by Alex Connor
‘I was working, Father.’
‘Working,’ Antonius repeated, managing a sneer and a raising of brows as he looked back at his family in mock astonishment. ‘Our youngest teaches us to be diligent. What an example he sets – look at him and admire his devotion.’
Antonius moved past his youngest son, the others following. All but the old man, the grandfather, who sat evilly mute on the hall bench. Running after them, Hieronymus saw his father throw open the studio door, his movements heavy as he blundered towards the upright easel on which stood a scene of family life, sketched out, the finished details only in the portrait heads.
‘So what I was told was right,’ Antonius said, to the baying sniggering of his sons behind. ‘This is not what the Brotherhood wants.’ His arm went back and he knocked the wooden panel on to the floor. At once Hieronymus bent down to retrieve his work. But before he could, Antonius’s foot came down hard on his hand, splaying out his fingers as he applied pressure.
‘This is not religious!’ he brayed, ‘The Brotherhood paid for religious work. For the veneration of the Virgin. Not for pictures of peasants.’ He increased the pressure on his son’s hand. ‘You owe your life to me. Your birth killed your mother, but I raised you anyway. I accepted God’s will that He should take my wife and leave me a sickly boy, but in return you obey me, Hieronymus. You understand?’
‘I understand, Father.’
Slowly Antonius raised his foot, then smiled, gesturing to his other sons. ‘He has the Devil in him,’ he explained, brushing imaginary fluff off his clothes, ‘and the Devil must be subdued. Is that not right …?’
They nodded, glad that it was – as always – Hieronymus who suffered. Only one son, Goossen, felt shame and pity for his brother. Not that he dared show it.
‘… We worship and venerate Our Lady, the mother of Our Lord. That is our moral duty. We are employed to scare the wicked away from Hell and towards salvation.’ He turned back to Hieronymus. ‘I have arranged for you to undertake a commission.’ It irked him that he couldn’t give the work to his brothers or his other sons, but the Brotherhood had chosen Hieronymus. ‘You are to paint an altarpiece for the church of Saint John. This is a great honour and you must make the family proud of your achievement. This means status and money for all of us.’
Antonius stared at his youngest son, irritated beyond measure. A sickly, whey-faced youth with miraculous hands. A boy with a marvellous, precocious talent and nothing to say for himself. Antonius wondered why God had chosen Hieronymus to bless, why He had ignored the rest of the family and forced them to play second fiddle to an awkward runt.
Uneasy under his father’s critical gaze, Hieronymus coughed, doubling over for several seconds, bringing up phlegm. Disgusted, Antonius turned away, his gaze falling on a painting on the far wall. Hieronymus watched nervously as his father moved towards it, his revulsion obvious as he poked a plump finger at the panel.
‘Why do you paint this depravity? Why paint ugliness and monsters? Why not paint God?’
‘I have not seen God,’ Hieronymus replied, timid but holding his ground, ‘but I have seen, and known, many monsters.’
Unable to respond, Antonius left the studio, pausing outside to turn the lock on the door.
Eleven
Remembering what Sabine had said earlier, Nicholas watched the Dutchman as he backed out of Philip Preston’s office, closing the door softly behind him.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Him?’ Philip pulled a face. ‘God knows. But he’s a pushy sod. He wants to talk to me apparently – sneaked past my secretary earlier. I told him to go away.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t have time for unscheduled appointments,’ Philip continued, smiling. ‘Unless, of course, I know the visitor.’ His curiosity was like a lump in his throat. ‘You were telling me about the Bosch chain. What it held.’
But Nicholas was spooked. ‘Are you sure you don’t know him?’
‘I’ve never seen him in my life before.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Why d’you want to know?’ Philip asked, then, exasperated, called his secretary on the extension. ‘Did that man leave a name?’ Nicholas watched as Philip listened to the reply and put down the phone. ‘Carel Honthorst.’
‘Dutch.’
‘Sounds like it,’ Philip replied. ‘You were saying—’
‘Has he been here before?’
