‘But everyone knows I’m an authority on the late Middle Ages—’

‘On the paintings, not any chain. You understand, Hiram? Forget what I said before; this whole business is now off limits to us.’ She kept her eyes fixed on his. ‘That chain is deadly – keep away from it. Let the big boys fight it out, not us. If there’s going to be another victim, let it be Philip Preston or Gerrit der Keyser. But not us.’

Then she moved to the gallery door and locked it, pulling down the blind.

Thirty

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

Leaning on a stick, Father Michael watched Nicholas as he moved around the kitchen.

‘Where’s the chain?’ the priest suddenly asked.

Nicholas turned, surprised. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘Where is it?’

‘I’m not telling you,’ Nicholas said simply. ‘But it’s not here, it’s safe. I don’t have it with me.’ He made tea and passed a cup to the old priest.

Father Michael pushed it away. ‘The man who was killed here just before you turned up was an art dealer called Thomas Littlejohn. Did you know him?’

‘No.’

‘His death’s connected to the chain, isn’t it?’

‘Might be.’

‘“Might be,”’ the priest repeated, hostile. ‘Of course it is! You said the chain held something – what was it?’

‘You didn’t want to know then so why d’you want to know now?’

‘Because you’re here, in my church—’

‘Your church?’ Nicholas countered. ‘How pompous of you, Father. You work and live here – it’s not yours. Surely your faith taught you that much—’

‘Don’t talk to me about faith! You hate the Church—’

‘With good reason,’ Nicholas snapped, leaning towards the old priest. ‘You knew what was going on and you wouldn’t help me. You knew those boys were being bullied—’

‘I don’t want to talk about it!’

‘You never did!’ Nicholas hurled back. ‘He hanged himself, Father. A trainee priest, bullied relentlessly. Beaten, starved, locked up at St Barnabas’s. Patrick Gerin was his name, remember? I bet you don’t. I bet no one remembers his name. And after he killed himself, the two priests who drove him to it carried on as though nothing had happened.’

‘He wasn’t sexually assaulted!’

‘Is that some kind of excuse?’ Nicholas roared. ‘Patrick Gerin was tormented, like the other boy he told me about. Tortured and starved. He was made to sleep naked in a cupboard in the church outhouse. He was covered in rat bites – I saw them. Patrick Gerin weighed less than six stone when he killed himself … And you knew the church well. You knew the priests at St Barnabas. You knew Father Dominic and Father Luke, but you said nothing when I told you about it. And those bastards were never punished. You knew about it—’

‘It should have been dealt with within the Church. You went to the press!’

‘And I’d do again. Even though it cost me my livelihood and my reputation. You can all call me a liar and cut me out of your religion, but what I did was right. And I know that, and I live with that every day. My only regret is that I didn’t act sooner. That’s what haunts me: not being the whistle-blower, being too late. The Catholic Church is corrupt. It always has been and always will be as long as its members turn a blind eye to what’s going on.’ Nicholas shook his head as he looked at the old priest. ‘Jesus, how do you live with yourself?’

‘I pray for forgiveness,’ Father Michael replied, then looked at Nicholas. ‘You said that this chain held papers, a secret about Bosch which was hidden to protect the Catholic Church … What was the secret?’

‘Why would I tell you, Father?’

‘Because I’m already involved. When you came here you involved me. I’ve already been threatened, and a man was killed outside my church. I know this place is watched. I know why you’re living here – but you can only protect me so far. And who protects you?’

‘Not the Church,’ Nicholas said coldly.

‘If you set out to expose another scandal no one will believe what you say. They won’t take you seriously. You’re a maverick, Nicholas. Let me help. I was silent once but I won’t be this time,’ the old priest pleaded. ‘You have to tell me what the secret is.’

‘And risk your life?’

‘You’re risking your own.’ Father Michael paused. ‘Listen. Hear that?’ A noise sounded outside, footsteps on the gravel. ‘They walk up and down a few times, then leave. It happens every night. And someone rings the rectory phone at two or three in the morning. When I pick up no one answers, but I can hear breathing down the line … I see shadows too. But then again, those could be old ghosts – Patrick Gerin for one.’

‘Your mind’s playing tricks on you.’

‘About Patrick Gerin, yes. But I’m no fool, Nicholas – that Dutchman was no figment of my imagination.’ He struggled with the next words. ‘I gave you up when he threatened me. I told him you had the chain.’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘So what? Everyone knows I have it.’

‘They’ll kill you for it!’ Father Michael said desperately. ‘Give it to them, whoever wants it – give it to them. You said the secret had been hidden for centuries so why expose it now? If it’s so dangerous, why risk yourself? If there’s a fortune involved, people will do anything to get hold of it. As for scandal, men have died for less.’ He sighed and leant back in his seat. ‘They won’t let you get away with it.’

‘Who won’t? The art world or the Church?’

‘Both.’

A moment spiralled between them. Father Michael was the first to speak. ‘You’re living on borrowed time, Nicholas. You want to expose what you know, I understand that, but no one will listen. You lost your credibility ten years ago. You lost when the Church threw you out and called you a madman. You can’t do this alone because no one will believe you.’ He paused, left hand gripping the head of his walking stick. ‘But they will believe me.’

Book Three

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

Thirty-One

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.