The Pilgrim Conspiracy

‘I just called Dexter for an initial update,’ Van de Kooij said. ‘Zoutman was hit on the back of the head with a huge amount of force. He would have been killed instantly.’

‘Exactly what Dalhuizen concluded,’ said Rijsbergen. ‘So to ram the set square into his chest afterwards … And then go to the trouble of forcing those compasses through his hands. Making the incisions with a knife beforehand … Those were all gratuitous acts. Or at least, they weren’t necessary to make him deader than he already was, and they weren’t used to torture something out of him either.’

Rijsbergen stood up, stroking his chin with his right hand. ‘It must be something symbolic,’ he thought out loud. ‘Maybe there’s someone in this club who can tell us more about it. Have you heard anything else?’

‘Yes, that it’s not looking good evidence-wise. They said there were no fingerprints on the gavel or the compasses or the square. Looks like they’ve been wiped completely clean.’

‘Hmm,’ Rijsbergen muttered. ‘That was to be expected. Or the murderer wore gloves. Or murderers, of course. One keeps him talking, the other one sneaks up behind him.’

‘And something else …’ Van de Kooij said. ‘They found loads of shoeprints, obviously, but they’re essentially useless because there were dozens of people walking around in here yesterday. It’s completely impossible to get anything from them. The murderer’s prints are bound to be among them, but they can’t identify them. There were no hairs found in the blood and no accidental footprints left in it either, so none of it leads anywhere.’

‘No cameras, obviously,’ said Rijsbergen. ‘No photos taken … Nobody who knows who was in the building when, or who spoke to Zoutman last. We don’t actually know who was in the building at all. So all we can do now is talk to everyone whose name we have. See if anyone noticed anything.’

They returned to the landing as two men and a woman came up the stairs carrying a stretcher.

‘Is it all right if we take him now?’ the woman at the front asked.

‘Go ahead,’ Van de Kooij said. ‘We’re finished here.’

They manoeuvred the stretcher past them and into the temple.

Rijsbergen and Van de Kooij watched from a distance as they removed the white plastic sheet, coldly exposing the dead man’s corpse.

There was no privacy in death.

The woman closed Coen Zoutman’s eyes, but his mouth still gaped half open. He looked like a drunkard who had passed out on the floor.

They carefully moved his body onto the stretcher. Left behind on the tiles where his head had lain was a semi-circle of blood spatters, like a diabolical halo.

To meet your end like this, Rijsbergen thought. To have gained all that wisdom, studied all those books, travelled half the globe, only to end up in a little hall in Leiden with your brains smashed in.

‘Chief Inspector!’ A shout came from downstairs. ‘Could you come here a moment, please?’

‘We’re on our way down!’ Van de Kooij replied on his behalf.

The two men and the woman zipped up the black body bag containing Coen Zoutman’s body. They strapped it onto the stretcher and carried it out of the temple with careful, shuffling steps.

Rijsbergen took a last look at the body shrouded in black.

It looked like they were carrying the giant cocoon of some strange insect. An insect that would eventually hatch out and reappear in an entirely new form.

Chapter 7

Peter let the heavy door of the Jean Pesijnhofje fall closed behind him, something that always made him feel like he was leaving an oasis of peace and calm. The original meaning of the word ‘paradise’ came from the old Iranian word ‘pairidaēza’ – ‘walled garden’ – and this small, enclosed courtyard illustrated that perfectly. Beyond its walls was the big, bad world, the West, as the Freemasons called it, with all its problems, jealousy, greed and deceit.

Occasionally, he managed to hold onto the feeling of serenity for a while, but more often than not, it vanished before he reached the end of the street. Either a cyclist brushing past him, furiously ringing their bell, or an idiot on a noisy moped barely avoiding mowing him down, or sometimes just a cold, miserable drizzle would bring him abruptly back to the here and now.

He went left and walked around the Pieterskerk.

After the police had brought them home, Peter and Fay had sat on the sofa for a while. They had sipped at their tea without saying very much to each other.

Fay and her twelve-year-old daughter Agapé shared their home with Fay’s mother, Alena. She had come downstairs in her old-fashioned nightdress and sleepily asked them what they were doing up so late. Fay told her she would explain everything in the morning.

