Death of a Delft Blue

‘No, I haven’t. Why?’

‘You should go there. It would interest you. Not all of the cross remains, but there is enough to show Danish influence in the knot-work panels. I am sure you will perceive an affinity between it and the rune-stones. The Saxon cross in the churchyard at Eyam, in the same county, is quite a perfect example, but bears little relationship to the rune-stones. It is carved in spiral markings similar to those on the wall of the queen’s megaron in the palace at Knossos in Crete — the maze of the Minotaur, you know. There is a more unusual Saxon cross in the churchyard at Leek.’

‘Look here, Professor,’ said Laura, ‘you’re trying to tell me something. Can’t you come right out with it?’

Sweyn smiled and shrugged.

‘There are limestone caves in Derbyshire,’ he said. ‘I think Florian may have gone to England from Hoorn.’

‘More likely than that he’s in the Dolomites, I should think. But, if he’s in England, why hasn’t he gone back to his granduncle?’

‘I do not know, and there is no point in trying to guess. Are you fond of diamonds?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Yet you have a very fine diamond in your ring.’

‘Yes, I had to be bribed into becoming engaged to be married. You understand diamonds, then?’

‘Oh, yes, my father has always been interested in diamonds, so, of course, I know a little about them. So we look, or we do not look, for this cylinder?’

‘If what I suspect is true, it won’t still be here, and, anyway, it’s lousy of me to snoop about in your aunt’s place.’

‘What could the cylinder tell us if we could find it?’

‘Well, that’s just the point. It couldn’t tell us anything unless we could try it out on a barrel-organ, and we’re hardly likely to be able to do that.’

‘But, if we could… ?’

‘Well, at some point or other, it would play a tune called The Flowers of the Forest. This is it.’ She began to hum. Sweyn shook his head.

‘I am sorry. I do not know it,’ he said. ‘What is the connection between this tune and the disappearance of Florian?’

‘Your brother believes that Florian’s dead.’

‘I know. I do not agree with him. But the tune?’

‘It’s the words, actually.’ She sang them. ‘It’s a lament for the young men who fell at the battle of Flodden.’

‘I see… yes. A lament for young men. And you think that the young Florian — yes, I see. And you think Aunt Binnen knew these words and knows — or suspects — that Florian is dead and so she finds the tune unacceptable and has purchased the cylinder from the barrel-organ people. It is a theory, that. Lost in a cave — hungry, perhaps hurt. Dead — I think not.’

‘What made you think of Derbyshire, though? asked Laura.

‘During the Occupation many of our people lived in caves. Then, when the war was over, I went to England many times. I was interested in caves. I think I have visited all the English caves.’

‘Did you do any pot-holing?’

‘Oh, yes, I did pot-holing. Well, I shall be on my way. May I escort you to any place?’

‘No, thanks. I’d better go back to my hotel. By the way, when we met just now you said you thought we’d come here on the same errand. You don’t still think so, I take it?’

‘No, I was too hasty in speaking. I meant that in this apartment I hoped to find some clue to the disappearance of Florian, but there is nothing. Shall we go to Hoorn this afternoon? I had intended to go and should be glad of your company. Is Dame Beatrice with you in Amsterdam?’

‘No, she’s still looking for news of Florian in Maastricht and Valkenburg. I’m here on my own for a day or two. Right. Let’s do Hoorn together. Have you had lunch?’

Hoorn, forty kilometres from Amsterdam, proved to be a charming small town with a couple of hotels and some picturesque brick-fronted houses, fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth-century churches, the great dike of the IJsselmeer, a Stadhuis built in 1613 and a finely-fronted museum with wrought-iron gates, a good collection of pictures and some fourteenth-century cellars.

Sweyn and Laura visited this museum and described Florian to the attendant but there was no news of him.

‘I don’t quite know why he decided to come here,’ said Laura, when they were in the street.

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? It is merely that Albion, the sculptor, has a studio here. I think we ought to visit him and find out what he knows.’

‘I thought Albion lived in Amsterdam.’

‘Yes, a great deal of his time. Mostly, I think, in winter and early spring. There is more work for him in Amsterdam, of course, but he lives out here when he can. He finds it pleasant.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘No. We will go to the harbour and ask the fishermen. He has painted some of them and their boats. They are certain to know where he lives.’