Despite the recent reform in British licensing laws, the only place you can get a drink at half-past three in the afternoon in West Bay is the Rockcliffe Inn. It is hard to imagine a thirst powerful enough to drive a person into the Rockcliffe Inn. It can therefore be taken as read that Vanderdecker was not smiling at his beer, which was thick, cloudy and infested with little white specks that reminded him of the stuff you find in the corners of your eyes after a long sleep.
“Because of the insurance policy,” Jane said.
Vanderdecker looked up. “What insurance policy?” he asked.
“The Vanderdecker policy,” Jane said.
“Don’t let’s be all cryptic,” Vanderdecker replied, “not when the beer’s so foul. If you want to be cryptic, I demand Stella Artois at the very least.”
“Who’s Stella Artois?”
“Barbarian.”
“Sorry.”
“Stella Artois,” said Vanderdecker, “is a brand of beer. I’m sorry, that was very rude of me. I shouldn’t have called you a barbarian just because you’ve never heard of it. Are you sure you’ve never heard of it?”
“Yes,” Jane replied. “I don’t like beer very much, I’m afraid.”
“Then you are a barbarian. What’s the Vanderdecker policy? Go on, it’s your turn.”
“Your life insurance policy,” said Jane. “With the House of Fugger.”
Vanderdecker was just about to object when two tiny leads connected in his memory. “My life insurance policy?” he repeated.
“That’s right.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Vanderdecker put down his glass. “After four hundred and fifty years,” he said, “you want to sell me life insurance. Don’t you people ever give up?”
But Jane was shaking her head. “We don’t want to sell you any life insurance,” she said, “we want to buy it.”
As she stared at him, a tiny germen of a thought thrust a green blade through its shell in the back paddock of her mind. It was an extraordinary thought, but it was there.
“Why?” Vanderdecker said.
Jane said, “Surely that’s obvious,” but her heart wasn’t in it. She could feel an enormous, colossal wave of laughter welling up inside her. Her entire body wasn’t big enough to contain it. Meanwhile, Vanderdecker was talking.
“Are we talking about the same thing?” he was saying. “I remember taking out a policy with the Fuggers, sure, but that was years ago. Hundreds of years ago, come to that. I haven’t paid a premium for centuries; I mean, what was the point?”
“But you’ve still got the policy?” Jane could feel the laughter crashing against her teeth like the Severn Bore, but she kept it back.
“I don’t know,” Vanderdecker said. “I’m hopeless with things like that. Hang on, though.” He paused, and felt in the pocket of his overcoat. “I usually put important documents in here,” he said, and he pulled out a big sealskin envelope. “Not that I have all that many important documents, after all this time. Let’s see.” He lifted the flap and started to rummage about. “What’s this? Alchemical notes, that’s not it. Birth certificate, passport, the receipt for my electric razor, book of matches from Maxim’s, what’s this?” He peered at a curled yellow scrap of paper. “No, that’s not it. Ah, we’re in luck. Is this it?” He fished out a folded sheet of vellum with the remains of a crumbled seal attached to it.
♦
“I don’t know,” Jane said. “I can’t read it.”
“Can’t you?” Vanderdecker glanced at the tiny, illegible sixteenth-century script. “I suppose you can’t,” he said, “it’s in Latin. Yes, this is it. Is it important?”
“Have you ever read it?” Jane said. Of course, she realised, she shouldn’t be doing this. She should have got hold of it and destroyed it, and so saved the world. But the pressure of the laughter against the sides of her skull was too much for her; she had to let him in on the joke.
“To be honest with you,” Vanderdecker said, “no, I haven’t. I can’t be doing with all that legal-financial mumbo-jumbo.”
“You should,” Jane said.
Vanderdecker looked at her. His face had a tired, harassed look, as if this was starting to turn into a problem. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re after me for four hundred and fifty years unpaid premiums. Well, you can forget that, because I just don’t have that sort of money.”
That was too much for Jane; she started to laugh. She laughed so much that the afternoon barmaid of the Rockcliffe Inn withdrew her attention from the Australian soap opera she was watching on the bar top portable and stared at her for at least three seconds. She laughed so much that her body ached with the strain, and her lungs nearly collapsed. Vanderdecker raised an eyebrow.
“What’s so funny?” he said.
With a Herculean effort Jane stopped laughing, just for a moment. “Read it,” she said. “Read it now.”
“If it’ll stop you making that extraordinary noise,” said the Flying Dutchman, and started to read. When he had finished, he looked up and said, “I still don’t get it.” Fortunately, Jane was incapable of further laughter.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