Coen Zoutman’s murder had naturally affected Fay more than it had Peter. She had spent so much time in his company, had so many conversations with him, and heard him speak so often at the lodge’s fortnightly meetings. He had been her mentor.

‘Who would do something like this?’ she’d asked herself out loud, again and again. ‘Such a lovely man. Such a lovely man.’

When they’d gone to bed, Fay had lain awake in Peter’s arms for a long time. Her tears had left a large damp patch on his T-shirt. Peter hadn’t been able to erase the image of Coen Zoutman’s shattered skull from his mind, nor that of the man’s hands, pierced clean through like a modern-day Christ.

Peter had been woken by the familiar sound of Alena pottering in the kitchen. As usual, she had been up early, making coffee and setting the table. Very carefully, so as not to wake Fay who was still fast asleep, he had crept out of bed and gone downstairs.

He had told Alena about the dramatic events of the previous night. As he spoke, unfolding the story of their grisly discovery in the temple, she’d had to sit down. She had perched on the edge of the sofa, fidgeting with the tea towel in her lap, and suddenly, she’d looked very old, as though the lines around her mouth had grown deeper.

Agapé had come downstairs too and soon lightened the mood with her cheerful chatter.

While Peter was drinking his coffee, a message arrived from Jeffrey Banks, the director of the Leiden American Pilgrim Museum, asking if he had time to come to the museum that day. He was expecting a visit from a delegation of Americans who were organising events around the upcoming four hundredth anniversary of the Pilgrims’ arrival in America.

That must be Tony Vanderhoop and his group, Peter thought. Who else would it be?

In a small place like Leiden, coincidences like this happened all the time, and paths crossed with surprising frequency. During the forty years he had lived in the town, Peter had found that, sooner or later, every new person he met would reveal that they had an acquaintance in common.

There was just one lecture on his schedule that afternoon, so he had sent a message back to say that he would be happy to drop by.

Even if it’s just to take my mind off last night, he had thought to himself.

Peter walked along the Pieterskerkhof and into the narrow alleyway of the Pieterskerk-Choorsteeg.

My God, I’m so tired, he thought.

He’d had very little sleep, understandably, but he never really felt fully rested after spending the night at Fay’s anyway.

Fay’s bedroom was too small for an actual double bed, so they’d bought a trundle bed at IKEA in Delft. It had turned out to be so uncomfortable that staying at Fay’s always felt like being at a teenage sleepover.

Fay’s mother, who had spent her entire working life teaching classical languages at a high school, also had a room in the little almshouse. After the death of Fay’s husband, Alena had moved in with her and Agapé, making it a household of three generations of women.

They had worked out the perfect arrangement with each other. Alena was there when her granddaughter came home from school. She cooked dinner and made sure the house was clean and tidy when Fay finished work at around five. And if Fay spontaneously decided that she wanted to go out, she never had the hassle of trying to find a babysitter at the last minute.

The third bedroom in the house belonged to Agapé. Her name was the Greek word for ‘love’. But hardly anyone ever pronounced her name correctly and most people simply shortened it ‘Aggie’ or ‘Aagje’ – ‘little Agatha’. She was a bright, lively girl who had inherited her mother’s beauty and intelligence.

Peter walked along the Breestraat, past the imposing Stadhuis. The town hall’s façade was bathed in golden, springtime light.

He turned left into Koornbrugsteeg and crossed the Nieuwe Rijn canal via the roofed bridge. Then he immediately turned right and took a left into the Beschuitsteeg.

As soon as he rounded the corner into the lane, he saw a group of people gathered by the museum door. Among them, he spotted the tall form of Tony Vanderhoop wearing his ever-present baseball cap.

Jeffrey was there too, standing between the group and the front door like a bouncer who hadn’t yet decided if he was going to let people inside.

Peter and Jeffrey never socialised with each other outside the museum, but they had developed a good rapport. While not quite friends, their relationship was something that resembled a friendship.

