by Alex Connor
‘Not the one I’ve got,’ Philip replied curtly. ‘Anyway, I’ve hired security.’
‘I got to you easily enough.’
‘You’re …’
‘A dumpy old Jewess?’ She pulled a face. ‘Remember, the biggest threat comes from the most unexpected place. Napoleon knew that.’
‘The Russian winter finished his tactics.’
‘And we have a London winter to get through,’ Judith replied deftly. ‘Or in this instance, three days. Have you been threatened?’
‘Why d’you think I got the security?’ Philip replied. ‘Gerrit der Keyser has been throwing his weight around. He has a cohort – a big Dutchman. I know he sent him to talk to Sabine Monette.’
‘You think he killed her?’
‘He could have done, but Honthorst would be too obvious a suspect. And I don’t know if Gerrit’s a killer. A crook, yes. A murderer, even once removed? Unlikely. But then you never know about people, do you?’ Philip changed tack. ‘As for Honthorst, I think he’s just hired muscle. More to intimidate than anything else.’
‘You think he could have been at our gallery last night?’
Philip dodged the question. ‘Did you call the police?’
‘I scared the man off, so why bring the police into it?’
‘Why not?’ Philip countered. ‘But then again, they would ask questions, like why your husband was being threatened, and then you’d have to tell them about Thomas Littlejohn and his confession. Which would interest the police, seeing as how they’re running around trying to find out who put a match to Mr Littlejohn.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t want to get involved, did you?’
‘I want to get my husband out of the mire, not drop him further in it.’
‘So why come and see me?’
‘Strategy.’ She took out a large envelope from her handbag and passed it to him across the desk. ‘That’s what Thomas Littlejohn sent us. Everything about the chain and the secret—’
‘I already know all about it.’
‘Not all of it.’ She pointed to the envelope. ‘There’s something extraordinary in there – a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch.’
‘What?’ Eagerly Philip rummaged through the pages until he came across the image of The Tree Man. Incredulous, he looked at Judith. ‘This is Hieronymus Bosch?’
She nodded.
‘Jesus! Does anyone else know about this?’
‘Apart from us, only Thomas Littlejohn. And he’s dead.’ She tapped the desk with her forefinger. ‘You can do what you like with that. Drum up interest, the price of the flaming Bosch chain – whatever. I don’t want anything. I don’t want the chain. I don’t want to be clever and try to sell what I know about the Bosch conspiracy. And I don’t want to be paid to keep it quiet.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Safety,’ Judith replied. ‘I don’t care if there was a cover-up, I care about my family.’
Philip was eyeing her suspiciously. ‘You’re a dealer, Judith. Why give away something that’s worth a fortune?’
‘It’s only worth a fortune if you live long enough to enjoy it,’ she replied. ‘I want you to do one thing for me. Tell everyone what you know—’
‘About the deception?’
‘Oh, that part’s up to you! The rumour’s spreading,’ she said dismissively. ‘God knows how many people know already. I mean the painting. The chain. Everything. Tell them about The Tree Man and who it really was – Bosch.’
He was finding it hard to follow her. ‘And how does that help you?’
‘Who’ll come after us for information that’s been made public? Hiram won’t be the only one to know then – he’ll be one of many. Safety in numbers, it’s called. I want the gun pointing at someone else, Philip, not my husband.’
Fifty-Two
Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London
Watching from the back of his car, Conrad Voygel studied the church. As the windows of the car were tinted, no one could see him but he could see everything outside clearly – the church, the entrance porch where the unfortunate Thomas Littlejohn had been torched, the gravel path which led round to the back entrance, and the dark-haired man sitting talking to an old priest.
His gaze moved back to the porch, scorch marks still discernable on the stonework and the two steps up to the church door. What a way to die, Conrad thought sympathetically. What a terrible way to die.
His attention shifted towards the two men again, his focus on Nicholas Laverne. The ex-priest, the man who had gone after demons and been demonised for his pains.
