The Pilgrim Conspiracy

He gave Peter a friendly look, like a teacher patiently waiting for a pupil to answer his question.

‘Hi, Johan,’ Fay said. ‘Let me introduce you to my boyfriend, Peter.’

The two men shook hands.

‘Have you been a member for long?’ Peter asked eventually.

‘More than twenty-five years now. Not at this lodge, but Loge La Vertu, the boys’ club, you might call it. Not that I’ve anything against women joining, you understand, but I do prefer being able to talk man to man, now and then. I think you have different conversations with each other when there are women around.’

‘Slegs vir mannen,’ said Fay, glancing at Peter and grinning.

‘I was just talking to the American visitor,’ Peter said, changing the subject. He had noticed Fay’s irritation when Johan admitted his preference for unmixed lodges.

‘Ah,’ Fay said, ‘the gentleman from Boston?’ She laughed at Peter’s apparent surprise. ‘I just talked to him. But we knew he was coming; we were told about it at the meeting last week. He sent an email asking if he could come to a lodge meeting, and the open evening seemed like the perfect opportunity. He’s from the grand lodge of Massachusetts in Boston. They say they’re the third oldest lodge in the world, after the one in England that was founded in 1717 and the one started in Ireland in 1725. Their lodge was set up in 1733, so they seem to be right, on paper at least.’

‘That’s right,’ Johan said. ‘But Peter, I’m sure you’re familiar with the stories about how the Freemasons originated with the Knights Templar, or to give them their proper name, the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. They were a Christian military order, Knights of the Cross. You’ll come across that fable very often in books and on websites about conspiracy theories. In the time of the Crusades, the Templars were one of the military units in the Holy War against the Muslims in the Holy Land. Some conspiracy theorists go even further back, all the way to 1000 BCE, to King Solomon and his architect Hiram Abiff, the man who built the first Temple in Jerusalem. Solomon’s master architect was thought to have secret knowledge, and it’s believed that he hid it in his buildings. Some say that this knowledge was then passed down from generation to generation all through the centuries. And people think that the Freemasons hid secret messages and codes in cathedrals, like Chartres in France, or the Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh, messages that would only be understood by its initiates. But, dear Peter, I can assure you that this is all utter hogwash. People who believe that sort of thing are just a few steps away from believing that there’s a secret government out for total domination over the entire world.’

For someone who started with such an unspectacular opener, Johan is quite the chatterbox, Peter thought.

‘It’s a subject that’s close to my heart, Peter,’ Johan continued. ‘If you only knew how often I’ve had to listen to that drivel, how often I’ve had to defend my membership of the Freemasons. Yes, that’s how it feels. We Freemasons are simply descended from the masons’ guilds from five hundred years ago. That’s all. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. Those masons were free to travel from town to town throughout Europe so that they could build cathedrals. Yes, they did have secret handshakes, and they did have passwords, but that was simply their way of proving that someone was a member of the guild. The masons invited other people to join them, and they gradually formed a brotherhood. It was only during the Enlightenment that Freemasonry became a more philosophical movement. They were probably the first group to organise themselves separately from any religion, without, by the way, actually renouncing their religious beliefs. That really is the most remarkable thing about them: they were free thinkers and tolerant of opinions that were different from their own. That was unusual.’

Peter listened to Johan in wonder. He was amazed by the man’s ability to tell such a coherent story off the top of his head.

‘Thank you, Johan,’ Fay said, ‘for that clear and comprehensive explanation.’

Little laughter lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. It looked like she had forgiven Johan for his earlier remarks about single-sex lodges.

‘Well, anyway, Peter,’ Johan said. ‘It was good to see you here this evening. Perhaps we’ll meet again. In any case, you are always very welcome. And it doesn’t matter if you join a mixed lodge like Ishtar or one that’s “slegs vir mannen”.’ He gave them both a twinkling smile and said goodbye.

