The Bosch Deception

by Alex Connor

  Hidden in the doorway, his face chilled, he felt a wind start up. Across the road he could see the metal fire escape and the monotonous green blinking of the alarm. If anyone broke in the beady emerald light would snap into life, turn red as the flash of a fox’s eye, its electric scream activated, and alerting the police.

  Nicholas stared at the light and thought of Father Michael. Nervy, mumbling under his breath, the priest was plainly cowed by something and resentful of Nicholas’s presence. He was angry at having to be grateful to a man he had failed. So many failures, Nicholas thought, so many secrets, so much guilt … His attention was suddenly caught by a movement to his left as someone entered the alleyway and walked towards the fire escape. Pressing further back into the shadows, Nicholas watched a hulking figure climb up the metal steps and peer into the office window. Honthorst, Carel Honthorst. He moved quietly for such a big man, and worked quickly. To Nicholas’s surprise, the alarm was disabled in seconds, with only a short screech. Had he managed to prevent the warning going through to the police? Moments later, Honthorst was inside.

  The light flicked on. Nicholas could see the Dutchman walk past the window, then heard the sound of shuffling. Barely half a minute had passed before he left, moving down the fire escape and walking past Nicholas’s hiding place.

  Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, his shadow vast behind him. Pausing only feet from Nicholas, the Dutchman raised his head and closed his eyes, sniffing the air like a dog.

  Then he turned and headed straight for where Nicholas was hiding.

  ’s-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, 1470

  Stepping over a pile of pig manure in the town centre, Hieronymus held on to the panel under his arm and coughed. The winter was promising to be foul, the last week full of black moonless nights. He would have liked to be alone but he was always accompanied by a member of the family, this time, the bent rod of his grandfather.

  As he moved towards the cloth market, Hieronymus nodded to an affiliate of the Brotherhood of Our Lady. The man, a merchant, was a high-ranking member of The Swan Bethren, that intimate circle of the elite within the Brotherhood. Stout, his belly hanging over his belt, his leggings splattered with mud, the merchant stepped through the muck. His fur-trimmed cloak swung awkwardly from one shoulder, an elaborate velvet cap topping his unprepossessing face.

  Hieronymus wondered what the merchant would say if he knew he had been sketched, his image put aside to serve as a fat demon in a painting of Hell. Hieronymus liked to steal images, sitting in his studio at the top of the house and watching the market-place with its press of people. From his eyrie he caught sight of pickpockets and whores baring their breasts to attract trade. They wore woollen chemises tied at the neck, easy to undo.

  ‘The Temptation of St Anthony’ [detail]

  After Hieronymus Bosch

  And then there were the dealers, the merchants who had profited from the flourishing wool and textile industries of Brabant, the dukes of Brabant depending on the wealth created to finance their wars and extravagant lifestyles. The towns were rich, fat on trade, and with that trade – alongside discoveries by seafarers and scientists – came the sobering influence of religion.

  Hieronymus paused to watch a dog barking loudly at a penned pig as a boy poked it with a stick. For a moment he was tempted to draw the boy, but he moved on towards the church. His success had overwhelmed him; not yet twenty, he was pointed out at the market, hailed on the street. His father and brothers would have adored such attention but for Hieronymus, shy, crippled by night terrors and afraid of the world around him, it was torment. He felt at peace only in the privacy of his studio, paintbrush in hand.

  Antonius might brag of his son in public, but in private he was a critical, belittling tyrant, his hatred of Hieronymus stemming from the death of his wife during the birth of this, their last child. Indeed, if the boy had not turned out to be so gifted he might well have been shipped off to a cousin in the country, forgotten and unmourned.

  But for all Antonius’s dislike of his son, Hieronymus’s talent protected him. Its early flowering appeared like an orchid in a dunghill, provoking awe. As the boy’s promise developed into an outstanding talent, Antonius touted him about the Brotherhood like a prize ram with a fleece that could be stripped and woven into gold. In the runt of the family, the ambitious and pious Antonius saw his own reputation advancing, his family coffers swelling.

