The Bosch Deception Page 13

  ‘Oh, grow up!’ Philip said dismissively. ‘I’ve lived and prospered by being sly; I’ve no appetite for violence. Especially when it’s inflicted on me.’ He paused, genuinely irritated. ‘You brought me into this. Without you I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder all the time and wondering if I might be the next victim.’

  ‘So why don’t you take the chain out of the sale? Say you’re donating it to a museum?’

  ‘You think I’d give it up?’ He laughed, almost a bark. ‘No, I’m not backing out now.’ Philip gestured towards the door. ‘I’ve hired security. Men who look like they could spit holes in walls. That should stop Carel Honthorst sniffing around.’

  ‘You think it’s just Honthorst you have to stop?’ Nicholas asked, thinking of the unexpected phone call he had received from Sidney Elliott, the academic nervy and bullish by turns. He had told Nicholas he had a buyer who would pay over the odds for the chain. Unimpressed, Nicholas had put the phone down on him, but he had called back five times. And each time Nicholas’s answer had been no.

  ‘Whatever happens, it’s all out in the open now,’ Philip said. He had moved into his en suite washroom and was combing his white hair as he admired himself in the mirror. A moment later Nicholas could hear him peeing. ‘Whoever wants the chain can bid for it at the auction—’

  ‘If it gets to auction. It’s sitting here like a stick of dynamite ready to go off.’ He paused, studying the auctioneer as he re-entered the room.

  ‘D’you believe in God?’ Philip asked.

  Surprised, Nicholas shook his head. ‘Not any more. How about you?’

  ‘No. There’s no divine power we can appeal to. No moral Court of Justice.’ Philip shrugged fatalistically. ‘I’m scared, I admit it, but I’m not backing down. There’s only two ways this can go – I’ll either come out with a fortune or in a box.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Two days passed. In London the art world was buzzing with the news of Philip Preston’s auction of the Bosch chain. Meanwhile the police continued their investigations into the two murders outside London churches. The initials carved on Father Luke confused them. Admittedly both of the victims had been killed on sacred ground, but otherwise the deaths were dissimilar. Thomas Littlejohn had been burnt alive, Father Luke stabbed. And only Father Luke had the initials on his body. They knew nothing of the deaths of Claude Devereux and Sabine Monette in France – they had no reason to connect the four killings.

  Initially the police had hoped they might have a suspect in Nicholas Laverne, and although his alibi had cleared him his background incited interest. This was the priest who had been the infamous whistle-blower. The priest who had been excommunicated. The priest who might well have a score to settle. So the police kept their eye on Nicholas Laverne, and waited.

  The art world waited too. Gerrit der Keyser sent for Carel Honthorst, and in his Chicago office Conrad Voygel made a call to Sidney Elliott in Cambridge. The academic was brooding, angered by Nicholas’s resistance, eager to prove his worth to Voygel.

  ‘He w-w-won’t budge. The chain’s g-g-going to auction.’

  ‘I know, and that isn’t what I wanted,’ Voygel replied pleasantly. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Elliott, but I’m going to bring someone else in—’

  ‘No!’ Elliott interrupted. He was talking to one of the richest men on the planet, a man who could change his life. He wasn’t prepared to lose his chance. ‘I’ll work on Laverne. G-g-give me a bit more time.’

  ‘The auction’s in five days,’ Voygel reminded him. ‘I’ll give you two.

  *

  Like a cat finding its way into a dovecote, news of the up-coming auction ruffled feathers across the globe and Hiram Kaminski was summoned back urgently from Amsterdam.

  He had hardly made it through the door of the gallery when his wife caught his arm and steered him into the back office.

  ‘This came for you,’ Judith said, slapping a large envelope on to his desk.

  ‘You’ve opened it!’ Hiram replied, picking it up and looking disapprovingly at his wife. ‘It was addressed to me—’

  ‘Read it, and then you’ll wish it wasn’t.’

