The Bosch Deception Page 19

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A fucking chain. What did you think it was?’ Gerrit replied, slamming the door of Philip’s office closed. His glasses were sliding down his nose, his neck scrawny with the after-effects of illness. But his temper was still impressive. ‘What are you playing at, Preston?’

  Philip stared at him, the chain dangling from his fingers.

  ‘Well, say something! Don’t just stand there with your mouth open like a fucking haddock.’

  It took Philip another couple of seconds to respond. Then he rushed out of his office and returned shortly afterwards holding a wooden box. Carefully, he unfastened the box and lifted the lid.

  They both looked inside. At the Bosch chain.

  ‘OK,’ Gerrit said unpleasantly. ‘Let me guess: they’re breeding.’

  ‘This is no joke!’ Philip replied, examining the chain Gerrit had brought in. ‘They’re identical. But they can’t be. There can’t be two of them.’

  ‘So which is the original?’ Gerrit asked. ‘The one Sabine Monette stole from me?’

  ‘She bought the bloody painting with the chain!’ Philip roared, losing his composure entirely. ‘It was hers by rights. Stop whining like a bloody girl,’ he raged, his face red against his white hair.

  Gerrit was unmoved. ‘Has this chain – the one in your box—’

  ‘The real chain—’

  ‘But we don’t know that, do we?’ Gerrit countered. ‘You’ve always been a slippery bugger, Preston. I don’t trust you, never have. If you’re trying to pull a fast one—’

  ‘Why would I cut my own throat?’ Philip retorted. ‘I need this sale. I don’t need the art world to think I’m dealing in fakes. No one would ever trust me again.’

  ‘No one fucking trusts you now,’ Gerrit replied, staring at the chain in the box. ‘Has anyone handled it apart from you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has it ever left this place?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘So it’s always been at the auction house?’

  ‘Ever since Nicholas Laverne gave it to me …’ Philip trailed off, glancing up at Gerrit. ‘He couldn’t have. Could he?’

  ‘He fucking has,’ Gerrit replied, looking back at the chain he had brought in. ‘So if he swapped the chains and gave you a replica, that makes mine the real one.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t swap the chains!’ Philip replied desperately. ‘Maybe he just had a copy made.’

  Gerrit’s tone was withering. ‘So he could remember what it looked like?’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Some woman dropped it off at my gallery this morning.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know!’ Gerrit snapped. ‘My secretary handled it. She didn’t get a name. She didn’t get any fucking fingerprints either.’

  Philip looked at the chain in the box and then looked back at the one Gerrit had brought in. ‘Maybe both of them are fakes.’

  ‘Well, they can’t both be real, can they?’

  Philip’s skin was now crimson, his blood pressure rising. At any other time Gerrit would have enjoyed the show, but he had been cheated too and wasn’t laughing.

  ‘One of them must be real—’

  Gerrit nodded. ‘One of them.’

  ‘Nicholas Laverne had the chain authenticated with the papers—’ He stopped short.

  Alert, Gerrit tilted his head to one side. ‘Oh, don’t go shy on me! I know about the papers. Don’t know the details, don’t care. It’s the chain I want. Let some other fucker expose the fraud, I can only benefit from the publicity. And besides, seems to me that everyone who knows about the papers ends up dead.’ He smiled slyly. ‘Is that why you’ve got the security, Philip?’

  ‘You’ve got Honthorst.’

  ‘Yeah, but he doesn’t work exclusively for me. Not like your fucking doorstops.’ Changing tack, he gestured to the chains on the desk. ‘You’ll have to get them both checked out to see which one is authentic—’

  Philip shrugged. ‘It looks like the same gold, same weight. Of course I can get them dated, but …’

  ‘Oh crap. What?’

  ‘If both chains were made from the same metal at the same time, they would be identical.’

  ‘Hieronymus Bosch had two chains made? Why the fuck would he do that?’

  ‘Who said it was Bosch who had them made?’ Philip countered, slumping into his office chair. ‘Jesus, this is clever, very clever … Someone could have obtained an old antique chain. Difficult, but not impossible if you went to a specialist dealer or bought one from a sale abroad. Then it could have been refashioned into two identical chains. Same links, same markings, the same in every way. The gold is antique, but the chains could have been made yesterday.’