  It was fortunate that his son had such nightmares, dreams of Hell and damnation which Antonius’s treatment had exacerbated over the years. His criticism and judgemental attitude had cowed the boy; buckled the genius into a haunted wrath. But the mistreatment had also resulted in a vision, which the Church recognised and devoured. Hieronymus’s paintings portrayed everyday life at a time when religion wielded a moral cosh to keep people in line. Urged on by the Church and his father, he was corralled into depicting themes of temptation, sin and punishment. The Devil that the priests thundered about lived in his paintings and their message was simple: a good life leads to Heaven, a sinful one to Hell.

  But the hallucinations and night terrors Hieronymus suffered from affected his health. When the plague came to Europe, he was protected, the studio door locked and visitors turned away. His family monitored his sleeping, his eating, his walks in the walled garden. If their breadwinner sickened or died, so would their fortunes. And so the Church and his own family pressed him into work, into the endless service of his terrifying visions.

  And then, one day in May of 1473, Hieronymus Bosch escaped.

  Twenty-Six

  Eloise Devereux stood for a moment outside the gallery in Chelsea, then opened the door and walked in. Her attractive presence soon caught the attention of Miriam der Keyser. A thin woman with a whining voice, she patrolled her husband’s gallery like a jailer, his every conversation with a woman supervised.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Miriam asked peevishly.

  ‘Is your husband here? I’d like to speak to Mr der Keyser.’

  Miriam’s mouth opened, but before she could speak Gerrit materialised at the back of the gallery. ‘Can I be of assistance?’ he asked, darting his wife a dismissive look.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you in private,’ Eloise continued. ‘It’s a confidential matter.’

  ‘My husband’s busy—’ Miriam tried to interrupt but Gerrit brushed past her and led Eloise into his office. Once inside, he made sure the door was closed and Miriam on the outside.

  ‘How can I help?’

  He was all servile charm, using the gallant persona reserved for his customers. And she was quite a customer, he thought, watching as Eloise sat down and crossed her legs.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ she remarked coolly. ‘I liked the David Teniers in the window. I know how much you admire that artist.’

  His collar felt suddenly tight, an unpleasant sensation rising in him. Gerrit didn’t recognise the woman, but she was talking to him as though they were old acquaintances.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  She ignored the question, glancing around the office, Her hair swept up in a chignon, her cream coat cut to perfection, elegance exuded from her. Gerrit fiddled with his over-large cuffs then reached into his desk drawer and took out a bottle of pills. Without a word, he swallowed several with a glass of water, Eloise watching him.

  ‘You’re ill, but I suspected as much. You’ve lost a lot of weight – you used to be a stocky man.’ She paused, putting her head to one side. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. Who are you?’

  ‘We’ll come to that later,’ she replied. ‘I have some business to discuss first: a chain which once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch.’ Gerrit’s eyes flickered. Eloise noted the reaction and smiled. ‘I can imagine how much you must want to get it back. It was unusual for you to be slow and lose it. But then again, illness slows everyone down.’

  ‘OK, what the fuck’s going on?’ Gerrit asked, all politeness abandoned.

  �
�I know you’re looking for the chain.’ Her eyes held his gaze. ‘How hard are you looking?’

  ‘Sabine Monette stole it off a painting—’

  ‘And now Sabine Monette is dead,’ Eloise replied. ‘Are the two connected?’

  ‘She died in Paris, in the George the Fifth Hotel. Some fucking lunatic killed her—’

  ‘Why did he kill her? Her money wasn’t taken.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’ Gerrit asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘This has nothing to do with me—’

  ‘It has everything to do with you. You wanted that chain, you threatened Sabine Monette—’

  ‘I did not!’

  She waved aside his protestations. ‘All right, you sent some thug to threaten her. Either way, she ended up dead. Murdered.’

