by Alex Connor
Philip Preston mounted the dais and checked his microphone, which hissed and clicked into the hall like a woken rattlesnake, Philip unusually awkward as he began the auction. He was leaving the Bosch chain until last, the final and tremendous lot, cleverly building up the tension. And there was plenty of that. Leaning forward, Gerrit looked along his row, surprised to see Hiram Kaminski, a dealer who had professed to want nothing to do with the chain. And yet here he was and, just behind him, the beautiful and glacial Eloise Devereux. Her manner revealed nothing but her glance settled on her father for a long instant and her expression warned him that she would never stop, never give up until she had discovered who had killed her husband and her mother and punished them. And if it turned out to be Gerrit der Keyser, so be it.
Over a hundred people had gathered into the hall, security at the doors and at the front and rear of the dais. All eyes were focused on Philip Preston. No one noticed the stooping figure of Sidney Elliott in the crowd, or the ominous Carel Honthorst. No one spotted Father Dominic from St Barnabas’s, or the ever-curious Mark Spencer. They were all fixated on the Bosch chain. The chain that provoked fear and desire in equal amounts. The infamous chain which had supposedly carried a secret so potent it had resulted in murder.
If there were ghosts in the hall then Sabine Monette was there alongside Claude Devereux and Thomas Littlejohn. If there were ghosts, the guilty spirit of Father Luke was also watching. But one person was missing; the instigator of the sale and the man who had begun the rumour of the Bosch deception.
The troubled – and troubling – Nicholas Laverne.
Seventy-Seven
Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London
Running in from the battering rain, Honor knocked on the side door of the vestry. There was no answer. Again she knocked, this time loudly, thumping the iron knocker up and down. Finally Father Michael answered her.
‘Where’s Nicholas?’ she asked him.
But he didn’t reply and he seemed ill at ease. Surprised, Honor moved past him into the hall, glancing towards the kitchen. Inside sat a man she knew. A thickset man with bad skin. A man she recognised from the photographs Mark Spencer had shown her. Carel Honthorst.
Spooked, Honor stepped back, almost losing her footing as she ran out into the street and made for her parked car. She had just clambered inside when Honthorst caught up with her and tried to wrench open the door with his uninjured hand. Horrified, Honor turned on the ignition and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car jerked forward, its wheels spinning, and as it knocked Honthorst off balance Honor swerved out into the traffic, a passing taxi blaring its horn.
One hand on the wheel, Honor reached into her bag for her mobile. At the traffic lights she stopped, glanced into the rear-view mirror, and then phoned Nicholas’s number.
It rang out.
‘Pick up!’ she said frantically. ‘Pick up!’
But there was no answer and the lights changed, forcing Honor to drive on. She knew that there was only one reason for Carel Honthorst to be at St Stephen’s – he was in league with Father Michael. In collusion with the Catholic Church. There was no other explanation. She thought of what Nicholas had told her. About his dreams, the night terrors, the food poisoning, the crucifix he had found in his bed, the one she had only recently remembered giving him as a new priest. All the things she had put down to imagination and paranoia. But she had been wrong. Nicholas wasn’t unstable, he was in danger.
And then his words came back, haunting and damning: ‘When did you stop knowing who I was?’
Seventy-Eight
Head lowered, Nicholas kept on walking. The rain was coming down hard and he bought an umbrella from a street trader, holding it close to his head and turning up the collar of his coat in an attempt to disguise himself. He felt more alone than he had ever been, but he wasn’t going to back down. Unless someone stopped him, he was going to expose the truth. Nothing else mattered to him. If it cost him his life, it was worth it. He had no family to speak of, no reputation left. No home, no friends. He was an outcast.
But he was still fighting. And all he needed was access to the internet. He cursed the fact that he had left his phone behind when he fled St Stephen’s, but he would have to improvise. Crossing Beak Street, he entered Soho, the nub of the capital, a place overrun with bars, shops and internet cafes. Entering a narrow alleyway, Nicholas walked into a cafe and paid for online access.
