by Alex Connor
‘I told you, I don’t want the money!’ Nicholas replied, suddenly feeling nauseous again and slumping on to a low wall, his focus blurring. ‘Just leave me alone.’
Elliott stood over him, his gloved hands deep in his pockets, his expression curious.
‘What’s the m-m-matter with you?’
‘Something upset my stomach,’ Nicholas replied, ‘probably the company I’m keeping.’ He looked up at Elliott. ‘The secret isn’t for public consumption. Tell Voygel that. Tell him he can buy the chain, but the secret’s off limits. Unless he wants to talk to me privately.’
‘Mr Voygel d-d-doesn’t like being disappointed, neither d-d-do I.’
‘That’s a shame. I hear it’s good for the soul.’
‘Of course,’ Elliott replied, ‘you’re n-n-not a journalist, are you? You’re an ex-p-p-priest. You know all about the s-s-soul.’ He tapped Nicholas on the shoulder. ‘I heard you were living b-b-back at Saint Stephen’s church—’
‘So it’s you, is it?’ Nicholas replied, wincing as a pain ripped through his stomach. ‘I knew someone was watching the place. And I heard someone walking around.’ He grimaced as the pain increased. ‘Was it you that broke in and planted that crucifix?’
Elliott looked baffled. ‘Not m-m-me, Mr Laverne. Perhaps you sh-sh-should look a little closer to home?’
Scowling, Sidney Elliott fastened up his coat and turned away. He didn’t even pause as he heard Nicholas fall off the wall and slump, unconscious, on to the winter pavement.
Fifty-Five
As Nicholas slept, Honor watched her brother, Mark Spencer biting his thumbnail as he waited in the hospital corridor outside. He should have washed his hands of her, but couldn’t. He had hoped that Honor would come to her senses and avoid any further involvement with her brother, but that had been before Nicholas Laverne was found on Brompton Road with an acute case of food poisoning.
Nothing like sickness to bring people closer together, Mark thought ruefully as he wandered up and down the corridor. Still, he consoled himself, Nicholas Laverne would recover and then Honor would think over what he had told her, and with luck she would pin her colours on to his mast and not that of the ex-priest. If she didn’t, Mark had a problem. He couldn’t seriously consider her wife material if she stayed close to Laverne. It was irksome, but a man had to protect his career and his reputation, whatever sacrifices that entailed.
Another thought presented itself. It was Honor who had mentioned the word blackmail. He hadn’t considered it, but now Mark was thinking that perhaps he could apply a little judicious pressure to Honor Laverne. Her brother or a partnership in the firm – it was a simple choice. Security against uncertainty. Respectability against infamy.
Still chewing his thumbnail, Mark wandered back to the ward and looked in. Honor was still sitting at her brother’s bedside, Nicholas still asleep, his eyes closed against all of them.
I am back, Nicholas thinks, moving between the yew trees and seeing the outhouse before him. Only this time it is different. Strange … This time the outhouse roof is missing and an arrogant magpie is strutting across the exposed beams …
He moves inside, as always, and sees the huge cupboard. But then again, this is different. This time the cupboard door is wide open, the interior empty.
Patrick Gerin is sitting on the roof beams, watching the magpie, crooning to it under his breath. And as he sits the sun moves swiftly behind a banking of clouds and the rain begins. I remember the rain, Nicholas thinks. This part is always the same … Patrick is swinging his legs, thin white legs like strands of cotton, his hands grasping the roof beams, the magpie bouncing towards him.
What is this? Nicholas thinks, confused. What is this? He reaches into the pocket of his priest’s robe and pulls something out. A crucifix and a piece of rope. Puzzled, he weighs both articles in his hands, one against the other, and then glances back at the crooning boy.
And the rain keeps falling through the open roof of the outhouse, on to Patrick Gerin and the magpie, as Nicholas moves forward … I do not remember this, he thinks. This is not the same … He moves lightly, quickly, under the roof beams and then grabs the boy’s left foot and pulls him, screaming, down to earth.
