A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel by Caroline Vermalle, Ryan von Ruben Page A

sure to let me know.” With a crooked smile he released the card which Masson turned over in his hands, noting the expensive weight of it and “John Schelling” printed in large bold black letters. “The card will also gain you entrance to the party. Just show it at the gate to the Company’s Gardens any time after six.”
    In the silence that followed, Masson sensed his cue to leave. He thanked the captain and shook Schelling’s limply offered hand before going back up onto the deck of the ship and then boarding one of the waiting launches, already crammed with sailors excited about some long-awaited shore leave.
    As the dark-skinned oarsmen pushed off, the sailors began to belt out a bawdy tune. Masson did not join in the singing, but sat down with his valise beside him and his back to the Resolution, watching and waiting as the longboat was slowly pulled into the mountain’s embrace.

C HAPTER 13
    After asking directions from the customs officer at the wharf, Masson walked through the town square and up the hill towards the mountain, eventually arriving at the edge of town and the address that Schelling had given him.
    He checked the card to make sure that he had read it correctly before walking up the small path, bounded on each side by a small, pleasant garden that lead up to the front door of a squat, single storey structure with white painted, lime-washed walls.
    Masson climbed the few steps up to the veranda, beneath which sat a comfortable-looking bench with a brass spittoon off to one side. Set back from the road, it was indeed very quiet, and he already began to count his good fortune, silently thanking Schelling for sending him to such a good location.
    He pulled on the chord that chimed a small brass bell that was sat above a neat hand-painted sign that read, “ Begrafenisondernemer ”.
    When no one appeared, he took a seat on the bench and waited, fanning himself against the heat of the afternoon sun and hoping that he would be able to get something to eat.
    After a time, he heard the hollow sounds of footfalls on a timber floor approaching the front door. Masson could not so much see as feel someone peering out from inside and then almost jumped at the sound of at least three heavy bolts being thrown before the door creaked open. The grizzled and visibly annoyed countenance of a wizened old man in his sixties, dressed in black trousers and white shirt behind an apron, covered in sawdust, and looking at Masson appraisingly.
    “Good day,” Masson said jovially. “My name is Francis Masson. I arrived just this morning from England.”
    Immediately, the old man retreated behind the threshold, leaving the door open barely wide enough for Masson to see him. “You sick, or have you come for one of your mates?” he asked in thickly accented English. His voice had been sanded down by decades’ worth of cheap tobacco and rough liquor, whilst his light complexion and blonde hair had been bleached to an unhealthy shade of yellow.
    “Mates?” Masson asked. “No, I was hoping to get something for myself, ideally today if possible.”
    “ Hemel! You must be sick. How did you get off the ship without the Company sawbones spotting you, anyway? The last time this sort of thing happened, we lost half the bloody population! Besides, we’re up to our necks at the moment and the soonest we could do you for would be next week, do you think you might be able to hang on until then?”
    “Hang on?” asked Masson, who was starting to wonder if something was being lost in translation. “Look, if you don’t have anything, then could you possibly point me in the direction of someone who might?”
    “Now hold on, why the rush? It’s not like it’s going to make a difference if it happens today or in a week’s time. What’s a week in the big scheme of things, eh?”
    “I don’t understand, perhaps Mr Schelling was mistaken—”
    The door opened in a burst of sawdust and the old man shuffled forward onto the