However much she hated Mark Spencer for shattering her illusions, Honor had begun to have doubts. She might have tried to suppress them, but she had wondered if Nicholas were becoming paranoid. If the one-time hero were merely an obsessive fantasist. His talk of murder and the Catholic Church was extreme, and his mention of the crucifix had troubled her.

Reluctantly, she thought of what Mark had said. If Nicholas were a thief and a liar, was he crafty enough to have plotted the whole deception? Could he have created a reason to get back at the Church? He hadn’t found the chain, but he had always been inventive. Could his troubled mind have devised a plan, secreting the paper slips into the chain only to discover them later, thereby giving himself another conspiracy to expose?

How much had he wanted to be a hero again?

You are my brother, Honor thought. You are Nicholas. But which Nicholas?

‘Clumsy,’ she said at last, turning back to Mark.

He blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘Your attempt at blackmail – it’s clumsy.’

‘I wasn’t blackmailing you, I was trying to warn you!’ Mark replied, certain that she would appreciate his interference at a later date. ‘Your brother kept out of your life for a long time and maybe that was a blessing. When he exposed the abuse ten years ago he was a hero—’

‘He was brave.’

‘Then,’ Mark agreed. ‘But now he’s washed up, sinking fast. Don’t let him drag you down with him.’

Fifty-Four

The rain had given way to mist, a low white ghosting which lingered over the buildings and the street as Nicholas checked his watch against the chiming of the church bell. Nine thirty. It seemed that the wind had exhausted the air itself; it hung heavy and moist, rain droplets clinging to the bare branches and the decaying iron spire. It was a night to be at home. A night to lock doors and light fires, play music and relax behind dark curtains and under the fluffing of a duvet. As Nicholas walked along he could see the misted bonnets of the cars, and knew that by dawn the moisture would be frosted. Winter had shown her hand.

So had Conrad Voygel, he thought, remembering the note he had been given. It read:

I would like to know more about the rumoured Bosch deception. I believe you know the complete story. Perhaps we could talk.

Conrad Voygel

Nicholas’s first instinct had been to ignore the note, but an hour later another was delivered asking for him to wait outside the Victoria and Albert Museum at 9 p.m. that evening. He would, the note continued, be perfectly safe.

‘You can’t go!’ Father Michael had said, shocked. ‘You could be walking into a trap. Father Luke was killed outside the Brompton Oratory. That’s very close to the V and A. Suspiciously so.’

‘This isn’t a threat,’ Nicholas replied. ‘If it were dangerous, there would have been no invitation, they would have just attacked me. Conrad Voygel wants to find out what I know about the deception—’

‘And when you tell him? Then what?’

Nicholas didn’t answer and the old priest reached for his coat. ‘I’m going with you.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘You need a back-up.’

‘I don’t need you,’ Nicholas replied, remembering what Honor had said to him, his conscience pricked. ‘Stay here. I’ll be back soon.’ He moved to the door. ‘And lock this when I’ve gone. Don’t worry, I can look after myself.’

But now Nicholas was wondering about that as he moved into the underpass, walking towards the exit closest to the Victoria and Albert Museum. There was no one else in the subway, only footsteps and traffic grumbling overhead as he climbed up the exit steps on to Brompton Road. He looked around but could see no one waiting, no car parked at the kerb. Rubbing his hands together, he leaned against some railings and waited.

Ten minutes passed, Nicholas checking his watch and then feeling an unwelcome nausea come over him. God, he thought, he should never have bought a burger from a street trader. This was the second time he’d felt close to throwing up. A moment later a car drew up at the kerb and a man got out as Nicholas straightened up.

The figure walked towards him, dressed in a long coat, the collar turned up. A big man, Nicholas thought, wondering if it was Honthorst. Then he saw the stoop – Sidney Elliott.

‘I thought I was meeting Conrad Voygel,’ Nicholas said, turning to walk off.

Elliott ran after him. ‘I’m M-M-Mr Voygel’s representative.’

‘His mouthpiece?’

‘He wants to know about the d-d-deception. He’ll pay you well.’

‘Forget it,’ Nicholas snapped. ‘I don’t want paying.’

‘So why come to the m-m-meeting?’

‘Conrad Voygel said he wanted to talk. I’m willing to talk to him, but no one else.’

‘You should talk to m-m-me,’ Elliott replied. ‘Look, I can p-p-put in a good word for you with Voygel. He’s a wealthy m-m-man with lots of contacts. You need to stay on his good s-s-side.’

‘What is this break you want?’ Nicholas asked him. ‘You want an adventure, go bungee jumping. Your life hasn’t worked out the way you want, so what? No one gets the life they expect. You’ve done all right,’ he continued. ‘Why lower yourself to be the runner for someone like Conrad Voygel?’

Angered, Elliott reached for Nicholas’s sleeve and gripped it. ‘Give yourself a ch-ch-chance. And me. I need a chance—’

Nicholas shook him off.

‘Why w-w-won’t you help me?’ Elliott snarled. ‘I know there are t-t-twenty-eight pieces of writing, I know it’s about a d-d-deception regarding Hieronymus Bosch. Just tell me what the deception is. I can get a g-g-good deal for you—’

‘I told you, I don’t want the money!’ Nicholas replied, suddenly feeling nauseous again and slumping on to a low wall, his focus blurring. ‘Just leave me alone.’

Elliott stood over him, his gloved hands deep in his pockets, his expression curious.

‘What’s the m-m-matter with you?’

‘Something upset my stomach,’ Nicholas replied, ‘probably the company I’m keeping.’ He looked up at Elliott. ‘The secret isn’t for public consumption. Tell Voygel that. Tell him he can buy the chain, but the secret’s off limits. Unless he wants to talk to me privately.’

‘Mr Voygel d-d-doesn’t like being disappointed, neither d-d-do I.’

‘That’s a shame. I hear it’s good for the soul.’

‘Of course,’ Elliott replied, ‘you’re n-n-not a journalist, are you? You’re an ex-p-p-priest. You know all about the s-s-soul.’ He tapped Nicholas on the shoulder. ‘I heard you were living b-b-back at Saint Stephen’s church—’

‘So it’s you, is it?’ Nicholas replied, wincing as a pain ripped through his stomach. ‘I knew someone was watching the place. And I heard someone walking around.’ He grimaced as the pain increased. ‘Was it you that broke in and planted that crucifix?’

Elliott looked baffled. ‘Not m-m-me, Mr Laverne. Perhaps you sh-sh-should look a little closer to home?’

Scowling, Sidney Elliott fastened up his coat and turned away. He didn’t even pause as he heard Nicholas fall off the wall and slump, unconscious, on to the winter pavement.

Fifty-Five

As Nicholas slept, Honor watched her brother, Mark Spencer biting his thumbnail as he waited in the hospital corridor outside. He should have washed his hands of her, but couldn’t. He had hoped that Honor would come to her senses and avoid any further involvement with her brother, but that had been before Nicholas Laverne was found on Brompton Road with an acute case of food poisoning.

Nothing like sickness to bring people closer together, Mark thought ruefully as he wandered up and down the corridor. Still, he consoled himself, Nicholas Laverne would recover and then Honor would think over what he had told her, and with luck she would pin her colours on to his mast and not that of the ex-priest. If she didn’t, Mark had a problem. He couldn’t seriously consider her wife material if she stayed close to Laverne. It was irksome, but a man had to protect his career and his reputation, whatever sacrifices that entailed.