by Alex Connor
‘Unstuck? How?’
‘Take my offer of help, Mr Laverne, or f-f-find out the hard way.’
Reluctant to involve Sidney Elliott any further, Nicholas had pieced together the twenty-eight pieces of writing himself, together with their translations. The other two experts had also authenticated and dated the papers. They were all genuine. Luckily Nicholas had only let Elliott see one piece of writing. He had then put them in the order in which they had been numbered and had taken them to the bank for safe keeping. Where they had stayed, hidden, until now.
Rousing himself, Nicholas took out his mobile and photographed every paper. Then he returned the originals to the security box and handed it back to the bank manager. When he left the building there was a downpour, the sky water-marked, a ridiculous rainbow touting its promise of luck.
Seventeen
Huddled in his armchair, Father Michael waved away the daily woman who came in to clean and make his meals. He was old, tired and uneasy, and hearing the sound of the radio coming from the kitchen he wondered how something that used to be so comforting could now be so intrusive.
The memory of the previous night made him shudder. The man had seemed to come into the church from nowhere, sliding into the pew next to him and crossing himself. Surprised, Father Michael had glanced at him as he knelt, his profile fixed, his eyes closed. And suddenly he had felt a terrible unease. Without wanting to make it too apparent that he was moving away, the old priest had waited for a couple of seconds and then begun to slide along the pew. But he had only moved a little when the stranger’s hand reached out and gripped his wrist.
‘A moment,’ the man had said, still staring ahead at the altar. ‘I haven’t finished praying.’
Father Michael had remained where he was, the stranger still holding on to his arm as he prayed, lips moving silently. Finally he had released his grip and slid back into the pew. Without looking at the old priest, he began talking again.
‘You know Nicholas Laverne.’
There was a moment’s hesitation, Father Michael being uncertain how to respond.
‘You do know Nicholas Laverne,’ the big man had repeated, still staring ahead. And that had been the most chilling aspect of him – his refusal to make eye contact. ‘I’ve seen him come here, so you must know him. He was a priest here once, under your guidance.’
‘Yes,’ Father Michael had agreed reluctantly. ‘I know Nicholas Laverne.’
‘He was thrown out of the Church.’
‘He was excommunicated, yes.’
‘And yet he came back to visit you after so long. Why was that?’
‘He can come back to see me at any time he wants. Nicholas has not been banished from here.’ Afraid, the old priest had stared at the stranger’s profile. ‘Who are you?’
Carel Honthorst ignored him. ‘Why did Nicholas Laverne come here, Father?’
‘I don’t have to talk to you. You have no right to question me.’
‘And yet I am,’ Honthorst had replied, turning his head slowly. In the dim light his eyes had fixed on an area just above the priest’s head. ‘These are simple questions, Father. Nothing to worry you.’ He had paused, then changed the subject. ‘You know Holland?’
‘A little.’
‘Hieronymus Bosch was a great painter.’ His head had turned away again and he was staring up at the stained-glass window. ‘People copied him all the time. They say he was good at Hell.’ Honthorst had paused, then tapped the old priest’s knee, a gesture that was at once both familiar and threatening. ‘Tell me what Nicholas Laverne told you.’
‘We talked about the old days—’
‘I don’t think so,’ the Dutchman had retorted, glancing at his watch. ‘I don’t have much time, so we must hurry our conversation. What did Nicholas Laverne tell you?’ His large hands were resting on the back of the pew in front and a sigh escaped him. ‘Tell me, or I will hurt you.’
Shaken, Father Michael had glanced around him. There had been no obvious escape route, and he was an old man who would have been easily out run. But despite his feelings of antagonism towards Nicholas Laverne, he hadn’t wanted to betray him.
‘Nicholas and I talked about old times. Nothing more.’
Honthorst’s fist slammed into the priest’s stomach with all the force of a lump hammer. Buckling over, Father Michael had then felt the Dutchman tenderly straighten him up against the back of the pew, smoothing down his vestments. Then he had picked up the priest’s rosary and held it in front of Father Michael’s face.
