Delft delivers a Dutch treat

John Gimlette discovers a city of canalside mysteries and centuries-old mansions in southern Holland.

At the heart of Delft is a crime scene. Elsewhere, everything is in order: streets of neat cobblestones, heraldry gleaming and all the shutters a uniform civic scarlet. This isn't oppressive in any sense. It's just a reminder that, here, the Golden Age never really ended. Even the canals have survived, more than 150 kilometres of them, wandering the city.

All of which makes the murder even more outrageous. The bullet holes are still there, on the staircase at Het Prinsenhof. Scientists still measure them and write reports. It doesn't matter that the victim died in July, 1584. Over the years, thousands of reverential fingers have enlarged the holes, so now it looks as if William of Orange was blasted with a bazooka. But, of course, these aren't just holes; they connect directly to a glorious past.

All very well, but what does it mean? Does it still appeal, this city that once grew fat on nutmeg? I decide to find out, over a long weekend. With me are a crack team of inspectors - my wife, Jayne, our six-year-old, Lucy, and granny.

Across the city, we find clues left by William everywhere, in old Delft tiles, and painted into vases. We also find a statue of his grieving dog (who had loyally starved himself to death), and a picture of William's wife (who had gone mad and been bricked up for safety).

Best of all, we find his tomb, in the New Church. The building is spectacular, but the tomb inside is unforgettable, a giant four-poster sepulchre, rendered in marble. William, on cushions of stone, is so lifelike he almost breathes.

But William, I realise, gave Delft something far more important than tombs: freedom from Spain. All around us are the trappings of new-found prosperity. I've never known a town so stuffed with mansions. The best are on Koornmarkt and Oude Delft, each full of Ming and Oriental carpets. Then there's the butter guild; an armoury dated 1601; a surgery with two front doors (royalty and plebs), and a fancy madhouse. But my favourite is Oost-Indisch Huis (East India House), dated 1631, with its thick glass and gunport shutters.

One afternoon we take a boat through the canals. Above is the pedestrian world, stitched together with humpbacked bridges, and below is another labyrinth of communication - channels and tunnels burrowing under the city.