by Alex Connor
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Nicholas replied. ‘I never contacted Father Luke. It wasn’t me.’
‘We’ll talk that about at the station,’ the officer replied as the younger man moved closer to Nicholas. ‘Come with us, sir.’
Thirty-Three
It was Eloise who called her, and Honor made a hurried exit from work and met her in a cafe round the corner. The Frenchwoman was sitting by a window, her expression composed as she watched Honor Laverne enter. She examined the lawyer steadily – the small-framed figure, the straight back. Not tall, but she carried herself like an athlete, her hair densely, silkily black.
‘Sorry, I got away as soon as I could,’ Honor said, sliding into a seat opposite Eloise. ‘Is there any news about Claude’s murder?’
‘No, but there’s been another killing—’
‘What?’
‘In the early hours of this morning. A priest was murdered outside the Brompton Oratory.’ She could sense Honor’s shock and continued. ‘It wasn’t your brother, but he’s involved.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Eloise leaned forward, her voice lowered. ‘You didn’t know that Nicholas was back in London?’
‘No. I haven’t heard from him for years …’ She eyed the Frenchwoman. ‘Have you seen him?’
She nodded. ‘Yesterday, and I’ll be meeting up with him again – if the police let him go.’
‘Police?’ Honor echoed, then dropped her voice, watching as Eloise stirred some sweetener into her black coffee.
‘What I’m about to tell you is in confidence. You’re a lawyer – you should know how to keep secrets. Nicholas returned to this country a few weeks ago. He told Claude where he was going and why. Claude …’ Her voice caught on her dead husband’s name … ‘didn’t tell me the whole story at the time. You have to remember that the three of us were close. We had mutual friends too, one of whom was murdered in Paris only days ago.’
Honor was watching her, unnerved. ‘What’s this got to do with my brother?’
‘Have you heard of Hieronymus Bosch?’
‘The painter,’ Honor replied, baffled. ‘So?’
Eloise glanced around to check that no one was listening. But there were only a couple of men in a booth at the back of the cafe, and a bored waitress preparing food behind the counter.
‘Claude’s father, Raoul Devereux … He was your brother’s mentor, wasn’t he? Helped him in his career.’
‘He was very good to Henry.’ Honor agreed. ‘He believed in him. We all did.’ She changed the subject rapidly. ‘What about Bosch?’
‘Raoul Devereux had a small Bosch painting stolen, which finally turned up in London, in the gallery of Gerrit der Keyser. From there it was purchased by Sabine Monette.’ Eloise paused, then added, ‘She was the woman who befriended Nicholas.’
‘I never knew her name. But I knew about her – that Nicholas worked for her. Why didn’t you ever tell me what she was called?’
‘You never asked,’ Eloise said simply. ‘And Nicholas didn’t want information passed on. You have to admit, Honor, you and I weren’t friends. We spoke now and again, but we were never close. I had to respect your brother’s wishes.’
Honor nodded. ‘Yes, you did … Go on.’
‘With the Bosch painting was a chain. It contained slips of paper that told of a subterfuge concerning the painter. I don’t know the details, only that the secret would shake the art market and shame the Catholic Church. Your brother wants to expose the deception. He has the chain and the papers.’ Eloise paused, her tone expressionless as she fiddled with the right cuff of her sleeve. ‘My husband and Sabine Monette knew about the secret. They are now dead.’
Honor took in a breath.
‘You don’t think Nicholas had anything to do with their deaths?’
‘No, of course not. But someone’s trying to spin a web around your brother.’ Eloise hesitated, waiting until the waitress passed by their table and returned to her post behind the counter. ‘Just after Nicholas came back to London, a man was killed outside St Stephen’s church – your brother’s old church. That man was identified yesterday as Thomas Littlejohn.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘He was an art dealer.’ Eloise nodded, seeing the understanding in Honor’s eyes. ‘Yes, all three victims were connected to the art world. I don’t know if Thomas Littlejohn knew about Bosch, but I’m pretty sure he must have. And I think that was the reason he was killed.’