‘Christ!’ the auctioneer snapped. ‘No, I’ve never seen him before today. Why is it important?’
‘Because he knows about the chain.’ Nicholas replied, watching for any reaction in Philip’s face. But there was none. ‘He’s been hired by Gerrit der Keyser to retrieve it. Which makes me wonder why he came here. Unless you know him. Or you already knew about the chain.’ Nicholas leaned forward in his seat. ‘Has the gossip begun? Has der Keyser already talked to you?’
‘No, he hasn’t! All this is new to me.’ Philip crossed his legs, feigning nonchalance. ‘When did you get hold of the chain?’
‘Four days ago,’ Nicholas replied. ‘And four days in the art world is like a month in real life. A rumour could have gone round twice already.’
‘Not one I’ve heard,’ Philip replied coolly. ‘Of course there is another explanation – that you were followed here.’
A moment nosedived between them and Nicholas fell silent. Had he been followed? They knew Sabine Monette had taken the chain, and they would have known Nicholas was close to her. Had they watched him with her? And watched him visit the old priest at St Stephen’s church?
Spooked, he rose to his feet. ‘I have to go—’
‘We were talking!’ Philip said incredulously, watching as Nicholas grabbed the chain and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘I’ll come back. But in the meantime, keep your wits about you,’ Nicholas said firmly. ‘And don’t talk to the Dutchman. Don’t tell him anything.’
Twelve
Honor was sitting by the window of her office with a file on her lap. When anyone passed in the corridor outside she glanced down, as though absorbed with her client’s case. But as soon as she heard the footsteps retreat she stared out of the window again. It wasn’t her brother, she told herself. It wasn’t Nicholas. The DNA test had finally confirmed it: the murder victim was not related to her. Related to someone, but not her.
Which meant that Nicholas was still alive, out there somewhere, and it meant that she was still waiting for contact from him. Suddenly the waiting seemed unbearable. Their uncle was old, irritable, slinking back into his Derbyshire home like a tortoise drawing in its head for winter. He had enjoyed his previous secluded lifestyle and was not prepared to let it be disturbed again. Even at Christmas.
So Honor had stopped visiting David Laverne, because she realised that he didn’t want to see her. Phone calls were fine – remote affection but nothing more. Once hand-some, David Laverne had shrunk into a grisly recluse, never revealing any hints about his past although Honor had once found photographs of him with a stunning woman. He had been holding her the way only lovers do, his face pressed against hers as though their skins were melting into each other. She recalled some vague memory of his being engaged – or was it married? – but nothing concrete. And she certainly didn’t ask him.
No one asked David Laverne anything, because he wouldn’t answer. Or he would tell them what he wanted them to know and nothing more. Irritation with the family that had been dumped on him led to David’s withdrawal. When Nicholas ran off to London in his teens, it was Honor who rang the police and Henry who talked to them. David Laverne was listening to music somewhere in the house and wasn’t to be disturbed. When the police demanded to talk to the children’s ward he emerged reluctantly and stood, truculent in a patched cardigan, answering sullenly.
‘No, I don’t know where my nephew is. No, I don’t know why he ran off. Nicholas is a very irritating boy—’
Honor had stepped in. ‘H
e said he wanted to visit friends.’
The police and David Laverne had looked at her. Petite, black haired, intelligent. A good liar.
‘You know who his friends are?’ one of the policemen had asked her.
She had shrugged. ‘No, but he’s OK. Honestly. Nicholas will be back. He can take care of himself.’
And he did come back, several times. In and out of their lives like a visitor. Never one of the awkward, ill-matched family. Not really …
Finally making up her mind, Honor reached for her mobile and clicked down the stored numbers. She paused at the name Claude Devereux – a man she had spoken to many times, always about Nicholas. A man who had once worked with her other brother, Henry. She flinched at the thought of her dead sibling. Who would have thought Henry would die young? Henry, with his architectural practice in Paris, encouraged by Claude’s father, Raoul Devereux.
