Honor held her breath. ‘And?’

‘Nicholas told us all about it. Said it was his fault. Sabine had been at her apartment in Paris and he had been looking after the chateau. The thief got in because Nicholas had forgotten to turn on the alarm.’ She looked intently at Honor. ‘Then your brother said something I’ll never forget. He said it “was a true mark of friendship that Sabine never suspected him.”’

Fifty-Seven

Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London

Standing in front of his cloakroom mirror, Philip held a second mirror up to look at the back of his head, at what he thought was a bald spot. He had always been vain about his hair and the innocent chance remark Gayle had made that morning had irked him. Bloody woman, he thought, comforted that he could see no thinning of his pate. Bloody stupid woman.

His vanity restored, Philip moved back into his office and studied the auction brochures that had just arrived. On the front cover was the Bosch chain and inside a description:

Extraordinary and rare object, believed to have belonged to the most important artist of the Late Middle Ages, Hieronymus Bosch. Papers claiming this provenance offered with the sale. The initials H and B are inscribed on the first links of the chain, closest to the clasp. The H is prominent, the B less so.

Estimate £780,000–£1,000,000

Philip liked the last line best, hoping that a relatively low estimate might encourage more bidders. After all, there were collectors who would think nothing of paying so much for a piece of such prominence. For a moment he thought of the papers and felt a pang of regret. He should have put them up for sale with the chain. They would have raised a fortune … But his greed had been overshadowed by his cowardice. Let Nicholas Laverne reek havoc with the Church, Philip would settle for the chain.

And although it had been difficult, Philip had managed to say silent on the subject of Bosch’s Tree Man, a portrait of the artist himself. The temptation to brag had been almost too much to resist, but he had managed it. This was a little nugget to expose at the auction. A thunderbolt for the art world, and healthy exposure for his auction rooms. Every Arts correspondent would publicise the news and, by default, Philip Preston.

It was all going to work out perfectly. And his hired security had managed to calm his anxieties. No one could get to him with them around, not even the formidable Honthorst. In fact, he thought, perhaps the whole business had been blown out of all proportion. And then he remembered the murders …

Reaching into his desk drawer, Philip picked up the two plane tickets. One way. It was all organised; he had his flight booked. Immediately after the sale he was going to take Kim to his new home outside Milan, a place no one knew about apart from his lawyer. All the arrangements for Gayle’s welfare, his business concerns and his divorce could be handled long distance. He wanted out of London. Permanently.

Outside, the clock struck three and Philip was surprised when the door opened and security informed him that a Mr Gerrit der Keyser wanted to talk to him.

‘OK, send him in.’

He came in flushed and out of breath, luminous with fury. ‘You bastard,’ he began, flinging a heavy object across the desk towards Philip. ‘If you’re auctioning the real Bosch chain then what the fuck is this?’

Fifty-Eight

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

Discharging himself from hospital, Nicholas made his way back to St Stephen’s, where Father Michael greeted him and ushered him inside.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, fine,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Just food poisoning. I should watch what I eat.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anything happen here?’

The old priest shook his head. ‘Nothing. I was worried out of my mind when you didn’t come back from that meeting.’

‘It wasn’t Conrad Voygel after all. It was Sidney Elliott. Unbelievable. I collapsed and the bastard left me lying there.’

‘At least he left you alive,’ Father Michael replied. ‘Honor rang again. And Philip Preston—’

‘What did he want?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’ The priest replied, making them both some tea and putting the mugs on the table. ‘You don’t think it was deliberate, do you?’

‘What?’

‘You being ill. I mean, you don’t think—’

‘Someone poisoned me?’ Nicholas laughed. ‘No, I think I got felled by an under-cooked burger. This is one thing I can’t blame on the Catholic Church.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘Did anyone come last night?’

‘I heard someone walking around. And the phone rang in the early hours. Same as usual.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘When are you going to make the Bosch deception public? I’ve told you, I’ll help you in any way I can. Whenever you want to speak out, I’ll be right next to you. I promise I won’t go against my conscience this time.’

Nicholas hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should say the next words, then let them come.

‘Did you know what they were doing to Patrick Gerin?’

The old priest took in a breath, hobbled by regret. ‘I knew about the other boy.’

‘But not Patrick?’

‘No. I heard rumours about David Sullivan. I even mentioned it to Father Luke and Father Dominic, but they told me he was a difficult boy. Needed discipline, they said. He was going to be a good priest; he had to be obedient.’ Father Michael was stumbling on the words. ‘Patrick Gerin was another matter … he was … No, I didn’t know about him.’ The old priest paused again, glancing up at Nicholas. ‘They were just rumours – nothing concrete, just gossip. A year earlier some boy had lied about being mistreated at St Barnabas’s and we thought this was just more of the same. You can’t believe everything you hear.’

‘But you could have looked into it.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Father Michael countered, catching Nicholas off guard. ‘You exposed the abuse – but if you knew about it all along, why didn’t you do anything earlier? Why wait until Patrick Gerin died?’

Nicholas looked away. ‘I think about that every day. I dream about it. Even in my dreams it’s always too late. I should have acted sooner. I failed—’

‘That time, but not now,’ the old priest replied. ‘You still want to expose the fraud about Bosch, don’t you?’

‘Not until the auction. When the chain goes up for sale there will be a lot of publicity and I want to use that. The press and the internet will report the sale of the chain – and then I’ll come forward with the Bosch papers. The proof of what was done to him. The proof of how the Catholic Church colluded.’ He took another drink of tea, feeling the warmth spread through him. ‘I failed a living boy, but I won’t fail a dead man. This time I won’t fail.’ He glanced at the old priest, his voice firm. ‘Let me do this alone.’

‘No!’

‘Don’t jeopardise your life. It’s not worth it, not worth the recriminations that would follow. You’ll suffer if you support me—’

‘And suffer if I don’t,’ Father Michael retorted. ‘I’m backing you, yes, but you’re the one in real danger. The Church will come after you – you know that.’

‘They haven’t stopped me yet.’

‘Not yet, Nicholas,’ the old priest said quietly. ‘Not yet.’

Fifty-Nine

Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London

Philip snatched up the chain that Gerrit had flung across his desk and stared at it. Hurriedly he turned it over in his hands and then took out a magnifying glass and scrutinised the links. The same initials were there – H and B. He weighed it. Same weight as his chain. Then he moved into the next-door room and carried out the acid test. It was genuine. Gold, like the other chain. He moved back into his office, running the chain through his hands, his expression incredulous as he looked at his visitor.