The room was growing quieter now. Peter saw Sven and Erik leaving. Shortly afterwards, Jenny, the woman who had caused such a commotion earlier in the evening, left with the man who had been with her. Tony and his group had gone without Peter noticing them leave.

‘Do you want to go soon?’ Fay asked. ‘Or stay a bit longer?’

‘Let’s stay,’ said Peter. ‘I’m going to get another glass of wine. Shall I get you one?’

Fay shook her head. ‘I’m just going to pop to the loo. But I don’t want to stay too late, okay?’

‘That’s fine. We’ll leave soon.’

Peter went to the bar and picked up a glass of wine from a tray. He took a few sips, then absent-mindedly crammed three handfuls of peanuts into his mouth. He was filled with instant regret. He had been paying more attention to his weight since meeting Fay, which had led to him losing a few pounds.

He had also been playing water polo for a couple of years. It wasn’t a sport he’d ever considered trying until he’d seen some water polo players practising at his local pool, De Zijl, while he was doing lengths. After seeing the way they combined playing a game with intensive physical training, he had been keen to give it a go.

At the moment, two glasses of wine a day were his only sin – and, not to forget, his daily cigarillo.

Fay came back from the toilet in the corridor and walked over to Peter, hugging people here and there on the way. ‘Hey, darling,’ she said when she eventually reached him. ‘Do you mind if we go now?’

She suddenly looked exhausted, like she had just realised that she’d had quite enough of smiling and being friendly with everyone.

‘Of course,’ Peter said and drained his wine glass.

‘I just want to say goodbye to the Worshipful Master,’ Fay said. ‘Do you think he’s still in the temple? I haven’t seen him down here.’

‘Why don’t we check upstairs?’

‘Come, let us return to the West and prove ourselves to be Freemasons.’

This was one of the often-used phrases in Dutch Freemasonry, Fay had told him. When the Worshipful Master closed a lodge, he always ended the meeting by saying: ‘Return to the West and prove yourself to be a Freemason.’ The West was society, the material world, as opposed to the East, the spiritual or intellectual world, where wisdom came from. It was a reminder that Masons should apply the lessons they had learned in the lodge to their lives outside it, so that they could make a contribution, however modest, to building a better world.

Fay said goodbye to a few more people.

‘I’ll go to the loo, too,’ Peter said.

‘I’m so glad you came, Peter.’

‘I was happy to come, darling,’ he said. ‘It was an interesting evening.’

‘And who knows, maybe we’ll find ourselves here together more often,’ she said hopefully.

I suppose it’s quite an inspiring place, Peter thought. I’m sure it’s easier to have decent conversations with people here than it is in the outside world.

‘Who knows, darling,’ he said.

Peter left the function room and went to the toilets, a shabby area with dated tiling that was desperately in need of refurbishment. It was cold and smelled unpleasant, like the men’s toilets in a student union bar. He tried to breathe through his nose so that he would take in as little of the foul air as possible. He washed his hands and went back out into the corridor where Fay was waiting for him.

They went upstairs.

A sudden feeling of dread washed over Peter, making him reluctant to push down on the door handle.

Fay, who was right behind him and not expecting him to stop, bumped into his back. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, startled.

‘I don’t know,’ Peter answered.

Fragment 2 – From Amsterdam to Leiden (spring 1609)

Our group had now shrunk to about one hundred souls. John Robinson wrote a letter to Leiden’s council on our behalf asking for permission to settle in their beautiful city. We only wanted to be left in peace, he said, and he promised that we would cause no trouble. To our immense joy, the council decided in our favour on February 12th. For the second time in two years, we packed up our few possessions and prepared to resettle somewhere new. The council’s only conditions were that we would behave honestly and obey all the laws and ordinances of Leiden. The city had surely never received a group of new residents more prepared to respect these conditions.

The foxes have holes, and the birds have nests, but will we ever have a place to rest our heads?

