The Bosch Deception (13 page)

In the first known account of Bosch's painting, the Spaniard Felipe de Guevara described him as ‘the inventor of monsters and chimeras'.

Brompton Oratory, Kensington, London

Screaming, the man slumped forward against the church door. He was doubled over in pain, gasping for air, his coat shredded and wet with blood, his shoes missing. As he moved the hammer came down again and struck the back of his head, blood filling his mouth as he bit down on his tongue. Helpless, he threw up his arms, trying to fend off the blows, but instead he heard the crack of the hammer as it shattered his left arm at the elbow.

Pain seared into him, his legs giving way and his eyes blinded with blood, as he felt hands ripping aside his clothes, pulling his shirt open. Dazed, he began to slide into unconsciousness, then screamed as he felt the knife plunge into his upper chest and rip down his sternum. He grabbed for the weapon, the fingers of his right hand closing over the blade, his thumb severed as his attacker pulled the knife out of his grasp.

The victim was pleading but the words were blurred, incoherent through the blood that filled his mouth. Urine leaked out of him, his bowels loosening as the blows increased. Only yards away taxis moved down the road towards Harrods, where window decorations looking sullenly out of their glass cases, and the townhouses next to the Oratory remained glacially impervious.

He had stopped screaming now and was gurgling instead, trying to draw his knees up but lacking the strength to do anything but shake. Slowly the knife moved down to his stomach, then it was jerked upwards in an arc.

The last thing the man felt was the blade ripping across his throat and severing his windpipe, his heart pumping blood uselessly out of the gaping wound. And in those seconds the attacker carved two initials into his victim's stomach – H and B.

Then he straightened up, took off his coat and stuffed it into a plastic bag, along with his gloves and the knife. Walking briskly he moved towards South Kensington and finally hailed a cab on Sloane Street. When he left the taxi he tipped the driver generously.

It was only when he finished work that night that the driver discovered the plastic bag on the back seat – and called the police.

As he walked around the back of St Stephen's, Nicholas heard his name called. Startled, and expecting an attack, he spun round to find two police officers approaching.

‘Are you Nicholas Laverne?'

He nodded.

‘You live here?'

‘For the moment,' Nicholas replied. ‘What's all this about?'

The older officer took over. ‘You knew a man called Father Luke, who used to be attached to St Barnabas's church—'

‘Used to be?'

‘He was found murdered in the early hours of this morning outside the Brompton Oratory,' the officer continued. ‘When we talked to his fellow priests they told us about your run-in with Father Luke. Apparently you accused him of torture. You went to the press with it, caused quite a stink. Got yourself excommunicated for your trouble.'

‘What I said is on the record, I don't deny it.' Nicholas's heart was speeding up. ‘But I haven't seen or spoken to Father Luke for many years—'

‘They said you phoned him the other night.'

‘
What?
'

‘One of the priests said that you rang him last Sunday and said you had unfinished business. Perhaps you'd like to come to the station and talk.'

Spooked, Nicholas looked around him, but there was no sign of Father Michael, no one to whom he could signal for help. He guessed at once what had happened: he was being set up, taken out of the running by a trumped-up accusation. And worse, he was being framed for murder. The old priest was right – they were making sure everything Nicholas Laverne said would be automatically discredited.

‘I'm not going anywhere,' Nicholas replied. ‘I never contacted Father Luke. It wasn't me.'

‘We'll talk that about at the station,' the officer replied as the younger man moved closer to Nicholas. ‘Come with us, sir.'

It was Eloise who called her, and Honor made a hurried exit from work and met her in a cafe round the corner. The Frenchwoman was sitting by a window, her expression composed as she watched Honor Laverne enter. She examined the lawyer steadily – the small-framed figure, the straight back. Not tall, but she carried herself like an athlete, her hair densely, silkily black.

‘Sorry, I got away as soon as I could,' Honor said, sliding into a seat opposite Eloise. ‘Is there any news about Claude's murder?'

‘No, but there's been another killing—'

‘
What?
'

‘In the early hours of this morning. A priest was murdered outside the Brompton Oratory.' She could sense Honor's shock and continued. ‘It wasn't your brother, but he's involved.'

