The Bosch Deception (7 page)

Gerrit der Keyser's gallery, Chelsea, London

As comfortable as an onion in its skin, Philip Preston strode into the gallery, smiling flirtatiously at the receptionist. She smiled back, recognising him and wondering if he would invite her out again. After all, it was common knowledge that his wife was unstable – surely a man had a right to enjoy himself? Philip Preston might not be young, but he was successful and rich.

‘How's your boss today?' he asked, leaning on her desk.

‘Busy.'

‘Too busy for me?' Philip lifted her chin with his left hand. ‘You
are
a pretty girl. Now, run along and tell him I need five – no, make it fifteen – minutes with the old man.'

Gerrit der Keyser was spraying water on to a fern as Philip entered, his doleful expression winching itself up into a fleeting, and unconvincing, smile. His recent heart attack had forced him to lose weight and now his jowls sagged,
the bags under his eyes pronounced even behind the bifocals.

‘Philip,' Gerrit said by way of greeting. ‘How are you?'

‘Good,' he replied, sliding into a brocade sofa under a painting of Brouwer's
Peasants in a Tavern
. ‘I was just passing and thought I'd pop in …'

Gerrit kept spraying the plant.

‘… I heard something interesting about a Bosch painting, or rather the chain which held it up.' He could see Gerrit pause, his finger immobile on the water spray. ‘Mean anything to you? I also had a visit from some man of yours. Honthorst, I think his name was.'

‘I have so many fucking tablets to take,' Gerrit said, putting down the spray and moving to his desk. Once there, he opened the middle drawer and pulled out four bottles. ‘Fucking tablets for this, tablets for that. To stop me getting breathless. To stop my heart racing like a BMW in a Brixton car chase. To stop my ankles swelling like some fat tart's.' He stared at the fourth bottle. ‘I don't know what these are for. Probably to stop my bleeding arse dropping off.' He swept the bottles back into the drawer and slammed it shut. ‘What d'you want, you smug fucker?'

‘You always saved your charm for the customers.'

‘Why waste an advantage?' Gerrit replied. ‘What d'you want?'

‘Do you employ a man called Carel Honthorst?'

‘Yes. He helps me out, talks to people sometimes.'

‘A heavy?'

Gerrit shrugged. ‘A consultant.'

‘You sold a Bosch painting with a chain attached—'

‘I sold a painting with an old bag's necklace attached,' Gerrit said sourly.

He was weighing up how much to tell Philip Preston and how much to withhold. Obviously the auctioneer had heard the rumour and it would be pointless to deny it. Besides, Preston might be useful. He certainly had been in the past.

‘Her own necklace?'

‘She swapped them,' Gerrit snapped. ‘Took off the original chain and put her own on. I'd never have missed it before I was ill. But I did, and I only found out when the previous owner told me about it. By then I'd sold it.'

‘To whom?'

‘“To whom?” You pompous git,' Gerrit mocked him. ‘Is that how you get into so many tarts' knickers?'

Philip let the question pass. ‘Who was the client?'

‘You know her,' Gerrit said, putting his head on one side. ‘But although she's still a looker, she's a bit long in the tooth, even for you.'

‘Sabine Monette,' Philip guessed, remembering his infrequent customer. Then he frowned. ‘She's loaded. Why would she steal a chain off the back of a painting she was buying?'

‘Couldn't wait for it to be delivered. Probably thought that if she left it here I might suss it out.' The dealer waggled his wrist and his watch flopped around. ‘See this – weight loss. More like fucking brain loss. I'm starving and
that makes me slow. No dealer can afford to be slow – that's the way you make mistakes. Slip up, miss things.'

Philip steered the conversation back. Gerrit der Keyser was an East End trader made good. He had married into money, bought some sharp clothes, and hired the best spotters to trawl the world for paintings. And it was an open secret that sometimes his methods could be dubious.

‘So you put the Dutchman on to Sabine Monette?' Philip asked. ‘That was a bit heavy, wasn't it?'

‘He didn't water-board her, he just asked for the chain back.'

The same chain that Philip had seen the previous day. The chain that had shimmered so fetchingly on his desk. He knew it was valuable – that much was obvious to anyone – but he wondered if Gerrit der Keyser knew that there was more to it? Nicholas's reticence had infuriated Philip and for the remainder of the previous day he had waited for his return – and for the full story. But Nicholas Laverne hadn't come back.

