His gaze moved back to the porch, scorch marks still discernable on the stonework and the two steps up to the church door. What a way to die, Conrad thought sympathetically. What a terrible way to die.

His attention shifted towards the two men again, his focus on Nicholas Laverne. The ex-priest, the man who had gone after demons and been demonised for his pains.

Conrad tapped on the glass partition and watched as the chauffeur slid it open.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I want you to deliver a message for me.’ He scribbled a quick note and passed it to the chauffeur. ‘You see the men sitting over there? Give this to the younger man. Don’t wait for an answer, just come back to the car.’

Leaning back in his seat, Conrad watched the scenario play out. Saw the wary expression on Nicholas’s face as he glanced at the note, and smiled as the old priest anxiously grabbed his arm. A moment later, the chauffeur returned to the car and Conrad signalled for him to drive on.

Fifty-Three

Nicholas was still bruised from his sister’s lack of faith. Despite all the messages she had left on his phone, he had not called Honor back, so she had decided to visit St Stephen’s that evening. She was just packing up when Mark Spencer entered her office with a barely disguised grin on his face. He was grinning – trying not to – but grinning none the less.

‘I’m about to leave, Mark—’

‘Meeting your brother?’

She turned slowly, her expression cold. ‘What about my brother?’

‘You kept quiet about him. Apart from the photograph, that is.’ He pointed to the print on her desk. ‘I thought it was your boyfriend … Mind you, I suppose your brother’s the kind of black sheep families do keep quiet about.’

‘I can’t chat,’ she said curtly. ‘I have to leave—’

‘Not yet. We need to talk first,’ Mark replied, closing the door and sitting down. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I’m trying to help.’

‘I bet you are,’ Honor said, sitting behind her desk and flicking the phone on to voicemail. ‘So, what d’you want?’

‘I told you – to help. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, help you. That query about Carel Honthorst – I mean, a bit obvious, wasn’t it? You weren’t asking about him for some fraud case, were you? So it got me thinking – you know how curious I am, my mother used to say it was freaky how I could find things out – and I dug around a little and discovered that Honthorst is working in the art world now. Then I found out about your brother—’

‘Who doesn’t work in the art world.’

‘True, but he’s been touting a chain around London, a chain which is soon to be auctioned by Philip Preston. And before you ask, Preston is a client of mine, and we had a meeting yesterday and he told me about the chain – and who had found it.’ He paused and Honor said nothing. ‘I asked him about this Nicholas Laverne and he didn’t know much, but Google did.’

She swallowed nervously. ‘And of course we all know that everything on Google is gospel.’

‘Funny you should use that word, seeing as how your brother was excommunicated. Something of a whistle-blower, it said.’

‘He exposed a scandal in the Catholic Church—’

‘Naming two priests in particular, one of whom has just been bumped off.’ Mark pulled a face. ‘It’s OK, I found out that the police didn’t charge your brother, so he’s not committed murder. Well, not this time.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

He dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘How well d’you know Nicholas Laverne?’

‘He’s my brother. Of course I know him.’

‘So you know he was arrested in Germany for assault?’ Mark asked, moving on rapidly. ‘And in France for theft? I can see from your expression that you didn’t know. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It wouldn’t do your promotion prospects much good if the partners found out. I just want—’

‘Get on with it!’ Honor snapped, folding her arms.

Refusing to be offended, Mark continued. ‘Nicholas Laverne was in a fight with another man over a woman in Munich. The man pressed charges but then backed off, saying it was a case of mistaken identity.’

‘Maybe it was.’

‘You don’t believe that, do you? As lawyers we both know that people who go back on their stories have usually been pressurised—’

‘Or thought better of what they said. Or reneged on a lie.’

Mark reached into his briefcase, opened it, and then tossed a photograph across the desk. ‘Günter Reinhardt. Facial abrasions and a ruptured spleen. It was no lie, he was assaulted. Your brother was eighteen at the time.’

Picking up the photograph, Honor stared at the image and swallowed again as Mark slid another photograph across the desk to her. This one was of a painting, a small pastoral scene by Corot.

‘This picture was stolen in France, from the Devereux Gallery. The late owner, Raoul Devereux, dropped the charges when he discovered who the thief was. Apparently your families knew each other.’

Honor said nothing, just stared at Mark Spencer and the photographs on her desk.

‘Your brother was lucky. Twice he got away with it.’

‘Nicholas is no thief.’

‘He confessed to taking the painting.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ she snapped, her face colouring. ‘How old was he when this was supposed to have happened?’

‘Nineteen.’

She thought back. They were still living with David Laverne in the country; Henry had moved to France, she was taking exams, and Nicholas was in that grim patch where he came and went without explanation. She had hoped that the crimes had been committed after he had been excommunicated. Then she would have some excuse for her brother’s actions. That he was under stress. Unbalanced, even.

But this had happened before he had entered the Church. Before he left Nicholas Laverne behind and became Father Daniel.

‘He was young—’

‘He was a menace,’ Mark said firmly. ‘Apparently there were all kinds of other rumours about your brother. He was living with a woman old enough to be his mother for a while, then he dabbled in drugs—’

‘No!’ she said shortly.

‘Yes,’ Mark replied. ‘It’s hard to hear, I know. But you have to hear it. It’s important you know what kind of a man he is before you get involved with him any further. I guessed that he’d been out of your life for a while – I remembered how you reacted to that homeless man being murdered. I’m not stupid, Honor – I kept following the clues.’

‘Congratulations. What’s the prize?’ she asked, her tone acid.

‘There’s no prize for you if you stick with him. Your career will be damaged by association.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Look, I understand, he’s your brother, but think about it carefully. What do you really know about him?’ He pointed to the photographs. ‘What if there’s more? Worse?’

‘I’m sure you’d have dug it up, Mark.’

He ignored the comment.

‘I’m not telling anyone else what I’ve found out. I’m just trying to help you, like I say. You’re clever, Honor – you could go a long way. But you need to stay in your own class, with your own type. Marry someone respectable, maybe set up your own practice one day.’ He paused to let the inference sink in. ‘With a clever partner – in business and in life – you could get to the top.’

She wasn’t listening any more, she was thinking. Assault, drugs, theft – was that her brother? She could hardly deny it; what looked to be proof was lying on the desk in front of her. Where were you all those times you went missing, Nicholas? Where did you go when you came home filthy, hungry? You never said, and no one ever asked. Our uncle wasn’t interested and you always joked with me. The younger sister, the baby. I was no real confidante of yours.

Pushing aside the photographs, Honor walked to the window. If she supported her brother, who was she really protecting? He wasn’t a little boy, he was a man now. Should she risk her own career for someone she didn’t really know? She had longed for a family, for her estranged brother to come back to her, but maybe her longing had been misplaced. Maybe what she was really chasing was security – and looking for it in the least secure of people.