‘A leper’s quite enough excitement for one day,’ said Sara with finality, summoning Dorothea with a lift of her chin.
A protest formed on her daughter’s lips, but the maid stroked her arm, encouraging her away.
The crowd melted from Sara’s path as she approached the prisoner, who was busy straightening his stained doublet.
‘Your legend precedes you, Mr Pipps,’ she said, curtsying.
After his recent humiliation, this unexpected compliment seemed to take Sammy aback, causing him to stumble on his initial greeting. He tried to bow, but his chains made a mockery of the gesture.
‘Now, why did you wish to speak with me?’ asked Sara.
‘I’m imploring you to delay the departure of the Saardam,’ he said. ‘Please, you must heed the leper’s warning.’
‘I took the leper for a madman,’ she admitted in surprise.
‘Oh, he was certainly mad,’ agreed Sammy. ‘But he was able to speak without a tongue and climb a stack of crates with a lame foot.’
‘I noticed the tongue, but not the lame foot.’ She glanced back at the body. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Even burnt, you can see the impairment clearly within his bandages. He would have needed a crutch to walk, which means he couldn’t possibly have climbed up on those crates without help.’
‘Then you don’t believe he was acting alone?’
‘I don’t, and there’s a further cause for concern.’
‘Of course there is,’ she sighed. ‘Why would concern want to travel alone?’
‘Do you see his hands?’ continued Sammy, ignoring the remark. ‘One is very badly burnt, but the other is almost untouched. If you look carefully, you’ll notice a bruise under his thumbnail and that his thumb itself has been broken at least three times in the past, rendering it crooked. Carpenters accrue such injuries as a matter of course, especially shipborne carpenters, who must contend with the unsteady motion of the boat while they’re working. I noticed he was bow-legged, another common trait of the sailing class.’
‘Do you believe he was a carpenter on one of the boats in the fleet?’ ventured Arent, examining the seven ships in the harbour.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sammy. ‘Every carpenter in Batavia likely worked on an Indiaman at some time. If I were free to inspect the body, I might be able to answer the question more definitely, but –’
‘My husband will never free you, Mr Pipps,’ said Sara sharply. ‘If that’s to be your next request.’
‘It’s not,’ he said, his cheeks flushing. ‘I know your husband’s mind, as I know he will not hear my concerns. But he would hear them from you.’
Sara shifted her weight uncomfortably, staring at the harbour. Dolphins were playing in the water, leaping and twisting in the air, disappearing back beneath the surface with barely a ripple.
‘Please, my lady. You must convince your husband to delay the fleet’s departure while Arent investigates this matter.’
Arent started at that. The last time he’d investigated a case had been three years ago. Nowadays, he kept out of that side of things. His job was to keep Sammy safe and trample underfoot whatever bastard he pointed his finger at.
‘Questions are swords and answers are shields,’ persisted Sammy, still staring at Sara. ‘I’m begging you: armour yourself. Once the Saardam sets sail, it will be too late.’
3
Under Batavia’s burning sky, Sara Wessel walked the length of the procession, feeling the scouring eyes of the courtiers, soldiers and sycophants upon her. She went like a condemned woman: shoulders square, eyes down and fists clenched by her sides. Shame reddened her face, though most mistook it for heat.
For some reason, she glanced over her shoulder at Arent. He wasn’t hard to spot, standing a clear head and shoulders taller than the next man. Sammy had put him to work inspecting the body, and he was currently picking through the leper’s robes with a long stick that had previously been used to carry baskets.
Feeling Sara’s gaze upon him, he glanced at her, their eyes meeting. Embarrassed, she snapped her head forward again.
Her husband’s damnable horse snorted, kicking the ground angrily as she approached. She’d never got along with this beast. Unlike her, it enjoyed being underneath him.
The thought drew a wicked smile, which she was still wrestling from her face as she came upon him. His back was to her, his head bowed in hushed conversation with Cornelius Vos.
Vos was her husband’s chamberlain, foremost among his advisors and one of the most powerful men in the city. Not that it was obvious by looking at him, for he managed to carry his power without charisma or vigour. Neither tall nor short, broad nor thin, his mud-coloured hair topped a weathered face devoid of any distinguishing features, beyond two luminous green eyes that always stared over the shoulder of whoever he was speaking to.
His clothes were shabby without being ragged, and there hung about him an air of such potent hopelessness one would expect flowers to wilt as he walked by.
‘Is my personal cargo boarded?’ asked her husband, ignoring Sara.
‘The chief merchant has seen to it, my lord.’
They didn’t pause, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Her husband couldn’t stand being interrupted and Vos had served him long enough to know that.
‘And matters have been arranged to ensure its secrecy?’ asked her husband.
‘Guard Captain Drecht attended to it personally.’ Vos’s fingers danced at his sides, betraying some internal calculation. ‘Which bring us to our second piece of important cargo, my lord. May I ask where you wish to store The Folly during our voyage?’
‘My quarters seem appropriate,’ declared her husband.
‘Unfortunately, The Folly’s too large, sir,’ said Vos, wringing his hands. ‘Might I suggest the cargo hold?’
‘I’ll not have the future of the Company packed away like an unwanted piece of furniture.’
‘Few know what The Folly is, sir,’ continued Vos, momentarily distracted by the splashing oars of an approaching ferry. ‘Even fewer know we’re bringing it aboard the Saardam. The best way to protect it might be to act as though it is an unwanted piece of furniture.’
‘A clever thought, but the cargo hold remains too exposed,’ said her husband.
They fell silent, puzzling the matter over.
Sunshine beat at Sara’s back, thick beads of sweat gathering on her brow and rolling down her face, clogging the white powder Dorothea applied so liberally to conceal her freckles. She yearned to adjust her clothes, to remove the ruff around her neck and tug the damp material away from her flesh, but her husband hated fidgeting as much as being interrupted.
‘What about the gunpowder store, sir?’ said Vos. ‘It’s locked and guarded, but nobody would expect something as valuable as The Folly to be housed in there.’
‘Superb. Make the arrangements.’
As Vos walked towards the procession, the governor general finally turned to face his wife.
He was twenty years older than Sara, with a teardrop head, which was bald except for a tonsure of dark hair connecting his large ears. Most people wore hats to shield them from Batavia’s harsh sunlight, but her husband believed they made him look foolish. As a result, his scalp glowed an angry crimson, the skin peeling and collecting in the folds of his ruff.