Fifty-Six
The touch on her shoulder made Honor jump. She turned round, expecting to see Mark, but was surprised to find Eloise Devereux standing there. Putting her forefinger to her lips, Honor walked out into the corridor and Eloise followed her.
‘How is he?’
‘Doctor said he’ll be fine. He just had a really bad case of food poisoning. Got dehydrated, but they’ve given him fluids and he’s coming round,’ Honor replied, changing the subject. ‘I’m glad you came by. I wanted to have a word with you.’ Catching sight of Mark out of the corner of her eye, she guided the Frenchwoman to the Waiting Room and closed the door behind them. ‘How did you know Nicholas had been taken ill?’
‘Father Michael told me,’ Eloise replied calmly. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Nicholas …’ Honor paused, awkward and uncertain of how to continue. ‘You had contact with him in the years we were estranged and I wondered how much you knew about him. What he’d been doing—’
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
‘He’s not talking to me at the moment – we had an argument,’ Honor replied, hurrying on. ‘Nicholas was very close to Claude, but I never knew when they first met.’
If Eloise was surprised by the question she didn’t show it, merely took off her coat and sat down on one of the hard-backed green chairs. ‘In their teens, I believe.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘Through Henry, I suppose. Henry was mentored by Claude’s father, and he spent a lot of time with Raoul. I imagine Nicholas was introduced to Claude that way.’
‘So Nicholas visited France in his teens?’
‘A few times. Didn’t you know?’
Honor bristled. ‘We didn’t have a normal upbringing. Our uncle wasn’t too interested in what the boys did. He couldn’t handle Nicholas and so he let him run wild. What else could he have done? David Laverne was a single man with no experience of children; he couldn’t cope with a difficult nephew.’
‘Why was Nicholas difficult?’
‘He went off the rails when our parents were killed in a car accident. Henry always said that it was Nicholas’s fault—’
Eloise was taken aback. ‘How was it his fault?’
‘It wasn’t. It was just that our parents had come back from a trip and were tired and Nicholas had missed the last train and needing to be picked up from London. My father said he’d go alone, but my mother said she’d go with him to keep him awake. They crashed on the motorway … Henry never forgave himself for what he’d said, and Nicholas never forgot. He started playing truant from school, acting up.’ Honor paused. ‘He was impossible, but eventually he’d settle down and we’d all think it was over and then he’d go off again. Even in his teens Nicholas used to disappear.’
‘Difficult for you.’
‘Yes, it was. I worried about him.’
‘How did Henry cope with it?’
‘He was older than us, so he was already pretty much sorted. He had his career mapped out. He was sensible, focused, whereas Nicholas was capricious. Women loved him and he had a way with them …’ She thought of what Mark had told her, about her brother living with a woman old enough to be his mother.
‘Was Nicholas ever involved in anything serious?’
‘Like what?’ Honor asked. But she spoke the words too quickly and alerted the Frenchwoman.
‘Did he get into trouble?’ she repeated.
‘He never told me if he did,’ Honor replied deftly. ‘Then he suddenly seemed to settle and went into the Church. We kept in touch, but when the scandal broke he did his usual thing and disappeared.’
‘Maybe he wanted to protect you.’
‘Maybe. But for ten years I didn’t know what he was doing, except for wh
at Claude told me.’ Honor thought about the stolen painting and the assault. ‘Look, you knew my brother after he was excommunicated. What was he doing then?’
Turning away, Eloise looked through the partition window into the hospital corridor. She was thinking about how jealous she had been of the Englishman, the elusive fixture in her husband’s life. And her first impression of Nicholas Laverne had stuck. He had arrived late one night, dishevelled, wearing old clothes, with a holdall flung over his shoulder. Dark-eyed, suspicious, asking for help.
‘Can you put me up for a while?’ he had asked Claude. ‘Just for a bit.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. But why didn’t you return my calls? I’ve been trying to get hold of you ever since I heard.’
