The Bosch Deception (15 page)

Even though it was bitterly cold, Carel Honthorst was sweating as he heaved himself up the steps to Philip Preston's office and walked in unannounced. Feigning nonchalance, Philip looked up from his desk.

‘What do you want?'

‘Mr der Keyser wants to see you.'

‘When did the accident happen?'

Honthorst frowned. ‘What accident?'

‘The one that took away the use of his legs,' Philip replied smartly. ‘If Gerrit wants to talk to me, he knows where I am.' He rose to his feet, pausing beside the Dutchman and staring at his shiny face. The sweat was affecting his concealer and his pores gaped like craters. ‘Why don't you use fake tan? It would be more convincing.'

Honthorst blinked slowly. ‘Mr der Keyser wants you to come to his office.'

‘Like I said—' Philip stopped abruptly as Honthorst caught hold of his arm and twisted it up behind his back. The pain made him gasp, Honthorst jerking his wrist with
every word he spoke. ‘Mr der Keyser wants to talk to you. Now.'

*

When they arrived at the gallery, der Keyser was standing outside, admiring his window display: three paintings by a follower of Van Dyke, one of a child with a dog. Maudlin. As he spotted Philip, Gerrit smiled and walked in. A moment later Philip followed, shoved inside by Honthorst who then stood on guard at the door.

Straightening his tie, Philip's expression was outraged. ‘I don't like—'

‘Being fucked about?' Gerrit said. ‘Me neither. But there you go, people fuck you about the whole time. Only the other day we were talking about some chain and some ex-priest, and all along you knew where it was.
My chain
.'

‘Sabine Monette's actually,' Philip replied, watching as Gerrit began tending a potted palm. ‘And before that it was stolen from Raoul Devereux's gallery years ago.'

‘I bought it in good faith! If it was stolen, I didn't know about it.'

‘Come off it – you wouldn't have cared,' Philip replied, pointing to the Dutchman outside. ‘Call him off. I have to get back to the office, I've got a big auction coming up—'

‘With my fucking chain in it!'

Playing for time, Philip sat down and crossed his legs.

Surprised by the show of nonchalance, Gerrit kept tweaking at his plant, clipping off the brown, dry edges of the leaves with a pair of nail scissors. ‘I want it back.'

‘So buy it at the auction.'

‘I'm not fucking buying it, you smarmy prick!' Gerrit roared. ‘It's mine.'

‘No, it belonged to Sabine Monette. You sold it to her with the Bosch painting—'

‘She stole it. I have the bitch on tape.'

‘You have her taking the chain off the painting you had just
sold
to her,' Philip replied, his tone oily. ‘I've had it checked out. Any court in the land will tell you that possession is nine tenths of the law. The fact that you missed out on something because you were too slow doesn't count.'

‘You smug bastard, I should kick you in the bollocks,' Gerrit replied, slamming down the scissors he was holding.

‘If you want the chain back you can bid for it at the auction. Oh, come off it, Gerrit – you can't start going around saying that you were cheated, not without everyone starting to look at where the painting came from. How it was stolen from Raoul Devereux's gallery all those years ago, then turned up in the Cotswolds, and then found its way to you.' He shook his head. ‘You can't afford to have people questioning how you obtained the picture and its scandalous chain—'

‘That chain is mine by rights!'

‘That's debatable. Like I say, if you want it, bid for it. Of course, I can't rely on your being successful – there might be a few other interested parties.' Philip continued, feeling his way along, wondering just how much Gerrit der Keyser knew. ‘But then again, it
is
only a chain. Even if it belonged to Hieronymus Bosch, it is only a chain—'

‘A very
valuable
chain.'

‘So perhaps you and I could have a private sale.'

‘Perhaps I could have your head nailed to the door.'

Philip shrugged. ‘You lost, Gerrit. It's snakes and ladders and this time you failed. Next time you'll be luckier. By the way, I could have you done for breaking and entering.' He jerked his head to where Honthorst was standing. ‘Tiny Tim out there burgled my office.'

‘What he does in his spare time has nothing to do with me.'

‘He works for you – you're responsible.'

Gerrit pulled a face. ‘If it rains outside my gallery is it my fault you get pissed on when you walk out?'

