The Bosch Deception Read online

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London

  W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2014 by Alex Connor

  The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN 978 1 78206 507 4

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78206 508 1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  Book One

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Book Two

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Book Three

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Book Four

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Bibliography

  Also by Alex Connor

  The Caravaggio Conspiracy

  Isle of the Dead

  The Goya Enigma

  Legacy of Blood

  The Rembrandt Secret

  ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ [detail]

  After Hieronymus Bosch

  ‘The like of which was never seen before

  Or thought of by any other man.’

  Albrecht Dürer, 1471–1528

  ‘Who will be able to tell of all the weird and strange ideas which were in the mind of Jeronimus Bos, and his expressions of them by his brush? He painted gruesome pictures.’

  Karel van Mander, 1548–1606

  London

  The pain of the hammer blow cut through his sleep and he slumped back against the door of St Stephen’s church. Alarmed, he struggled to open his eyes, smelt burning, then jerked his legs up. His trousers were on fire. Someone had poured petrol on him; he could see the man standing over him with a can, emptying the last drops on to his body. Terrified, the victim screamed, writhing in pain, the flames soaring up his legs and into his groin.

  Stumbling to his feet, he was suddenly engulfed, the fire eating into his chest and face. He could feel his skin melting, slipping off his bones, his eyes boiling in his skull. Hysterical, desperate, he screamed again, the flames licking around and inside his mouth as he staggered down to the gravel path. But he was going nowhere in the darkness as he shrieked and spun like a firework and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air, smoke rising from the blackening shape. He was still screaming as his attacker watched him fall forward on to the path, flames flickering over the dying, stinking body. Finally the screaming stopped. His flesh crackled and the flames died down, the smoke thick and cloying.

  Moving over to his victim, the attacker kicked at the body. It didn’t move. Then, dropping the petrol can beside the corpse, he calmly walked away.

  Book One

  Prologue

  ’s-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, 1460

  It is a fallacy that killing a bird brings ill luck. For the members of the Swan Brethren, it was a form of tribute. On an early evening, barely into a bitter November, two men carried in the swan on an ornate silver plate. Its feathers were clotted with blood from the arrow point, its head lying listless, its throat ice-white, long, fragile, leading to the open ebony eyes. Its closed beak, redly defiant, seemed like a full stop.

  Ten years old, he watched his father, Antonius van Aken, receive the offering. He was wearing the insignia of the order, his position as artistic advisor to the Brotherhood of Our Lady marking him out from his peers. The order had been established in the religious Netherlands to venerate the mother of Christ, but Hieronymus knew of the politics involved. Even a religious sect had a pecking order. There were the ordinary members of the Brotherhood and the sworn members – the glorious ‘Swan Brethren’ who donated a swan for the yearly banquet.

  Glossy-faced and perspiring, Antonius studied the swan and nodded approval. Applause broke out among the assembled company, clerics, nobility and magistrates clapping the tips of their elegant fingers in muted appreciation.

  Hieronymus gazed at the dead bird. He thought it was a little like him, overwhelmed by circumstances just as he was overwhelmed by family. His father, two grandfathers and five brothers were all painters, all gifted men, healthy and dismissive of a sickly runt of a child. Suddenly he saw the bird move and he blinked, leaning over the banisters and staring down into the hall beneath. Without warning the swan rose up, webbed feet stamping on the silver tray, threatening to topple off as the men beneath panicked and struggled to hold on to their charge.

  Hieronymus could see his father’s eyes widen in terror as the bird opened its bloody wings and turned towards him. Its tremendous span seemed for a moment to envelop the entire Brotherhood in shadow, the men cowering beneath. And then the swan’s beak – that molten arrow – jabbed into Antonius’s skull. The bone cracked and Antonius van Aken was thrown upwards, landing bloodied and mangled on the silver platter where the bird had previously lain.

  For the second time that night
, Hieronymus woke up screaming.

  One

  Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London, the present day

  ‘Father?’

  The priest turned, staring at a face he didn’t recognise. At first. ‘Nicholas?’

  He nodded, moving towards the older man. Nicholas Laverne, forty-one years old, a man who had left London ten years earlier and had – to all intents and purposes – disappeared. Nicholas Laverne, the ex-priest who had railed publicly against the Catholic Church and been excommunicated for his pains. The same Nicholas Laverne whose very name was inflammatory.

  ‘Is it really you, Nicholas?’