So he had decided to go it alone.

‘How d'you know that Sabine Monette swapped the chains?'

‘We have photographs,' Gerrit paused, ‘and some tape.'

‘
You tape your customers?
'

‘You shocked? After what she did you're fucking right I tape the customers!' Gerrit retorted. ‘I could have set the police on her, but that would have been a bit much. I mean, no one wants to lose a good customer. Even ones that help themselves.'

‘And besides, she's worth a fortune.'

‘The chain wasn't too shabby either,' Gerrit replied miserably, picking up the mister and spraying the plant again. ‘Anything connected to Hieronymus Bosch is worth money. Big money. When the old fool who asked me to sell it for him came back with its provenance I nearly had another seizure.' Gerrit picked at one of the leaves, examining it through the bottom of his bifocals. ‘I pay that thieving florist a fortune for these plants. For that money he should come in and spray them himself. When I complained that I had greenfly, he told me it didn't come from his shop, and that “the plant must have picked it up in the gallery”. “In the gallery?” I said. “I'm in Chelsea, not fucking Borneo.”'

Philip kept his patience. ‘So where's the chain now?'

‘How the hell do I know? Sabine Monette told Honthorst that she didn't have it any more.'

‘So who has?'

‘Now, think about it, Philip. If I knew, would I tell you?'

‘Only if you wanted me to auction it for you.'

‘I could sell it privately.'

‘But I have the expertise. Remember, antique gold is my speciality. I have a list of clients who would kill to get their hands on that.' Philip paused, picking his way forward. ‘Mind you, it's only a chain. I mean, its connection to Bosch—'

‘He
owned
it.'

‘– puts up the value, but it
is
only a chain.' He let the words hang, but Gerrit said nothing. If he knew there was
more to the object, he wasn't going to confide. ‘You said you had documents to prove its provenance?'

‘Yes. And no, you're not going to see them.'

Piqued, Philip continued. ‘Well, they're not much use anyway, are they? I mean, without the chain the papers are worthless.' He moved to the door, then turned. ‘I suppose this is one sale you'll have to put down as a loss.'

Mark Spencer was watching Honor carefully. She was taking notes, her dark hair smooth, her eyes looking down. He could see the gap in her blouse, giving just a hint of cleavage, and imagined touching her. He wondered if she was seeing anyone. Certainly no one had come to the offices, but then again, Honor was a private person. Not for the first time he toyed with the idea of ringing her home phone number. It couldn't be difficult to find – all he had to do was to look in the Personnel files. He wouldn't say anything, just see if anyone other than Honor picked up. See if there was a man living there. Or another woman. After all, if Ms Laverne were gay he should find out now – no point wasting time.

Honor cleared her throat suddenly, catching him looking at her. To his chagrin, Mark coloured up. Who was he kidding? he thought. Honor was pleasant, but she didn't really like him. But then again, she didn't know him. Didn't appreciate that looks faded and what really mattered was ambition. And he had ambition – and a sickening,
penetrating curiosity which had served him well in his criminal cases. His skill might be average, but he had a gift for unearthing secrets.

The meeting drew to its close and Honor left hurriedly. But she didn't go straight back to her office, instead she made for the lavatory, locked the door and sat down on the toilet seat, trying to fathom what she had heard only an hour before. Eloise Devereux, for once abrupt, shock making her curt. And then tears following.

‘I'm so sorry about Claude's death,' Honor said over the phone line. ‘I never got to know him well, but I know Nicholas was very fond of him.'

‘So was I,' Eloise had replied, her tone fading. Honor imagined that she would live in this way for the foreseeable future. Strong one moment, weak the next. Lifted by forgetfulness, buckled by memory. ‘It was such a terrible way to die.'

And then Eloise had told her. Claude Devereux's manner of death had been suspicious, and the police were involved.

‘Suspicious?' Honor had queried. ‘In what way?'

‘Claude was stabbed, but the killer had set fire to his body to try to cover his tracks … the pathologist took a while to determine the cause of death … Claude was burnt alive. He was still alive.'

The words had reverberated in Honor's brain. Another murder. Another victim of fire.

