Текст книги "The Bosch Deception"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

Quercus Editions Ltd

55 Baker Street

7th Floor, South Block

London

W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2014 by Alex Connor

The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

PB ISBN 978 1 78206 507 4

EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78206 508 1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:

www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Contents

Book One

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Book Two

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Book Three

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Book Four

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Seventy-Six

Seventy-Seven

Seventy-Eight

Seventy-Nine

Eighty

Eighty-One

Eighty-Two

Eighty-Three

Eighty-Four

Eighty-Five

Eighty-Six

Eighty-Seven

Eighty-Eight

Bibliography

Also by Alex Connor

The Caravaggio Conspiracy

Isle of the Dead

The Goya Enigma

Legacy of Blood

The Rembrandt Secret

‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ [detail]

After Hieronymus Bosch

‘The like of which was never seen before

Or thought of by any other man.’

Albrecht Dürer, 1471–1528

‘Who will be able to tell of all the weird and strange ideas which were in the mind of Jeronimus Bos, and his expressions of them by his brush? He painted gruesome pictures.’

Karel van Mander, 1548–1606

London

The pain of the hammer blow cut through his sleep and he slumped back against the door of St Stephen’s church. Alarmed, he struggled to open his eyes, smelt burning, then jerked his legs up. His trousers were on fire. Someone had poured petrol on him; he could see the man standing over him with a can, emptying the last drops on to his body. Terrified, the victim screamed, writhing in pain, the flames soaring up his legs and into his groin.

Stumbling to his feet, he was suddenly engulfed, the fire eating into his chest and face. He could feel his skin melting, slipping off his bones, his eyes boiling in his skull. Hysterical, desperate, he screamed again, the flames licking around and inside his mouth as he staggered down to the gravel path. But he was going nowhere in the darkness as he shrieked and spun like a firework and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air, smoke rising from the blackening shape. He was still screaming as his attacker watched him fall forward on to the path, flames flickering over the dying, stinking body. Finally the screaming stopped. His flesh crackled and the flames died down, the smoke thick and cloying.

Moving over to his victim, the attacker kicked at the body. It didn’t move. Then, dropping the petrol can beside the corpse, he calmly walked away.

Book One

Prologue

’s-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, 1460

It is a fallacy that killing a bird brings ill luck. For the members of the Swan Brethren, it was a form of tribute. On an early evening, barely into a bitter November, two men carried in the swan on an ornate silver plate. Its feathers were clotted with blood from the arrow point, its head lying listless, its throat ice-white, long, fragile, leading to the open ebony eyes. Its closed beak, redly defiant, seemed like a full stop.

Ten years old, he watched his father, Antonius van Aken, receive the offering. He was wearing the insignia of the order, his position as artistic advisor to the Brotherhood of Our Lady marking him out from his peers. The order had been established in the religious Netherlands to venerate the mother of Christ, but Hieronymus knew of the politics involved. Even a religious sect had a pecking order. There were the ordinary members of the Brotherhood and the sworn members – the glorious ‘Swan Brethren’ who donated a swan for the yearly banquet.

Glossy-faced and perspiring, Antonius studied the swan and nodded approval. Applause broke out among the assembled company, clerics, nobility and magistrates clapping the tips of their elegant fingers in muted appreciation.

Hieronymus gazed at the dead bird. He thought it was a little like him, overwhelmed by circumstances just as he was overwhelmed by family. His father, two grandfathers and five brothers were all painters, all gifted men, healthy and dismissive of a sickly runt of a child. Suddenly he saw the bird move and he blinked, leaning over the banisters and staring down into the hall beneath. Without warning the swan rose up, webbed feet stamping on the silver tray, threatening to topple off as the men beneath panicked and struggled to hold on to their charge.

Hieronymus could see his father’s eyes widen in terror as the bird opened its bloody wings and turned towards him. Its tremendous span seemed for a moment to envelop the entire Brotherhood in shadow, the men cowering beneath. And then the swan’s beak – that molten arrow – jabbed into Antonius’s skull. The bone cracked and Antonius van Aken was thrown upwards, landing bloodied and mangled on the silver platter where the bird had previously lain.

For the second time that night, Hieronymus woke up screaming.

One

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London, the present day

‘Father?’

The priest turned, staring at a face he didn’t recognise. At first. ‘Nicholas?’

He nodded, moving towards the older man. Nicholas Laverne, forty-one years old, a man who had left London ten years earlier and had – to all intents and purposes – disappeared. Nicholas Laverne, the ex-priest who had railed publicly against the Catholic Church and been excommunicated for his pains. The same Nicholas Laverne whose very name was inflammatory.

‘Is it really you, Nicholas?’

He nodded in reply.