Conrad tapped on the glass partition and watched as the chauffeur slid it open.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I want you to deliver a message for me.’ He scribbled a quick note and passed it to the chauffeur. ‘You see the men sitting over there? Give this to the younger man. Don’t wait for an answer, just come back to the car.’
Leaning back in his seat, Conrad watched the scenario play out. Saw the wary expression on Nicholas’s face as he glanced at the note, and smiled as the old priest anxiously grabbed his arm. A moment later, the chauffeur returned to the car and Conrad signalled for him to drive on.
Fifty-Three
Nicholas was still bruised from his sister’s lack of faith. Despite all the messages she had left on his phone, he had not called Honor back, so she had decided to visit St Stephen’s that evening. She was just packing up when Mark Spencer entered her office with a barely disguised grin on his face. He was grinning – trying not to – but grinning none the less.
‘I’m about to leave, Mark—’
‘Meeting your brother?’
She turned slowly, her expression cold. ‘What about my brother?’
‘You kept quiet about him. Apart from the photograph, that is.’ He pointed to the print on her desk. ‘I thought it was your boyfriend … Mind you, I suppose your brother’s the kind of black sheep families do keep quiet about.’
‘I can’t chat,’ she said curtly. ‘I have to leave—’
‘Not yet. We need to talk first,’ Mark replied, closing the door and sitting down. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I’m trying to help.’
‘I bet you are,’ Honor said, sitting behind her desk and flicking the phone on to voicemail. ‘So, what d’you want?’
‘I told you – to help. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, help you. That query about Carel Honthorst – I mean, a bit obvious, wasn’t it? You weren’t asking about him for some fraud case, were you? So it got me thinking – you know how curious I am, my mother used to say it was freaky how I could find things out – and I dug around a little and discovered that Honthorst is working in the art world now. Then I found out about your brother—’
‘Who doesn’t work in the art world.’
‘True, but he’s been touting a chain around London, a chain which is soon to be auctioned by Philip Preston. And before you ask, Preston is a client of mine, and we had a meeting yesterday and he told me about the chain – and who had found it.’ He paused and Honor said nothing. ‘I asked him about this Nicholas Laverne and he didn’t know much, but Google did.’
She swallowed nervously. ‘And of course we all know that everything on Google is gospel.’
‘Funny you should use that word, seeing as how your brother was excommunicated. Something of a whistle-blower, it said.’
‘He exposed a scandal in the Catholic Church—’
‘Naming two priests in particular, one of whom has just been bumped off.’ Mark pulled a face. ‘It’s OK, I found out that the police didn’t charge your brother, so he’s not committed murder. Well, not this time.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
He dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘How well d’you know Nicholas Laverne?’
‘He’s my brother. Of course I know him.’
‘So you know he was arrested in Germany for assault?’ Mark asked, moving on rapidly. ‘And in France for theft? I can see from your expression that
you didn’t know. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It wouldn’t do your promotion prospects much good if the partners found out. I just want—’
‘Get on with it!’ Honor snapped, folding her arms.
Refusing to be offended, Mark continued. ‘Nicholas Laverne was in a fight with another man over a woman in Munich. The man pressed charges but then backed off, saying it was a case of mistaken identity.’
‘Maybe it was.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you? As lawyers we both know that people who go back on their stories have usually been pressurised—’
‘Or thought better of what they said. Or reneged on a lie.’
Mark reached into his briefcase, opened it, and then tossed a photograph across the desk. ‘Günter Reinhardt. Facial abrasions and a ruptured spleen. It was no lie, he was assaulted. Your brother was eighteen at the time.’
Picking up the photograph, Honor stared at the image and swallowed again as Mark slid another photograph across the desk to her. This one was of a painting, a small pastoral scene by Corot.
‘This picture was stolen in France, from the Devereux Gallery. The late owner, Raoul Devereux, dropped the charges when he discovered who the thief was. Apparently your families knew each other.’