Nicholas had slumped into a seat by the fire, despondent but angry. ‘They threw me out. I’ve nowhere else to go,’ he had said, glancing at Eloise as though expecting an argument. ‘Those bastards ruined my life.’
Eloise turned back to Honor. ‘Your brother never confided in me. And if he confided in Claude, my husband didn’t tell me. But I don’t think Nicholas would have involved us in any trouble. He was secretive, but that was because he was protective of his friends. And his family.’ She held Honor’s gaze. ‘Didn’t you ever think he wanted to confide? Sometimes it seemed as though he was about to say something, then he held back.’
‘He was like that when he was young. Like he was always looking for someone to trust and never found them. Perhaps your husband was the closest he came to having a confidant.’
Eloise rose to her feet. ‘There’s one thing that sticks in my memory. Always has. Nicholas found a place to live close to us, then began to work for Sabine Monette. He did her gardening, odd jobs and maintenance on the property.’ She paused, smiling slightly. ‘Nicholas was very happy then. He was fond of Sabine and enjoyed her collection—’
‘She was a collector?’ Honor asked, alerted. ‘What did she collect?’
‘Paintings, mostly Dutch. Sabine had natural taste, could always buy well. Her collection wasn’t large but it was impressive, and she was so proud of it.’ Eloise paused. ‘Then she had a burglary. Someone broke in and stole a couple of her most valuable pictures …’
Honor held her breath. ‘And?’
‘Nicholas told us all about it. Said it was his fault. Sabine had been at her apartment in Paris and he had been looking after the chateau. The thief got in because Nicholas had forgotten to turn on the alarm.’ She looked intently at Honor. ‘Then your brother said something I’ll never forget. He said it “was a true mark of friendship that Sabine never suspected him.”’
Fifty-Seven
Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London
Standing in front of his cloakroom mirror, Philip held a second mirror up to look at the back of his head, at what he thought was a bald spot. He had always been vain about his hair and the innocent chance remark Gayle had made that morning had irked him. Bloody woman, he thought, comforted that he could see no thinning of his pate. Bloody stupid woman.
His vanity restored, Philip moved back into his office and studied the auction brochures that had just arrived. On the front cover was the Bosch chain and inside a description:
Extraordinary and rare object, believed to have belonged to the most important artist of the Late Middle Ages, Hieronymus Bosch. Papers claiming this provenance offered with the sale. The initials H and B are inscribed on the first links of the chain, closest to the clasp. The H is prominent, the B less so.
Estimate £780,000–£1,000,000
Philip liked the last line best, hoping that a relatively low estimate might encourage more bidders. After all, there were collectors who would think nothing of paying so much for a piece of such prominence. For a moment he thought of the papers and felt a pang of regret. He should have put them up for sale with the chain. They would have raised a fortune … But his greed had been overshadowed by his cowardice. Let Nicholas Laverne reek havoc with the Church, Philip would settle for the chain.
And although it had been difficult, Philip had managed to say silent on the subject of Bosch’s Tree Man, a portrait of the artist himself. The temptation to brag had been almost too much to resist, but he had managed it. This was a little nugget to expose at the auction. A thunderbolt for the art world, and healthy exposure for his auction rooms. Every Arts correspondent would publicise the news and, by default, Philip Preston.
It was all going to work out perfectly. And his hired security had managed to calm his anxieties. No one could get to him with them around, not even the formidable Honthorst. In fact, he thought, perhaps the whole business had been blown out of all proportion. And then he remembered the murders …
Reaching into his desk drawer, Philip picked up the two plane tickets. One way. It was all organised; he had his flight booked. Immediately after the sale he was going to take Kim to his new home outside Milan, a place no one knew about apart from his lawyer. All the arrangements for Gayle’s welfare, his business concerns and his divorce could be handled long distance. He wanted out of London. Permanently.
Outside, the clock struck three and Philip was surprised when the door opened and security informed him that a Mr Gerrit der Keyser wanted to talk to him.
‘OK, send him in.’