‘Tell me, or I’ll make you eat every one of these beads …’ His fingers had closed over the attached crucifix. ‘And then I’ll ram this down your throat.’
Terrified, Father Michael blurted out: ‘He was asking about The Brotherhood of Mary.’
‘And?’
‘He had a chain.’
‘He had a chain,’ Honthorst had repeated. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What did he tell you about the chain?’
‘He said he found it.’
In one quick movement Honthorst had grabbed the priest’s face, forcing open his mouth. ‘You have one last chance, Father. Tell me what Nicholas Laverne told you. Tell me everything.’
And now the old priest was sitting huddled in his armchair wondering what he had set in motion.
Eighteen
George V Hotel, Paris
As ever, it was horses for courses. And Nicholas Laverne was a carthorse up against a steeplechaser. Philip Preston had hoped that Nicholas would return – with the chain and the story that went with it. But another day had passed, people were beginning to talk, and Philip had decided to act. His conversation with Gerrit der Keyser had been illuminating. If der Keyser had called in a heavy, it meant that he was desperate.
It would have been much easier if Nicholas Laverne had left a phone number or an address where he could be contacted, but there was no way Philip could get in touch. So there was only one alternative – skip Laverne and go straight for Sabine Monette.
Which was why Philip Preston was on his way up to the suite in the George V Hotel where Sabine Monette was staying. He had rehearsed his speech to an oily perfection. He would convince Sabine – whom he had known for many years – that he was the person to handle an artefact that had once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch. Philip didn’t know the exact nature of the Frenchwoman’s connection to Nicholas Laverne, only that she had stolen the chain and had perhaps hired Laverne as her agent. Why Laverne, he wasn’t sure. Why a rich Frenchwoman would hire an ex-priest for the task was beyond the limits of his imagination. But whatever the reason Philip was more than ready to usurp the onetime cleric.
He paused outside the door of the suite. Having arranged an appointment to see Sabine Monette, Philip had arrived early, only to be told by Reception that Madame had dismissed her maid in order to rest. She was not to be disturbed until 1 p.m. … Philip looked at his watch, then smiled at a passing chambermaid, walked to the end of the corridor and looked out into the dank streets. More rain, he thought, just like London. The minutes crawled past and he counted them down impatiently. Finally he glanced at his watch – 1 p.m. Walking back to the door of the suite, he knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again. Perhaps Madame Monette had grown deaf, or was still taking her rest. Philip waited for another couple of minutes, then knocked a third time.
Again, no reply.
He rapped a little louder on the door.
No reply.
He tried the handle.
To his amazement, the door was unlocked. Unwilling to catch his client unawares, Philip called out, ‘Madame Monette? It’s Philip – Philip Preston.’
He moved into the suite. The French windows were open, the white drapes spotted by rain, an overturned side table almost tripping him up. Bending down to pick it up, Philip’s glance moved through the open door into the bedroom beyond. And then he saw her.
She was oddly positioned, obviously arranged, propped up on pillows like a courtesan awaiting her l
over. But her head was caved in, the right side pulped, the features gone. Her false teeth lay beside her left hand, knocked out of her mouth in the struggle – Sabine Monette finally showing her age. In a cruel touch, her dress had been pulled up and two initials carved crudely into the flesh of her stomach – H and B. And on the coverlet beside Sabine Monette, pressed into the pooling of blood, was the blurred outline of a Christian cross.
Backing away, Philip tried not to vomit. He had never seen a dead body before and was shaking, the smell of blood making him retch. His impulse was to run, but instead he looked around him. Afterwards he would wonder what he had been looking for. The chain? There was no chain in the suite. So why had he hesitated? Philip Preston hadn’t known, but before he left, something had caught his eye. Something half hidden under a cabinet. Something he took without thinking.
Sabine Monette’s mobile phone.
