The Pilgrim Conspiracy

Peter sat down again.

Stefan suddenly looked lost. He stood with his little sheet of notes in his hand like a disappointed customer in a newsagent’s clutching a losing lottery ticket.

‘But even so,’ one of the other students said, putting her hand up as she spoke, clearly more for form’s sake than actual politeness, ‘the chief probably did say something like that. Maybe not in so many words, but we know that the contents of the speech reflect the Native American view of the world in which everything in nature is believed to be alive, to have a spirit. So does it really matter, in principle, what his exact words were?’

‘Right,’ Sven said. ‘It’s about the power of stories. It doesn’t matter if a story is true or not as long as people believe it could be true.’

‘That’s a very interesting point, Sven,’ Peter said. ‘But then you’re getting away from historiography and entering the completely different area of mythology or the world of alternative facts.’

Some of the students grinned at his use of the phrase ‘alternative facts’.

‘Yes, but,’ Sven said, ‘isn’t that an equally legitimate field of study? Or am I mistaken? Haven’t entire nations been built on a combination of truth and fable? In Leiden, we have the story of Burgomaster Van der Werff offering his body to the people of Leiden during the Spanish Siege. Or you could take another story from the same period: Cornelis Joppenszoon, the orphan boy who found a still-warm cooking pot filled with hutspot in the Spanish army’s deserted army camp here on the Lammenschansweg at the end of the siege of Leiden, and realised that the Spaniards had fled from the Sea Beggars. Stories like these are obvious fabrications, but they’ve always been important for creating a feeling of unity in a society.’

‘That’s true,’ Peter said.

‘In the end, the majority decides whether a story is believable enough to be passed on,’ Stefan said. ‘History is always written by the victors, right?’

‘But still,’ Peter argued, ‘it’s up to the historian, to us as historians, to separate fact from fiction, truth from fabrication.’

‘But that …’ said Sven, clearly pleased to have found a segue that led back to what he wanted to say, ‘that is what Stefan and I were going to talk about. On the one hand, you’ve got the story of the winners, like the one told by the colonists—’

‘Could you maybe explain,’ said the female student who had spoken earlier, ‘what you meant when you used the word “genocide”? That seems like quite a strong word to use.’

‘It is,’ Sven said. ‘And it’s justified. The United Nations defines genocide as “a denial of the right of existence of entire human groups”. There are reliable estimates that the number of Native Americans decreased from about twelve million in 1500 to about two hundred and fifty thousand in 1900, making it the biggest mass extermination in the history of mankind. Of course, many Indians died from sicknesses because they were exposed to germs that they weren’t resistant to, but many more died as a result of direct confrontations with the whites. We cannot go on talking about the history of the WIC without talking about its significant dark side.’

Peter stood back from the discussion that followed, but he listened to his students with a measure of satisfaction.

The argument about genocide was unsophisticated, but it had led to a lively exchange of ideas.

It was now just gone three o’clock, and a few of the students were starting to pack up their things. Peter put away his notes too. He would turn them into a short report to use in the students’ assessment interviews at the end of the course. Alongside their exam grade, they would be given a checkmark for having delivered successful presentations.

When he looked up again, Peter realised that everyone had left except for Sven and Stefan. They were looking at him expectantly.

‘Your presentation was fine. Perhaps a bit on the reductive side here and there, but that can sometimes lead to interesting discussions. It was good to talk about fact and fiction and our noble task as historians to differentiate between the two.’

They nodded.

‘If you like,’ Sven said, ‘you could come along to one of our meetings. On the Haagweg.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Peter. ‘Your protest group.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t mean this to sound disparaging, but I think I can guess how your group’s discussions go. In my experience, the discussions in groups like yours tend to be a bit unsophisticated. There’s rarely anyone who’s prepared to offer an opposing point of view or who really understands the topic that’s being discussed. I’m sorry, Stefan, but the way you brought up Chief Seattle’s speech without having looked into its background … It’s not such a huge problem when you do that here. I mean, you’re here to learn. But a protest group, well that’s real life, and the combination of emotions and a lack of knowledge can be a dangerous one.’

Sven and Stefan looked genuinely offended.

‘But …’ Sven began, clearly trying to come up with a way of saying what he wanted to say without seeming disrespectful. ‘I’m sure you’ll see that it’s not as bad as you think. And you can hardly make a judgement about it when you’ve not seen it for yourself, can you? You could be the one to voice that opposing point of view.’

‘Exactly,’ Stefan continued. ‘Then we could spar with you in a proper debate. Ultimately, what we want to do is gag our critics with the power of our arguments. To try to muzzle them any other way would be a sign of weakness.’

‘Well, maybe, gentlemen. Who knows?’ Peter said, attempting to end the conversation.

‘It was horrible, wasn’t it?’

