The Miniaturist(68)

But through the windowpane, just one broad-brimmed hat shimmers on top of a long, full face. Nella pulls the door open, her relief that it isn’t the militia only slightly subsiding as Frans Meermans removes his hat and walks straight in. The December cold rushes in with him and he bows, playing the brim through his fingers.

‘Madame Brandt,’ he says. ‘I’ve come to see your husband.’

‘He’ll be at the bourse,’ says Marin.

Nella jumps, turning to see Marin waiting on the stairs. It is as if Marin knew he was coming. The air feels charged, and Nella waits for the giveaway signs of affection between them both. None comes. Of course, Nella tells herself. Marin is well practised at keeping a surface calm.

‘I’ve been to the bourse,’ says Meermans. ‘And the VOC. And several taverns. I was surprised to find he wasn’t there.’

‘I am not my brother’s keeper, Seigneur,’ Marin says.

At this, Meermans raises his eyebrows. ‘And more’s the pity.’

‘Would you like some wine while you wait?’ asks Nella, for Marin refuses to emerge from the shadows.

He turns to her. ‘You told my wife at the Old Church that your husband had been selling our sugar in Venice.’

Nella can feel Marin’s scrutiny on the back of her neck. ‘Yes, Seigneur. He’s back now—’

‘I know he is, Madame. A man like that will find his every move observed. Brandt is well-returned from the Venetian papists. Christmas is gone and the New Year is almost upon us. So, I ask myself – where is my profit?’

‘I’m sure it’s coming—’

‘He didn’t write to me. So last night I went to the warehouse to find out how his Venice voyage had gone, and this time, I took Agnes. How I wish that I had not!’ He spins towards Marin, fury bulging his eyes. ‘Not a grain has been shifted, Madame. Not a single blasted grain. You are worse than useless – all our fortune, all our future, mouldering in the dark. I touched it – some of it was paste.’

Marin is visibly shocked, unable to grasp the situation and shake it into obedience. Guilt runs through Nella as Marin flails, unarmed against his fury.

‘Frans,’ Marin stutters, ‘that’s impossible—’

‘That would be reason enough to ruin Johannes Brandt, and God knows, I already had my reasons. But when we walked outside the warehouse, we saw something worse. Something much worse.’

Marin comes forward a little from the shadows. ‘He is selling it, Frans,’ she says, quietly. ‘Be assured—’

‘Do you know what we saw, Madame, pressed against the walls?’

Cornelia scurries up the kitchen stairs. Nella’s heart is climbing out of her body. She wants to grip Cornelia’s hands and form a ring around this man, to keep both him and her hammering heart under control. I should have told Marin, she thinks, the air vibrating around her as Meermans’ fury builds. Marin already had her suspicions, but if I’d confirmed that the sugar was untouched, that Frans had already been to see it, maybe she could have stopped all this. She’s the only one who brings into any order.

On the staircase, Marin shrinks as Meermans advances, the opposite of a romantic vision or any tender love. As he stares her down, two images of their old story shimmer in Nella’s mind, the gift of the salted piglet and Frans’ beautiful note, hidden in a book. Let Frans be kind to her, she prays.

‘We saw him,’ Meermans says, his voice low and hypnotic in its intensity. ‘We saw his devilry.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Marin says. ‘What devilry?’

‘I expect you’ve always known it,’ he says. ‘How he spends his time up against the warehouse walls. And such a thing you cannot unsee.’

‘No,’ Marin says.

‘Yes,’ says Meermans, drawing himself up and turning to Nella. ‘The world will have to know, Madame, how your disgusting husband took his pleasure – with a boy.’

Nella closes her eyes as if to stop Meermans’ words entering her. But it’s too late. When she opens them again, Meermans looks grotesquely pleased. Oh, you are not the first to bring me this revelation, she thinks, unable to meet his gaze. My husband gave me that, at least.

None of the women seem able to speak and Meermans seems irritated by their muteness. ‘Johannes Brandt is a degenerate,’ he says as if to prod their terrified stupefaction. ‘A worm in the fruit of this city. And I will do my duty as a godly citizen.’

‘There must be a mistake,’ Marin whispers.

‘No mistake. And what’s more, the boy claims Johannes attacked him.’

‘What?’ says Nella.

‘You’re his friend.’ Marin’s voice is breathless, her hand slipping from the banister. ‘Don’t seek this punishment when you know where it will end.’

‘My friendship with that man died years ago.’

‘Then why did you ask him to sell your sugar? Out of all the merchants – why did you pick my brother?’

‘It was Agnes who insisted,’ he says, pushing his hat roughly onto his head.

‘But you agreed, Frans. Why would you agree if there was not some affection there still?’

Meermans holds his hand up to stop her speaking. ‘Our sugar is as abandoned as his soul. And when I saw what blasphemy he was committing, it was like Beelzebub himself had burst from the skies.’