Hurriedly the old priest looked around, but there was no one on the street and, without thinking, he beckoned for Nicholas to follow him into the church. They entered by the back door, skirting the anteroom where the priests prepared for Mass, and moved into a gloomy kitchen. Turning on the light and pulling down the blind at the window, Father Michael gestured for Nicholas to sit down.

He hesitated, then took a seat. ‘I’m sorry I came here. I hope no one saw me—’

‘It’s a church. Sanctuary for everyone.’

‘Which is why you took me round the back,’ Nicholas replied bitterly.

‘You don’t change.’

He knew he should have been ashamed of the remark, but Nicholas was unrepentant. He stood over six feet tall, his hair black and dusty looking and his eyes blue. Well-fed and well-dressed, he could have been handsome. As it was, he had the appearance of someone recovering from a long illness.

‘Where have you been?’ Father Michael asked, making a drink for both of them and passing Nicholas of cup of tea. ‘D’you want something to eat?’

‘Why?’

Father Michael paused. ‘Why what?’

‘Why did you do it?’

The older priest shrugged. ‘What did I do?’

‘Nothing changes, does it?’ Nicholas replied. ‘Denial all the way.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to confess.’

Nicholas stared at the ageing priest, taking in the foxing of grey hair, the narrow face, the pale, appealing eyes. Perfect for confession, forgiveness oozing from every compassionate pore.

‘You turned on me.’

The priest shook his head. ‘You turned on yourself. And on the Church.’ He leaned towards Nicholas. ‘You acted like a madman. What did you expect? For the Church to sanction what you said? You had no proof—’

‘I had proof!’

‘Which wasn’t reliable. Or so you said,’ Father Michael replied, eyes hostile now. ‘What d’you want? No one’s seen you for years – why come back now?’

‘I need to talk to you. It’s important. I wouldn’t have come back to London otherwise.’

‘Where were you?’

‘France.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Why d’you care?’ Nicholas countered.

‘You don’t look well.’

‘But I’m better now. Much better.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I won’t stay for long – don’t worry. But I need some help before I go. And before you refuse, remember you owe me—’

‘Nothing.’

‘Think back, Father. Examine your conscience,’ Nicholas replied, pulling a cloth bag from the inside pocket of his coat. Silently he shook out the contents, a heavy gold chain falling on to the bleached wood of the kitchen table. With his forefinger he straightened it out, the gold weighty, its value obvious.

The priest put on his glasses and stared at the chain. ‘It looks old.’

‘It is old. Centuries old,’ Nicholas replied, ‘and it’s worth a fortune. The gold itself could fetch thousands, its provenance millions. But the real value lies in what the chain held.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The past. You’re a historian, Father – you know all about the religious organisations of the old Catholic Church,’ Nicholas replied, weighing the chain in his hands. ‘What d’you know about the Brotherhood of Mary?’

‘Brotherhood of Mary … let me think for a minute.’ The priest gathered his thoughts. ‘… It was also known as the Brotherhood of Our Lady. It was one of many groups which worshipped the Virgin in the late Middle Ages.’

‘In Brabant?’

‘All around Europe, especially in the Netherlands. There was a Brotherhood of Our Lady in ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ The priest was unable to resist the temptation to flaunt his knowledge. ‘Devotion centred on the famous miracle-working image of the Virgin, the Zoete Lieve Vrouw, in the church of Saint John, where the Brotherhood had a chapel.’

Nicholas was listening intently. ‘What else?’

‘The congregation consisted of members from Northern Netherlands and Westphalia. It supported the religious and cultural life of ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ Father Michael leaned back in his chair, suddenly suspicious. ‘Where did this chain come from?’

‘’s-Hertogenbosch. The same city Hieronymus Bosch came from. Apparently he was commissioned to create paintings for the Chapel of Our Lady there.’ Nicholas continued, ‘Bosch’s father managed to get most of his family employed by the Brotherhood. Hieronymus was the most talented, the most famous of all of them, but his grandfather, father and brothers were painters too. They must have been quite a force to reckon with. You knew that Bosch’s father, Antonius van Aken, was artistic advisor to the Brotherhood?’

‘You’ve obviously read up on it, so why are you asking me for information?’

‘You’re the expert; I’m just learning as I go along.’

Abruptly, Father Michael rose to his feet. ‘I don’t want trouble!’

‘I’m asking about a religious organisation and a painter. What trouble could come from that?’ Nicholas asked. ‘I’ve found out some facts, but you know a lot about Hieronymus Bosch, the artist. You’ve always been interested in him. So tell me what you know.’

The priest hesitated, then sat down again.

