He winced at the thought.

‘So let’s work out a plan of action, shall we?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got an hour for lunch – that should be more than enough for you to tell me everything.’

Thirty-Six

Weighing the chain on his jeweller’s scales, Philip Preston glanced up at Nicholas. ‘And the papers?’

‘Are staying with me. They’re locked away – no one can get at them. Remember our agreement, Philip? You go after the art world, I go after the Church.’

‘I heard about the death of the priest yesterday. I also heard that the police interviewed you.’

‘First strike to the Church,’ Nicholas said bluntly. ‘I was waiting for it to start.’

‘Have they asked you about the Bosch papers?’

‘No one’s contacted me directly – that’s not how they work,’ Nicholas replied. ‘It’s all done at arm’s length. The death of Father Luke was supposed to discredit me and it might well have done if my old mentor hadn’t given me an alibi. Father Michael is beyond doubt, although he might have risked himself by standing up for me.’

Nicholas stopped talking. Suddenly he could feel his head spinning. He could see Philip in front of him, but the auctioneer was talking and he couldn’t hear a word. A terrifying second passed, then another. Finally regaining control, he sat down.

‘Are you all right?’ Philip asked, bemused.

Nicholas nodded. ‘I was just dizzy, that’s all.’

‘You don’t look well.’ Philip moved over to a cabinet and poured a brandy, passing it to Nicholas.

To Philip’s surprise, he downed it in one. Thoughtful, he regarded Nicholas. The slim frame was beginning to fill out again, the jaw almost pugnacious, a blaze back in the eyes. A fanatic? Who knew?

‘You think the Church would murder Father Luke to frame you?’

The dizziness had passed and Nicholas was fully in control again. ‘Maybe it wasn’t the Church; maybe it came from your patch. Someone in the art world, making it look like the Church was involved.’ He paused for an instant. God, he was tired, his mind sluggish. ‘You’re taking a big risk – publicly announcing that you’ve got the chain and putting it up for sale is inviting trouble. There’s a whole week until the auction – couldn’t you make it sooner?’

‘I need some time to whip up the buyers. A week will bring out all the big hitters—’

‘It might bring out something else,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Philip thought of his wife. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘Have you said anything about the secret?’

‘Not a word,’ Philip replied. ‘You?’

‘No, I haven’t told anyone. But that doesn’t mean we’re the only people who know.’

‘Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux are dead—’

‘So is Thomas Littlejohn.’

Shaken, Philip stared at him. ‘Thomas Littlejohn is dead?’

‘Murdered. It turns out that he was the first victim. The man burned outside St Stephen’s church.’

‘I knew him well; we were friends a while back. I always wondered what happened to Thomas.’ Philip was flustered, caught off-guard. ‘This isn’t good for me. This isn’t good for me at all.’

‘It wasn’t too good for him either,’ Nicholas replied, wondering just how far he could trust the auctioneer. ‘You know about the murder outside the Brompton Oratory, but did you know that Father Luke had the initials H B carved into his stomach? Just like Sabine.’

Philip’s expression was unreadable. ‘I heard.’

‘Word travels fast,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Unless you already knew about the murder of Father Luke. Unless you were involved.’ He probed his way carefully. ‘I’ve been thinking – you’ve been in from the start. You found Sabine and you’re one of the few who knows about the secret. One of the few who’s not dead.’

‘Oh, grow up!’ Philip said dismissively. ‘I’ve lived and prospered by being sly; I’ve no appetite for violence. Especially when it’s inflicted on me.’ He paused, genuinely irritated. ‘You brought me into this. Without you I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder all the time and wondering if I might be the next victim.’

‘So why don’t you take the chain out of the sale? Say you’re donating it to a museum?’

‘You think I’d give it up?’ He laughed, almost a bark. ‘No, I’m not backing out now.’ Philip gestured towards the door. ‘I’ve hired security. Men who look like they could spit holes in walls. That should stop Carel Honthorst sniffing around.’

‘You think it’s just Honthorst you have to stop?’ Nicholas asked, thinking of the unexpected phone call he had received from Sidney Elliott, the academic nervy and bullish by turns. He had told Nicholas he had a buyer who would pay over the odds for the chain. Unimpressed, Nicholas had put the phone down on him, but he had called back five times. And each time Nicholas’s answer had been no.

‘Whatever happens, it’s all out in the open now,’ Philip said. He had moved into his en suite washroom and was combing his white hair as he admired himself in the mirror. A moment later Nicholas could hear him peeing. ‘Whoever wants the chain can bid for it at the auction—’

‘If it gets to auction. It’s sitting here like a stick of dynamite ready to go off.’ He paused, studying the auctioneer as he re-entered the room.

‘D’you believe in God?’ Philip asked.

Surprised, Nicholas shook his head. ‘Not any more. How about you?’

‘No. There’s no divine power we can appeal to. No moral Court of Justice.’ Philip shrugged fatalistically. ‘I’m scared, I admit it, but I’m not backing down. There’s only two ways this can go – I’ll either come out with a fortune or in a box.’

Thirty-Seven

Two days passed. In London the art world was buzzing with the news of Philip Preston’s auction of the Bosch chain. Meanwhile the police continued their investigations into the two murders outside London churches. The initials carved on Father Luke confused them. Admittedly both of the victims had been killed on sacred ground, but otherwise the deaths were dissimilar. Thomas Littlejohn had been burnt alive, Father Luke stabbed. And only Father Luke had the initials on his body. They knew nothing of the deaths of Claude Devereux and Sabine Monette in France – they had no reason to connect the four killings.

Initially the police had hoped they might have a suspect in Nicholas Laverne, and although his alibi had cleared him his background incited interest. This was the priest who had been the infamous whistle-blower. The priest who had been excommunicated. The priest who might well have a score to settle. So the police kept their eye on Nicholas Laverne, and waited.

The art world waited too. Gerrit der Keyser sent for Carel Honthorst, and in his Chicago office Conrad Voygel made a call to Sidney Elliott in Cambridge. The academic was brooding, angered by Nicholas’s resistance, eager to prove his worth to Voygel.

‘He w-w-won’t budge. The chain’s g-g-going to auction.’

‘I know, and that isn’t what I wanted,’ Voygel replied pleasantly. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Elliott, but I’m going to bring someone else in—’

‘No!’ Elliott interrupted. He was talking to one of the richest men on the planet, a man who could change his life. He wasn’t prepared to lose his chance. ‘I’ll work on Laverne. G-g-give me a bit more time.’

‘The auction’s in five days,’ Voygel reminded him. ‘I’ll give you two.

*

Like a cat finding its way into a dovecote, news of the up-coming auction ruffled feathers across the globe and Hiram Kaminski was summoned back urgently from Amsterdam.

He had hardly made it through the door of the gallery when his wife caught his arm and steered him into the back office.

‘This came for you,’ Judith said, slapping a large envelope on to his desk.

‘You’ve opened it!’ Hiram replied, picking it up and looking disapprovingly at his wife. ‘It was addressed to me—’