Honor glanced back at the mobile and Claude Devereux’s name. It had been nearly a year since they had last talked, when Claude had told her Nicholas was working for a wealthy widow, Sabine Monette.
‘He seems happy there. She has an estate outside Paris, and an apartment on the Champs Elysées. Nicholas looks after her, does odd jobs.’
‘Odd jobs?’ Honor had queried. Her brother, doing odd jobs. ‘He won’t take my calls any more. I keep trying, but he won’t talk to me. He was always difficult, but now he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I didn’t turn against him. Everyone else did, but not me. And yet he cut me out of his life.’ Her tone had been injured, old wounds picked raw.
‘Nicholas can’t get over what happened to him.’
‘It was years ago—’
‘He was excommunicated from the Catholic Church. For a priest, a believer, there’s nothing’s worse than being deprived of God.’ Claude had hesitated. ‘It shook him when he exposed the corruption and was punished for it.’
‘He was naïve.’
‘He was Nicholas.’
For a time Honor had suspected that Claude and Nicholas were lovers, but when Claude became engaged to Eloise she realised that the Frenchman was just – just – her brother’s friend. And in running away from his disgrace in London, Nicholas had chosen France as his adopted home. An ex-priest, repelled by the Catholic faith, barred from Mass and destined for a heretic’s burial.
Nicholas’s religious fervour had been unexpected. A capricious mind, a restless character, he had teetered on the edge of criminality and promiscuity for years. As he entered his late teens he had bummed his way around London and the capitals of Europe, taken menial jobs, and then returned home only to be off again weeks later. Hardly the kind of person to choose a religious life … Honor thought for a moment. Perhaps the Church had offered him security. Nicholas had experienced a lot of danger, sex and excitement – perhaps he was tired. But why Catholicism? their beleaguered uncle had asked. You were raised as Church of England – why change? Honor had never understood that argument. In truth, the Laverne siblings hadn’t been raised in any religion. They had been English, middle class, well-schooled and intelligent. Religious devotion had been nothing but an unwelcome moral cuckoo.
For another few moments she stared at the phone number and then dialled, waiting for Claude to answer. But it wasn’t his voice that came down the line, it was his wife’s, Eloise unusually flustered.
‘Hello?’
‘Eloise, how are you?’ Honor began. ‘We haven’t spoken in a while and we should catch up. I was wondering if Claude was there. I’d like to speak to him if I may.’
Honor paused, waiting for the reply. It didn’t come for several seconds.
‘No,’ Eloise said finally, ‘you can’t talk to him. Claude is dead.’
Thirteen
Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London
A wind was blowing, shifting the November trees and moving the dust around the basement yards. The street lamps were on, one flickering, the bulb about to fail, but the others blazing in a triumphant row. An ash tree, bark peeling as though sunburnt, shuddered in its yard of earth, while green wheelie bins stood like bouncers outside the row of doors.
Behind the houses, St Stephen’s church drove its inky spire into the scatter of clouds. The church was locked up in darkness apart from a light burning in the rectory window. And behind the light, Father Michael sat thinking about Nicholas Laverne. Had it really been ten years? he thought. Ten years … Slowly he rose to his feet, unlocked the vestry door and moved into the church beyond. A single lamp burned over the altar, the gold crucifix throwing a gloomy shadow on the stone wall behind.
Genuflecting, Father Michael knelt down. His hands clasped in front of him, he tried to pray, but although the words came easily their meaning did not. After a while he sat back in the pew and stared at the stained-glass window. But there was nothing visible of the familiar pictures, because there was only darkness behind them. The figures had disappeared, their inspiring message blacked out. And outside the wind kept blowing.
He had prayed for the man who had been murdered only yards from where he sat. Had sent up supplications for the unknown victim who had been torched, burned alive. Sent into the next world screaming, clawing at the gravel as he died. And as he prayed, Father Michael had felt guilt because he had done nothing. Not on the night the man died, nor the week before when a stranger had come to the church and sought him out, asking to stay.