  Gerrit rose to his feet. ‘I don’t have to talk to you.’

  ‘You’re right, you don’t. But if you want to get the chain back, maybe you should,’ she replied. ‘Maybe I can get it for you.’

  He was all attention now, regaining his seat and running his tongue over his bottom lip. ‘Why would you?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you,’ she replied coolly. ‘Do you want the chain back?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘It’s not about money, Mr de Keyser, it’s much more valuable than that. This is about a debt. One you owe someone I cared about … Let me tell you something. My husband, my dead husband, had a friend who was in trouble. That friend went to work for an elderly lady in France, Sabine Monette. I knew about it because I was close to Sabine and she confided in me. I thought the relationship would be good for both of them. And it was.’

  ‘What the hell—’

  ‘Hear me out – it’s in your interests,’ she admonished him. ‘You had an affair with Sabine Monette many years ago. It was brief and unhappy, or so she told me.’ Eloise was perfectly poised. ‘I suppose I should mention that I inherited a large fortune when I reached eighteen.’

  ‘Lucky you. Want to buy some pictures?’

  She smiled with chilling coldness. ‘I am here to sell, not buy.’

  ‘Sell what?’

  ‘Not so fast, Mr der Keyser. You have to hear the rest of the story first. The rich have the money to be discreet; privilege brings protection. When you left Sabine so ruthlessly, her family married her off within weeks. She put the whole business behind her and, to all intents and purposes, forgot about it.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. I doubt she pined for me.’

  ‘She never mentioned you.’

  His voice was suspicious. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘All in good time, Mr der Keyser … What would you do to own the chain?’ He said nothing. ‘And the secret it holds.’

  ‘What secret?’ he said, trying to sound casual but but failing.

  ‘You know well enough.’

  ‘I don’t know the whole story. Just the rumour of a conspiracy. You’ve heard of it too, obviously,’ he replied, piqued. ‘I thought I was the only one.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You hoped you were the only one. But then you found out that others knew, like Sabine and my husband, both of whom are now dead. But you must know that.’

  ‘I know about Sabine, but not about your husband.’

  ‘Even though the Bosch painting and chain once belonged to his father, Raoul Devereux?’

  He looked rattled, thrown off balance. ‘I didn’t know anything about that … Anyway, so what? It’s just coincidence.’

  ‘No, it’s murder,’ she corrected him.

  ‘And you think I’m responsible?’

  ‘I don’t know, but if you are, I’ll see you punished.’

  Gerrit smiled sourly and leaned forward across the desk. ‘You come here and all but accuse me of murder. Why would you do that?’ he sneered. ‘I’ve never killed anyone but if I was violent, what would stop me coming after you?’

  ‘You still don’t understand, do you?’

  He was getting angry and veins stood out on his thin neck. ‘I should have you thrown out of here—’

  ‘But you won’t because you want the chain. You would do business with the Devil for that chain – for what it held, for what it means.’

  ‘If I’m so dangerous,’ Gerrit snapped, ‘why help me?’

  ‘Because I want to see if it is you. If you killed them. And in order to do that I’m prepared to help you, to get close to you, to be with you – until I’m sure of your innocence, or guilt.’

  He was unnerved, but continued. ‘If I’m so dangerous, why aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘You won’t hurt me.’ She smiled coldly. ‘No father would kill their own daughter.’

  Nicholas knows he is dreaming, but can’t wake himself. Instead he follows the same familiar route between the yew trees towards the outhouse in the church grounds. But this time it’s daylight and the dead boy is alive, leaning against the wall of the building, talking to a lad of his own age.

  They see him and their bodies tense as Nicholas approaches. He knows the boys, both trainee priests from the seminary, sent from Dublin to study for the priesthood in London. Their families read the letters they send, never knowing each line is censored, believing in a false happiness. Nicholas sees the boys and calls out to them.

