‘So could a lot of people! And I’m sure a lot of them were young Englishmen.’

Without saying a word, Mark handed her another clipping. It was a photograph of three men: Alain Belfon, Giles Fallon – and ‘an Englishman’. He was much younger, his hair long, his smile infectious. He was different.

But he was still Nicholas.

Sixty-Six

Glancing at his watch for the third time, Hiram Kaminski moved across the communal garden and sat down on a bench. A moment later, he got up and moved to another bench. His nervousness was obvious to anyone watching, his hands constantly fiddling with his coat buttons or his shirt cuffs. The cold made his nose red, his ears scarlet as he pulled up the scarf around his neck.

He was certain that at any moment he would be attacked and everybody who passed him was scrutinised. Then the garden emptied and he was left alone, sitting on a wooden bench under a glowering sky. So when a tall man entered and moved towards him, he panicked and made a rush for the gate.

‘Mr Kaminski?’

Hiram stopped short, his back to the man. Praying.

‘Mr Kaminski?’ Nicholas repeated as he hurried up to him. ‘You wanted to talk to me?’

The dealer turned round slowly, then sighed with relief. ‘Mr Laverne?’

Nicholas nodded, gesturing to a bench where they could talk. Fastidious as ever, Hiram brushed a stray leaf away before he sat down, crossing his ankles as he hunkered further into his coat.

‘It’s about the Bosch deception,’ he began. ‘I wanted to tell you that I believe in it.’

‘You should,’ Nicholas replied. ‘It’s the truth. I saw the proof. I took the papers out of the chain myself.’

‘One chain?’

‘There is only one chain.’ Nicholas paused, staring at the dealer. ‘There is – and has only ever been – one chain. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.’

‘Yet some people are now claiming there are two chains—’

‘No.’

‘– and that the deception is a fake, something created for malice.’

‘By me?’

Hiram nodded. ‘As a way of getting revenge.’

Stunned, Nicholas stared at the dealer, his voice raw. ‘Have you been talking to my sister?’

‘No.’

‘Someone from the Church?’

‘No!’ Hiram replied, aghast. ‘I wouldn’t speak of this to anyone. I am merely passing on what I was told. Some people believe that you faked the papers and pretended to find them. That all of this is a fabrication—’

‘I am not lying!’

‘I know you’re not – that’s why I’m here,’ Hiram retorted, dropping his voice as a man passed by. ‘You don’t know the art world as I do. I have been working in it for decades and I understand that greed makes people into monsters. Liars, cheats, even killers.’ He paused, blowing on his gloved hands to warm them. ‘I know the conspiracy is true because I knew it existed years ago. I had no details then, you understand, but later a colleague told me everything. Thomas Littlejohn sent me a letter. He needed a witness because he was scared. Somebody was after him. Somebody caught up with him …’

‘So you know when Bosch really died?’

Hiram nodded.

‘Have you seen the papers?’

‘No, I just know of them,’ he replied. ‘Who wrote them?’

Nicholas paused for a moment before answering. ‘Someone desperate to make a record. Someone who had watched what happened and been a witness to it. Perhaps one of Bosch’s brothers? Certainly it was someone who couldn’t live with the knowledge, but couldn’t expose it either. It had to be a member of his family.’ Nicholas continued, ‘No one outside knew about it – except for the Brotherhood of Saint Mary.’

Hiram nodded. ‘No one ever knew much about Hieronymus Bosch, there was so little information to go on. Now I know why.’

‘They made a mock life for him.’

Hiram nodded again, ‘A mock life—’

‘A mock marriage. A mock death. Hieronymus Bosch was imprisoned, abused by his family and tortured by demons that never let him be.’ Nicholas’s voice fell. ‘It was chilling. It was cruel. And it was true.’ Nicholas stared ahead. He was stunned that people – even his own sister – doubted him. That they thought him capable of such deceit.

‘You know of the portrait? I can see from your face that you don’t,’ Hiram said, answering himself. ‘The Tree Man is a likeness of Hieronymus Bosch. It must have been painted by a member of his family because by the time the image was created, he was already dead. It’s a memento mori.’ Hiram leaned closer to Nicholas. ‘I know you want to expose the Church’s part in this, but the whole truth about Hieronymus Bosch must come out. One of the greatest painters who ever lived was treated abominably. His talent was hijacked by his family. His vision was bastardised by them.’ Hiram paused, taking in a breath. ‘Think me an old fool – maybe I am. What’s Bosch to me, after all? I’ll tell you, Mr Laverne. All my life I’ve studied the works of the late Middle Ages. I’ve become an authority on the matter, and I’m proud of my reputation. Perhaps too proud.’

Nicholas hesitated, queasy again. His skin was waxy, sweat beaded his upper lip.

‘Are you all right?’ Hiram asked anxiously.

‘I’m just tired. I don’t sleep well … It’s an old problem, slows me down.’ His eyes seemed to glaze over for an instant and then he looked back at Hiram. ‘What were you saying?’

‘That I was a coward … Are you sure you’re all right?’

Nicholas nodded, but his head felt like putty, his neck floppy. Jesus, he was tired …

‘Yesterday I wanted to run, to forget everything I knew,’ Hiram continued. ‘My wife’s worried. She doesn’t know I’m talking to you – she wants to pretend ignorance. But today I realised that I can’t stand by and do nothing … You seem to be very alone, Mr Laverne. And I wonder if you are as afraid as I am. Someone tried to break into the gallery the other night. I don’t know if they wanted to harm me or scare me, but they succeeded. Have you any idea who it was?’

Recovering his senses slowly, Nicholas shrugged. ‘It could be anyone. Some hired thug. There’s a man called Carel Honthorst—’

‘He works for Gerrit der Keyser!’ Hiram said hastily. ‘Gerrit told me that you’d broken his arm.’

‘If I hadn’t, he’d have done worse to me,’ Nicholas replied. ‘I don’t know if it was Honthorst who came after you. He can’t be the only person involved. Someone’s been watching the church and following me for days.’ He thought for a moment. ‘D’you know a man called Sidney Elliott?’

‘Only by reputation. He works in Cambridge.’

‘He translated one of the Bosch papers for me and then wanted to get involved. He was desperate. When I said no, he got very angry, overreacted completely. He’s working for Conrad Voygel now.’

Hiram stared across the darkening garden. ‘The elusive Conrad Voygel.’

‘Is he a crook?’

‘The Italians have a saying – “behind every large fortune is a small crime.” Everyone pretends not to know how Voygel made his money, but it’s simple. He grabbed every opportunity that came his way and made his own luck.’

‘Legally?’

‘If not, no one will ever find out. Actually, I met him a few years back.’

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. ‘Not many people can say that. What was he like?’

‘Nondescript, like an accountant. His need for privacy isn’t that remarkable really. Voygel had face cancer and lost the left side of his jaw and his nose. They were reconstructed very well, but it left him shy about his appearance. He’s not Howard Hughes, he just doesn’t like having his picture taken.’ Hiram pursed his lips, remembering his earlier meeting. ‘Gerrit der Keyser’s a sly one, but I don’t know how far he would go. To be honest, I don’t know how far any of them would go.’

‘Philip Preston’s hired security, so he must be scared.’

‘He has every reason to be. He has the chain.’ Hiram glanced at Nicholas. ‘D’you think it will get to auction?’