‘But why would anyone suspect my brother of the killings?’
‘No one would have suspected Nicholas – before this morning.’
Honor knew she wasn’t going to like the next words. ‘What happened?’
‘Father Luke, of St Barnabas’s church, was murdered. He was one of the priests your brother exposed ten years ago. Apparently Nicholas contacted him and threatened him. There is a witness to the call—’
‘It could have been anyone!’ Honor snapped. ‘Anyone could have said they were my brother.’
‘Just what I thought,’ Eloise replied smoothly. ‘But then again, at the moment your brother is probably safer at the police station than anywhere else. He’s in trouble. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Honor studied the woman across the table, her dark eyes meeting the Frenchwoman’s blue gaze. Grief was leaching out of Eloise, but her self-control was unsettling. It surprised Honor to realise how much she disliked Eloise Devereux.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘We want the same result – justice,’ Eloise replied. ‘You want your brother to be vindicated; I want my husband to be revenged. You know the law. You have contacts, I imagine. And your brother needs you. He will confide in you—’
‘No, he won’t.’
‘Yes, he will, when he realises that not only his life but yours might be in danger.’
The hairs stood up on the back of Honor’s neck. ‘Are you trying to use me?’
‘Yes, but in return you can use me. I have means, and I will use everything I own to find my husband’s killer. The Bosch secret involves the Church and the art world. Your brother might discover something of interest to me and I might discover something of interest to him. Why not pool our resources? Besides, your brother’s no killer. He loved Claude and Sabine. And he’s not stupid enough to go after the priest.’
Honor considered what she’d heard. ‘Maybe they killed the priest to remind everyone of Nicholas’s past. Make him look like a lunatic—’
‘I agree,’ Eloise replied. ‘Whoever’s planning it wants to make him powerless. And they will, if he’s left out there alone. Nicholas is reckless – he needs you. You have to force him to confide, and you can only do that if you’re under threat.’
The Frenchwoman’s callousness shocked her, but Honor wasn’t going to back off. Instead, after a long moment, she put out her hand. Surprised, Eloise hesitated, then shook it.
Thirty-Four
Philip Preston was trying to calm his wife, Gayle, who was sobbing hysterically. Her instability, only controlled by strong medication, was escalating. When he was there Philip made sure she took her pills, but when he was away she forgot. Or did she do it deliberately? he wondered. Make herself clinging and helpless, tying him to her with emotional bladderwrack.
‘Calm down, darling,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘You’re getting yourself all worked up.’
She put her arms around his neck. She smelt as though she needed a bath. Once so beautiful, so sculpturally perfect, Gayle was now bloated; her limbs the colour of a sea slug. Drink and medication had driven a stake into the heart of her appeal, and now she provoked little more than pity.
And to think, Philip mused, that once every man who saw her wanted her. Like Gerrit der Keyser – and others. He remembered Henry Laverne suddenly; felt the quick breeze of envy trickle over him. Philip knew that Henry had been Gayle’s one true love. Recently, babbling and full of booze, she had been talking about all her ol
d boyfriends, reminding herself of her spent power. Philip no longer resented such outpourings. It was a kind of revenge that she had managed to age herself out of his jealousy.
But lately Gayle had increased her drinking and with it, the inevitable outbursts. And she was having one now. ‘You don’t love me. You want me to die.’
‘Gayle, why on earth would I want you to die?’
‘So you can marry someone young and pretty,’ she said, burping, her breath acid as she flopped into a chair. But then she smiled and some shadow of that punchy beauty came back and caught him unawares. ‘I’m going to get better, you know. And go on a diet. The doctor wants me to talk to a new therapist. I think it’ll work.’ She reached for his flies and Philip winced. ‘You still want me, don’t you?’
How could he say no? Say ‘I want Kim Fields, my mistress’ instead. Say ‘You disgust me, with your greedy little fingers probing my genitals and your tongue stuffed in my mouth. But he couldn’t say it. Instead he let Gayle make a kind of shabby love to him, all the time thinking of Kim.