Nineteen
Even though he had reported Sabine Monette’s murder, Philip Preston was treated with suspicion, questioned repeatedly about why he had come to Paris. He had regained his composure, his fluent French an asset as he reiterated his account.
‘I came to see Madame Monette about auctioning some of her belongings … She had been a client of mine for some years … No, I don’t know what she wished to sell – that was why I came to Paris to talk to her … Check with Reception, they will tell you when I arrived … My own hotel will confirm that I was there all morning … I had no reason to harm Madame. Indeed, I had not seen her for several months …’
Finally the French police released Philip after he had given a statement, his composure hardly that of a man who had just butchered a woman. And besides, the killing had been a particularly brutal one and Philip Preston didn’t have a mark on him. Whoever had killed Sabine Monette would have had her blood on them and would have been unlikely to report her murder. Reluctantly, after taking his details, the French police released the English auctioneer.
Philip headed back to his hotel room. He had only been in for a few moments before the phone rang.
‘Where were you?’
He frowned at the sound of his wife’s voice. ‘I was just about to call you, Gayle.’
‘I rang and rang. They said you were out.’
‘I was … seeing a client.’
‘A woman?’
‘Gayle,’ he said wearily, ‘it was business.’ He knew at once that he couldn’t tell her about the murder of Sabine Monette. It would only throw her further off balance. ‘I’ll call you back later, darling—’
‘But aren’t you coming home?’
‘Yes,’ he said hastily. ‘Of course I am. I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ll catch the Eurostar.’
‘I miss you when you’re away.’
‘I miss you too.’
‘I love you,’ she said achingly. ‘D’you love me?’
Preoccupied, Philip reached into his pocket and pulled out Sabine Monette’s mobile; staring at it. But he wasn’t thinking about the Frenchwoman or his wife – he was thinking about his mistress, Kim Fields. Mistress, hoping to be wife. In time. When he could work up enough courage to tell Gayle she’d been ousted.
‘Do you love me?’ she repeated.
‘Of course, darling,’ he replied. ‘As much as I’ve ever done.’
Putting down the phone, Philip continued to think of Kim. He needed more money. Much more. Because Gayle’s lawyer would screw him in a divorce. And Kim wasn’t the kind of woman to stay around if he were poor … Philip frowned. He didn’t like confrontation. His speciality was guile. He could slide in and out of situations, wheedle his way around. Sleight of mind and sleight of heart.
Flicking on Sabine Monette’s stolen mobile, Philip grimaced as he noticed a blood speck and rubbed it on the coverlet of the hotel bed. Running down the list of her contacts, he paused as he read Nicholas Laverne’s mobile number, followed by those of Gerrit der Keyser and Hiram Kaminski. So did the kindly Mr Kaminski know about the Bosch chain too? If so, he would definitely want it. An expert on the late Middle Ages, Kaminski was venerated for his knowledge and liked for his honesty. It wouldn’t be Kaminski’s way to play hardball. Not like Gerrit der Keyser.
Three of them already in the running. And how long before the infamous Conrad Voygel joined the race?
Philip continued to look through Sabine’s contacts. He felt sick about her death. Not because he had been particularly fond of her, but because her murder looked bad for him. If he had had any doubts about the motive, the initials H B slashed into her skin would have removed them. This was about the chain. And something else. What the chain had held. Wasn’t that what Nicholas Laverne had said? Before he’d been spooked and left …
Philip sat on the edge of his hotel bed, thinking back. Nicholas had been ready to confide until Carel Honthorst walked in. Obviously Nicholas hadn’t believed Philip’s pretence at ignorance. He had seen Honthorst at the auction house and it had thrown a scare into him. Quickly, Philip glanced over at the hotel door, checking it was locked. His recollection of the Dutchman had been brief, but he knew enough about him to be worried. Gerrit der Keyser might pretend that Honthorst had only threatened Sabine Monette, but now she was dead.
Slowly Philip ran through the messages on Sabine Monette’s phone. One was from her maid, another from her hairdresser, and a third from Nicholas Laverne.
Hello, Sabine.