Sitting down in front of the computer, he typed in a website name and watched, relieved, as the site came up. He had prepared it weeks earlier, entering copies of the Bosch papers and a photograph of the chain in which the papers had been found, together with explanations of the text and relevant translations. The information had been updated, ready to go live. He accused the Church of deception in concealing the death of Hieronymus Bosch and named The Brotherhood of Mary. He explained that many of Bosch’s works had been faked by his family in the interests of making money, with the collusion of the Catholic Church. The whole sordid and bitter tale of Bosch’s incarceration was laid out in the words of a contemporary, someone who had witnessed it.
Next he checked his blog, also ready to go live. Finally, he checked the emails he was about to send to newspapers, websites, radio and television stations around the globe – and to various eminent members of the Church. It was all complete, ready. When he pressed Enter, the world of art and of religion would find itself under blistering scrutiny, called to account for a deception perpetrated centuries earlier.
The cafe was dense with noise and the humming of computers. Relieved that he was not being watched, Nicholas glanced around him as a waitress approached. She was very young, with heavy eye make-up and a sleeve of tattoos, but she was friendly.
‘You want something to drink?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
She was persistent. ‘But we’ve got everything,’ she went on.
Distracted for a moment Nicholas looked up at her. ‘Honestly, I’m fine—’
He never saw him, just felt the punch land on the side of his ribs, as Sidney Elliott grabbed him and the waitress watched, horrified, as Nicholas was knocked to the floor. Desperate, he tried to reach up to the computer, but Elliott took hold of his arm and twisted it.
‘Press Enter!’ Nicholas shouted to the waitress.
She stared, transfixed.
‘Press the button!’ he shouted. ‘Jesus, please …’
She was moving in suspended time. Her gaze went from Nicholas to the computer and back to him again. The heavily made-up eyes blinked, her mind processing what was going on and the instruction she had been given. Then, like a leaf unfurling, the tattooed arm reached out, one finger extended.
And pressed Enter.
Seventy-Nine
Someone had called the police and now an officer was heading towards the struggling men. As Elliott saw the policeman he panicked, pushing over tables in his hurry to get out, computers crashing to the floor as people watched him run into the street. He was moving so fast he couldn’t stop in time, and a delivery van slammed into him and threw him several yards along the road. Panicked, the driver jumped out of his cab and ran over to the dying man.
‘I didn’t see him! He came out of nowhere!’ the driver babbled to the onlookers. ‘I didn’t see him!’
It was only seconds before the police officer reached the scene, but it was obvious that Sidney Elliott was dead. His eyes were open but blank. His limbs were contorted, his neck bent at an angle. Blood pumped from his smashed chest and oiled the street, speckles of vermilion flecking the white face.
‘Why did he run like that?’ the waitress asked Nicholas, bemused.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’
She glanced at the policeman who was bending over the body, then looked back to Nicholas. ‘You in trouble?’
He didn’t lie. ‘Yes.’
Nodding, she beckoned for him to follow her, taking the alleywa
y and then a sharp turn to the left. He didn’t question why he was following her, he was just glad of the help as the girl pushed open a back door and ushered him in. The place smelt of curry and joss-sticks, stirring an old memory of incense.
‘Come on,’ she said, showing him into a shabby sitting room. ‘It’s not much, but you’re welcome to doss here a bit. Wait ’til things quieten down.’
‘Why are you helping me?’
‘Why not? I was on my uppers once and someone helped me. Always said I’d return the favour one day,’ she replied, putting out her hand. ‘I’m Tyra, and the man snoring next door is my brother. If he wakes up, say you’re a friend of mine and he’ll be fine with it.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Who was the man who attacked you?’
‘Somebody who never got over becoming a nobody,’ Nicholas replied wryly.
Tyra pulled a face. ‘Well, anyway, the telly’s over there and there’s some food in the kitchen. I’ll be back later.’