Peter looked at him quizzically.

‘That business yesterday, I mean,’ Sven said, surprised that Peter hadn’t instantly understood what he meant. ‘At the Freemasons, the chairman’s murder.’

‘Oh, yes, absolutely. Awful,’ said Peter.

Sven had been there too, of course.

Sometimes Peter was inclined to compartmentalise all the worlds he lived in – the university, home, his relationship with Fay, the city – as separate things with no connection to each other. When the different worlds collided, it gave him the same feeling he got when he saw someone he only knew from, say, the ticket office at the cinema, and didn’t quite recognise them outside of their usual environment.

‘I saw it on the news this morning,’ Sven said. ‘Erik and I had already left by the time the police came.’

‘Ah, okay. We were still there. Yes, it was all very distressing. A great tragedy, of course.’

Sven nodded.

‘Shall we get going?’ Stefan said, tugging at Sven’s jacket. ‘We said we’d go for a drink.’

When they were gone, Peter tucked his bag under his arm and walked back to his office.

Stefan’s words about gagging and muzzling their critics throbbed in his head like the nagging pain of a slowly emerging toothache.

Fragment 3 – The Pilgrims as citizens of Leiden (summer 1611)

The last three years have been difficult ones. Our two attempts to escape from England stripped most of us of every last penny we had, so we came to Leiden with little more than the clothes we were wearing and the few belongings that we could carry.

We have been fortunate that there is no shortage of work here, and that we were able to find lodgings quickly, albeit in the rougher parts of town and having to cram many families under one roof. Daylight struggled to make its way into the first homes we had here, but the same cannot be said of the rainwater, nor the countless rats, mice, lice and who knows what other vermin we shared our dwellings with. Walking through the narrow streets regularly led to the loss of a shoe in the thick mud.

Most of us are employed in the textile factories. It is filthy, backbreaking work. Our paltry wages must pay for the food in our bellies as well as the roofs over our heads. Others work in the city’s brewery, or as opticians, joiners, pipemakers. Some do well, very well, and have set up their own businesses, or even, in one case, teach at the university. Nicholas (Claverly – PvV) is making a name for himself as a pipemaker, and William has developed a method for teaching people English. Students from Germany, France, Denmark, Belgium and the Netherlands are queuing up to take lessons from him. It is marvellous to hear people from all four corners of Europe speaking to each other in the language that we learned at our mothers’ knees. The ease with which people master English using William’s system is most impressive. How convenient it would be if the whole world spoke English one day! How much easier it would be to converse with each other. There would surely be many fewer misunderstandings, fewer conflicts and perhaps even fewer wars. Latin is for scholars, but anyone of average intelligence can learn to speak our English!

We try to assemble at John’s house every Sunday, whatever else may be going on in our lives. A short time ago, he bought a house in the Kloksteeg, opposite the Pieterskerk, together with some other members of our group. The house has been converted into a home – for John and his family – and a meeting room and church for our congregation. Out of the goodness of his heart, John has had twenty little houses built in the garden for the poorest among those who originally came with him from Scrooby. I am not ashamed to say that my family and I belong to this group. For us, the move to the Netherlands was even more of a wrench than it was for the families with whom we share the garden. I received a good education in England. My family and I were not wealthy, but neither were we without means. We had a house, land, cattle, servants … We had some capital. I had a secure job as a town clerk. But we lost everything we owned. Our own hands are all that we have left now, and with these, we try to earn our daily bread. Did we make too great a sacrifice? Do we regret our decision to leave behind our life in England? No, of course we do not! We left hearth and home so that we could finally be free, truly free to lead our lives as we wished and to serve our God as we wished!

There is such an enormous difference between our first home in Leiden and where we live now. Instead of the gloom of a leaky house in one of the city’s dark alleys, now I am sitting at a table as I write this, in front of a house set in an enclosed garden with green all around me. We work just as hard as before but coming home afterwards is very different now.

This is where we go to church too. As Separatists, we do not belong in the Reformed Church, and we are not welcome in the other churches in Leiden. This means that we mix less with the rest of Leiden’s citizens, but I wonder whether that is such a very bad thing after all. A handful of people from our group have applied for ‘poorterschap’ which allows them to become official burghers of Leiden. Burghers have more rights and more opportunities, which makes life here easier, especially since poorterschap is compulsory for merchants. But we prefer to remain English subjects, like children sent away by a hard-hearted father, ever hopeful that we might one day return to his good graces.

