As a general rule, Claus van Clynne would not have gone back to the Loaded with Mischief Inn for several weeks at least, long enough to let its proprietor forget his role in raising the price of salt. But as the tavern was the first to present itself and as van Clynne's thirst had reached powerful proportions, he consented to break his rule just this once. His reward was an outraged shout from the keeper, who directed his wife to swat the Dutchman on the back with her broom on his way off the premises.
"Tut, tut, my good man," said van Clynne, fussing with the large gold buttons of his coat as he eyed the woman's raised weapon. "Surely you can't be upset with me for facilitating your deal."
"Surely I can. You doubled the price."
"You bought your salt at a third what I paid for mine," said van Clynne, nodding at the inn's only other customer as he walked to the table. Van Clynne was not actually lying, merely neglecting to divide his cost across all of his purchase. "You'll make a fine profit off it, I suspect. As I see by your clock that it is just about noon, I'd like a mug of stout, please."
The keeper frowned heavily and considered the matter. It was one thing to hold a grudge; it was quite another to let that grudge prevent you from making a bit of profit. And so he directed his wife to disarm and went and fetched some beer for van Clynne.
"Do you mind if we set up an account?" queried the Dutchman when the tankard was set down.
The vessel was whisked back so quickly its contents did not have an opportunity to spill.
"Just a jest, my good man," said van Clynne, reaching for one of the purses he carried on a string suspended from his neck.
"Legal money," said the keeper. "You will use coins or you will find yourself sitting on the roadway talking to yourself."
"I had no intention of burdening you with paper," said van Clynne haughtily. "I have been looking for a way to get rid of this shilling for many months."
He dropped the coin so that it rolled across the table and continued onto the floor, making straight for the door. As the keeper dove to intercept it, van Clynne looked over and nodded at the customer sitting in the large armchair near the unlit fireplace. He was dressed in a powder blue coat with a brocaded yellow vest and very properly arranged hair. He sipped a thimble's worth of Madeira from a tiny silver beaker, undoubtedly one that he had brought to the inn himself. A walking stick crowned by a golden eagle stood at the side of his chair.
The reader has already made the man's acquaintance, for the stranger is the notorious Dr. Harland Keen, as he introduces himself — without the "notorious," of course.
"And I, sir, am Squire Claus van Clynne, at your service I'm sure. It is always a pleasure to meet a man of the medical profession. There are not enough doctors in this world, that's my motto."
"And what, sir, is your profession?"
"I am a man of the world, a traveler and a philosopher, a person who sees needs and fills them — in short, I am a good man of business. I am currently engaged in an enterprise involving a little salt," added van Clynne in a confidential tones. "Salt which has been separated from me. Stolen, in fact."
"Ha! It serves you right," said the keeper, who'd been eavesdropping on the conversation.
"I am looking for a troop of bandits," continued van Clynne. "They were dressed in green coats and wore odd brown beanies, as if they'd caught some hideous cancer."
"Interesting," replied Keen, feigning not to know the significance of the coats. "And these were Loyalists or Americans?"
"Robbers, sir, no matter what flag they fly. These woods are filled with miscreants of every stripe. It is something about the air, I believe — the archbishop of Canterbury himself would think of lifting a man's purse if he rode here."
"It's the times, not the geography," replied Keen. "I have often thought that things have gone very much downhill since the Dutch ruled this land." "Indeed, you're very right, sir. Most observant. You say you're a doctor?" "I have passed the necessary examination." "I could tell you were a man of great learning the moment I set eye on you. That is your coach outside, no doubt." Keen nodded.
"Quite an interesting vehicle," said van Clynne, who naturally recognized it as having been made in England and had concluded that its owner was not only well — off but probably allied with the British. While this might shade van Clynne's attitude toward him, a man's allegiance was not necessarily a barrier to business in a time of crisis, especially as he showed proper deference to the squire's ancestry. "I have had occasion to deal with some similar carts in the past."
"I'd hardly call it a cart," said Keen quite lightly.
"True, I suppose you would call it a carriage, with the high wheels and all," allowed van Clynne. "Still, it is most impractical on these roads." "Impractical? I find it handy indeed." "It requires a driver, does it not? That's an added expense in these days of inflation." "My driver is most useful," said Keen. Van Clynne nodded, and turned to signal for another beer. "I don't suppose it's for sale then." "For sale? I think not. But perhaps we can do business on another front."
The Dutchman took this under advisement while he watched the innkeeper pour out a refill. Keen took a sip from his silver cup so slight that a bird would have been considered a guzzler by comparison.
"I am always ready to do business," said van Clynne when the keeper had gone. "Even with a British officer."
"Why do you think I'm a British officer?"
"Come, sir, let us be frank with each other. What rebel would dress as you, or display such wealth? And no Royalist could afford to be so bold."
"And your allegiance?"
"I am Dutch. My allegiance is my own."
Now the reader will realize that both men were jousting, each aware the other was more than he presented but not necessarily sure what that more was. Keen had the advantage, not so much because Bacon had told him of the Dutchman's strengths, but because while van Clynne was signaling the innkeeper he had sprinkled some dust from his hand into the bottom of the Dutchman's cup.
The active ingredient in the powder was largely distilled from jimsonweed, but a pharmaceutical analysis would fill several pages. More important to note was that its intended effect was as something of a truth serum; anyone who consumed a healthy dose found within a few minutes that they were amazingly agreeable and unable to dissemble. This condition lasted only a short time, for the belladonna at the formula's core tended to have a heavy impact on a person's consciousness, quickly delivering him into a state of extended drunkenness — or worse.
Except in this case. The scientist in Keen was quite intrigued by the Dutchman's apparent resistance to the drug, for his companion not only continued speaking coherently — if at enormous length — but drained the entire tankard of beer without any noticeable effect.
To keep the conversation going, Keen made up a story about wanting to buy wheat, but as he knew nothing about the prevailing prices made a suggestion so low that van Clynne quickly brushed the offer aside.
"If you see your way clear to triple the amount per bushel, we might have some grounds for discussion," said van Clynne, sliding his mug away and rising from the table. "But in the meantime, I have other business to attend to. And if that is your hat… " — the Dutchman pointed to the folded beaver on the post near the door — "… you would do well to get a sturdier one. It's quite ruined by your bending."
"Which way are you going?"
"Generally, north, though as I am in search of my salt, I could not say specifically." Van Clynne's suspicions had been raised by the low offer for the wheat — ordinarily British purchasing agents bid far too high. So he wondered if this man might actually be an American disguised so as to lure people of loose business ethics into a trap. Not that such a description would ever apply to him.
"Perhaps I can be of service," said Keen. "Would you like to ride with me?"
"Thank you, but I think not. With all due respect, sir, your wagon is quite a magnet for rascals of all sorts. I am best off sticking to my horse."
"A traveler who refuses hospitable company?"
"Surely, sir, I do not mean to insult you," said van Clynne, stroking his beard absentmindedly. "I am as great a follower of the etiquette of travel as any man on this continent, I dare say. But as I am currently on business, and on a sharp error, errand…" "Is something the matter?" "No, no, just a slight flutter in my eyes. It is nothing," said van Clynne. "Here, let me take a look." "I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, Dr. Quack!"
Blame the intemperate behavior on the late-acting drugs and van Clynne's natural aversion to the English. He pulled his lapels and strode to the door, fixing his large beaver on his head as he reached the threshold. Dr. Keen followed, and was by his side as van Clynne reached up for his horse — and fell straight to the ground.