‘No one can sleep in the church,’ Father Michael had told him. ‘It’s against the rules. But you could go to the YMCA. Catch a number thirty-four bus at the corner and get off at Cromwell Street. They’ll put you up for the night.’
‘I want to stay here,’ the man had persisted, talking with his back to the street lamp, his face half hidden under a hoodie. It had been raining that night, cold too. ‘Please,’ he had begged. ‘Just let me stay. Who would know? I’ll do odd jobs for you, anything you like—’
‘I can’t allow it,’ Father Michael had insisted, touching the stranger’s shoulder. ‘I can offer you a drink and a sandwich, but not a place to sleep.’
There had been no further argument and no acceptance of the offer of food. Instead the man had walked off, turning at the corner, perhaps to catch the number 34 bus. But Father Michael knew he wouldn’t, and three days later he hadn’t been surprised to find the man sheltering in the church porch. It was after eleven at night, drunks calling out to each other from across the street, a police siren sounding in the distance, and the stranger waiting.
‘What d’you want here?’
‘I know this place,’ he had replied. ‘I lived round here once.’ His voice had been cultured, his age around fifty. ‘Won’t you let me in? Just for one night, Father. Please, just for one night.’
I should have let him in, Father Michael thought, wracked with remorse. Sweet Jesus, why didn’t I let him in? His gaze moved back to the blanked-out window, seeking comfort, trying to make out the familiar Biblical characters painted on the glass. In days his life had shifted from stability to a terrible unease. He could sense something dark coming for him, but he didn’t know what.
The church which had comforted him for decades held only terror now. The shadows were dense, the cold forbidding, and the crucifix on the altar seemed more of a threat than a consolation. Was it just coincidence that Nicholas Laverne had come to see him only days after the stranger’s murder? Laverne, the man of whom he had been so fond and was now so afraid. Laverne, exposing corruption in the Church and then forced out, disgraced and angry.
‘God help me,’ Father Michael prayed. ‘God help us all …’
After his excommunication, Nicholas had raged in his letters. Had cursed God, cursed everything he had loved with a ferocity that was terrifying. After a while, the old priest had stopped opening the letters from Italy. But they kept coming, now postmarked Belgium. Later, France. He seemed to settle there, or so the letters indicated. But what Nicholas was doing, how he lived, what he did for work, the old priest never knew. When the stack of letters fil
led a drawer in the vestry, Father Michael took them out one night and burnt them in a brazier.
The paper took a while to catch, as though the Devil himself were blowing out the flames, but finally the fire took hold. In seconds every word, every thought that Nicholas Laverne had confided to his mentor, was gone.
Father Michael forgot Nicholas. The letters stopped. Nicholas seemed to be finally laid to rest. But something, someone else, came in his stead. A man looking for sanctuary in St Stephen’s church. A man in a hoodie, sheltering from the rain. A man the priest had turned away, just as he had once turned away Nicholas Laverne.
Chilled, Father Michael closed his eyes, scratching around for a prayer. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …’ He clung to his rosary, the beads worn smooth. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …’
And as the old priest sat, distressed and afraid, someone opened the vestry door and began, slowly and silently, to make their way towards him.
Book Two
Fourteen
Gerrit der Keyser’s gallery, Chelsea, London
As comfortable as an onion in its skin, Philip Preston strode into the gallery, smiling flirtatiously at the receptionist. She smiled back, recognising him and wondering if he would invite her out again. After all, it was common knowledge that his wife was unstable – surely a man had a right to enjoy himself? Philip Preston might not be young, but he was successful and rich.
‘How’s your boss today?’ he asked, leaning on her desk.
‘Busy.’
‘Too busy for me?’ Philip lifted her chin with his left hand. ‘You are a pretty girl. Now, run along and tell him I need five – no, make it fifteen – minutes with the old man.’
Gerrit der Keyser was spraying water on to a fern as Philip entered, his doleful expression winching itself up into a fleeting, and unconvincing, smile. His recent heart attack had forced him to lose weight and now his jowls sagged, the bags under his eyes pronounced even behind the bifocals.
