Death in Delft by Graham Brack

Author:Graham Brack [Brack, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2020-04-05T16:00:00+00:00

The towpath by the canal was littered with clods of red earth, and I had to lift the skirt of my cloak to avoid trailing it in the filthy sludge that made walking there so treacherous. At length I came to the hut with the little steps outside that Jannetje had described, and entered, removing my hat and bowing to prevent my head scraping along the ceiling.

The man at the desk made to rise, but I begged him to remain seated. It was as well, for when my eyes became accustomed to the poor light I could see he had only one leg and his crutch was resting on the side of the small barrel that he was using as a stool. The top of the barrel was made more comfortable by a cushion in a bright green cloth that looked to my untutored eye rather like silk. It seemed a little incongruous to have such a luxurious item in so mean a hut, and my eyes must have betrayed my thoughts.

‘A gift from my master’s wife, dominie,’ said the man. ‘When I lost my leg in his service, the master kindly found me a position here, and the lady his wife sewed me this with her own hand.’

I made approving noises, though privately I doubted that a silk cushion, however elegant, was much of an exchange for a leg.

‘I’m looking for a man called Lievens,’ I said, ‘the father of the murdered girl.’

‘A shocking business,’ said the man. ‘I hear she is to be laid to rest tomorrow.’

‘She is,’ I agreed. ‘Will you come to the Nieuwe Kerk?’

‘It’s a long way to walk, to be honest,’ he said. ‘I will if I can.’

‘I believe the mayor is sending carts to collect those who find walking difficult.’

The man brightened at once. ‘Then I shall ask the master for leave to go.’

‘You work every day?’

‘Aye, mijnheer, except the Lord’s Day, of course. But the master is a God-fearing man and I’m sure he will allow us to attend. Unpaid, no doubt, but why should he pay us when we’re not about his business?’

‘Who is your master?’ I asked, knowing that I probably would not know him, whoever he was.

‘Why, Wilhelmus van Setten,’ came the reply.

The crippled one pointed to a group of men, and it was easy to pick out Gerrit Lievens. He stood half a head taller than the others, and that half a head was crowned in a blaze of red hair. Some men’s hair fades in sunlight, but Lievens’s mane gave him the look of a lion, and an angry lion at that. He worked methodically but silently, and I sensed something of an atmosphere as I came towards him and his colleagues. They did not dare to laugh and joke as normal, because life could not be normal given what had happened, and they were waiting for some sign from Lievens that the cloud was lifting before they returned to the banter and buffoonery that made their days pass quicker.

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