame. Trembling, she was. I thought she was never going to let go of the Bible.’ The woman shakes her head as Slabbaert’s voice comes to Nella. The Schout is already in full flow.
‘Your wife has told us simply what she saw that night of the twenty-ninth of December, Seigneur Meermans,’ he says. ‘I would never offend a woman’s sensibilities, but now it is your turn to speak, I would like to probe deeper. Tell us what you witnessed, Seigneur Meermans.’
Meermans looks pale and large in his chair, nods. ‘We walked round the back of the warehouse and could hear voices. Seigneur Brandt had pushed this young man against the side of the building. The boy’s face was pressed against the brickwork. Both of them had their breeches round their ankles, their hats knocked off.’
There are sharp intakes of breath at this; an image of indignity and forceful desire rolled into one. ‘Jack Philips – as I now know him to be – was begging to be set free. He saw us and called for help. My wife, you understand, was highly distressed. She had entertained this merchant at her table.’
Meermans’ shaking voice fills the room, and to Nella it seems the Stadhuis walls are closing in.
‘Go on,’ says Slabbaert.
‘We heard the cry of Brandt’s disgusting release,’ Meermans says. ‘I left Agnes and as I came near, I could see the lust in Brandt’s eyes. He scooped up his breeches as I approached, and began to beat Mr Philips – rapidly, ferociously. There was a dagger. I saw him stab Jack’s shoulder. It nearly went into the man’s heart – he isn’t lying. No woman should have to witness that. No man either.’
The chamber is captivated by Meermans’ account. Johannes has bowed his head, hunching his creaking body into a position of resistance.
‘Frans Meermans,’ Slabbaert says, ‘you have known Johannes Brandt for many years. Despite this moment you witnessed – despite your good wife’s Bible-sworn testimony – now is your chance to confirm there may be good in this man.’
‘I understand.’
‘Brandt has said that you knew each other well.’
‘As young men, we worked together.’
‘And what kind of man was he?’
Meermans seems to be struggling. He cannot even look at the curve of Johannes’ back, preferring to stare instead into the pointed black cone of his own hat. ‘Astute,’ he says. ‘Prone to his own philosophies.’
‘Johannes Brandt was selling your stock, is this correct?’
Nella feels a slowing sensation inside her, as if her heart has begun to leak the last of its strength. Yet another accusation is going to fall at Johannes’ feet – lazy trading, no small crime in Amsterdam.
‘It is correct,’ says Meermans.
‘And with regard to that deal, was the sugar well kept – was Brandt doing his job?’
Meermans hesitates. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘He was.’
Nella sits up. Why has Meermans said such a thing? According to this account, the sugar in its entirety is pristine. As a couple of the men from the schepenbank write something down, she realizes that Meermans has no desire to reveal his anger at Johannes. By concealing the issue of the unsold sugar, Meermans denies Johannes the chance of exposing it as a motive for his revenge. He is blocking the channels of Johannes’ defence. Meermans wants this to seem a clean case of unholy behaviour against God and the republic, nothing else. And it is unlikely, she supposes, that Johannes would admit to a sluggish sale. To do so would make him the author of his own damaged reputation.
Nella has not thought Meermans would be so calculating. And yet, she thinks, glancing over at Arnoud Maakvrede – with this very public assurance that the whole crop is good, Meermans may have handed the Brandts a gift for selling it in the future. Guilty for this feather-tip of pleasure, Nella tries to concentrate on the moment in hand.
‘So you would say that he was a good merchant?’ Slabbaert asks. Meermans takes a deep breath. ‘You have sworn an oath to tell the truth,’ Slabbaert presses. ‘Well?’
‘Under oath, I – would question that description.’
‘You think he is a poor merchant?’
‘Historically, I think his reputation has masked a self-centredness. His successes are not all deserved.’
‘And yet you employed him to sell your stock?’
‘My wife . . .’ He trails off.
‘What has your wife got to do with this?’