Jeffrey had once confessed to Peter that, although he welcomed the increasing interest in the Pilgrims and Mayflower 400, he had strong objections to the way in which the English colonists’ history had been mythologised. He was a scientist and preferred to concentrate on the verifiable facts. True, they weren’t the stuff on which nations were usually built, but they were closer to what had actually happened. He rejected the oversimplified image of the Pilgrims as courageous men and women who had left Leiden and gone to America because they were afraid of losing their identity, heroes who started out with nothing and built their ideal of a pure, Christian community from the ground up.

Tony raised his eyebrows when he saw Peter coming towards him, but he smiled and looked genuinely pleased to see him again.

Up close, Peter recognised some of the other members of Tony’s group, two men and three women, but none of them gave any indication of remembering having seen him at the Masonic Hall.

Jeffrey’s face lit up. He was clearly relieved that he wouldn’t be giving the tour on his own.

Peter shook hands with everyone.

‘What a terrible business that was yesterday,’ Tony said. ‘Coen’s death … Please accept my condolences.’

‘Thanks,’ said Peter. ‘I didn’t know Coen very well myself, but my girlfriend Fay is a member of the lodge, and she’s devastated.’

‘I can imagine,’ Tony replied. ‘I’ve been pretty shaken up by it myself. We Freemasons are all brothers and sisters. Even if we’ve never met each other, we are one.’ He fell silent, as if the subject was something he’d rather not talk about for now.

‘Come on,’ said Peter. ‘Let’s go inside.’

They entered the room that had been set up as a living room.

‘What a lovely place this is,’ said a woman whose name Peter couldn’t remember. ‘This should definitely be one of the highlights of our programme.’

None of the Pilgrims ever lived here, Peter almost blurted out before deciding that it was Jeffrey’s job to reveal that sort of information.

‘As you probably know already, they’re hard at work in Plymouth, Massachusetts, restoring the Mayflower II, a replica that was built during 1955 and 1956. If it’s declared seaworthy again, they hope it’ll be able to sail to England’s Plymouth and to Delfshaven in the Netherlands in 2020.’

‘And that’s just one of the many things that are being planned,’ the woman next to him continued. ‘The list of events taking place in Leiden, Boston and Plymouth is huge. The list of events that are still at the planning stage is possibly even longer. And there’s going to be quite a big celebration around the opening of the new research centre. Well, “research centre” might be overstating it a little, but there will be a research department dedicated exclusively to the history of the Pilgrims. It’s going to be a branch of the Leiden Heritage Organisation.’

This last detail appeared to be news to Jeffrey. He looked around the group with a delighted expression, as if he had actually been the one to reveal it. Now that he knew that he had something real and long-lasting to look forward to as a result of the delegation’s visit, he immediately appeared more at ease.

‘And of course,’ the woman went on, ‘Jeffrey will have a vital role to play.’

A boy unwrapping the most longed-for item on his birthday wish list could not have looked happier.

Jeffrey went around the circle and shook everyone’s hand enthusiastically, which they all tolerated with weak smiles.

They visited both rooms briefly, and since the American visitors were already well-versed in the history of the Pilgrims, Jeffrey focused on the history of the building itself.

After the requisite photos had been taken, the group went back outside.

‘Are you coming with us, Peter?’ Jeffrey asked. ‘We’re going to take a short walk around town and see some of the other places that are associated with the Pilgrims. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.’

Peter looked at his watch. He still had plenty of time before his lecture was due to start. ‘Yes, all right, Jeffrey,’ he said.

They walked along the Nieuwstraat and past the public library towards the Burcht, which always made a huge impression on everyone who saw it for the first time.

The town centre was dominated by the Burcht. It was an enormous ninth-century motte, a man-made hill that rose twelve metres above ground level. On top of it was a tall shell keep with a circular, crenellated stone wall that was six metres high. Inside, a wooden walkway had been constructed along the castle’s battlements, giving visitors fantastic views out over the city with its medieval houses, churches and narrow streets.

The Americans took photos of the castle with the eagerness of photography students who had been told to capture every detail of the building’s construction.

Afterwards, they crossed the Oude Rijn canal and walked along the Haarlemmerstraat to the Vrouwekerkhof where the remaining walls of the Gothic Vrouwekerk still stood. Before it was renamed after the Reformation, this church had been called the Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk, or Church of our Lady.