  He nodded in reply.

  Hurriedly the old priest looked around, but there was no one on the street and, without thinking, he beckoned for Nicholas to follow him into the church. They entered by the back door, skirting the anteroom where the priests prepared for Mass, and moved into a gloomy kitchen. Turning on the light and pulling down the blind at the window, Father Michael gestured for Nicholas to sit down.

  He hesitated, then took a seat. ‘I’m sorry I came here. I hope no one saw me—’

  ‘It’s a church. Sanctuary for everyone.’

  ‘Which is why you took me round the back,’ Nicholas replied bitterly.

  ‘You don’t change.’

  He knew he should have been ashamed of the remark, but Nicholas was unrepentant. He stood over six feet tall, his hair black and dusty looking and his eyes blue. Well-fed and well-dressed, he could have been handsome. As it was, he had the appearance of someone recovering from a long illness.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Father Michael asked, making a drink for both of them and passing Nicholas of cup of tea. ‘D’you want something to eat?’

  ‘Why?’

  Father Michael paused. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  The older priest shrugged. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Nothing changes, does it?’ Nicholas replied. ‘Denial all the way.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to confess.’

  Nicholas stared at the ageing priest, taking in the foxing of grey hair, the narrow face, the pale, appealing eyes. Perfect for confession, forgiveness oozing from every compassionate pore.

  ‘You turned on me.’

  The priest shook his head. ‘You turned on yourself. And on the Church.’ He leaned towards Nicholas. ‘You acted like a madman. What did you expect? For the Church to sanction what you said? You had no proof—’

  ‘I had proof!’

  ‘Which wasn’t reliable. Or so you said,’ Father Michael replied, eyes hostile now. ‘What d’you want? No one’s seen you for years – why come back now?’

  ‘I need to talk to you. It’s important. I wouldn’t have come back to London otherwise.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘France.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Why d’you care?’ Nicholas countered.

  ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘But I’m better now. Much better.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I won’t stay for long – don’t worry. But I need some help before I go. And before you refuse, remember you owe me—’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Think back, Father. Examine your conscience,’ Nicholas replied, pulling a cloth bag from the inside pocket of his coat. Silently he shook out the contents, a heavy gold chain falling on to the bleached wood of the kitchen table. With his forefinger he straightened it out, the gold weighty, its value obvious.

  The priest put on his glasses and stared at the chain. ‘It looks old.’

  ‘It is old. Centuries old,’ Nicholas replied, ‘and it’s worth a fortune. The gold itself could fetch thousands, its provenance millions. But the real value lies in what the chain held.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The past. You’re a historian, Father – you know all about the religious organisations of the old Catholic Church,’ Nicholas replied, weighing the chain in his hands. ‘What d’you know about the Brotherhood of Mary?’

  ‘Brotherhood of Mary … let me think for a minute.’ The priest gathered his thoughts. ‘… It was also known as the Brotherhood of Our Lady. It was one of many groups which worshipped the Virgin in the late Middle Ages.’

  ‘In Brabant?’

  ‘All around Europe, especially in the Netherlands. There was a Brotherhood of Our Lady in ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ The priest was unable to resist the temptation to flaunt his knowledge. ‘Devotion centred on the famous miracle-working image of the Virgin, the Zoete Lieve Vrouw, in the church of Saint John, where the Brotherhood had a chapel.’

  Nicholas was listening intently. ‘What else?’

  ‘The congregation consisted of members from Northern Netherlands and Westphalia. It supported the religious and cultural life of ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ Father Michael leaned back in his chair, suddenly suspicious. ‘Where did this chain come from?’

  ‘’s-Hertogenbosch. The same city Hieronymus Bosch came from. Apparently he was commissioned to create paintings for the Chapel of Our Lady there.’ Nicholas continued, ‘Bosch’s father managed to get most of his family employed by the Brotherhood. Hieronymus was the most talented, the most famous of all of them, but his grandfather, father and brothers were painters too. They must have been quite a force to reckon with. You knew that Bosch’s father, Antonius van Aken, was artistic advisor to the Brotherhood?’

  ‘You’ve obviously read up on it, so why are you asking me for information?’

  ‘You’re the expert; I’m just learning as I go along.’

  Abruptly, Father Michael rose to his feet. ‘I don’t want trouble!’