‘What are you talking about?'

Eloise leaned forward, her voice lowered. ‘You didn't know that Nicholas was back in London?'

‘No. I haven't heard from him for years …' She eyed the Frenchwoman. ‘Have you seen him?'

She nodded. ‘Yesterday, and I'll be meeting up with him again – if the police let him go.'

‘Police?' Honor echoed, then dropped her voice, watching as Eloise stirred some sweetener into her black coffee.

‘What I'm about to tell you is in confidence. You're a lawyer – you should know how to keep secrets. Nicholas returned to this country a few weeks ago. He told Claude where he was going and why. Claude …' Her voice caught on her dead husband's name … ‘didn't tell me the whole story at the time. You have to remember that the three of us were close. We had mutual friends too, one of whom was murdered in Paris only days ago.'

Honor was watching her, unnerved. ‘What's this got to do with my brother?'

‘Have you heard of Hieronymus Bosch?'

‘The painter,' Honor replied, baffled. ‘So?'

Eloise glanced around to check that no one was listening. But there were only a couple of men in a booth at the back of the cafe, and a bored waitress preparing food behind the counter.

‘Claude's father, Raoul Devereux … He was your brother's mentor, wasn't he? Helped him in his career.'

‘He was very good to Henry.' Honor agreed. ‘He believed in him. We all did.' She changed the subject rapidly. ‘What about Bosch?'

‘Raoul Devereux had a small Bosch painting stolen, which finally turned up in London, in the gallery of Gerrit der Keyser. From there it was purchased by Sabine Monette.' Eloise paused, then added, ‘She was the woman who befriended Nicholas.'

‘I never knew her name. But I knew about her – that Nicholas worked for her. Why didn't you ever tell me what she was called?'

‘You never asked,' Eloise said simply. ‘And Nicholas didn't want information passed on. You have to admit, Honor, you and I weren't friends. We spoke now and again, but we were never close. I had to respect your brother's wishes.'

Honor nodded. ‘Yes, you did … Go on.'

‘With the Bosch painting was a chain. It contained slips of paper that told of a subterfuge concerning the painter. I don't know the details, only that the secret would shake the art market and shame the Catholic Church. Your brother wants to expose the deception. He has the chain and the papers.' Eloise paused, her tone expressionless as she fiddled with the right cuff of her sleeve. ‘My husband and Sabine Monette knew about the secret. They are now dead.'

Honor took in a breath.

‘You don't think Nicholas had anything to do with their deaths?'

‘No, of course not. But someone's trying to spin a web around your brother.' Eloise hesitated, waiting until the waitress passed by their table and returned to her post
behind the counter. ‘Just after Nicholas came back to London, a man was killed outside St Stephen's church – your brother's old church. That man was identified yesterday as Thomas Littlejohn.'

‘I don't know him.'

‘He was an art dealer.' Eloise nodded, seeing the understanding in Honor's eyes. ‘Yes, all three victims were connected to the art world. I don't know if Thomas Littlejohn knew about Bosch, but I'm pretty sure he must have. And I think that was the reason he was killed.'

‘But why would anyone suspect my brother of the killings?'

‘No one
would
have suspected Nicholas – before this morning.'

Honor knew she wasn't going to like the next words. ‘What happened?'

‘Father Luke, of St Barnabas's church, was murdered. He was one of the priests your brother exposed ten years ago. Apparently Nicholas contacted him and threatened him. There is a witness to the call—'

‘It could have been anyone!' Honor snapped. ‘Anyone could have said they were my brother.'

‘Just what I thought,' Eloise replied smoothly. ‘But then again, at the moment your brother is probably safer at the police station than anywhere else. He's in trouble. You do understand that, don't you?'

Honor studied the woman across the table, her dark eyes meeting the Frenchwoman's blue gaze. Grief was leaching
out of Eloise, but her self-control was unsettling. It surprised Honor to realise how much she disliked Eloise Devereux.

‘Why are you telling me all this?'