During the last service before we left Amsterdam, John gave an inspiring sermon urging us to stay on the right path. He cited the words in 1 Peter: ‘Beloved, I beseech you as aliens and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh that wage war against your soul. Conduct yourselves honourably among the Gentiles, so that, though they malign you as evildoers, they may see your honourable deeds and glorify God when he comes to judge. For the Lord’s sake, accept the authority of every human institution, whether of the emperor as supreme, or of governors, as sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to praise those who do right.’

Strengthened by these words, we said goodbye to the friends we had made, and with joy in our hearts, we went on our way, relieved and happy to leave the squabbles and infighting of this great city behind us.

We knew that the English ambassador had immediately submitted an official protest on behalf of King James I when he heard that the city of Leiden had agreed to take us in. So it was not without a measure of unease that we set off on our journey. We English had provided much support to the Netherlands during their heroic resistance against the Catholic oppressors from Spain. The Dutch would therefore not want to offend our king. There had been a twelve-year truce with the Spanish, but of what value were the promises of godless, untrustworthy Catholics? And might the Netherlands once more need English support, perhaps much earlier than expected? But the city of Leiden, which had survived the Spanish Fury less than thirty-five years earlier with such heroism and great loss of human life – a third of the city had died in the Spanish Siege of Leiden – lived up to its motto: Haec Libertatis Ergo (All for the sake of Liberty – PvV). And hadn’t the university, the reward that Prince William of Orange had given to the courageous people of Leiden to thank them for their efforts in the struggle for independence, chosen as its motto: Praesidium Libertatis? (Bastion of Liberty – PvV). The city council therefore decided not to give in to pressure from the English, proving that these mottos were not just hollow words. They would be honoured!

Leiden is like a city built on a hill that cannot be hidden!

When we arrived in Leiden, we learned that the city’s magistrates had been so bold as to not allow the ambassador’s protest to go unanswered. They wrote him a letter explaining that no one was refused entry to the city as long as they behaved honestly and obeyed all its laws and ordinances. However, they also expressed the hope that this position would not lead to a deterioration in their relationship with England.

As I wrote earlier, never had a more grateful group sailed into the city of Leiden! We moored our little ship on the wharf outside the Weigh House, and that is where we first set foot in this true bastion of liberty. And what a splendid city Leiden is!

We saw its splendour immediately. Leiden is a city all bustling with activity and trade. Everyone seems to be in motion, on their way from here to there, dragging huge loads on carts. Boats sail up and down the canals laden almost to the point of sinking with grain, peat, hay and all manner of things. We see the city’s wealth in her citizens who wear fine clothes and love to show them off. The textile industry which has brought Leiden such great prosperity is a blessing to us. There is so much work on offer, and all you need is strength and a willingness to work hard. There’s no real need to speak the language – the heavy work can be done without words – although most of us are growing more fluent by the day. But for us, of equal importance is that we are free to practise our religion in our own way, just like many others who have fled persecution and found a safe haven here. We have seen Walloon Protestants, other Separatists from England, Huguenots from France, Mennonites, Baptists, Lutherans and even Jews. We are told that a third of the city’s population is made up of people who have fled to Leiden from elsewhere.

This will be our home. At least, for now.

I do not believe that even Leiden is meant to be our final destination.

Chapter 6

Naturally, the murder of the chairman of the local Masonic lodge was the talk of the small university town – and beyond. In a short item on the national news, a journalist stood on the Steenschuur to report ‘the mysterious death of Lodge Chairman Coen Zoutman, a man known for his warm and friendly character’. The Masonic Hall could be seen in the background; the street was cordoned off, and two police cars were parked at an angle on the kerb.

According to the reporter, the police were utterly in the dark as to both the identity and motive of whoever had committed the murder. As yet, no details had been released, but it was rumoured to have been a savage and brutal killing. One of the investigators’ immediate priorities was to compile a list of everyone who had been at the lodge that evening.