Smiling, Philip walked to the door. ‘After all, Gerrit, it's only a chain. You've never been interested in gold before.'

A moment fluttered between them, buoyed up by their combined malice.

‘A chain's a chain,' Gerrit agreed. ‘Paper's paper. Words are words. But if you put all three together, you could make quite a fucking story out of it.' He put his head to one side like a scrawny crow, cupping his hand around his left ear. ‘Hear that? That click?'

Philip frowned. ‘What?'

‘I think that's the sound of your number coming up.'

And here I am again, between the yew trees
.

Nicholas turns over in bed, straining to lift eyelids that won't open, that won't let his body admit he is dreaming. His arms shift like broken windmill sails against the sheets. He is walking in his sleep and now it is dark again. Here I go, here I go …

The outhouse is covered in ivy; Nicholas doesn't remember that; but knows that nature will have moved on, his own past ageing. He calls out, waits for Patrick Gerin and his friend to appear, to leave the back door of the church and move to the outhouse where the ivy grows.

But no one comes. And in the dream the ivy slinks over the broken roof and through the windows of the outhouse. As he watches, it slithers under the padlocked cupboard door and then stops. A moon, white as cut paper, grins like an imbecile through the grappling yews.

I know this part, he thinks. I know this – it's always the same … Nicholas reaches out, grasps the handle, feels the door open and then sees the boy. He is mewling, on his last, damp breath, under the dust, puffy from beatings, naked as a lamb, ivy twisting and curling around his cold limbs.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, Nicholas nursed the coffee he was holding and studied his sister. He had to admit that he was impressed by her. Over the years they had been estranged he had thought of Honor often, remembering her the last time they had spoken, when she had tucked the money into his pocket without his knowing. Money that had saved him when he was on his uppers in Liverpool. He had lost count of the times he had started to write to her, or picked up the phone to call. But he had always bottled out.

He had tried to convince himself that he was being thoughtful. Later, after his disgrace, that had been the truth. But there had been thousands of times before when he could have bridged that chasm between them. It would have taken so little to bring him back home. Even less to stay in the wilderness.

And now Honor was sitting in the kitchen of St Stephen's Rectory eating a chicken sandwich. Honor, her hair black as molasses, her eyes alert.

‘So,' she asked, after swallowing a mouthful. ‘if the chain's now with Philip Preston, you should be safe.'

‘I still know about the Bosch conspiracy. I know about the Church and what they did—'

‘Let it drop! You could move back to France, show them you've walked away, that you're not going to do anything about it. They'll leave you alone if you back off,' Honor said impatiently. ‘You're just looking for trouble if you pursue this. Let someone else do it.'

‘No!' he snapped. ‘The chain came to me – it's my responsibility.' He reached out to touch her hand and then drew back, folding his arms. ‘Do you ever think about our childhood?' he asked suddenly.

She nodded, taking another bite of the sandwich.

‘Did you think you'd go into the law then?' he continued.

‘Did you …' she swallowed … ‘think you'd go into the Church?' When he didn't reply, she went on. ‘We couldn't understand it, you know. You being a priest. We weren't even Catholic. Everyone thought you were joking.'

‘Everyone always thought I was joking.' Nicholas replied, changing the subject. ‘Eloise Devereux shouldn't have told you about Bosch—'

‘Yes, she should,' Honor replied, finishing the sandwich getting up to make some tea for both of them. ‘She doesn't know the whole story though. Not what the secret is. Neither do I.' Honor turned back to her brother. ‘You avoided telling me yesterday – are you going to tell me today?'

‘No.'

‘I think you should,' she said matter-of-factly. ‘So what was it? Were the paintings faked?'

He winced.

‘Of course … It had to be something like that. But there's more, isn't there? I know. I can see it in your face. What else?'

Again he hesitated.

‘Oh, come on, Nicholas, you have to tell me. I know too much to be innocent, and too little to be of any bloody good.'

‘I've told you, it's dangerous.'

‘And I've told you, it's too late to think about that. I've crossed over to your side now. All you have to do is to trust me.' She took his hand, gripping it tightly. ‘Poor lost boy, hey? Henry was always so organised, I was always so confident, you – you were always such an outlaw.'