  ‘That makes no bleeding sense!’ Gerrit snorted. ‘Why make two?’

  ‘To cause havoc,’ Philip replied. ‘Which it has done. To makes us all run around trying to work it out. To confuse, to deceive, to slow us up. To make fools of us. Hieronymus Bosch is world famous – everybody’s interested in his story.’ He remembered the scandal which had resulted in Nicholas’s disgrace. ‘Like I say, Bosch is important, not like the boy who was abused and hanged himself.’

  Gerrit threw up his hands in despair. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—’

  ‘Laverne!’ Philip snapped. ‘Nicholas Laverne – who’s had years to hone his plan. He knew that he had to come up with something to catch the world’s attention, and Bosch will do that.’

  ‘You mean there was no deception?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Philip said bleakly. ‘Perhaps Laverne heard a rumour, some old story about the painter, and decided to embellish it – use it for his own ends. He told me that he’d spent time in the Netherlands.’ Philip collapsed further into his chair. ‘It’s a scam. I sell the chain for a fortune and then up pops another one and my reputation’s down the toilet—’

  ‘So let’s put one of the chains in the bank and forget about it,’ Gerrit suggested. ‘I could be encouraged to forget what I know.’

  ‘And then you’d have that over me for ever, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t see that you have a choice,’ Gerrit replied.

  Philip thought for a moment. ‘If Nicholas Laverne organised this, he had to have a reason. Laverne isn’t involved in the art world. His family was, and his uncle still buys, but not him. So why would he do it?’

  Gerrit shrugged.

  ‘Because Nicholas Laverne wants to get his own back on the Catholic Church, the institution which excommunicated him. Disgraced him, abandoned him—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I get the point. Get on with it.’

  ‘He wants revenge. So how could he get it? By uncovering another scandal, of course. But it had to be a scandal which involved the Catholic Church.’ Philip paused. ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘All the way off the fucking cliff.’

  ‘He needed something which was newsworthy, something which involved money and power. I think that’s why Laverne chose the art world. Unless he has a grudge against us as well. Think about it,’ Philip said, pausing for a second. ‘Who found the chain?’

  Gerrit kept his voice steady. ‘Sabine Monette—’

  ‘You know that Nicholas Laverne was close to Sabine Monette? He lived on her estate in France … You didn’t know?’

  ‘I do now.’

  Philip was thinking rapidly. ‘Sabine found the chain, yes. But she didn’t find the papers. Laverne was the one who found those. Laverne uncovered them, hidden between the links of the chain. Or did he?’ He stared at Gerrit. ‘Perhaps he didn’t find anything. Perhaps he pretended to find them. That little Bosch picture you sold to Sabine Monette – you said it had come from some old guy who wanted you to sell it on his behalf.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘And he gave you papers which authenticated the validity of the painting, which by extension authorised the validity of the papers?’

  ‘You’ve go
t the papers. So?’

  ‘How can I contact him?’

  ‘You can’t. He sold up and pissed off abroad after I gave him the money from the sale of the painting. Said he wanted to retire, although he must have been fucking ninety,’ Gerrit replied. ‘He never left a forwarding address.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  Gerrit frowned. Illness had slowed him down and it took a moment to drag the name up from his memory. ‘Guillaine … Oh, fuck!’ he said incredulously. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘… I never made the connection …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘… Sabine Monette’s maiden name was Guillaine.’

  Sixty

  Rain again. Rain and more rain, leaving the capital waterlogged, the monuments spotted. Along St James’s Street, people walked with their heads down, umbrellas held against the wind like a phalanx of Spartan shields. And it kept on raining as Carel Honthorst crossed over and continued to follow Nicholas. The Dutchman hated rain. He was always afraid that it would dislodge his concealer, send it sliding down into his collar like a beige tsunami. Rain made him mean.