The escape route was in front of him – the Bosch chain, weaving its gilded links to freedom. Nicholas Laverne could bring Hell down on the Catholic Church, but Philip just wanted the sale. He had worked hard for a long time, cheated a few, certainly kept ahead by guile, but he was getting older – and he felt it. He wasn’t sleeping well, his knees ached and a sudden desperation was afflicting him. The slick charm he had employed for years was moth-ridden and forced, and his libido was flagging.
The money raised by the sale would mean freedom – the ability to leave his wife with a clear conscience while hiring a companion to keep her company and divvy out her drugs … Philip could feel his wife’s lips on his stomach and tensed, trying to fight an impulse to push her away … He would sell the Bosch chain and then run. Take Kim with him. Get the hell away from London. Yes, it was dangerous, reckless, but it was worth the risk.
Philip thought of Carel Honthorst and cringed. Honthorst, der Keyser, Conrad Voygel – all of them breathing down his neck, and God only knows who else. He was gambling, and he knew it. Not just with his business, but with his life.
Thirty-Five
Inside the police station the old priest waited, sitting on a hard seat, his hands folded over the handle of his cane. Worry had thinned him, flesh falling off his bones overnight. Before he had been a welcoming presence, but now Father Michael looked cadaverous, hungry. Circumstances had worked on his gut, his body a living testament to his guilt.
Seeing Nicholas, he rose unsteadily to his feet, nodded, then followed him out of the door. Once outside, Nicholas turned to him.
‘What did you say to them?’
‘That you were at the rectory all night. I said I couldn’t sleep and that we played chess into the early hours.’ He moved on, tapping the way before him with his cane like a blind man.
‘And they believed you?’
‘I told you, I’m very plausible.’
‘You lied, Father. That’s a sin,’ Nicholas said, hunching down into his coat as the wind blew up. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because I said I would help you and I will. Besides, you didn’t kill Father Luke. You had no reason to.’ The old priest paused at the end of the street and a car drew up beside them.
Surprised, Nicholas looked inside to find Honor leaning over and opening the door. ‘Get in.’
Seeing Nicholas hesitate, Father Michael pushed him in the small of the back. ‘She’s your sister – talk to her.’
Sliding into the passenger seat, Nicholas watched as Father Michael moved off. Without speaking, Honor started up the engine and drove towards Clapham. Once there, she parked by the Common and turned to her brother.
‘You look terrible.’
‘I don’t sleep well and it’s getting worse,’ Nicholas admitted. ‘But you look prosperous.’
His smile jolted her, taking her back to the boy he had once been and the childhood they had spent together. For an instant she wanted to freeze-frame the image, to deny history, wipe out the memory of the events that had estranged them.
But when Nicholas spoke again the image shattered. ‘What d’you want?’
‘What do I want? Why should I want anything from you? You’re the one who didn’t keep in touch. You’re the one who rejected me.’ Her temper made her skin pale, white-hot against the black hair. ‘I thought you might have changed.’
‘No.’
His indifference astounded her. ‘I’ve been looking for you for years.’
‘Well, now you’ve found me, so what?’
Angry, she drove her hands deep into her coat pockets, her fists clenched. ‘You’re in trouble. Father Michael didn’t have to tell me that – Eloise did.’
‘Eloise Devereux has spoken to you? That’s interesting. Did she tell you what this so-called trouble was?’
‘She told me about the murders. Sabine Monette and her husband. And the first victim. Did you know Thomas Littlejohn?’
Nicholas said nothing, just reached for the door handle.
‘Stop it!’ Honor shouted. ‘I can’t do this any more. I can’t. I don’t want anything from you. Why won’t you let me help you?’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘Eloise Devereux’s trying to help you and so is Father Michael. Why can’t you take help from your own sister?’ She gripped his arm, but he shook her off.
‘I don’t want you involved. It’s not safe—’
‘It’s too late now,’ Honor said emphatically. ‘I am involved. I know what’s going on, Nicholas. I know about the Bosch chain and the scandal.’
