She ignored him.

‘But the police will have to find out who the man was. I mean, it’s murder. He can’t have just turned up out of the blue. He had to belong to someone. There must be someone looking for him.’

Her voice dropped, an unwelcome thought coming into her mind. Surely it couldn’t be her brother? After so long, it was possible that Nicholas had come back to London to look for her. And finding his sister doing well, would he have hung back, too ashamed to contact her? It would have been like him to watch, wait for the right time to approach. Maybe one evening when she left the office late. Or mid-morning when she sneaked out for a coffee at the Costa on the corner.

The last time Honor had seen her brother he had been belligerent, rejecting help, even pushing her away. No, he didn’t want any of her fucking money, he had said. But she had slid it into his pocket anyway when he wasn’t looking. And despite his temper she had gone to the station with him and waited until past midnight for the last train up to Liverpool. He had got on board without looking back, but as the train pulled away he had leaned out of the window and called her name.

Was it him? God Almighty, Honor thought, was it him? She tried to be logical. After all, why should it be her brother? But the thought stuck, gnawed at her. Had Nicholas finally come back only to be murdered streets away from her?

‘Where did they take the body?’

‘How the hell would I know?’ Mark replied curtly. ‘He was a down-and-out. Who cares?’

Four

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

Startled by a sound outside, Father Michael got to his feet, lifted the blind, and peered out of the kitchen window. He could see nothing. Nicholas Laverne was still sitting at the kitchen table behind him.

‘You’re jumpy.’

‘I want you to leave,’ the priest said flatly. He could catch the noise of a car horn sounding in the next street and knew that the church was empty and locked up for the night. His housekeeper had gone home and no one would be calling now. Not so late. Or maybe someone would come to see the priest and find him talking to a stranger. Or maybe find him alone. Dead.

His gaze moved to the chain in Nicholas’s hands. ‘What did you mean about the chain holding something?’

‘See these?’ Nicholas asked, pointing out the engraved gold connectors between the links. ‘They’re hollow. And when I looked closely, I could see that one of them had a crack in it. Inside someone had hidden a tiny piece of paper. It was the same with all of them—’

Father Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know.’

‘You don’t know what I’m going to say.’

‘I know it’s going to bring trouble.’

‘You used to be brave.’

‘I used to be young.’

Nicholas nodded, continuing anyway. ‘Inside every connector was a tiny scrap of rolled-up paper. Very small, twenty-eight of them in total. And on each there were a few words. I found the first note by accident, then I found the others and pieced them together.’

‘How did you get the chain?’

‘I was given it for safe keeping.’

‘You? Safe keeping?’ The old priest snorted. ‘You couldn’t keep anything safe. Who would entrust you with anything valuable?’

Nicholas was stung by the remark. ‘You think I stole it? Is that what you think of me now? That I’ve become a thief?’

‘I don’t know what to think. And I don’t want to hear any more. Go now, while you can. I don’t care what you’ve done or what you’re going to do – just get out.’ The priest moved to the door and opened it. Outside the night was misty, slow with rain.

Nicholas didn’t move. ‘Shut the door and sit down. I’m not going, not yet. Sit down!’

The priest reluctantly closed the door and took his seat at the table again. ‘I remember how you used to be. You were special, Nicholas. One of the best priests I’ve ever known—’

‘I don’t want to talk about the past. All that matters is what’s going to happen now. Listen to me, Father.’ He shook the object in his hands. ‘This chain holds a secret. The words on each little piece of paper, when put together, spell out a truth that has been hidden for centuries. A truth kept secret for the good of – and in the protection of – the Catholic Church.’

‘God forgive you.’ The old priest sighed. ‘What is it this time? Another conspiracy? You ruined your life once before, Nicholas, and for what? You were thrown out of the Church, your name destroyed. No one believed you then, and now you come back with another conspiracy. Only this time you’re not a young charismatic priest, you’re little more than a fugitive.’

‘This chain carries a secret—’

The old priest snatched at the piece but Nicholas held on to it and used it to pull Father Michael towards him. ‘You think I’d be so stupid as to bring this chain with the notes? You think I’d trust you, priest?’ He let go suddenly, smiling. ‘The evidence is safe. Only I know where it is. Or what it is.’

‘And what is it?’

‘Proof of a con so clever it’s fooled people for generations. Proof of a lie perpetuated by the Catholic Church.’ Nicholas took in a long breath. ‘There was once a man called Hieronymus Bosch. He painted visions of Hell – a master of the damned, of monsters and chimeras, of all manner of grotesques. He was revered in his lifetime, famous, fêted, and he made vast amounts of money. Because – you know this already, Father, so forgive me for stating the obvious – no one could paint like Hieronymus Bosch. No one had his imagination. He was sought after. A celebrity of his day. A genius. A one-off. Now what if I were to tell you that—’

Nicholas stopped talking. A loud noise startled them both – the heavy clunk of the church door being pushed open and thrown back against the other side of the wall where they were sitting. Someone had entered the church of St Stephen. Someone was only yards away from them. They could hear footsteps close by, fading away as the stranger moved towards the altar.

Unnerved, Father Michael began to tremble and Nicholas glanced up at him. ‘What is it?’

‘I … I … Why are you here? What d’you want from me?’

‘I just want your help. Your knowledge,’ Nicholas replied, then turned in the direction of the sounds. ‘Who is it?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No. I came alone.’

The old priest was shaking uncontrollably, ‘I locked the church door. I locked it and now someone’s in there.’

‘Maybe you forgot—’

‘I locked it! And I have the only key,’ the old priest blustered. ‘But someone’s in the church. Someone’s in there now. And you’re back.’ He rose to his feet. ‘A man was murdered here only a few days ago. He was burned alive. I came home and found him on the path …’ His fingers fastened around his rosary. ‘For years this church has been a safe place, but now a man’s been murdered here and someone’s broken into a church that I secured, to which I have the only key …’

The priest paused, listening. The footsteps had ceased. There was the slow creak of the door swinging closed as the intruder left, and the church was silent again.

‘Well, whoever it was, they’ve gone now,’ Nicholas said calmly.

‘And yet someone was here. And a man is still dead. And you’re still in my kitchen. For ten years there’s been no trouble. And now …’ Shaken, the priest stood his ground. ‘What did you bring with you, Nicholas Laverne? What in God’s name did you bring to my door?’

Five

Paris, France

Carel Honthorst ordered a coffee as he watched Madame Monette take a seat outside. He sat down, facing in the opposite direction but able to see the Frenchwoman’s reflection in the cafe window. She lit a cigarette and began talking rapidly on her mobile, then finished the call and threw it into her bag irritably. Honthorst was impressed. Sixty-seven years old and she hardly looked a day over fifty, he thought, taking in the slim legs and firm jawline. Still sexually attractive … Uncomfortable, he shifted his thoughts. What did she weigh? A hundred and twenty, tops. Height? Five foot six, possibly seven. His gaze moved to her neck. Fine, almost unlined, and long. Delicate. Easy to break.