We have two services on Sundays. The first service is very early in the morning before we have broken our fast. We do not take communion every Sunday, but when we do, we make sure that the sacramental bread, the body of our Lord and Saviour, and the wine, his precious blood that takes away the sins of the world, do not mix with the profane food in our stomachs. We begin by saying a long prayer together. We do this standing up, like loyal subjects standing out of respect for their king. We enjoy singing psalms, without the accompaniment of any instruments. The words soar from our hearts and rise up to God. John reads a passage from the Bible and interprets it for us. He gives us advice and encouragement about how to live a good life. Because choosing the right path is not always easy. He always knows how to find just the right words to send us out of church feeling stronger than when we arrived. Sometimes we feel like sheep among the wolves who need to be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves. Because even here in Leiden there are quarrels, the same quarrels that we thought we had left behind in Amsterdam! The arguments about predestination – has God already set down the fate of every man in the Book of Life, or can we still control our own destinies? – usually go over my head. Tensions sometimes run high, but I hope that we might be kept out of it all.

Afterwards, we eat a meal together as brothers and sisters. This is the best meal of the week for many of us, although some would be ashamed to admit it. We contribute food for the table according to our means, just as each of us contributes what he can to our shared funds. None of us thinks of it as private property. The smallest coin from a poor widow means as much to us as a larger sum of money from the richest man in the group!

John has prepared us for the possibility that this may not be where we belong, that the day may come when we leave this city. There are other places, other worlds where we could go, must go, if we are to be free, freer than we are here.

We hold a second service in the afternoons. This service has a different character. Naturally, it opens with prayer, followed by a reading from the Bible with commentary and explanations, but afterwards, we have the opportunity to share our thoughts and concerns with each other as equals. What has been happening? What are our difficulties and worries? Are we all still able to afford food? Does everyone have work? Is anyone struggling with the language? Have there been confrontations with other believers? The women listen to these conversations so that they can learn from what the men discuss with each other. There are no secrets between us.

Sometimes we welcome guests from outside our group. We want them to know that we have nothing to hide. On the contrary, in fact! Occasionally, someone from the university will come to speak to us. And several people have joined our congregation already! The Walloons – the people of the Southern Netherlands – feel especially at home with us.

The little fellow who seemed to be particularly favoured by Josh Nunn is growing into a boy who rarely speaks in public but who seems to increase in confidence by the day. He is a member of Josh’s household. Although he still stays close to Nunn’s side, I have recently seen him walking through town, usually alone. Sometimes he joins the other boys, but he walks apart from them. The boy’s private instruction continues unabated. Perhaps Josh sees in him a future leader of our community and is preparing him for that role.

Chapter 10

The surface of Chief Inspector Rijsbergen’s desk was awash with paper: neat stacks of A4, lists of the names of people who were at the Masonic Hall on the Steenschuur on the day of the murder, the building plans, some printouts of the Masonic Hall’s website and Wikipedia pages about the Freemasons, and, neatly stored in a clear plastic sleeve, a copy of the napkin that the building manager Frank Koers had found.

Rijsbergen picked the napkin up to take another close look at it. It showed the layout of the Masonic Hall sketched in pen and drawn with such untidy lines that it must have been done in great haste. Thicker lines marked the front and back doors. The almost indecipherable numbers on it appeared to denote distances.

There were actually two drawings: rough outlines of each of the two floors. The temple itself had been drawn in great detail. It showed exactly where everything in the room was, with the correct name scribbled next to it. The nib of the pen had pierced through the paper here and there like it had been resting on something soft.

Like someone’s lap?

There were question marks next to some of the places where a door had been drawn; the draftsman probably hadn’t been able to access whatever was behind them.

He stared at the napkin, wondering what on earth the drawing could mean.

The sketch was thrown away during the open evening, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it was made that same evening, Rijsbergen thought, putting it back on his desk.

The Masonic Hall was kept locked when it wasn’t in use, and only a small number of people had a key to the front door.

Anyone who did have a key would be free to come and go as they chose. There would be no need for them to draw a map of the building, quickly and in secret – only to throw it in the bin afterwards … So who would make a sketch like this? Why would they emphasise the front and back entrances – as possible escape routes – so clearly? And why would they dispose of it so carelessly when it could be used as evidence? It didn’t make sense.

The original sketch had been sent to the lab to be tested for traces of DNA. It was obviously a long shot, but it might lead to some usable evidence. As a last resort, they could take a cheek swab from everyone who had been in the building. That might reveal the identity of the mapmaker.

It’s a shame we didn’t find the map ourselves before the building manager had a chance to smooth it out so carefully and smear his DNA all over it.

Rijsbergen shook his head as the cogs in his brain whirred. What if the killer – or killers – had had the map in their hands? Throwing it away afterwards would be evidence of an unbelievable level of stupidity. Criminals often did stupid things, of course. For some, it was the DNA on a casually discarded cigarette butt that led to their capture. For others, it was the analysis of bite marks on an apple core found near the scene of a crime. But this? Wasn’t it just as easy to shove a paper napkin in your pocket as it was to throw it in the bin? Had they panicked? Had someone seen them doing something?