  Sitting on the sofa in his office, Judith watched as her husband slid out some papers and sat down at his desk. It took him a couple of moments to find his reading glasses, then he glanced at the first page. And the signature. Thomas Littlejohn. It was dated a month earlier.

  ‘When did this arrive?’

  ‘Last night,’ Judith replied. ‘The builders who have been working next door for the last three months finally finished and were packing up. They found the letter and realised that it had been delivered to number one-hundred and eighty-nine instead of number one-hundred and eighty-eight.’ She folded her arms, her face set. ‘Go on, read it!’

  ‘But why would Thomas Littlejohn write me a letter?’ Hiram wondered out loud, turning back to the pages.

  Dear Hiram,

  Of all the dealers in London I judge you to be the most honest. It is that, together with your learning and interest in the late Middle Ages, that determined that I send this vital information to you.

  I know you – like many others, especially my family – will have wondered where I have been for the past eighteen months. To put it simply, I was hiding. I wanted to protect those I loved and keeping my distance was the only way I could ensure their safety. I have been threatened

  and followed for many years – because of what I know.

  Unnerved, Hiram glanced up at his wife. Judith remained stony-faced.

  … A while ago I was given sight of a valuable chain, supposedly once the property of Hieronymus Bosch. That in itself would have been remarkable, but it was what the chain held that proved to be disastrous. Within the links of the chain were papers that told the story of a deception.

  A fraud concerning Bosch. Proof that he had died in 1473, not 1516 as previously believed.

  The fraud was perpetrated by the artist’s own family with the collusion of the Catholic Church …

  Hiram paused, his head thumping. He didn’t want to read any more, but he had no choice. Judith had been right to try and protect them, but it was too late. A letter from a dead man had put them both right back in the centre of the volcano.

  … I don’t have to tell you what this means. It would jeopardise the art world and the Catholic Church. Some people would do anything to expose this scandal. Others would do more to conceal it.

  Although the chain and the papers are not in my possession, I know about them, and that has forced me to live like a fugitive.

  Reassurances that I would not reveal the secret have proved worthless. I know – and that in itself has damned me.

  Be wary of Gerrit der Keyser and Conrad Voygel, but be careful around Philip Preston too. All three men are cunning and greedy. Der Keyser would use the secret to further his own ends, blackmail people to keep it secret. How many museums and collectors would hate to see their Bosch masterpieces exposed as fakes? As for Conrad Voygel, he would do anything within his means to get his hands on such a prize, another trinket for a trickster. And Philip Preston? He would want the chain for its value, but he might sell on the secret to other interested parties for a finder’s fee.

  Of course that depends on who is the strongest of them all. Which one proves to have the biggest bite. Which one will remain standing after a bout that could see some – or all of them – ruined or dead.

  No one is to be trusted, Hiram, and remember also that the Church is involved. And the Church has tremendous power. Few would dare to take it on. Some have in the past, to their cost.

  There is one more piece of the puzzle I should tell you about. There is a clue in one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings, The Garden Of Earthly Delights. The figure in the right-hand panel of Hell – the image that has become known as the Tree Man. This is, in fact, a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch himself. A young man, crippled, impotent, helpless.

  ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ [Panel of Hell
]

  After Hieronymus Bosch

  Of course it could not be a self-portrait as it was created after his death, but whichever member of his family painted it meant it to stand as a testament to his suffering.

  Do I have to tell you what you are up against, old friend? I am genuinely sorry to have to share this with you, but I need a witness in case anything should happen to me. Someone else has to share this information. I am returning to London soon and will contact you. I have heard that the chain has recently been found. No doubt before long it will be doing the rounds. We must stop this.

  Don’t think of going to the police. I did a while ago and was treated as a lunatic. They do not know or understand the machinations of the art world, but you and I do.

  Until we meet again,

  With gratitude,

  Thomas Littlejohn

  Without saying a word, Hiram took off his glasses and stared at his wife.

  ‘You know what he’s done, don’t you?’ she asked, her face ashen. ‘That bastard’s just signed our death warrants.’

  Thirty-Eight

  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.

  Thirty-Nine

  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, af
ter 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?’