Honor said nothing, just stared at Mark Spencer and the photographs on her desk.
‘Your brother was lucky. Twice he got away with it.’
‘Nicholas is no thief.’
‘He confessed to taking the painting.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ she snapped, her face colouring. ‘How old was he when this was supposed to have happened?’
‘Nineteen.’
She thought back. They were still living with David Laverne in the country; Henry had moved to France, she was taking exams, and Nicholas was in that grim patch where he came and went without explanation. She had hoped that the crimes had been committed after he had been excommunicated. Then she would have some excuse for her brother’s actions. That he was under stress. Unbalanced, even.
But this had happened before he had entered the Church. Before he left Nicholas Laverne behind and became Father Daniel.
‘He was young—’
‘He was a menace,’ Mark said firmly. ‘Apparently there were all kinds of other rumours about your brother. He was living with a woman old enough to be his mother for a while, then he dabbled in drugs—’
‘No!’ she said shortly.
‘Yes,’ Mark replied. ‘It’s hard to hear, I know. But you have to hear it. It’s important you know what kind of a man he is before you get involved with him any further. I guessed that he’d been out of your life for a while – I remembered how you reacted to that homeless man being murdered. I’m not stupid, Honor – I kept following the clues.’
‘Congratulations. What’s the prize?’ she asked, her tone acid.
‘There’s no prize for you if you stick with him. Your career will be damaged by association.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Look, I understand, he’s your brother, but think about it carefully. What do you really know about him?’ He pointed to the photographs. ‘What if there’s more? Worse?’
‘I’m sure you’d have dug it up, Mark.’
He ignored the comment.
‘I’m not telling anyone else what I’ve found out. I’m just trying to help you, like I say. You’re clever, Honor – you could go a long way. But you need to stay in your own class, with your own type. Marry someone respectable, maybe set up your own practice one day.’ He paused to let the inference sink in. ‘With a clever partner – in business and in life – you could get to the top.’
She wasn’t listening any more, she was thinking. Assault, drugs, theft – was that her brother? She could hardly deny it; what looked to be proof was lying on the desk in front of her. Where were you all those times you went missing, Nicholas? Where did you go when you came home filthy, hungry? You never said, and no one ever asked. Our uncle wasn’t interested and you always joked with me. The younger sister, the baby. I was no real confidante of yours.
Pushing aside the photographs, Honor walked to the window. If she supported her brother, who was she really protecting? He wasn’t a little boy, he was a man now. Should she risk her own career for someone she didn’t really know? She had longed for a family, for her estranged brother to come back to her, but maybe her longing had been misplaced. Maybe what she was really chasing was security – and looking for it in the least secure of people.
However much she hated Mark Spencer for shattering her illusions, Honor had begun to have doubts. She might have tried to suppress them, but she had wondered if Nicholas were becoming paranoid. If the one-time hero were merely an obsessive fantasist. His talk of murder and the Catholic Church was extreme, and his mention of the crucifix had troubled her.
Reluctantly, she thought of what Mark had said. If Nicholas were a thief and a liar, was he crafty enough to have plotted the whole deception? Could he have created a reason to get back at the Church? He hadn’t found the chain, but he had always been inventive. Could his troubled mind have devised a plan, secreting the paper slips into the chain only to discover them later, thereby giving himself another conspiracy to expose?
How much had he wanted to be a hero again?
You are my brother, Honor thought. You are Nicholas. But which Nicholas?
‘Clumsy,’ she said at last, turning back to Mark.
He blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘Your attempt at blackmail – it’s clumsy.’
‘I wasn’t blackmailing you, I was trying to warn you!’ Mark replied, certain that she would appreciate his interference at a later date. ‘Your brother kept out of your life for a long time and maybe that was a blessing. When he exposed the abuse ten years ago he was a hero—’
‘He was brave.’
‘Then,’ Mark agreed. ‘But now he’s washed up, sinking fast. Don’t let him drag you down with him.’