‘Don’t tell anyone—’
‘You’re here?’ she grinned. ‘Don’t worry. No one tells anyone anything round here.’
Eighty
From the safety of Tyra’s flat, Nicholas dialled 141, to withhold the number he was ringing from, and then called Hiram Kaminski.
‘Sidney Elliott is dead,’ he said without preamble. ‘I think he was the man who tried to break into your gallery. He tried hard to stop me going public, but he didn’t manage it. The Bosch deception is out there now.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was spooked by the police. It’s funny: when he saw them he completely overreacted, ran off and got hit by a van before anyone could talk to him.’
‘He didn’t want to get caught—’
‘That’s what puzzles me,’ Nicholas replied. ‘To outsiders, it was just two men fighting. He could have explained it away, bluffed his way out of it. No, there was more to it than that. When he saw that copper, he lost it. Bolted.’
‘But why would he do that?’
Nicholas thought for a moment. ‘Maybe he couldn’t risk being caught. Maybe he had more to hide than just attacking me.’ He paused, thinking back over everything that had happened, piecing it together. ‘Sidney Elliott was a desperate man. He was banking on finding out about Bosch. He was acting as though everything depended on it and got more and more unreasonable. Every time I spoke to him he raised the stakes: he went after my sister, he threatened me. He was a mess. Frenzied, dangerous. Oh God …’
Hiram pressed him. ‘What is it?’
‘I think it was Sidney Elliott who murdered Thomas Littlejohn, Sabine and Claude. Then he went after Father Luke to frame me.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Hiram was taken aback. ‘He was an academic—’
‘—who was one of the first to know about the conspiracy. I went to him, remember? I only gave him one piece of the Bosch papers, but it was enough to whet his appetite. Elliott was a bitter man, his life a failure. I think he saw the conspiracy as his last chance. He wanted to expose it. He wanted the glory of the discovery – so he had to silence everyone else who knew about it.’
‘But he didn’t kill you.’
‘He needed me,’ Nicholas explained. ‘Elliott never knew the whole deception – I was the only person who could tell him that. He couldn’t kill me, he could only threaten me.’ He thought back, slotting the pieces into place. ‘Didn’t you tell me that Thomas Littlejohn dealt in paintings and antique books?’
Hiram nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’
‘So Elliott might have worked with him before on a manuscript.’
‘It’s possible. Sidney Elliott was an expert. We all used him,’ Hiram admitted. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. Why would a man like him suddenly become a killer?’
‘It wasn’t sudden,’ Nicholas explained, his voice rising. ‘Bit by bit, Elliott’s life had soured. I remember him almost begging me for “an adventure”. My rejection was another blow to his ego.’ He paused, thinking back. ‘He wanted one more shot at glory, and he failed. I think that was the turning point.’
‘And Thomas Littlejohn knew someone was after him,’ Hiram said hurriedly. ‘That’s why he wrote me the letter—’
‘Which Elliott didn’t know about. That’s why he didn’t kill you – he wasn’t sure how much you knew. So he scared you into silence instead.’ Nicholas thought of the dead man. ‘He wasn’t going for honour any longer. He’d killed, crossed the line. He was going for the money instead. Sidney Elliott was working for the person who would pay him the most for the secret—’
‘Conrad Voygel.’
Nicholas took in a breath. Then he asked, ‘Who bought the chain at the auction?’
‘The buyer was anonymous, but we all know it’s Voygel. The place was buzzing. And everyone’s looking for you. Your sister came to the auction trying to find you—’
‘Has the chain left the auction house?’
‘No. When I spoke to Philip Preston he said that it was being collected later tonight. There was some rumour about it being taken out of the country, but that could just be hearsay. One thing’s for sure: Preston’s got guards all round the place, security up to the hilt. He’s scared. Maybe he thinks someone will try to steal it before it gets to its new owner.’
Nicholas thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Maybe he’s right.’