He laughed, embarrassed.

‘All the girls fancied you, even when you came back from London that time with filthy hair and stinking. Yeah, you did stink. Uncle David was horrified – took to his rooms and turned the volume up on that old record player.'

‘And refused to talk to me for a week.' Nicholas remarked. ‘Does the record player still work?'

‘Oh, yes,' Honor said. Then, changing the subject, ‘How many women have you slept with?'

‘What kind of a question is that?'

‘I have a theory, you see. You were so randy when you were young, I reckoned that either you'd had too much sex or it had put you off completely. That's why you could take a vow of chastity.'

He glanced at her left hand. ‘You aren't married.'

‘I was,' Honor said, shrugging. ‘Didn't last. And now I'm single at thirty-six, with no kids. Never wanted them, never will … Don't run off again, please. You're the only family I've got. There are only two of us left, Nicholas. We need each other. I have to get back to work now.' Standing up she walked to the door and turned. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Someone left a note for you on my car.'

She rummaged in her bag and passed him the piece of folded paper.

And then she watched as he read it and the colour left his face.

It was early, hardly light, when Nicholas awoke. For once he hadn't dreamed, and now he was desperate to urinate. Moving into the bathroom he relieved himself, his hand resting on the wall over the cistern as a sudden wave of nausea came over him. Surprised, he waited for the feeling to pass, then walked out into the corridor. Even with the door of Father Michael's room closed he could hear the snoring. He paused for a moment, listening to the old priest giving an abrupt snort and then rolling over in bed. The springs creaked and protested, but a moment later the snoring began again.

Back in his room, Nicholas got into bed then paused, listening. He could hear footsteps on the gravel outside. Who would be walking around the church at four thirty in the morning? Flicking off his bedside light, he moved to the window and looked out. The gravel path was empty, the street lamp illuminating parked cars but nothing else. Certainly no figure moving around.

Surprised, he returned to bed. Lying down, he felt something – a sharp object digging into his back. He snapped on the light and stared at the wooden crucifix lying in the centre of his bed. It hadn't been there before he went to the toilet. Someone had come into his room and placed it there … Gingerly, Nicholas picked up the crucifix, then dropped it, standing up and backing away from the bed.

It was not an ordinary crucifix. It was one he knew. But he hadn't seen it for a long time.

It was the one Nicholas had been given by his sister years earlier, when he had first become a priest. Grabbing the phone, he punched out Honor's number.

There was no answer.

Troubled by the events of the previous night, Nicholas eventually managed to contact Honor at eight o' clock. His sister was puzzled by what he told her.

‘What are you talking about?' she asked. ‘The crucifix
I
gave you—'

‘Was in my bed last night. And I didn't put it there,' he snapped. ‘Someone was in the vestry and they put it there.' His voice shook. ‘I heard footsteps, and in the time it took me to have a pee someone got in and planted that crucifix in my bed.'

‘Where was Father Michael?'

‘Asleep. I could hear him snoring,' Nicholas retorted heatedly. ‘Anyway, do you really think an old priest would play a trick like that?'

‘I don't know,' Honor replied, pouring herself a coffee and sitting down in her kitchen. ‘Who else could it have been? I mean, you'd have heard someone break in, wouldn't you? You're a light sleeper, Nicholas – that would have woken you.'

‘Unless they were already in the house.'

She shivered. ‘Are you serious?'

‘They were bound to come after me sooner or later,' Nicholas replied. ‘They tried to frame me for Father Luke's murder, but that didn't stick, so now they have to find another way to stop me. They can't kill me, that would be too obvious—'

‘Nicholas,' Honor said softly, ‘you can't
really
believe that the Catholic Church would murder you? That's crazy.'

‘So now I'm going crazy?'

‘I didn't say
you
were going crazy, I said the theory was crazy.' Her voice was patient. ‘You're under a lot of stress. You said yourself you weren't sleeping. You could be imagining things—'

‘A crucifix in my bed!' he snapped. ‘Father Michael said someone had been watching the church and he's had phone calls in the middle of the night. When he answers, there's no one there. I know I'm being followed, but now they're upping the ante.' He thought for a moment, ‘Maybe it was Father Dominic from St Barnabas's. Father Luke's running mate. He's scared enough—'

‘You're scaring me,' Honor interrupted. ‘You have to calm down, get things into perspective.'

