Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [40]
Charles waited a moment or two, fiddling with the coils of his long hair, and then crept back towards the bed.
He found a wax taper, which he lit from the flame close by. Then, after lighting a candle, he went back to the door.
There was a square of folded paper lying on the elegant rug. Carefully, Charles stooped and picked it up. He walked back to the bed and sat down on the counterpane.
Holding the candle in one slightly shaky hand, he unfolded the paper and peered at the message it contained.
A short time later, an unaccustomed smile found its way on to his grave features. He paused, lost in thought, tapping the paper against his chin, then he let the candle flame catch at its edge.
Soon the paper was alight and he dropped it carefully to the floor and watched it burn, the red-orange flames licking satisfyingly at the parchment, then curling it up into a black ball.
Charles slid back into bed, pulled the blankets over himself and extinguished the candle with his fingers.
It was, Ben decided, only fair that he allow himself a little relaxation. The past couple of days had been trying, to say the least, and, as he knew there was no opportunity of returning to England until the morning, he decided to enjoy himself.
Ashdown led him through the streets of Amsterdam, talking nineteen to the dozen about the strange and wonderful sights that awaited them.
‘Your Dutch, you see, are a queer breed,’ he expounded, gesticulating as he walked. ‘They’re prone to drunkenness
’cause of them having to live among all the stinking vapours and chills of these here bogs.’
Ben laughed. ‘Is that what it is? I thought they just knew how to have a good time.’
Ashdown cackled merrily. ‘That they do, Ben, that they do. I know a place where they have a great tun, a barrel that you can sit in! Aye, with thirty-odd of your fellows and they keep the ale coming from dawn to dusk!’
Ben didn’t reply. He was too caught up in the very real beauty of the city, which was different again from the narrow, cramped streets of old London.
They walked through streets that still bustled, despite the lateness of the hour. The houses seemed new, almost freshly minted, and imposingly tall. Some were three or four storeys high and topped with the familiar Dutch gable. Surrounding them were shops of every description, their entrances clustered with fine porcelain, silks, and linen. Fat cheeses and churns of buttery milk were set out on the pavement, like bait to entrap the salivating visitor.
Ben found himself smiling. It was just like the sensation he had visiting any new port with his own ship, full of new sights and smells and an exciting expectation of what might be to come.
They had entered a vast, open space which was bordered at two sides by rows of elegant houses and trees. In the centre stood a huge new building with a dome, a spire, and a clock which seemed to Ben like a glorious folly made up of the most familiar parts of a town hall, a cathedral, and a bell tower.
Ashdown explained that it was the new church on the Botermarkt and that it meant they were close to a certain establishment of his acquaintance. The church, like the houses and roads that surrounded it, was wet and sparkling with new rain and Ben was grateful that Amsterdam was at least a little warmer than London.
They passed through a cross street and Ben looked up to see the tiled nameplate which identified it as the Heiligeway, whatever that might be.
He became aware of a strange sound, a sort of combined grumbling and moaning, as though he’d accidentally stumbled on the entrance to purgatory.
Ben stopped dead and listened. The sound was desperate, so awful that it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
He grabbed Ashdown’s shoulder and turned him round.
‘What’s that?’
Ashdown looked glum and shook his head. ‘Don’t you pay no mind to that, Ben. It ain’t a thing to think about too hard.’
Ben looked across the street. The sound seemed to be coming from a big, red-roofed building with a large, columned portico as its entrance.