‘We want the same result – justice,' Eloise replied. ‘You want your brother to be vindicated; I want my husband to be revenged. You know the law. You have contacts, I imagine. And your brother needs you. He will confide in you—'

‘No, he won't.'

‘Yes, he will, when he realises that not only his life but
yours
might be in danger.'

The hairs stood up on the back of Honor's neck. ‘Are you trying to use me?'

‘Yes, but in return you can use me. I have means, and I will use everything I own to find my husband's killer. The Bosch secret involves the Church
and
the art world. Your brother might discover something of interest to me and I might discover something of interest to him. Why not pool our resources? Besides, your brother's no killer. He loved Claude and Sabine. And he's not stupid enough to go after the priest.'

Honor considered what she'd heard. ‘Maybe they killed the priest to remind everyone of Nicholas's past. Make him look like a lunatic—'

‘I agree,' Eloise replied. ‘Whoever's planning it wants to make him powerless. And they will, if he's left out there alone. Nicholas is reckless – he needs you. You have to force him to confide, and you can only do that if you're under threat.'

The Frenchwoman's callousness shocked her, but Honor wasn't going to back off. Instead, after a long moment, she put out her hand. Surprised, Eloise hesitated, then shook it.

Philip Preston was trying to calm his wife, Gayle, who was sobbing hysterically. Her instability, only controlled by strong medication, was escalating. When he was there Philip made sure she took her pills, but when he was away she forgot. Or did she do it deliberately? he wondered. Make herself clinging and helpless, tying him to her with emotional bladderwrack.

‘Calm down, darling,' he said through gritted teeth. ‘You're getting yourself all worked up.'

She put her arms around his neck. She smelt as though she needed a bath. Once so beautiful, so sculpturally perfect, Gayle was now bloated; her limbs the colour of a sea slug. Drink and medication had driven a stake into the heart of her appeal, and now she provoked little more than pity.

And to think, Philip mused, that once every man who saw her wanted her. Like Gerrit der Keyser – and others. He remembered Henry Laverne suddenly; felt the quick breeze of envy trickle over him. Philip knew that Henry had been Gayle's one true love. Recently, babbling and full of booze,
she had been talking about all her old boyfriends, reminding herself of her spent power. Philip no longer resented such outpourings. It was a kind of revenge that she had managed to age herself out of his jealousy.

But lately Gayle had increased her drinking and with it, the inevitable outbursts. And she was having one now. ‘You don't love me. You want me to die.'

‘Gayle, why on earth would I want you to die?'

‘So you can marry someone young and pretty,' she said, burping, her breath acid as she flopped into a chair. But then she smiled and some shadow of that punchy beauty came back and caught him unawares. ‘I'm going to get better, you know. And go on a diet. The doctor wants me to talk to a new therapist. I think it'll work.' She reached for his flies and Philip winced. ‘You still want me, don't you?'

How could he say no? Say ‘I want Kim Fields, my mistress' instead. Say ‘You disgust me, with your greedy little fingers probing my genitals and your tongue stuffed in my mouth. But he couldn't say it. Instead he let Gayle make a kind of shabby love to him, all the time thinking of Kim.

The escape route was in front of him – the Bosch chain, weaving its gilded links to freedom. Nicholas Laverne could bring Hell down on the Catholic Church, but Philip just wanted the sale. He had worked hard for a long time, cheated a few, certainly kept ahead by guile, but he was getting older – and he felt it. He wasn't sleeping well, his knees ached and a sudden desperation was afflicting him.
The slick charm he had employed for years was moth-ridden and forced, and his libido was flagging.

The money raised by the sale would mean freedom – the ability to leave his wife with a clear conscience while hiring a companion to keep her company and divvy out her drugs … Philip could feel his wife's lips on his stomach and tensed, trying to fight an impulse to push her away … He would sell the Bosch chain and then run. Take Kim with him. Get the hell away from London. Yes, it was dangerous, reckless, but it was worth the risk.

Philip thought of Carel Honthorst and cringed. Honthorst, der Keyser, Conrad Voygel – all of them breathing down his neck, and God only knows who else. He was gambling, and he knew it. Not just with his business, but with his life.