Fifty-Four
The rain had given way to mist, a low white ghosting which lingered over the buildings and the street as Nicholas checked his watch against the chiming of the church bell. Nine thirty. It seemed that the wind had exhausted the air itself; it hung heavy and moist, rain droplets clinging to the bare branches and the decaying iron spire. It was a night to be at home. A night to lock doors and light fires, play music and relax behind dark curtains and under the fluffing of a duvet. As Nicholas walked along he could see the misted bonnets of the cars, and knew that by dawn the moisture would be frosted. Winter had shown her hand.
So had Conrad Voygel, he thought, remembering the note he had been given. It read:
I would like to know more about the rumoured Bosch deception. I believe you know the complete story. Perhaps we could talk.
Conrad Voygel
Nicholas’s first instinct had been to ignore the note, but an hour later another was delivered asking for him to wait outside the Victoria and Albert Museum at 9 p.m. that evening. He would, the note continued, be perfectly safe.
‘You can’t go!’ Father Michael had said, shocked. ‘You could be walking into a trap. Father Luke was killed outside the Brompton Oratory. That’s very close to the V and A. Suspiciously so.’
‘This isn’t a threat,’ Nicholas replied. ‘If it were dangerous, there would have been no invitation, they would have just attacked me. Conrad Voygel wants to find out what I know about the deception—’
‘And when you tell him? Then what?’
Nicholas didn’t answer and the old priest reached for his coat. ‘I’m going with you.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘You need a back-up.’
‘I don’t need you,’ Nicholas replied, remembering what Honor had said to him, his conscience pricked. ‘Stay here. I’ll be back soon.’ He moved to the door. ‘And lock this when I’ve gone. Don’t worry, I can look after myself.’
But now Nicholas was wondering about that as he moved into the underpass, walking towards the exit closest to the Victoria an
d Albert Museum. There was no one else in the subway, only footsteps and traffic grumbling overhead as he climbed up the exit steps on to Brompton Road. He looked around but could see no one waiting, no car parked at the kerb. Rubbing his hands together, he leaned against some railings and waited.
Ten minutes passed, Nicholas checking his watch and then feeling an unwelcome nausea come over him. God, he thought, he should never have bought a burger from a street trader. This was the second time he’d felt close to throwing up. A moment later a car drew up at the kerb and a man got out as Nicholas straightened up.
The figure walked towards him, dressed in a long coat, the collar turned up. A big man, Nicholas thought, wondering if it was Honthorst. Then he saw the stoop – Sidney Elliott.
‘I thought I was meeting Conrad Voygel,’ Nicholas said, turning to walk off.
Elliott ran after him. ‘I’m M-M-Mr Voygel’s representative.’
‘His mouthpiece?’
‘He wants to know about the d-d-deception. He’ll pay you well.’
‘Forget it,’ Nicholas snapped. ‘I don’t want paying.’
‘So why come to the m-m-meeting?’
‘Conrad Voygel said he wanted to talk. I’m willing to talk to him, but no one else.’
‘You should talk to m-m-me,’ Elliott replied. ‘Look, I can p-p-put in a good word for you with Voygel. He’s a wealthy m-m-man with lots of contacts. You need to stay on his good s-s-side.’
‘What is this break you want?’ Nicholas asked him. ‘You want an adventure, go bungee jumping. Your life hasn’t worked out the way you want, so what? No one gets the life they expect. You’ve done all right,’ he continued. ‘Why lower yourself to be the runner for someone like Conrad Voygel?’
Angered, Elliott reached for Nicholas’s sleeve and gripped it. ‘Give yourself a ch-ch-chance. And me. I need a chance—’
Nicholas shook him off.
‘Why w-w-won’t you help me?’ Elliott snarled. ‘I know there are t-t-twenty-eight pieces of writing, I know it’s about a d-d-deception regarding Hieronymus Bosch. Just tell me what the deception is. I can get a g-g-good deal for you—’
