first topic broached.
'The work must be done,' opined Quinton without explanation as van Clynne entered the shop, 'but fifty guilders is the lowest estimate, and too dear at half that.'
'I quite agree,' said van Clynne. 'The worst part is, there is not a good Dutch mason left in the precinct to do the work.”
'Aye, nor do they make bricks properly anymore,' said Quinton. 'The clay is defective.'
'As is the water, a key ingredient. To say nothing of the trowels.'
'Aye, the trowels. A sorry state.' The tailor took a step back and surveyed van Clynne's suit. 'A fine outfit, but in need of a patch and tuck,' he declared. 'And some pressing.'
'No time for pressing,' said van Clynne. 'As for the repairs: how much?'
'Three guilders' worth.'
'Outrageous! I could have an entire suit for half.'
'Indeed. The cloth alone would come to six.'
'I bought the suit for less than three guilders.'
'Your father might have. It dates from then.'
'For two guilders I'd expect a fine French weave, and see it pressed.'
'You find me in a generous mood,' said the tailor, extending his arm.
'I would need the work done on account,' mentioned van Clynne after handing over the coat. 'As I have recently been separated from my resources.'
The tailor's face changed several shades as he promptly flung the coat back to van Clynne.
'I do not believe I heard you properly. Did the word 'account' pass your lips?'
'Indeed,' lamented van Clynne. 'But considering the affair of the buttons …'
'An arrangement to which I was forced only by severe want.'
'As I am now.'
The two men jabbed at each other for a good five minutes. In the end, Quinton agreed to accept four guilders for the work in two months' time, or five in three, along with a goodly supply of cloth at a reduced rate, when this could be arranged by mutual consent. He took up some thread and needle and promptly began the close stitch to repair the tear which ran along one pocket. In truth, his skills justified his fee, as he could put upwards of twenty- five stitches per inch. His stitches always looked more decoration than patch.
Van Clynne's efforts to elicit information about General Howe, offered as small bits of conversation as the man worked, were not nearly as efficient. In fact, they ended abruptly when the squire asked if the tailor had seen the general of late.
'Do not mention that damned bastard,' exclaimed Quinton, dabbing the air with his needle. 'He owes me twenty pounds since Christmas! Do you know the material I purchased for him? He looked at it and waved his hand, saying he did not like it now that he saw it. Now that he saw it! Did not like it! I have a near acre of chartreuse cloth. What shall I do with it?'
'A tent, perhaps?'
Further comments indicated that Howe had not been at the shop since midwinter. Van Clynne sank into his chair and began thinking how he might shave a half-guilder off his debt and sample some of Quintan's fine beer besides when he happened to glance out the window. A white-painted carriage with elaborate molding and inlay was just pulling up in front, heading a procession of mounted redcoat dragoons and a second carriage.
The squire staggered to his feet, his face white and his strength suddenly sapped.
'What's wrong, Claus?'
'I, er, seem to have something caught in my throat,' said the squire. 'Would you have any water?'
'Not in the shop.'
'Well then, let me use your back door.'
'My back door?'
'And I'll take my coat. The repairs look quite excellent.'
'But what about the rip at the sleeve?'
'What is a small tear among friends?'
Van Clynne's sudden interest in leaving was due entirely to the similarity of the carriage outside with one owned by Major Dr. Harland Keen, a man known to van Clynne as a rather dubious doctor and member of the British secret department. At one memorable juncture, Keen had subjected him to a full-body bloodletting, covering nearly every inch of his skin with leeches. The Dutchman liked a sanguinary experience as much as the next man, but this had been a bit extreme.
Van Clynne had taken Jake's word that Keen had drowned when he went over the falls. But who then was the man descending from the coach, his white hair pressed back, his coattails flaring with typical British audacity?
'I have a great need of your back door,' said van Clynne, coughing as loudly as he could. 'Quickly!'
'Don't choke to death. Come.'
Van Clynne just managed to whisk through the door into the back room as the bell attached to the front door clanged as it opened. The tailor hesitated, but van Clynne pushed forward, confident that he would find the way on his own.
He had only just crossed from the back into the side alley when he realized he had left his gray-toned black beaver hat behind.
As a general rule, Claus van Clynne was not overly sentimental. He was, however, especially fond of his hat, which had accompanied him through considerable travail and was fairly unique in its appearance and construction.
Which meant it must surely be recognized by the all-too-perceptive Keen.
Easing up the side alley, just out of view of the mounted escort that remained in the street, van Clynne heard his recent host fill the room with honey-coated praise of his Loyalist and British guests.
'My good Earl Buckmaster,' he heard Quinton say, 'your suit, sir, is ready as promised. You see that I have taken less than a full day. It was an honor to prepare it for you. I think no tailor in this city so honored. And you will note the handsome stitching.”
To relate more would surely sicken the reader nearly as much as it did van Clynne. It developed that the tailor was familiar with Keen, whom he presented with a shirt ordered several fortnights before, 'and preserved, sir, against your return to our shop.'
'Yes, well, hurry with it. We have several more stops, and my sister must see to a dress,' said Bauer. He turned and addressed his brother-in-law and Keen. 'Even with my man holding our seats, we must arrive at the theater before General Clinton. He creates such a god-awful scene. With luck, the little fop Alain will have finished eating before we get to the engineering office. His table manners are enough to turn the stomach upside down.'
Van Clynne was starting to think the hat might escape notice — and be recovered — when he heard the doctor's distinct voice through the window. It was close enough to make his heart thump like the broken arm of a windmill smacking against the ground.
'This hat. Whose is it?'
A simple question, surely. But those are always the most dangerous.
'The h-hat,' stuttered Quinton. 'Well, some customer must have left it. Honestly, I am not sure. Would you like it? I can let you have it for a low price — no, let me give it to you. Yes, take it as a present.'
Silence followed. Van Clynne imagined Keen taking up the beaver and examining it.
'I recently was acquainted with a fellow who had a hat very similar,' said the doctor, the restraint in his voice obvious even outside. 'Had I not seen him burn in a building, I would swear this was his.'
'There are many hats like this,' said the tailor nervously. 'It is a common style.'
'The owner was a Dutchman,' said Keen. He was no longer bothering to control his venom; van Clynne felt his own body fairly warmed by it. 'And do not lie to me or your tongue will be tread on by half the British soldiers quartered at King's College.”
'Now that you mention it,' answered the tailor, his voice trembling. 'It does seem familiar.'
The squire did not tarry to hear himself betrayed. He swept from the alley, bowed quickly at the mounted guard, and walked with as much balance as he could muster southward. He was nearly a block away when Keen's