Eighty-One
The news of the Bosch deception hit the art world just after the auction had finished and Philip Preston was collared in his office by a couple of journalists demanding the whole story. Had he known about it? Had he any idea of the upheaval it would cause among the dealers and the galleries who would now start questioning their Bosch acquisitions. Composed, he met their questions with equanimity, steering the conversation over to his exclusive discovery that the famous Tree Man was, in fact, a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch.
‘But was he abused?’ one journalist asked. ‘And what if it’s true that Bosch’s family and the Church just kept churning out the paintings?’
‘The writings were hidden in the chain you’ve just sold,’ another man said. ‘I saw it online. A Nicholas Laverne posted it and wrote to the press. Who is Nicholas Laverne anyway?’
Philip’s expression was strained. He was surprised that Nicholas had managed the exposé and was now determined to curtail the damage. ‘Mr Laverne is a … man with a vivid imagination.’
‘You saying he’s lying?’
‘I’m saying that he could be mistaken. Look into his background and you’ll see what I mean. Mr Laverne relishes the role of whistle-blower. He also has a great animosity towards the Catholic Church. He was excommunicated ten years ago.’ Philip could see them all listening, scribbling or holding their recorders up to his mouth to catch every word. ‘Mr Laverne was also questioned by the police—’
‘What?’
‘– about the death of Father Luke. Late of St Barnabas’s church, Fulham. Apparently he was one of the priests Laverne accused of abuse.’
‘And the police think he had something to do with the murder?’
‘How would I know? Ask them,’ Philip said loftily. ‘But I think being cut off from the Church unhinged Mr Laverne.’
The seed was sown and took quick root.
*
Philip Preston wasn’t the only person to damn Nicholas. Within an hour of the news being posted online, Gerrit der Keyser gave an interview in which he intimated that no one believed anything Laverne said, and that he could easily have constructed the deception himself. Nicholas Laverne’s exposure was an irritant, he went on, but would not turn out to be the disaster people feared. His credibility was dubious and already one high-ranking member of the Church had labelled him ‘a poor, misguided fantasist’.
Only one person came to Nicholas’s aid. Hiram Kaminski gave an interview to be published in The Times the following day, going public to say that the Bosch deception was real. How did he know? Thomas Littlejohn had told him.
‘If it wasn’t true,’
Hiram said on BBC radio, ‘why would four people involved with it have been murdered?’
His words caught the attention of everyone listening, including the authorities. Within minutes of Hiram’s interview at Langham Place, he was being questioned by the London Metropolitan police. At the same time, Nicholas was leaving a thank-you note on Tyra’s table in Soho, together with some money – enough to pay for the black hoodie he had taken from her brother.
Patiently, he had waited until it was dark. Tyra’s brother was a heavy sleeper and his snores kept Nicholas company until 6 p.m. With the hood pulled up over his head, Nicholas left and made his way across town towards Chelsea. Sidney Elliott was dead, but that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t following him. Conrad Voygel had enough money to hire an army of watchers. Repeatedly changing buses, Nicholas headed for the auction house of Philip Preston.
It was almost 7.15 p.m. when he arrived, climbing over a wall and securing a vantage point from the roof of a garage. Almost concealed behind a series of steps, Nicholas watched the auction house. Hiram had been right: the doors and the fire escape were being patrolled by almost a dozen security men, the back exit monitored by a dog handler. He waited. An hour passed, then finally, around 8.20 p.m., a security van drew up. A moment later the white-haired figure of Philip Preston emerged carrying a small wooden box which he handed to a guard. After signing a document, Philip watched the van pull away, then turned and moved back into the auction house.
Leaving his hiding place, Nicholas jumped down into the alleyway and made his way out into the street, hailing a taxi and clambering in. ‘You see that dark van?’
The driver nodded. ‘Yeah. Want me to follow it?’
‘That’s exactly what I want you to do,’ Nicholas replied.