Nicholas wasn't listening.

‘It would have to be clever, nothing shocking,' he went on. ‘They can't kill me outright – it would be all over the papers and people would ask questions.
Whistle-blower priest
murdered
would provoke some interest. Only a few people know about the Bosch deception, but someone would speak out if I were killed. The Church wants me to shut up, so they're trying to frighten me.'

‘Give them the bloody papers!' Honor snapped. ‘Who cares what happened to Hieronymus Bosch? No one. You're tilting at windmills again, and you're the one who'll get hurt—'

‘But that's the point. It might not be just me … I want you to go and stay with our uncle for a while—'

‘I'm not going to live with David Laverne again!' she retorted. ‘And what makes you think that I'd be any safer in the country than in London? God, Nicholas, think about it. If someone wanted to harm me, they would have done so already. Besides, I don't know what the deception is, do I? You never told me – not the whole story anyway.'

‘You mustn't know it. Your safety is in
not
knowing it.'

‘Nicholas, please, calm down. You're letting your imagination run away with you. This is madness—'

‘I don't care if you think I'm a lunatic,' Nicholas replied, his tone sharp. ‘Can't you see what they're doing? They
want
you to think I'm crazy, so that they can discredit what I say. Believe me, I know what these people are capable of, and if they can't get to me they'll go for the people I love.' He cringed at the thought. ‘If you won't go to the country, come here. Stay at St Stephen's with us.'

‘I can't just take time off work—'

‘Say you're ill,' Nicholas suggested. ‘This won't go on for long, Honor. The chain's being sold at auction in a few days' time—'

‘So why don't you put the papers up for auction as well?'

He was taken aback. ‘
What?
I don't want to raise money with them, I want to expose the Church for their part in the deception.'

‘Which you would if you sold them,' Honor retorted. ‘And if “they” thought the papers were going to be public knowledge there would be no point in coming after you.'

‘I know what the secret is,' he said wearily. ‘Whether I have the papers in my possession or not, I
know
the secret.'

‘So why haven't you gone to the press with it? You did last time.'

Nicholas smiled bitterly. ‘That's the point – last time I was discredited. Who would believe me this time? They won't. Unless someone respectable speaks out for me – like Father Michael. He offered, I didn't ask him to. He wants to do it, to make amends for the past.'

‘
And you're going to let him?
' she asked incredulously. ‘You can be a right bastard, Nicholas.'

‘He wants to do it!'

‘And your arriving on his doorstep with a conspiracy theory didn't force his hand?' She slammed down her coffee cup. ‘You don't really care about the deception; you just want to get your own back on the Church and you're prepared to use an old man to do it.'

‘
He offered
.'

‘You knew he would! When you turned up out of the blue and told him about it, you knew he would have to help you. Catholic guilt and all that shit. I imagine poor Father Michael thinks he'll get a front-row seat in Paradise for doing this.' She shook her head. ‘You can fool other people, Nicholas, but not me. I know you.'

‘He wants to do it.'

‘Even if he gets killed? You might escape, Nicholas, with your religious celebrity, but what about some old man who's on his last legs?'

Her anger shook him. Why had Eloise Devereux brought him and his sister together again? Honor would have been safer kept out of it.

‘I didn't want any of this—'

‘Didn't you?' Honor countered. ‘Seems to me that it's offering you a very convenient way to have another go at the Church.'

‘You think I was wrong to expose them?'

‘Not the first time, Nicholas,' she replied. ‘I admired you for that. You stood up and told the world what had been done to those boys and it cost you. I know how much. I know what it did to you, physically and mentally. But this time – this time it just looks like you're a conspiracy nut out for revenge.'

‘There are papers which prove the deception!'

‘And it was you that found the papers, wasn't it? I mean, Sabine took the chain off the picture, but it was
you
who found the papers hidden inside.'

‘Yes, it was me. So what?'

She hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘You took them out of their hiding place …' she said quietly. ‘Or did you put them
in
?'