  Patrick turns his head towards Nicholas and his left eye is puffy; there is bruising along his chin and the knuckles of both hands are bloodied. Nicholas asks what has happened. Are you OK? Is everything all right? Are you being treated well at St Barnabas’s? … Same questions, same answers, as always. Fine, all fine. Couldn’t be better … He knows they’re lying, and watches them flinch as a voice calls their names.

  Their reaction is always the same in the dream, as it was in life. They turn and move away between the yew trees passing Nicholas.

  And in the doorway of the church, waiting for them, stand two priests: Father Dominic and Father Luke. The first is sleek as a wild mink, the latter standing, arms akimbo, in the fading light.

  I want a word with you, Nicholas says to them. What about? About the boys … Father Dominic shrugs and moves away. Father Luke, his defiant arms out of proportion with his short legs and narrow trunk, stands looking at Nicholas as though he doesn’t have time to chat. As though he wants him off the premises. Go back to your own church, St Stephen’s, he says. Mind your own business or I’ll take it up with Father Michael.

  And Nicholas – as always, as ever – walks away. He’ll come back, he tells himself. Check on the boys. He pushes out of his mind Patrick Gerin’s bruises and puffy eye and goes back to St Stephen’s, passing between the yew trees that never change.

  Twenty-Seven

  Honthorst was just about to reach the doorway where Nicholas was hiding when his name was called. He hesitated, then turned and walked back on to the street. Nicholas waited for a few moments, praying he wouldn’t return, then moved out into the alleyway.

  He was breathing rapidly, unnerved, as he walked into the high street. But there was no sign of the Dutchman, only a couple standing at a bus stop, smoking. Nicholas walked quickly back to St Stephen’s church and hurried up the gravel path towards the side door. He expected at any moment to be attacked, and his hand shook as he unlocked the entrance and went in. Bolting the door behind him, he moved into the vestry. A small saucepan of milk was simmering on the gas cooker and a half-eaten sandwich lay on the table.

  The triumph Nicholas had expected to feel was lacking. Yes, the Dutchman had broken into the auction house believing he would find the chain, which proved that Nicholas and Philip Preston were being watched, but that was all. Honthorst had come away empty-handed, with only the realisation that he had been duped. He would have been angry. A violent man who used brutal tactics would resent being played for a fool.

  And if he hadn’t been distracted, Honthorst would have caught him.

  With growing unease, Nicholas realised the danger of his situation and the ruthlessness
of his opponents. And those were just the ones he knew about. Members of the art world had come out into the open, but what of the Church? What would the Catholic Church do when it realised that Father Daniel – aka Nicholas Laverne – was privy to information which could expose them for the liars they were? He had been a sacred thorn in their side ten years earlier, but they had thought him powerless after his excommunication. Maybe this time they would rely on no one taking him seriously, letting his name damn him in advance.

  But if not, Nicholas thought, what would they do? He was a man on his own, without protectors, without confidantes, without power. Alone, he was challenging an institution that had obliterated rivals and crushed nations. What chance did he have? he wondered bleakly. What wouldn’t the Church do to silence its most troublesome priest?

  Twenty-Eight

  There is an area of London in Kensington called Palace Gardens. The houses there are prestigious, many of them embassies or subdivided into sumptuous apartments. Only a few remain as private residences, with their own gated entrances and security guards. In one of these lives Conrad Voygel, with his wife and daughter. This Voygel travels a great deal, always leaving and arriving home at night, the windows of his car tinted so that he can see out but no one can see in.

  His activities amuse his wife, Angela, who mocks his secrecy and pathological need for privacy. But he explains that it is to keep his family safe, and she believes him. After all, their little daughter would make a perfect kidnap victim. Since their marriage Conrad has also told his wife that there is another reason for his reserve: his employees do not know what their boss looks like, so he can move around his businesses unknown, eavesdropping on gossip, complaints and intimations of mutiny. But Angela knows otherwise.