It was after I had been waiting about half an hour that a rotund little man with a ruddy, clean-shaven face entered by a corner door and made his way to my table.
‘Master Treviot? Good day. My name is Andreas Meyer, pastor to the community here. It is a privilege to meet someone whose name is held in such esteem among those of the true faith.’
‘I did not think I was so …’
‘Oh, but you are. That terrible business of Master Packington.’ Meyer spoke in excited short bursts that came in rapid succession. ‘He had many friends here. Many friends. Merchants involved in spreading the truth in those evil days when Bibles had to be smuggled into England. Evil days. And you tracked down Master Packington’s killer.’
‘Well, I …’
‘No need for modesty. You were tenacious in your quest. Tenacious. And were hounded for it by the Catholic curs. We of the Steelyard would have helped but ’tis difficult for us. Politics. You understand.’
‘It was a long time ago,’I muttered.
‘An important time. Lord Cromwell’s time. Without him there would be no official English Bible. We would still be smuggling them in our bales of cloth and barrels of wine. He was truly a Christian martyr. Done to death by the enemies of the Gospel. A great loss. A great loss.’ He paused for breath – but only briefly. ‘Now how can we help you? Our guard captain said you were enquiring about Johannes Holbein.’
‘That’s correct. I understand …’
‘Holbein! Why do you seek him here?’
‘I understand he has friends here who might know his whereabouts.’ ,
Meyer eyed me cautiously. ‘He visits us from time to time.’
‘Please,’ I said, with all the urgency I could muster, ‘if you know anything of his whereabouts tell me. I must speak with him urgently.’
‘In that case, Master Treviot, you had best call at his house in Aldgate.’
‘Have you heard nothing about the murder at Holbein’s house? The news is all over town by now.’
Meyer looked startled. ‘Murder? No. Our walls are stout. It takes London gossip a long time to penetrate. What happened?’
‘Violent men looking for our friend killed his assistant. Now you can see why I must find Holbein.’
Meyer shrugged. ‘I really wish I could help you, but …’
I tried another approach. ‘Can you remember when you last saw Master Johannes?’
Meyer pondered the question. ‘It must be two or three weeks since. Strange that, now I come to think of it. The Steelyard is his second home. He’s usually here several times a week.’
‘Tell me, Master Meyer, if he wanted – for any reason – to hide …’
‘Would we help him? Certainly. He would be safe from prying eyes here. We could even get him on to a ship and out of the country.’
‘And you’re sure this hasn’t already happened?’
He stood abruptly. ‘Come, let me show you something.’
We left the wine house by the door through which Meyer had entered, crossed a narrow alley and entered what was obviously the merchants’ guildhall, a lofty building whose panelled walls reached upwards to an elaborate arrangement of rafters. Light entered through large windows opposite the entrance but much of the remaining wall space was occupied with portraits of Hanseatic merchants past and present.
‘You want to see how close we of the Hanse are to Master Holbein?’ Meyer waved a hand to right and left.
Two long frescoes faced each other. Each represented a procession of numerous figures in vivid, glowing colours. Men, women, horses, wagons and chariots paraded from right to left. The paintings were amazingly detailed and lifelike.
‘Magnificent,’ I exclaimed.
‘Indeed, indeed.’ Meyer, anxious to show off the treasures of his community, waxed eloquent. ‘On the right you see an allegory of riches. On the left, poverty. They remind us of the vanity of earthly wealth. It illustrates the motto you can see over the doorway behind us.’
I turned and gazed up at a long Latin inscription.
Meyer, obviously very familiar with the role of guide, translated. ‘He who is rich fears the inconstant turning of Fate’s wheel. He who is poor fears nothing, but lives in joyful hope.’
‘A noble sentiment,’ I muttered – and wondered how much ‘joyful hope’ was felt by the beggars squatting in alleyways outside the walls close to where we stood.
Meyer was now in full flood, pointing out details in the paintings – the industry and honest toil of the smiling, contented workers, contrasted with the frenetic pursuit of gain pictured on the opposite wall. Most of his eulogy passed me by; I was captivated with the exuberance and sheer scale of the two cavalcades. It was difficult to believe that this was the work of the same man who produced for my workshop intricate designs for table salts, chains of office, medallions and other items of jewellery. ‘Truly a genius,’ I observed, rather tamely.
‘Indeed! Indeed! We’re very proud of Master Holbein’s work. He has also made portraits of some of our recent masters.’ My guide led the way along the hall, pointing out the depictions of solemn-looking merchants holding the tools of their trade – scales, money boxes, bills and seals.
‘So,’ Meyer said, as we completed the tour, ‘you can see we are much indebted to Herr Holbein. If ever he was in trouble he could come to us. We would not fait him.’
‘But he has not recently come to you for succour?’
The little pastor shook his head.
‘And yet,’ I ventured, ‘if he had you would probably not tell me.’
For once Meyer had no words. He simply smiled.
We returned to the wine house. By the outer door the pastor extended his hand. ‘I fear I have been of little help. I most sincerely hope that your anxieties are groundless. God grant you success in your quest.’
‘Thank you. If you see Master Holbein perhaps you would be kind enough to let him know I am looking for him.’
I stepped out into the passageway as Meyer held the door for me. Then, turning, I said, ‘One more question if I may. I understand Master Holbein has a particular German friend called Johannes Fonant … or something like that. Am I right?’
Meyer’s rubicund face creased in a frown. ‘Fonant? No, it is not a German name.’
I thanked him again and stepped across to where my horse was tethered. I mounted my bay mare and turned her head towards the gate. I was just passing under the arch into Thames Street when I heard my name called. Meyer came bustling up to me.
‘Could the man you mention possibly be Johannes von Antwerp? He is not German but he is often here. And he is a friend of Herr Holbein. You may know him.’
Johannes von Antwerp. John of Antwerp as he was known to members of the Goldsmiths’ Company. Did I know him? Oh, yes and heartily wished I did not. As I threaded my way along the busy street I pictured the burly Flemish scoundrel. If he was, indeed, the friend whose name Adie had imperfectly remembered, I could expect little help from him.
I was reflecting gloomily on my wasted morning as I turned into the yard of my house in Goldsmith’s Row. The first thing that I lighted upon was my missing horse.