‘Why would anyone want to kill him? Did he have any enemies?'

‘He was a landscape gardener,' Eloise had replied, almost laughing at the absurdity. ‘No one kills gardeners. Everyone liked him, got on with him. Claude was kind, considerate … But that didn't stop someone killing him, did it?' She had grabbed at a breath as though simply living was an effort. ‘It's only been two days. Two days, and it feels like he's been gone for a lifetime.'

Honor had made a mental note to ring the French police and find out what she could about the case – or whatever they would tell her. The rest she would search for herself. The internet would have the death listed, and it would have been reported in the French newspapers. Moments later she had ended the phone conversation with Eloise Devereux, but she couldn't stop thinking about the death of her husband.

Getting to her feet, Honor left the cloakroom, bumping into Mark Spencer as she did so. She had the unpleasant feeling that he had been waiting for her.

‘What d'you want, Mark?'

‘You all right?'

She frowned. ‘What?'

‘You looked pale in the meeting,' he smarmed. ‘I was just wondering if you were OK.'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Well, if there's anything worrying you, you can always talk to me. You know, if you're unsure about anything.' He was flustered. ‘Like I say, if there's anything I can do—'

‘Actually there is,' Honor replied. ‘At the next meeting, stop trying to look down the front of my blouse.'

Lloyds Bank, Chelsea, London

Hurrying out of the rain, Nicholas walked into the bank and requested his safe deposit box. A few moments later, the manager showed him into a side room and then left him alone. After he had locked the door, Nicholas sat down at the table and drew the steel box towards him. Inserting the key he carried on a chain round his neck, he unlocked it and took out twenty-eight small envelopes, each barely two inches square.

They were numbered 1 to 28.

He stared at them for a long time, remembering the moment he had discovered the first one. How he had drawn the tiny piece of paper out of the crack in the gold connector and smoothed it down, intrigued by the faint writing in a Gothic script. In a language he couldn't decipher at first. All he had recognised had been the name Hieronymus Bosch, and the date 1470. With intricate care he had levered open the joins of all the other connectors, finding – as he had
expected and hoped – twenty-seven further tiny pieces of paper with writing on them. In the same hand and apparently in the same language.

So Sabine Monette had – on a whim – stolen a chain that turned out to be holding a secret. It hadn't taken a genius to work out that anything concealed so carefully must be important. The question had been simple – what did the writing say? Without telling Sabine anything about his discovery, Nicholas had set about getting the words translated.

His instinct prompted him to secrecy. He knew from the reactions of Gerrit der Keyser and Philip Preston that the chain was valuable, so how much more valuable would the writing turn out to be?

Using a different name, he had gone online and sought help from three different university scholars, one in Cambridge, one in Holland and a third in Boston. His cover story had been simple: he was a journalist trying to translate some old copy from a late Middle Ages ledger for an article he was writing. And so, gradually, Nicholas had begun to translate the papers, alternating the three scholars so that no one would ever possess the full meaning.

And then the name
Hieronymus Bosch
had come up and the questions began. As with the others, Nicholas had asked the British expert Sidney Elliott for secrecy, but his trip to Cambridge had been an uneasy one. Elliott was well into his fifties, a hunched intellectual with a stammer, wearing bad clothes and working in a makeshift laboratory. Although an expert in his field, his early promise had nosedived because
of family problems and his ambition had all but petered out – until Nicholas Laverne had shown him one of the Bosch pieces.

Bending down to look at it, Elliott had made a low sound in his throat, then glanced up at Nicholas.

‘Wh-wh-where did you get this?'

‘I'm afraid that's confidential information. As I say, I'm a journalist and I need to speak to you in complete confidence.'

Elliott had sat down, rubbed his left eye and finished off the cold cup of coffee on his laboratory table. He didn't offer Nicholas a coffee, hot
or
cold. His hands were blue-veined, his wrists big-boned, his shoulders broad. In his youth he would have been impressive, intimidating even.

Uncomfortable in the chilly temperature of the laboratory, Nicholas had pushed him. ‘I need the writing translated—'

‘Wh … wh … what language is it in?'

‘I don't know – that's your speciality.'