Anyone who had attended the open evening was asked to make themselves known. There was also a general appeal for anyone who had seen anything in the vicinity of the lodge that night, no matter how inconsequential it might have seemed, to come forward.

The police force was on high alert. Although the constabulary in the usually quiet town of Leiden had little experience in dealing with murders, they knew that the first twenty-four hours after the crime were of vital importance.

Detective Chief Inspector Rijsbergen clicked the X on the browser window in which he’d just watched the news report on the broadcaster’s catch-up service.

The chief inspector was a remarkably calm man, with short, grey, wiry hair and a well-maintained moustache. His carefully shaven face with its strong jawline was on the lean side. Combined with his toned, muscular body, it gave him a somewhat martial appearance, more like that of a professional soldier than a police officer.

Now he sat at his desk in his well-ordered office, where earlier that morning he had written a brief report of the murder. He stared at his computer screen.

Peter de Haan had not been amused when he and his girlfriend Fay Spežamor had been separated and taken to the station to be interviewed. Hadn’t they been the ones who called the police after they’d found Coen Zoutman’s lifeless body, De Haan had repeatedly asked on the way there. But Rijsbergen knew no one could be ruled out at this stage.

Although it had been close to midnight, Rijsbergen had decided to question them straight away. Peter de Haan had, understandably, looked tired when Rijsbergen and Van de Kooij interviewed him.

Peter had told them that he had met Coen Zoutman a few times. These occasions had always been chance encounters on the street when he had been with Fay Spežamor.

He had spoken calmly, telling them that he’d gone to the open evening with his girlfriend. That Coen Zoutman had given a talk about Freemasonry. That after the presentation, he and most of the other people present had gone downstairs to the drinks reception.

He had told them about everyone he had seen or spoken to that evening: his student Sven who was there with his friend Erik, and the American man, Tony Vanderhoop, who had come to Leiden with some other Americans who were making preparations for Mayflower 400.

It was estimated that between sixty and seventy people had been in the lodge building when Coen Zoutman was murdered, and moreover, the front door had been unlocked the entire time.

We must put the little grey cells to work, Rijsbergen had thought. Despite the horrific nature of the murder, he was looking forward to solving the puzzle before him.

They had taken Fay Spežamor’s statement next, and her account had been almost identical to that of her co-suspect except that she showed no trace of irritation at being questioned at all. She had appeared to accept the situation she had found herself in.

But a veil of immense grief had seemed to hang over her, a sadness that had spoken silently from her red-rimmed eyes. She’d sat in the interview room like a pitiful little bird, sometimes speaking so softly that Rijsbergen and Van de Kooij had barely been able to make out what she was saying.

She had talked about Coen Zoutman only in superlatives: he was the wisest man she had ever met, with the strongest and most loveable of characters and a great sense of humour. She had praised his encyclopaedic knowledge that he had gained not only from books but also from his many travels all over the world. Fay had told them about his retreats to a monastery where he often went to study and meditate for weeks at a time.

She had burst into tears several times during her interview.

These were either the two most cunning villains that Rijsbergen had ever encountered – so cunning that they had managed to perfectly align their stories in the short amount of time between committing their heinous crime and being bundled into separate police cars – or they were completely innocent citizens who had had been in the wrong place at the wrong time but had done the right thing by immediately calling the police.

Strictly speaking, there were insufficient grounds to hold them any longer, so they were both taken home after midnight, this time in the same car. It had been made very clear to them before they left that they were not to reveal to anyone the details of their discovery of Coen Zoutman’s body.

Rijsbergen shut down his computer. He’d only had a couple of hours’ sleep. His wife Corinne had still been sleeping when he’d left the house to come back to work this morning. But, strangely, he didn’t feel tired at all. There was a large, steaming mug of coffee next to his keyboard, already his second one of the day.

He drank his coffee pensively, blowing over the edge of the mug before each sip to cool it down.

Peter de Haan and Fay Spežamor’s interviews had not yielded much.

