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.

Thirty-Two

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.’

Thirty-Three

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.’