Downstairs, Antonius was in his study talking to two members of the Brotherhood of Mary. A great fire had been lit in the hearth as the damp, foggy morning banked the windows. One cleric was squeezy with fat, the other narrow-shouldered, a black tadpole of a man. They were discussing a matter which was of great importance to them: the imminent death of Hieronymus. The Brotherhood had sent doctors to bleed him and try to effect some recovery, but he had been stubbornly resistant.

‘We can’t bleed him again,’ Antonius said, tugging irritably at the trimming of his cape. His heavy legs were stretched out before him, taking in the fire’s warmth. The room was panelled, hung with tapestries to flaunt Antonius’s wealth and the fame of his son, and by the window stood three ceramic vases, hand thrown in Amsterdam. Luxury pleased Antonius even more than his mistress, and he was loath to relinquish it.

‘When Hieronymus dies—’

The first cleric put up his doughy hands.

‘No, we must not think it. He may yet recover,’ he said, but the words were insincere, his eyes fixed greedily on Antonius. The plan had been mooted before, and now he could sense it was about to be fulfilled. Not one of the trio thought of the young man upstairs, dying in a studio without a fire.

‘My son’s work is priceless. To the Church and to the country.’ Both clerics nodded as Antonius continued. ‘Hieronymus has taught everyone about God and the Devil. His paintings have kept the population controlled …’

Again the clerics nodded in unison.

‘.. His work must continue,’ Antonius said, moving on, his voice a whisper. ‘We all know I commission the paintings for the Brotherhood. What hangs in the church is organised by me. Everything is handled by me. When Hieronymus dies, no one must ever know he has gone.’

The thin cleric nodded solemnly, his priest’s robe dusty. ‘It is for the glory of God—’

‘For the glory of God,’ the other cleric echoed. ‘And for His worshippers.’

‘We are doing nothing wrong,’ Antonius continued, relieved that his source of income would continue after the death of his irksome child. ‘My son has made many drawings, which I have collected together. Ideas for paintings. Images that could only corrupt in the wrong hands. Images that must be preserved and reproduced to the glory of God.’ He paused, let the inference take root. ‘After my poor son’s demise, his work can continue within the family. We are all painters, after all; we can recreate his vision. There are many drawings, many sketches. Much to produce.’ He poured the clerics some wine, smiling like a wolf. ‘We do this only in the service of God …’

They nodded, already damned.

‘… The Church will prosper and so will we,’ Antonius continued. ‘Naturally I will reward your silence in this matter, gentlemen, even though we are doing no wrong. With your help, we can make any necessary entries into the books of the Brotherhood. It should appear that Hieronymus is living a normal life. Perhaps a marriage for him in a few years’ time?’ The firelight caught in his eyes, flickering like the flames of Hell. ‘In this way, Hieronymus will never die. He will remain the pre-eminent painter in the Netherlands, his work desired and valuable. Our city’s most famous son.’

The thin cleric was suddenly dubious. ‘Is this not pride?’

‘Hieronymus will live on only to honour God,’ Antonius persisted. ‘We do this for God.’

‘We do this for God,’ the cleric agreed, sighing and shifting his position as though his body could not stand the weight of his deceit.

‘But in pleasing God, there is no reason to punish ourselves,’ Antonius continued. ‘We will keep the studio busy here. My other sons, my father and I will use it after Hieronymus has gone—’

‘But what of his burial?’

Antonius had already plotted a pauper’s interment in a village in the north. Without a headstone. Hieronymus lying penniless amongst strangers while he made money from his corpse.

‘I will organise a Christian burial for my son,’ he replied, glancing at the clerics and faking sadness. ‘He will be missed. But his work must appear to continue – for all our sakes.’ He leaned his bulky frame towards the two clergymen. ‘No one must know of his death.’

‘No one will learn of it from us.’

Antonius nodded. ‘It won’t be long now. He’s weakening every day, but still working. He works like a man possessed. Maybe he paints what he will soon see …’

‘It’s sinful to pretend a man alive when he’s in his grave,’ the thin cleric announced suddenly, chilled by what they had planned.

‘The Church serves the country, and Hieronymus’s work serves the people,’ Antonius chided the man. ‘How would they find their way to Heaven without being guided there? People are weak, fools, some barely more than animals. They revel in sin, in licentiousness. But when they look at my son’s visions of Hell and Damnation, they are fearful and turn back to God. There’s no dishonour in what we do. God will understand.’ A smile came, then went. ‘Order is everything, gentlemen. A little deception is nothing.’

Sixty-One

Hiram Kaminski’s Gallery, Old Bond Street

The incident had unnerved Hiram. Whoever had tried to break into the gallery had failed due to Judith’s intervention, but not without causing him some serious anxiety. He no longer cared about the Bosch chain, the Bosch portrait or the Bosch deception. He was scared. So when Gerrit der Keyser sauntered into the gallery, Hiram was on edge.

Wearing a raincoat that was too big for him, Gerrit nodded at the receptionist, passed three customers looking at the paintings on view, and made for Hiram’s office. From where he had already been spotted.

‘Hiram,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘Gerrit,’ Hiram replied.

‘Well, at least we know who the fuck we are,’ Gerrit said, laughing and taking off his coat. ‘It’s cold out there. Must be due to hit zero tonight. I hate the cold. Didn’t used to mind it when I had some weight on me, but now – starved to bleeding death – I feel it.’

‘You still on a diet?’

Gerrit nodded. ‘I’m about to be signed up by Vogue magazine.’

‘What d’you want?’ Hiram replied. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a bit on edge at the moment—’

‘Wait till you hear what I have to say.’ Gerrit sat down, checked the office door was closed, and put up two fingers. ‘There are two of them.’

‘What?’

‘Two chains,’ Gerrit replied, ‘Two fucking chains. Preston has one and someone dropped one off at my gallery. When I took it over to Preston I thought one was fake, either his or mine. But he’s just rung me and told me that it’s official – there were two chains made from one antique chain.’

‘Both with initials engraved on them?’ Hiram asked, incredulous.

‘Exact in every bleeding detail. Same clasp, same links, same everything—’

‘Wait a moment,’ Hiram said. ‘You said that Preston had had them authenticated—’

‘I’m ahead of you there. I checked it out with the expert who examined them, just in case Slippery Phil was trying to pull a fast one. And it turns out that both are genuine. But both could genuinely have been made last week.’

Hiram studied Gerrit der Keyser. He was surprised that the dealer had come to him and been so forthcoming. It was unlike der Keyser – unless he had another reason to throw in his lot with Hiram.

‘Why are you telling me this? If they are fakes, Preston could have hidden one and auctioned off the other and no one would have been any the wiser – apart from you.’

‘Don’t panic, I’m not losing my touch,’ Gerrit replied, fingering a maidenhair fern on Hiram’s desk. ‘You want to give this some plant food—’