I’m pleased you’re at the George V. Keep yourself safe. Don’t talk to anyone and I’ll be with you soon. Meanwhile, here are some photographs to look at. These are photos of the 28 papers I found. And their explanation. They are authentic. I’ve had three specialists working on then. When you receive these, buy a new mobile phone and download them on to that. Then delete them off this mobile and dump it. This is important. We are on to something which will discredit the Catholic Church and the art world. But you must be careful, Sabine, and discreet. Do not let down your guard.
With affection,
Nicholas
Papers, photographs, explanations. Something that would discredit the Catholic Church and the art world. What a messy can of worms … Philip’s hands were shaking as he opened the attachments, images of pieces of paper covered in Gothic handwriting. Scribbled, scrawled in faint script, some letters and words missing, the paper foxed, spotted with damp. But legible. Not to him – but they would be decipherable to the specialists Nicholas Laverne had employed.
He scrolled down the entries, pausing when he came to the translations reproduced underneath the originals.
Paper 1
Hieronymus Bosch, of ’s-hertogen, endured much suffering, like Our Lord.
Philip stared at the words. Were these words really about Hieronymus Bosch? Why the suffering? What suffering?
Paper 2
The Brotherhood of Our Lady. Bought and bribed.
Paper 3
Hidden away. Worked from dawn until t … (letters missing) light fades. His father puts the swan to death.
His father puts the swan to death … What did that mean? Philip wondered. He realised that the translations were contemporary to the time, the late Middle Ages, and would be accurate to the originals, but they were hard to decipher.
He read on.
Paper 4
Paid for Hell … (missing word) living there. Demons and chimeras for sole company.
Paper 5
The Brotherhood h … (missing letters) commissioned an Altarpiece. They ask to terrorise the congregation.
Paper 6
Hieronymus sickens with fever. From Holland comes the … (missing word) of plague. Father has taken to locking the door.
Philip paused, shocked by what he was reading. The plague had swept across Europe and killed many, but what did the words mean – Father has taken to locking the door? Did they refer to plague victims? Or one victim in particular, Bosch himself?
Paper 7
Jan van Aken, died this day October 11th 14—Prayers said for his soul, that He might enter Heaven. W
hat justice …? (missing words)
Paper 8
Hieronymus told me of his dreams; of frightful ogres, men w … (missing letters) fishes heads and naked lovers burning.
So Bosch dreamed his monsters, Philip thought. They came to him at night … He could imagine how the art world would salivate over the news – a precious insight into the macabre world of Hieronymus Bosch.
Paper 9
From his window he regards St John’s. A spire …… (missing word) to prick the Devil.
Paper 10
His brother, Goossen, sits outside his door at night. No one comes, or calls Hieronymus.
Paper 11
The Zoete Lieve Vrouw, in St John’s church. The Virgin who works miracles. Pray for our Child, our lost boy.
Our lost boy … Was Hieronymus a victim of plague? Had he faced death? Philip paused. The artist was in his sixties when he died, so he must have recovered. Well done, The Zoete Lieve Vrouw, Philip thought wryly, thinking of how the statue was supposed to work miracles.
Paper 12
God’s men are liars. The clergy barters worse than do the cloth merchants.
Paper 13
Antonius seeks more favour from the Brotherhood. Money fattens him … (missing words) … silence.
Philip paused. He felt a tremor go through him – a mixing of excitement and fear.
Paper 14
They work him like there is so little time. When he sleeps, ’tis fitful, dreaming of the dead.
Paper 15
Both of them deserve … (two missing words?) … favour meant for another.
Again Philip paused, glancing up at the hotel door. Footsteps passed, then silence. He turned back to the image on the phone.
Paper 16
Days pass, crouched like a spider, locked … summer and winter bring no release.
Paper 17
The widower, Antonius, takes a whore … (missing word) with money and promise of land.
Paper 18
Commissions flow like communion wine into … (missing word) the coffers of Bosch, the dupe of Brotherhood.