  He had despised Nicholas Laverne for a long time, ever since Laverne had gone public and exposed the abuse at St Barnabas’s church. He might not be an active priest any longer, but the Dutchman held his religion in awe. To Honthorst – whose only security was the Church – any criticism was treachery. He would have stayed a priest, because he had found the religious life easy, but he hadn’t found the other priests easy. He didn’t find the politics comfortable either. Seeking succour and simplicity, Honthorst had run away from a tough childhood into the arms of Mother Church. But her arms had been less loving than he had imagined and her caresses less forthcoming than he had hoped.

  Never popular, Honthorst found himself pulling away from the Church, his natural viciousness re-emerging as he felt himself cheated of salvation. It was not the Church’s fault, it was his. His violent nature was too engrained to forgo, his pleasure in inflicting pain too seductive to relinquish. Confession absolved him, but only for so long. The incense and the candles worked on his senses like a sedative, the red light of the incense burner the eye of a demon staring down at him in his pew. The eye seemed to say he was fooling no one, blinking in the church and puffing out little breaths of smoke like a dying cat. Honthorst would grip the altar rail and take the Sacrament, but as time passed the wafer stuck like a blister to the roof of his mouth and the wine poisoned him.

  It was all his fault – he knew that. So he left his life as a priest and took up debt collecting, relishing a legal excuse for brutality. His life split like a rotten apple: on one side religion, on the other violence. And he developed a hatred of anyone who spoke out against the Church. Honthorst might not fit in, but he would brook no criticism. So when Mother Church opened up her arms to him, needing his help, Honthorst went back in.

  Walking quickly, the Dutchman saw Nicholas cross over the street and began to follow him, always keeping a little distance behind. Finally he saw Nicholas enter an old building set in an alleyway off the main street. The place was haphazardly built on three floors and seemed virtually empty. Honthorst checked his watch: six thirty, well past closing time for businesses. Curious, he looked through the window and watched as Nicholas spoke to a stout middle-aged man on the ground floor. The man listened, then together they entered a cramped, old-fashioned lift.

  Hurrying round to the back of the building, Honthorst took a moment to get his bearings, then clambered up the fire escape. The two men were directly in his line of sight and he drew back to avoid being seen. He could hear murmured conversation, and then watched as the middle-aged man nodded and descended in the lift again. A few moments passed, but when the man didn’t return and no one else came in, Honthorst tried the window. It was unlocked. Climbing in, he moved quietly across the landing and glanced through a half-opened door.

  He could see that it was some kind of sitting room, but there was a computer in there and a drawing board with sketches lying on it. A moment later Nicholas came into view, reading the paper. Honthorst sniffed the air like a gun dog. He was tired of holding back. Frighten him, they had said, ratchet up the tension, but Honthorst wanted more. And now he was in the perfect position to get it.

  Slowly he pushed the door open. But Nicholas had left the room by an adjoining door and was back on the landing. Retracing his steps, Honthorst heard the sound of the lift rising upwards and then the metal grille being drawn back. In that instant he lunged forward, catching Nicholas off guard. But he recovered fast, getting into the lift and pulling the Dutchman’s arm through the grille as he slammed it shut.

  ‘What d’you want from me?’ Nicholas asked as Honthorst struggled to free himself. But his sleeve had caught on the grille and that, together with Nicholas’s grip, held him fast.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘You’ve been following me. What for?’

  ‘I work here—’

  ‘No, you don’t. I know everyone who works here and you don’t. Remember, I saw you at Philip Preston’s—’

  ‘You’re breaking my arm!’

  ‘So relax,’ Nicholas said, his tone lethal. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘What do they want you to do? Kill me?’

  ‘I’m not after you. No one sent me!’ Honthorst gasped, watching as Nicholas put his finger on the lift button.

  ‘Tell me who sent you or I press this. The lift will pull your bloody arm off—’

  ‘No one sent me!’ Honthorst screamed, scrabbling to free himself.

  ‘One last chance – who was it?’

  ‘Go to Hell!’ Honthorst shouted, trying to grab Nicholas and missing. ‘I’ll get you. I swear I’ll kill you, you bastard—’

  The lift started to descend the moment Nicholas pressed the button. The noise was deafening, but even over the machinery, he could hear the sound of the arm breaking, Honthorst screaming as his limb was torn out of its socket.