Rijsbergen could make neither head nor tail of it.

The best they could hope for was that there would be traces of DNA on the napkin, even the smallest amount. On TV trace evidence was enough to put the murderer behind bars in the space of a fifty-minute episode, including the adverts. So these days, it wasn’t always easy to make the general public or the victims and their relatives understand why a criminal was still on the loose a week after a crime.

But even if they did find the person the DNA belonged to, they still had to prove that they had drawn the map. Their DNA could have been transferred to the napkin in all sorts of ways. And they also had to prove that the map had been left behind by the suspect rather than by someone else who had been trying to set them up.

He turned on his monitor to reread the notes he had made during his conversation with Tony Vanderhoop earlier that afternoon.

Van de Kooij and some of their colleagues had spoken to the other members of the American delegation. They hadn’t been formal interviews, just conversations that were part of the standard procedure of talking to everyone present at the crime scene. Vanderhoop and the others were flying back to Boston that evening.

Vanderhoop had walked into Rijsbergen’s office with an air of confidence that seemed typical of Americans. ‘Good afternoon,’ he had said brightly, shaking Rijsbergen’s hand for far longer than was necessary, like he was trying to give an unseen photographer ample opportunity to capture the moment on film.

They took their seats, and Rijsbergen got straight down to business.

‘Did you notice anything unusual yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Anything that might help us with our enquiries?’

Vanderhoop considered the question seriously for a moment, pausing exaggeratedly like an actor who had been directed to look grave and contemplative.

‘No, not really,’ he said at last. ‘We’ve talked to a lot of people. I’ve been introduced to a lot of brothers and sisters. Of course, I’ve forgotten most of their names already. I’m afraid I might not be of much help to you, but …’

‘But what?’

‘But you should know that there have been a lot of threats made to the Boston lodges recently, specifically aimed at the Freemasons. Perhaps it’s worth looking into whether something similar is going on here?’

Rijsbergen made a note of this, but he didn’t see how threats made so far away could have anything to do with something that had happened here in Leiden. Then his gaze fell on the plastic sleeve with the map inside. He picked it up and showed it to Vanderhoop, who indulged him by examining it but appeared not to recognise it.

‘I understand from my colleague that you were in the back garden with several other people on the night in question. Is that correct?’

‘That is … correct,’ said Vanderhoop, on his guard suddenly, like he was considering his answer carefully to avoid walking into a trap. ‘We were in the garden talking to people. As I just said, I’ve forgotten most of their names. I might recognise some of their faces, but I couldn’t tell you everyone who was there. It was a pretty big group. Some of them were smoking. Filthy habit … I chatted to Peter de Haan. He was with two young men, but I don’t remember their names. We went back outside again after the presentation.’

Rijsbergen paused, allowing a meaningful silence to fall between them, giving the impression that he was on to something but wanted to play his cards close to his chest.

‘But what are we looking at here exactly?’ said Vanderhoop, who had regained his earlier self-confidence.

‘A paper napkin with a map of the building on it. It appears to have been drawn in great haste. The building manager at the Masonic Hall found it in a bin in the refectory.’

‘Someone drew a map of the building and then threw it in the trash?’

‘That’s what it looks like, yes.’

‘That’s weird, don’t you think? Why would someone make this and then throw it away?’

‘You tell me.’

Vanderhoop had been staring at the napkin intently, but now he looked up abruptly, as if he had smelled something unpleasant. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked. There was a sudden edge to his voice.

‘I’m not suggesting anything at all,’ Rijsbergen replied calmly.

‘No. Sorry. I’m drawing a total blank here. As I’ve already said, we were outside drinking coffee with a bunch of other people. After that, we went inside for the presentation. Some of the brothers and sisters talked about why they became Freemasons. Well, according to what I was told afterwards, because obviously the whole thing was in Dutch. I didn’t notice anything odd about any of it.’

He stared at the map again.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I really can’t help you.’

Vanderhoop and Rijsbergen had parted warmly in the way you might say goodbye to someone you’ve met on holiday – with a certain detached cordiality that comes from being confident that you’ll never see each other again.

Vanderhoop had given Rijsbergen his business card which the detective had taken carefully between his thumb and forefinger. The moment Vanderhoop had left the room, the detective pushed the card into a plastic evidence bag with his pen. He sealed the bag and attached a label with the date and the name ‘Tony Vanderhoop’.

When the Americans had left, Van de Kooij had come into Rijsbergen’s office with some sheets of paper in his hand. He’d yanked out the chair that Vanderhoop had been sitting on and perched on the edge of the seat like he was trying to avoid sitting on the warm spot left by Vanderhoop’s backside.

‘Are you any the wiser after talking to him?’ he asked. ‘Do you think he had something to do with it?’