Elliott had nodded, sliding off his stool and reaching for a magnifying glass. He moved surprisingly quickly, regaining his seat and bending over the paper again. He had said nothing, giving Nicholas time to look around. Having seen better days, the laboratory was ramshackle, a broken window boarded up, the overhead strip lights glowing with a greenish hue and humming with age. Off the laboratory, Nicholas had noticed a small office with a glass door and a print of a painting by Dürer on the wall.

Elliott had made another sound in his throat, but had said nothing as he scrutinised the writing.

‘I need to have it authenticated and dated,' Nicholas had told him. ‘And we should keep this quiet.'

They had both been looking at the piece of paper on the table between them. Paper 2 out of the 28 Nicholas had found.

Finally, Elliott had straightened up and put down the magnifying glass.

‘It's D-D-Dutch – old Dutch, educated Dutch. In the Middle Ages, the main language spoken in B-B-Brabant was medieval Dutch, called Dietsch or Thiois. In the southern part of the Duchy, Latin d-d-dialects were spoken.'

‘What does it mean?'

He had touched it with his forefinger, prodding it in a tentative manner. ‘It means
“The B-B-Brotherhood of Our Lady. Bought and b-b-bribed.”
' The historian had then glanced back at Nicholas, his curiosity piqued. ‘What a curious thing to write. I wonder what it m-m-means. I wonder who wrote it. Someone educated, naturally. That long ago m-m-most people couldn't read or write. So we're looking at a cultured m-m-man.' He flipped the paper over with his finger. ‘I'd guess it's from the Middle Ages b-b-because of the style of writing and the type of paper. But I'm just going on a hunch and decades of experience.' He had smiled, the sarcasm withering. ‘I'd have to have it p-p-properly authenticated to prove I'm right.'

‘Without anyone else being involved?'

‘
Is
there anyone else involved, M-M-Mr Laverne?'

‘I've spoken to two other experts,' Nicholas admitted, ‘but I heard you were the best.'

‘No, you just want three opinions to see if they all tally,' Elliott said bluntly. ‘How m-m-many pieces of paper are there?'

‘Not many,' Nicholas had lied.

‘I imagine you've let everyone s-s-see the same piece?'

‘No, the others have seen copies of this piece. You're the only one who's seen and handled the original.'

Elliott had nodded, looking back at the specimen as Nicholas thought of the other papers – and their meaning. The meaning that had curdled inside him. Mouldered like bad food, gumming the vessels of his heart and leaching oxygen from his brain. That he – of all people – should be the one to find the testament. That an excommunicated priest should uncover a conspiracy that would tarnish the Church and stun the art world. Not that he cared about the latter. Nicholas Laverne wasn't interested in Hieronymus Bosch as an artist, he was interested in Bosch as a victim. As the casualty of a conspiracy shocking in its cruelty.

‘Won't you confide?' Elliott had asked, turning on his stool to look at Nicholas. ‘I can sense there's m-m-more to this than you're letting on.'

‘I can't tell you any more yet.'

Elliott had made the same low sound in his throat. ‘Why all the secrecy?'

‘It's for an article—'

‘About wh-wh-what?'

‘I can't say.'

‘Must be important, or you'd t-t-tell me.'

‘Nothing important.'

‘Bullshit.'

Taken aback, Nicholas had reached for the paper. But Elliott had grabbed his wrist. ‘I haven't had m-m-many adventures in my life, Mr Laverne. Far fewer than most men. If there's an adventure in the offing, I w-w-want in on it.'

Angered, Nicholas had shaken off his grip. ‘It's just words.'

‘Oh, Mr L-L-Laverne, words are the most dangerous commodity on earth.'

When Nicholas had left Cambridge that night, he had been uneasy. Sidney Elliott had unsettled him. He had the feeling that the academic had seen something that had triggered his interest and stirred his curiosity. The very thing Nicholas had wanted to avoid. So when the tests results came back and proved that the paper and the ink dated from the fifteenth century, Nicholas had been satisfied but abrupt.

‘Thank you, Mr Elliott. I'll settle your fee—'

‘Tell me wh-wh-what the paper is and that'll be fee enough.' The academic had paused on the phone for an instant, his tone wheedling. ‘I can be useful to you. I know m-m-many people who deal in artefacts like antique writings.' His tone shifted, becoming almost belligerent. ‘You n-n-need an expert. A novice like yourself will only come unstuck.'

‘
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.