  ‘The Temptation of St Anthony’ [detail]

  After Hieronymus Bosch

  ’s-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, 1473

  Dawn was holding back, coming slow and heavy with mist as Hieronymus turned over in his bed and slowly got to his feet. After he had been brought back to ’s-Hertogenbosch he had been watched constantly, the studio door only unlocked when food was brought in. As the church clock struck nine the timid Goossen entered, carrying a tray of food.

  As ever, he mumbled apologies and tried not to look at his brother.

  ‘Ignore him, Goossen,’ Antonius had said, perpetuating the lie he had preached for years. ‘Don’t say a word to your brother. He’s possessed. We have to look after him. We have to keep him safe.’

  But Goossen had never believed what his father had said. Too scared to stand up to the formidable Antonius, he had defied him in small ways. He had smuggled in treats for Hieronymus, slipping heavy Dutch fruit loaves into the basket of paint pigments. Sometimes he had even managed to secrete a little beer, but after his father had found out, the baskets were always searched.

  In silence, Goossen watched his brother paint the head of a fish with a man’s body.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What I dream,’ Hieronymus replied, pausing.

  For a moment he was tempted to ask for help, to appeal to his brother to aid him with another attempt at escape. But he remained silent. He was sick in the lungs, coughing, spitting up blood red as the cadmium paint on his palette. Blood like the red of the devils in his paintings, blood like the colour of the flames of Hell. He was tired. Too tired to plot or to escape. Too tired to live. He would have liked to talk more, but Goossen merely touched his shoulder and left. A moment later, Hieronymus heard the lock turn in the door.

  Downstairs, Antonius was in his study talking to two members of the Brotherhood of Mary. A great fire had been lit in the hearth as the damp, foggy morning banked the windows. One cleric was squeezy with fat, the other narr
ow-shouldered, a black tadpole of a man. They were discussing a matter which was of great importance to them: the imminent death of Hieronymus. The Brotherhood had sent doctors to bleed him and try to effect some recovery, but he had been stubbornly resistant.

  ‘We can’t bleed him again,’ Antonius said, tugging irritably at the trimming of his cape. His heavy legs were stretched out before him, taking in the fire’s warmth. The room was panelled, hung with tapestries to flaunt Antonius’s wealth and the fame of his son, and by the window stood three ceramic vases, hand thrown in Amsterdam. Luxury pleased Antonius even more than his mistress, and he was loath to relinquish it.

  ‘When Hieronymus dies—’

  The first cleric put up his doughy hands.

  ‘No, we must not think it. He may yet recover,’ he said, but the words were insincere, his eyes fixed greedily on Antonius. The plan had been mooted before, and now he could sense it was about to be fulfilled. Not one of the trio thought of the young man upstairs, dying in a studio without a fire.

  ‘My son’s work is priceless. To the Church and to the country.’ Both clerics nodded as Antonius continued. ‘Hieronymus has taught everyone about God and the Devil. His paintings have kept the population controlled …’

  Again the clerics nodded in unison.

  ‘.. His work must continue,’ Antonius said, moving on, his voice a whisper. ‘We all know I commission the paintings for the Brotherhood. What hangs in the church is organised by me. Everything is handled by me. When Hieronymus dies, no one must ever know he has gone.’

  The thin cleric nodded solemnly, his priest’s robe dusty. ‘It is for the glory of God—’

  ‘For the glory of God,’ the other cleric echoed. ‘And for His worshippers.’

  ‘We are doing nothing wrong,’ Antonius continued, relieved that his source of income would continue after the death of his irksome child. ‘My son has made many drawings, which I have collected together. Ideas for paintings. Images that could only corrupt in the wrong hands. Images that must be preserved and reproduced to the glory of God.’ He paused, let the inference take root. ‘After my poor son’s demise, his work can continue within the family. We are all painters, after all; we can recreate his vision. There are many drawings, many sketches. Much to produce.’ He poured the clerics some wine, smiling like a wolf. ‘We do this only in the service of God …’