‘Bosch lived and died in his hometown. There’s no documentary evidence that he ever left the place where he was born. But then again, there are very few details about his life. Sometime between 1479 and 1481, he married Aleyt Goyaerts van den Meerveen. She was older than him, a wealthy woman in her own right. After they married, the couple moved to the nearby town of Oirschot because she’d inherited a house and land from her family.’

‘Did they have children?’

‘Apparently not.’

The elderly priest was regarding his visitor with caution. Perhaps if he gave Nicholas Laverne the information he wanted, he would leave – and stay away. He brought with him too many memories, too many reminders of scandal. Once he had been a friend, a colleague, but that was a long time ago.

‘The final entry in the accounts of the Brotherhood of Our Lady notes that Bosch died in 1516.’

‘Are his paintings valuable?’

The old priest nodded. ‘Of course! And rare. He’s highly collectable. Sought after by connoisseurs and galleries everywhere.’

‘So the art world would be interested in anything to do with Hieronymus Bosch?’

‘Naturally. Who wouldn’t be?’

Nicholas stared at the old man. ‘You were always a fan of his.’

‘I studied History of Art before I entered the Church. You know that, and that’s why you’re picking my brains now. Hieronymus Bosch has always fascinated me. He was a great religious painter.’

‘You preached his vision of Hell often enough—’

‘It was important in the Middle Ages for people to be scared away from sin,’ the priest retorted. ‘Bosch served a purpose. He warned the congregation of what would happen if they turned from God. He painted images that everyone could understand. He was a visionary.’

Nicholas toyed with the heavy chain in his hands, as the priest watched him.

‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ Father Michael said at last. ‘You never brought anything but trouble. We were glad to be rid of you. Things have been quiet for the last ten years. Until …’ He paused and Nicholas picked up on his hesitation.

‘Until what?’

The priest thought of the homeless man who had been burned alive outside the church only days before.

‘Nothing of any interest to you. There was an incident, that’s all.’

The priest was unsettled, suspicious. Was the re-emergence of Nicholas Laverne connected with the murder? Was the man sitting across the kitchen table, only feet away from him, somehow involved in the death of the homeless man? The victim no one could place. The man without identification, or history. Burned to death in the porch of the church. His church. The church where Nicholas Laverne had once listened to confession and given absolution of sins. From where the Church had exiled him as a traitor, a liar, the Devil’s recruit. Excommunicated because of his exposing of a scandal, his complete rejection of the Christian faith and, worse, his abuse of the Host at Mass …

Father Michael remembered it as though he were watching it take place before his eyes. Nicholas had been hounded for going to the press, but although barred from the Church, he had entered their neighbour church, St Barnabas’s, one day and made his way to the altar rail. Father Luke had been giving Mass and had looked at Nicholas in horrified disbelief as he knocked the wine and wafers out of his hands, the red wine spotting his white and gold vestments as the congregants fled to the back of the church.

It had been an unholy sin.

The old priest closed his eyes against the image. Nicholas had then left, shouting at the top of his lungs, white-skinned with fury. A madman. No, not a madman … But now he was back, a decade later, and what had he become in the meantime? the priest thought uneasily. A murderer?

‘What is it?’

His mouth dried as Nicholas stared at him, unblinking. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘You, Nicholas,’ the old priest replied. ‘I’m afraid of you.’

Two

Paris, France

Sabine Monette glanced at the phone once more, her hand hovering over it. Should she ring him? Should she? Why not? But then again, why risk it? She pulled on her coat and walked out into the street, skirting a motorbike propped up against the kerb.

For a woman in her late sixties, Sabine moved quickly, her posture erect. Widowhood suited her, the death of Monsieur Monette providing her with money without benefits. How sad, her friends told her, to be alone. Without a man, in a cold bed. Sabine put on a show of sorrow to please them, but relished her release from wifely tedium. Monsieur Monette had been irksome in the main and to live alone was a glorious indulgence. There were no irritating reminders of male vanity, aftershave unsuitable on sagging skin. No haemorrhoid cream in the bathroom. No newspapers thick with finance and thin on gossip. No tiresome denials of affairs. No wheezing, dry coughing in the moments before sleep.

Monette had had few good points, but dying was his masterstroke.

His demise had left Sabine free to pursue her obsession with the arts. With enough money to invest in Dutch painting, she had amassed a limited, but prestigious collection of Bruegel and Bosch, fighting off dealers and established collectors. In her secluded château outside Paris, she hung her trophies, ensuring their safety by the addition of alarms, intruder lights and dogs. In this cosy little blister of plenty, Sabine could have lived out her days in peace. But then something happened that changed everything.

Madame Monette became a thief.

Three

London

Working late at the office, Honor rubbed her temples to keep herself awake then turned back to the file she had been reading. It was a dry case about fraud, a subject she loathed but one which would ensure the long overdue promotion she had been promised. If she won this case, she would become a partner at the law firm. After eleven years. After harassment, bigotry and prejudice. After long days and longer nights in the office she had come to know better than her flat. But it would be worth it to get her name on the bloody door. Yes, it would all turn out to be worth it.

