Death of a Delft Blue

seen her there before ‘in company with a young English lady, large and beautiful,’ which showed, Dame Beatrice thought, that he would probably have remembered the much more beautiful youth.

It was clear that the streets in which the pensions were situated would have to be compassed about, albeit with only one witness and not with the clouds of these required by Holy Writ. Dame Beatrice was almost certain that hers would be a waste of effort, and, in any case, a task far more suited to the police than to herself. Nevertheless, she had promised to attempt to trace Florian and she was determined to do her best.

She began her researches in Kerkstraat. To her astonishment, the very first house at which she called had news of Florian. A young Englishman of hyacinth eyes and hair like gold? Certainly he had called, and he had slept, and had promised to return. What was more, he had left his luggage. Not a great deal of luggage, it was true. A little bag to contain nightwear and for shaving. ‘Mevrouw is his grandmother? And where staying? At the Hotel Prinses Juliana? Is een goed hotel. Alleen voor een nacht?’

Dame Beatrice, with a horrid leer which did not cause the keeper of the pension the slightest disquiet, insisted upon discharging Florian’s one-night debt and then said that she was staying not for one night, but for the rest of the week. She begged that, if her grandson turned up during that time, she might be informed immediately so that he might show her the sights of the town. She was speeded on her way back to the Hotel Prinses Juliana with a cordial, ‘Tot ziens!’ They exchanged smiles and compliments.

She would have liked to ask to see the ‘little bag’ which Florian had left at the pension, but she thought that such a request might have had a deleterious effect upon the good relations existing, so far, between her and mevrouw of the pension. Besides, she had a feeling that Florian had left the ‘not great deal of luggage’ in lieu of rent for the room. She had a strong suspicion that the canny Dutch landlady had come to the same conclusion. It was clear that she had investigated the contents of the bag and was satisfied with the bargain. Sheer silk pyjamas and an electric razor, Dame Beatrice supposed.

There seemed little more to be learned in Valkenburg. There remained the possibility of an excursion to the limestone caves of the Dolomites, but Dame Beatrice dismissed the idea. For such a journey surely he would have needed the suitcase he had left in Binnen’s apartment in Amsterdam.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Laura the Sleuth

‘Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness,

Delytsum lily of everie lustyness,

Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear,

And everie vertew that is wenit dear,

Except onlie that ye are mercyless.’

William Dunbar

« ^ »

Laura’s quota of intelligence, which was considerable, was based upon simple theories. She argued that, since the barrel-organ which had played The Flowers of the Forest had been stationed near the Wester Kerk, it was reasonable to suppose that this was one of its regular haunts. She repaired to the point of vantage, therefore, at the same time as before, and loitered for half an hour on a bridge over the Herengracht Canal, but there was no sign of the barrel-organ.

Her next idea — and one which proved fruitful — was to walk to the Stationsplein and take the steamer-trip along the canals. It was on the bridge which carried Leidse Straat across a canal that she spotted the first barrel- organ, but it was not the one she sought. However, thought Laura, always optimistic, at least barrel-organs were still in season and, presumably, had not gone on strike. Another commanded the left bank at the Fodor Museum, but it was not until she disembarked at the end of the round trip that she found the particular draaiorgel she sought. There it was, with a group round it, playing, of all things, the English tune of a demoded popular song, Amsterdam, Amsterdam. Laura was not unmusical and, besides, she had a tenacious memory. She could not recall that this particular tune had figured in the organ’s repertoire. What was more, when it ended it was followed by the tune which, as she very clearly remembered, had succeeded The Flowers of the Forest. The flowers of the forest, it was evident, certainly had ‘a’ wede away.’

Laura knew nothing of the internal workings of barrel-organs, but she felt that here was something of interest. She waited until the barrel-organ moved on, and then she followed it. She had made a modest contribution and the men in charge appeared gratified by her continued interest. They covered a fairly long street, for the sounds travelled far and they were anxious to attract a fresh audience. Before they could set their instrument in motion, Laura seized her chance and addressed the older of the two operators.

‘I heard you some weeks ago,’ she said. ‘You played a tune I love very much. Have you still such a tune?’

‘And the name of the tune, please?’

‘It’s a Scottish air called The Flowers of the Forest. I so much enjoyed hearing it last time, but I noticed that this time you left it out.’

‘I know not the tune by name, mevrouw. I am sorry.’

‘I’ll hum it for you,’ said Laura, and she proceeded to do so. The men exchanged glances. Then the one who had spoken shook his head.

‘Mevrouw is mistaken. We never had such a tune. I regret. And now, pardon, we have our living to earn.’

‘Oh, ho!’ thought Laura. ‘Mrs Croc. was right, as usual. There has been dirty work at the crossroads and that barrel-organ is all mixed up in it somehow. I suppose it’s no good tagging on and trying to ferret something more out of those men?’