Jeffrey told the group that ruins of the church, which had been attended by the Pilgrims, had almost been demolished by an overzealous city council. One phone call to the American State Department had been enough to have the plans to bulldoze it cancelled.

Philippe de la Noye had been baptised here in 1603. A Huguenot born in Leiden, he had sailed to America on the second Pilgrim ship, the Fortune. His descendants had anglicised their name to Delano, and one of them would eventually become the President of the United States of America: Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

On the little square in front of the remaining walls of the church, Jeffrey pointed out the long, dark stones laid out in a geometric pattern representing the graves that would have been there centuries ago.

They went back to the Harlemmerstraat and crossed the canal via the renovated Catharinabrug at the point where the Oude Rijn and Nieuwe Rijn rivers meet. They paused in front of the Waag, the seventeenth-century weigh house built in the Dutch baroque style where goods were once weighed for the market.

According to legend, the Pilgrims had first set foot in Leiden near the Waag. Jeffrey pointed out the exact spot opposite the building, and the members of the group all took turns to pose for photographs.

It’s really all just a matter of faith, Peter thought. As long as you say it convincingly enough and often enough, you can tell people that anything happened anywhere, and eventually, everyone will believe you. After a while, nobody will dare to question whether or not the story is true.

As they were making their way along the narrow Mandenmakerssteeg towards the busy Breestraat, Tony began to slow down, apparently on purpose. Peter slowed his pace to match Tony’s so that he wouldn’t be left alone at the back of the group.

‘You know, Peter,’ Tony said when they were out of earshot of the rest of the group, ‘Coen Zoutman’s murder last night … His death has shocked me in so many ways. It’s not just because it was so brutal and so unexpected. I feel like I’ve lost a friend, which is absurd, I know. I only met him for the first time yesterday.’

Peter nodded sympathetically.

‘I can only imagine how awful it must be for you. And for your girlfriend.’

‘It’s such a tragedy. As I said earlier, I didn’t know him well myself, but I’m shocked by how violent the murder was.’

Tony had grabbed Peter’s arm as if he thought he might be about to walk away. It created a physical intimacy between them that made Peter feel uncomfortable.

‘But I mean, you were the one who found him, right? That’s what I heard this morning.’

It’s astonishing how quickly news like this gets around.

‘That’s right. Fay and I found him. It was horrible, a nightmare. I don’t know how else to describe it.’

Tony shook his head in a way that suggested that he would have preferred it if Peter didn’t describe it at all.

Then Tony said something in a whisper. Peter had to incline his head and lean sideways towards him to hear it.

‘We’ve been the target of an increasing number of … threats, lately. The Freemasons, I mean … In the States too. I often wonder … Our grand lodge in Boston has been getting anonymous letters and emails. Sometimes, Peter, it feels like we’re in a movie. We get letters in the mail where the words have all been cut out of newspapers, very old-school. We don’t know who’s behind it all.’

‘And do you think it might be connected to what happened here?’

‘I don’t know. That’s for the police to figure out, I guess.’

‘Have you told the Dutch police about all of this yet?’

‘I’ll go to the police station this afternoon. The police want to talk to us, but we’re flying back to the States tonight.’

At last, Tony let go of Peter’s arm.

‘There are a lot of crazy people around, especially back home, as I’m sure you know,’ Tony said, and he smiled. ‘There are conspiracy theorists who think that the Freemasons have been involved in pretty much all the evil in the world. They think we had a hand in 9/11, that we’re responsible for just about every financial crisis there’s ever been, that we started the French Revolution, that we were behind the attack on Pearl Harbor, you name it. The Illuminati, Novus ordo seclorum, the so-called New World Order, all the Masonic symbols on the dollar bill, the All-Seeing Eye and the unfinished pyramid. Oh, I’m sure you know all the stories. I’d probably think it was funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.’

The group stopped on the Langebrug, the five-hundred-metre-long street that had once been a canal. The famous painter Jan Steen had lived here. It was also the street where Rembrandt van Rijn had taken his first painting lessons with Jacob van Swanenburg.