Or then again, maybe it wouldn’t.

Standing up and looking out on to the street below, she checked her watch and frowned. Ten thirty at night – no wonder she wasn’t in a relationship. What man would put up with hours like this? Her husband certainly hadn’t. Perched on the edge of her desk, Honor turned a framed photograph around to face her. She should put it away. After all, who had a photograph of their brother on their desk? But then again, her brother was all she had.

And she didn’t even have him now. Not unless he reappeared. He was troubled, abusive, uncontrollable. Made himself into a nuisance. Yes, Honor thought, you certainly did that. Made yourself into a bloody nuisance asking all those questions. And getting no answers for your trouble …

Her mind went back to their childhood. After the car accident that killed their parents, the three of them – her and her two brothers, Nicholas and Henry – had been taken in by their unmarried uncle. David Laverne was a man who had made a fortune in plastics and retired to the countryside with a selection of old 78 records which he played at full volume. It hadn’t mattered when he was alone, but when three children arrived unexpectedly, David found his self-imposed – if noisy – seclusion breached. Henry, aged sixteen, was not too much of a shock for him; he was responsible and old for his years, even professing an interest in the vintage 78s and the overgrown vegetable garden. But Nicholas, at fourteen, was a loose cannon.

It was down to Honor to become her brother’s willing apologist, because Henry seldom took Nicholas’s side. Shortsighted without the glasses he avoided wearing, Henry soon assumed a paternal role over his younger siblings. Clever and talented, charming by instinct but mean when ignored, Henry made Nicholas appear even more of an outsider and as the years passed Henry grew to despise his younger brother’s recklessness and teenage lasciviousness. Everyone knew Henry was earmarked for success, Nicholas’s dark nature and appearance the flip side to his classy charm.

Honor had loved both of them, but Nicholas she found fascinating. So she had covered up for his misdeeds, lied for him, made excuses for him, soothed their exasperated uncle when he came close to having Nicholas put into care. All through their growing up Honor had been a constant: an admirer of Henry and a protector for Nicholas. But I wasn’t really the nice kid everyone believed I was, Honor thought. Fraud, she mused, glancing back at the file on her desk. We’re all frauds really. All pretending we’re something we’re not.

‘You are here.’

She looked over at the door, where a man stood watching her: Mark Spencer, slightly senior to her, wanting to get personal. And failing. ‘Like to go for a drink?’

‘Can’t. I’ve got to finish this.’

‘But I’ve just heard something gross, and I have to share it with someone,’ Mark went on, moving his stocky little body further into her office. ‘Some down-and-out’s been burned alive. Only a couple of streets from here. Outside a church.’

‘Jesus. Who was it?’

‘No one knows, but the security guy told me he’d been hanging around for the last few weeks. On his uppers, sleeping rough apparently.’

He slid further into Honor’s office, facing her full on so that she wouldn’t notice his bald spot. Thirty-five, due to be a slaphead at forty. Using fibre powder to colour in his scalp. No one told him it left residue on the back of his collar when he sweated.

‘How old was he?’

Mark shrugged. ‘Not old, not young. Who knows? They look older when they’ve been sleeping rough. He just dossed down in the church porch and someone made a firework out of the poor bastard. Christian charity, hey?’Mark paused, ready to try his luck again. ‘Sure about that drink?’

She ignored him.

‘But the police will have to find out who the man was. I mean, it’s murder. He can’t have just turned up out of the blue. He had to belong to someone. There must be someone looking for him.’

Her voice dropped, an unwelcome thought coming into her mind. Surely it couldn’t be her brother? After so long, it was possible that Nicholas had come back to London to look for her. And finding his sister doing well, would he have hung back, too ashamed to contact her? It would have been like him to watch, wait for the right time to approach. Maybe one evening when she left the office late. Or mid-morning when she sneaked out for a coffee at the Costa on the corner.

The last time Honor had seen her brother he had been belligerent, rejecting help, even pushing her away. No, he didn’t want any of her fucking money, he had said. But she had slid it into his pocket anyway when he wasn’t looking. And despite his temper she had gone to the station with him and waited until past midnight for the last train up to Liverpool. He had got on board without looking back, but as the train pulled away he had leaned out of the window and called her name.

Was it him? God Almighty, Honor thought, was it him? She tried to be logical. After all, why should it be her brother? But the thought stuck, gnawed at her. Had Nicholas finally come back only to be murdered streets away from her?

‘Where did they take the body?’

‘How the hell would I know?’ Mark replied curtly. ‘He was a down-and-out. Who cares?’