Mevrouw Spežamor’s white blouse and Meneer De Haan’s pale blue shirt had been spotless, as if they had just come from the dry cleaners. Their hands and nails had been clean with no lingering scent of soap – although they had both looked at Rijsbergen strangely when he’d asked if he could smell their hands.

The only possible lead is Fay’s casual comment about Coen Zoutman’s election to the chair, Rijsbergen thought. Might the election have created bad blood between Zoutman and one of the other candidates?

Rijsbergen planned to speak to both her and Peter de Haan again later that day to see if a night’s sleep had helped them to remember something they hadn’t mentioned in their interviews.

A forensics unit had been at the scene all night taking photographs and collecting evidence. They hadn’t finished their work until the early hours of the morning. Rijsbergen expected the report of their findings to appear on his desk at any moment.

He wanted to visit the Masonic Hall again before the body was removed from the temple and taken to the morgue. After that, a team of specialists would move in to clean up the crime scene.

There was a knock on the matte wired glass window of his office door.

The door opened before he’d had a chance to say ‘Come in.’

‘Are we going out?’ Van de Kooij asked eagerly, as though they were about to go on a staff outing.

Detective Sergeant Van de Kooij, his right-hand man, was a balding thirty-something, a whole head shorter than the oak-like Rijsbergen.

‘Yes, all right, Goldilocks,’ said Rijsbergen, draining his mug in two overlarge gulps. He enjoyed teasing Van de Kooij about his premature baldness, mostly because his colleague’s usual easy wit always failed him at such moments, and he seemed to resign himself to being the butt of Rijsbergen’s jokes.

They went out to the car park behind the police station and got into Van de Kooij’s car. Van de Kooij was a keen driver, and they often took his car whenever they went anywhere together. It was a somewhat oversized SUV that resembled a small Hummer. Rijsbergen always felt a bit silly sitting in it as it drove smoothly over the well-maintained Dutch roads, but he had to admit that it was comfortable. Its height meant that you could look down on the other motorists around you with a certain feeling of superiority. In Rijsbergen’s opinion, that was the real reason his colleague had bought it.

‘I want to go and see De Haan later, and that woman with the unpronounceable name, Fay,’ Rijsbergen said as they arrived at their destination.

‘Fay Spežamor.’

‘Precisely. She said something yesterday about Zoutman being elected chairman of the lodge. There might be something in that. We need to find out who the other candidates were, what happened, who supported who … That sort of thing.’

With the street blocked off, they were able to park right in front of the door.

‘Inspector.’ The officer who was guarding the door greeted them and tapped his hat in a salute. He held up the red and white tape that was blocking the entrance so that Rijsbergen and Van de Kooij could step under it and into the building.

They took the winding staircase upstairs. The door to the temple was closed but not locked. Inside, they found the room exactly as they had left it.

But now, Zoutman’s lifeless body lay under a white sheet.

They approached the victim but stopped a few metres away.

Rijsbergen crouched down, and Van de Kooij immediately crouched down next to him.

‘They’ll never get those bloodstains off the white tiles, you know,’ Van de Kooij remarked.

Rijsbergen nodded absently, as if he hadn’t heard what his partner had said. ‘It’s not …’ he began. ‘This murder wasn’t committed in the heat of the moment. I think someone came here intending to take his life. It wasn’t done on impulse or in a fit of rage. It wasn’t an argument that got out of hand. The blow to his skull alone would have been enough to kill him. They didn’t need to put that set square through his heart or the compasses through his hands.’

‘Dexter said that Zoutman was already dead when that was done,’ said Van de Kooij.

‘Dexter’ was the blood spatter analyst attached to the forensic investigation unit. His real name was Martin Garens, but everyone called him ‘Dexter’. Few people in the force actually knew what he was really called.

Rijsbergen himself had never watched Dexter, the American TV show about the FBI blood spatter analyst who moonlighted as a serial killer.