Jeffrey told the group the story of James Chilton, a Pilgrim who was pelted with rocks by a group of boys in 1619 because they thought that he had been holding Remonstrant church services at his home. The Remonstrants were a group of mostly Protestant Christians who disagreed with the doctrine of the Dutch Reformed Church, the prevailing church in the Dutch Republic at the time.

So the much-vaunted Dutch tolerance wasn’t really all it was cracked up to be, Peter thought. This was something he regularly tried to impress upon his students. The myth of total religious liberty was so deeply ingrained in the story that the Netherlands told about itself that it would be an uphill battle to convince anybody that it wasn’t true.

‘But why now?’ Peter asked Tony. ‘Why are the Freemasons getting so many threats right now?’

‘Why now? We live in strange times. People feel like they don’t understand the world any more. They feel powerless. Maybe the world has just gotten too big. We’re bombarded with terrible news every day, on the internet, on our smartphones. Whenever people suffered in the past, they could blame the gods for every sickness, every bad harvest, every child’s death, every shipwreck. People of faith were actually the first conspiracy theorists. Something didn’t just happen. Someone made it happen, someone with a set plan. It was punishment for not following God’s rules, or because a sacrifice hadn’t been made, or even because two gods were warring with each other or whatever. But terrible things still happen in the world, utterly senseless, random disasters that have absolutely no purpose. If you don’t believe in God, then the only possible cause of all these awful events is man. And the most convenient culprits are secret societies who are all hellbent on world domination.’

‘And you think it has something to do with all that?’

Tony shrugged and stuck out his bottom lip to show that he didn’t know.

They stopped at the former Stinksteeg, an alleyway that was now called the William Brewstersteeg after the Pilgrim whose printing shop had been here. The shop was closed down, Jeffrey explained, by none other than the English King James I, who was furious about a pamphlet Brewster had printed called Perth Assembly. Brewster fled to Leiderdorp, where he stayed until his departure for America. All this upheaval and disruption eventually led to the Pilgrims deciding to seek refuge elsewhere.

The group made its way along a winding route through streets and alleyways to the Lokhorststraat. They stopped at the Latin school where, Jeffrey told them, Rembrandt had studied as a young boy.

Rembrandt was three years old when the Pilgrims arrived and fourteen when they left again, so he was very likely to have bumped into John Robinson and the other Pilgrims in Leiden’s small town centre at some point – a detail that seemed to delight the American visitors.

Walking ahead of the group, the expert guide led them to the Gerecht square. They turned left into the Muskadelsteeg and then left again around the Pieterskerk towards the Jean Pesijnhofje, where Fay lived.

I’ll pop in and say hello to Fay, Peter thought. Make sure she’s okay.

‘We’ll visit the Pieterskerk on the way back,’ Jeffrey said. ‘We can stop for coffee in the café there, but I want to show you a few other things first.’ He opened the large, heavy door that led into the hofje. The Americans gasped in surprise as they went through the vestibule and realised that it led to an inner courtyard with a garden surrounded by what looked like little fairy-tale houses.

‘John Robinson lived here, as did many of the other Pilgrims,’ Jeffrey told them. ‘Sadly, the original compound was demolished, but it stood on this exact spot.’

Peter noticed that Fay’s bike was gone.

Maybe she’s gone to her office at the university after all.

When they returned to the street, Jeffrey pointed towards the Pieterskerk. ‘You might be interested to know,’ he said, ‘that they recently opened an escape room in the Pieterskerk.’

‘Oh, with puzzles?’ one of the women in the group asked. ‘I love those!’

‘Yes, exactly. But the fun thing about this one is that it has a Pilgrims theme. I’ve done it myself, and I must say it’s quite ingenious. And the fact that it’s such an old building adds to the whole experience, of course.’

‘And did you manage to escape?’ the woman wanted to know.

‘I think that’s for me to know and you to wonder about,’ Jeffrey said, laughing. ‘But I will tell you that I can highly recommend it. You should have a go if you have time. They have an English version, so we could ask if they have any slots available later. The theme changes every year or two, but for now, it’s the Pilgrims.’