‘You can’t—’
‘But I do,’ Honor replied in a soft voice. ‘You’re in it up to your neck, aren’t you?’ He said nothing so she continued. ‘Well, take my advice and be very careful of Eloise Devereux. She’s out for blood, and God help anyone who gets in her way. Luckily she’s on our side – for the moment.’
Nicholas looked at her, surprised. ‘You don’t trust her?’
‘No. Eloise Devereux thinks she’s played me, and I’m letting her believe that, but I’ve got the measure of her.’ Honor stared out of the car window. ‘We need to work together, Nicholas, or we’re both in trouble. I don’t want to see you dead, and I sure as hell don’t want to die either …’
He winced at the thought.
‘So let’s work out a plan of action, shall we?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got an hour for lunch – that should be more than enough for you to tell me everything.’
Thirty-Six
Weighing the chain on his jeweller’s scales, Philip Preston glanced up at Nicholas. ‘And the papers?’
‘Are staying with me. They’re locked away – no one can get at them. Remember our agreement, Philip? You go after the art world, I go after the Church.’
‘I heard about the death of the priest yesterday. I also heard that the police interviewed you.’
‘First strike to the Church,’ Nicholas said bluntly. ‘I was waiting for it to start.’
‘Have they asked you about the Bosch papers?’
‘No one’s contacted me directly – that’s not how they work,’ Nicholas replied. ‘It’s all done at arm’s length. The death of Father Luke was supposed to discredit me and it might well have done if my old mentor hadn’t given me an alibi. Father Michael is beyond doubt, although he might have risked himself by standing up for me.’
Nicholas stopped talking. Suddenly he could feel his head spinning. He could see Philip in front of him, but the auctioneer was talking and he couldn’t hear a word. A terrifying second passed, then another. Finally regaining control, he sat down.
‘Are you all right?’ Philip asked, bemused.
Nicholas nodded. ‘I was just dizzy, that’s all.’
‘You don’t look well.’ Philip moved over to a cabinet and poured a brandy, passing it to Nicholas.
To Philip’s surprise, he downed it in one. Thoughtful, he regarded Nicholas. The slim fram
e was beginning to fill out again, the jaw almost pugnacious, a blaze back in the eyes. A fanatic? Who knew?
‘You think the Church would murder Father Luke to frame you?’
The dizziness had passed and Nicholas was fully in control again. ‘Maybe it wasn’t the Church; maybe it came from your patch. Someone in the art world, making it look like the Church was involved.’ He paused for an instant. God, he was tired, his mind sluggish. ‘You’re taking a big risk – publicly announcing that you’ve got the chain and putting it up for sale is inviting trouble. There’s a whole week until the auction – couldn’t you make it sooner?’
‘I need some time to whip up the buyers. A week will bring out all the big hitters—’
‘It might bring out something else,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
Philip thought of his wife. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Have you said anything about the secret?’
‘Not a word,’ Philip replied. ‘You?’
‘No, I haven’t told anyone. But that doesn’t mean we’re the only people who know.’
‘Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux are dead—’
‘So is Thomas Littlejohn.’
Shaken, Philip stared at him. ‘Thomas Littlejohn is dead?’
‘Murdered. It turns out that he was the first victim. The man burned outside St Stephen’s church.’
‘I knew him well; we were friends a while back. I always wondered what happened to Thomas.’ Philip was flustered, caught off-guard. ‘This isn’t good for me. This isn’t good for me at all.’
‘It wasn’t too good for him either,’ Nicholas replied, wondering just how far he could trust the auctioneer. ‘You know about the murder outside the Brompton Oratory, but did you know that Father Luke had the initials H B carved into his stomach? Just like Sabine.’
Philip’s expression was unreadable. ‘I heard.’
‘Word travels fast,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Unless you already knew about the murder of Father Luke. Unless you were involved.’ He probed his way carefully. ‘I’ve been thinking – you’ve been in from the start. You found Sabine and you’re one of the few who knows about the secret. One of the few who’s not dead.’