  ‘I’m asking about a religious organisation and a painter. What trouble could come from that?’ Nicholas asked. ‘I’ve found out some facts, but you know a lot about Hieronymus Bosch, the artist. You’ve always been interested in him. So tell me what you know.’

  The priest hesitated, then sat down again.

  ‘Bosch lived and died in his hometown. There’s no documentary evidence that he ever left the place where he was born. But then again, there are very few details about his life. Sometime between 1479 and 1481, he married Aleyt Goyaerts van den Meerveen. She was older than him, a wealthy woman in her own right. After they married, the couple moved to the nearby town of Oirschot because she’d inherited a house and land from her family.’

  ‘Did they have children?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  The elderly priest was regarding his visitor with caution. Perhaps if he gave Nicholas Laverne the information he wanted, he would leave – and stay away. He brought with him too many memories, too many reminders of scandal. Once he had been a friend, a colleague, but that was a long time ago.

  ‘The final entry in the accounts of the Brotherhood of Our Lady notes that Bosch died in 1516.’

  ‘Are his paintings valuable?’

  The old priest nodded. ‘Of course! And rare. He’s highly collectable. Sought after by connoisseurs and galleries everywhere.’

  ‘So the art world would be interested in anything to do with Hieronymus Bosch?’

  ‘Naturally. Who wouldn’t be?’

  Nicholas stared at the old man. ‘You were always a fan of his.’

  ‘I studied History of Art before I entered the Church. You know that, and that’s why you’re picking my brains now. Hieronymus Bosch has always fascinated me. He was a great religious painter.’

  ‘You preached his vision of Hell often enough—’

  ‘It was important in the Middle Ages for people to be scared away from sin,’ the priest retorted. ‘Bosch served a purpose. He warned the congregation of what would happen if they turned from God. He painted images that everyone could understand. He was a visionary.’

  Nicholas toyed with the heavy chain in his hands, as the priest watched him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ Father Michael said at last. ‘You never brought anything but trouble. We were glad to be rid of you.
Things have been quiet for the last ten years. Until …’ He paused and Nicholas picked up on his hesitation.

  ‘Until what?’

  The priest thought of the homeless man who had been burned alive outside the church only days before.

  ‘Nothing of any interest to you. There was an incident, that’s all.’

  The priest was unsettled, suspicious. Was the re-emergence of Nicholas Laverne connected with the murder? Was the man sitting across the kitchen table, only feet away from him, somehow involved in the death of the homeless man? The victim no one could place. The man without identification, or history. Burned to death in the porch of the church. His church. The church where Nicholas Laverne had once listened to confession and given absolution of sins. From where the Church had exiled him as a traitor, a liar, the Devil’s recruit. Excommunicated because of his exposing of a scandal, his complete rejection of the Christian faith and, worse, his abuse of the Host at Mass …

  Father Michael remembered it as though he were watching it take place before his eyes. Nicholas had been hounded for going to the press, but although barred from the Church, he had entered their neighbour church, St Barnabas’s, one day and made his way to the altar rail. Father Luke had been giving Mass and had looked at Nicholas in horrified disbelief as he knocked the wine and wafers out of his hands, the red wine spotting his white and gold vestments as the congregants fled to the back of the church.

  It had been an unholy sin.

  The old priest closed his eyes against the image. Nicholas had then left, shouting at the top of his lungs, white-skinned with fury. A madman. No, not a madman … But now he was back, a decade later, and what had he become in the meantime? the priest thought uneasily. A murderer?

  ‘What is it?’

  His mouth dried as Nicholas stared at him, unblinking. ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘You, Nicholas,’ the old priest replied. ‘I’m afraid of you.’

  Two

  Paris, France

  Sabine Monette glanced at the phone once more, her hand hovering over it. Should she ring him? Should she? Why not? But then again, why risk it? She pulled on her coat and walked out into the street, skirting a motorbike propped up against the kerb.

  For a woman in her late sixties, Sabine moved quickly, her posture erect. Widowhood suited her, the death of Monsieur Monette providing her with money without benefits. How sad, her friends told her, to be alone. Without a man, in a cold bed. Sabine put on a show of sorrow to please them, but relished her release from wifely tedium. Monsieur Monette had been irksome in the main and to live alone was a glorious indulgence. There were no irritating reminders of male vanity, aftershave unsuitable on sagging skin. No haemorrhoid cream in the bathroom. No newspapers thick with finance and thin on gossip. No tiresome denials of affairs. No wheezing, dry coughing in the moments before sleep.