He came in flushed and out of breath, luminous with fury. ‘You bastard,’ he began, flinging a heavy object across the desk towards Philip. ‘If you’re auctioning the real Bosch chain then what the fuck is this?’
Fifty-Eight
Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London
Discharging himself from hospital, Nicholas made his way back to St Stephen’s, where Father Michael greeted him and ushered him inside.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, fine,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Just food poisoning. I should watch what I eat.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anything happen here?’
The old priest shook his head. ‘Nothing. I was worried out of my mind when you didn’t come back from that meeting.’
‘It wasn’t Conrad Voygel after all. It was Sidney Elliott. Unbelievable. I collapsed and the bastard left me lying there.’
‘At least he left you alive,’ Father Michael replied. ‘Honor rang again. And Philip Preston—’
‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’ The priest replied, making them both some tea and putting the mugs on the table. ‘You don’t think it was deliberate, do you?’
‘What?’
‘You being ill. I mean, you don’t think—’
‘Someone poisoned me?’ Nicholas laughed. ‘No, I think I got felled by an under-cooked burger. This is one thing I can’t blame on the Catholic Church.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘Did anyone come last night?’
‘I heard someone walking around. And the phone rang in the early hours. Same as usual.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘When are you going to make the Bosch deception public? I’ve told you, I’ll help you in any way I can. Whenever you want to speak out, I’ll be right next to you. I promise I won’t go against my conscience this time.’
Nicholas hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should say the next words, then let them come.
‘Did you know what they were doing to Patrick Gerin?’
The old priest took in a breath, hobbled by regret. ‘I knew about the other boy.’
‘But not Patrick?’
‘No. I heard rumours about David Sullivan. I even mentioned it to Father Luke and Father Dominic, but they told me he was a difficult boy. Needed discipline, they said. He was going to be a good priest; he had to be obedient.’ Father Michael was stumbling on the words. ‘Patrick Gerin was another matter … he was … No, I didn’t know about him.’ The old priest paused again, glancing up at Nicholas. ‘They were just rumours – nothing concrete, just gossip. A year earlier some boy had lied about being mistreated at St Barnabas’s and we thought this was just more of the same. You can’t believe everything you hear.’
‘Bu
t you could have looked into it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Father Michael countered, catching Nicholas off guard. ‘You exposed the abuse – but if you knew about it all along, why didn’t you do anything earlier? Why wait until Patrick Gerin died?’
Nicholas looked away. ‘I think about that every day. I dream about it. Even in my dreams it’s always too late. I should have acted sooner. I failed—’
‘That time, but not now,’ the old priest replied. ‘You still want to expose the fraud about Bosch, don’t you?’
‘Not until the auction. When the chain goes up for sale there will be a lot of publicity and I want to use that. The press and the internet will report the sale of the chain – and then I’ll come forward with the Bosch papers. The proof of what was done to him. The proof of how the Catholic Church colluded.’ He took another drink of tea, feeling the warmth spread through him. ‘I failed a living boy, but I won’t fail a dead man. This time I won’t fail.’ He glanced at the old priest, his voice firm. ‘Let me do this alone.’
‘No!’
‘Don’t jeopardise your life. It’s not worth it, not worth the recriminations that would follow. You’ll suffer if you support me—’
‘And suffer if I don’t,’ Father Michael retorted. ‘I’m backing you, yes, but you’re the one in real danger. The Church will come after you – you know that.’
‘They haven’t stopped me yet.’
‘Not yet, Nicholas,’ the old priest said quietly. ‘Not yet.’
Fifty-Nine
Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London
Philip snatched up the chain that Gerrit had flung across his desk and stared at it. Hurriedly he turned it over in his hands and then took out a magnifying glass and scrutinised the links. The same initials were there – H and B. He weighed it. Same weight as his chain. Then he moved into the next-door room and carried out the acid test. It was genuine. Gold, like the other chain. He moved back into his office, running the chain through his hands, his expression incredulous as he looked at his visitor.
