Goya, being a liberal, was hated by Ferdinand VII and when the King regained the throne he was terrified. It was common knowledge that in the past the Inquisition had investigated his affairs. His lover, the Duchess of Alba, had been poisoned. And now here he was, deaf and old, at the mercy of a vengeful king.

Looking at the painting of The Dog I believe that Goya was making a metaphor for Ferdinand – the Dog of Spain.

Leaning back, Ben stared at the accompanying paintings, matching Leon’s notes against the relevant work.

I believe that Goya – always a liberal, always an ally of the liberals – became directly involved with the liberals who made up a substitute government in Spain, in 1822. Unfortunately, their attempt failed in 1823, and the reinstated King was brought back to Madrid. Back on the throne, his power absolute, Ferdinand VII went after his perceived enemies in order to exact a terrible revenge.

At the time Gentz wrote:

‘The King himself enters the houses of his first ministers, arrests them, and hands them over to their cruel enemies … the king has so debased himself that he has become no more than the leading police agent and jailer of his country.’

The painting which hung next to The Dog is entitled Asmodeus. The title was not chosen by Goya, so – if it is not viewed as some mystical allegory – the image becomes more immediate, its message lucid.

This picture has puzzled art historians for many years. But perhaps its meaning is not as profound as previously believed? It depicts men floating on air, at the mercy of the elements. Unable to reach the safety of the high mountain, or the firm ground beneath them, they are buffeted by fate, dreading the future ahead of them and looking back fearfully at their past. This scene depicts the fate of Everyman. And also Spain, uncertain, cut off from her roots.

As we read the paintings, we next come to The Holy Office …

Ben turned to the reproduction, then back to Leon’s notes.

In among the crowd of hags and the feared and vicious clergy is a man dressed in courtly robes. Elegant and groomed, he stands out from the procession of grotesques, his head bent towards the swollen form beside him. The gold of his chain is luminous, drawing the viewer towards him. He seems to be an Inquisitor, and I believe this man was sent from the court to deal with Goya on the instructions of a King who believed himself betrayed

… He is carrying a glass of water, which signifies life, and beside him is a monk. Monks and nuns were the very people Ferdinand VII hired to spy on his captives and report back to him. They were his own black army of quislings.

Underneath, Leon had jotted down some short, scribbled notes, almost as though he was thinking too quickly to put them into proper sentences.

(Goya was watched while he was at the Quinta del Sordo. Was Detita right? What of the mountain in the backgrounds of the paintings? The same shape, over and over again. The shape of some terrifying, ever-present threat? Or the place of safety, always out of reach?)

Ben read the passage again, then turned the page. This time Leon had organised his thoughts into a lucid continuation of his essay.

Deaf and old, Goya had exiled himself at the Quinta del Sordo. Away from court and ridicule of his infirmity, he was confronted by the silence of his own thoughts and memories. Guilt, remorse and fear colluded to force him into a malaise which would kill him unless he conquered it or escaped it. From what we know, his illness was not a recurrence of his old sickness, but on closer examination there is a pattern – a very clear intimation of the slow death of Francisco Goya.

Whistling through his teeth, Ben read on.

The Black Paintings are a ruse, a way for the artist to chart out a map of the history of Spain. And of himself. And of his life. Ultimately his death.

A creak on the floorboards made Ben tense. The threat on the phone had unsettled him, and here he was – alone in a remote house, in his dead brother’s study. He thought of the skull and cursed Francis for hiding it, for leaving him guessing. And worse, for leaving him doubting a man he had long taken for a friend.

Every memory seemed a gargoyle hunched over the past. Lack of sleep, his grief over Leon and Francis and the threat left on his answerphone were finally undermining him. His thoughts, usually incisive, were becoming mushy. He wanted to confide in someone, but didn’t dare. He wanted to get help, but couldn’t.

Dry-eyed, Ben turned back to his brother’s notes.

… the next painting, entitled The Ministration, depicts a man masturbating,

something which would have been distasteful and certainly not commissioned by a patron. But we look at the act with judging eyes, without considering another viewpoint – that the man is not relieving himself, but is caught forever without relief. Sexually impotent, like Goya, not just from age, but from disease.

Disease …

Ben’s gaze fell on the small pile of books in front of him. All Leon’s books, all well-used, thumb-marked and dog-eared with reading. Slowly he ran his hands over the covers and spines. Goya’s Life, Goya’s Court Paintings, Goya’s Caprichos, Goya’s Disasters of War … every book was so familiar to him. As familiar as if they had been his own. But in a way they had belonged to both brothers. Passed down from their parents, read from by Detita.

Goya’s life had been a parallel existence to theirs. So close, it could have been the memoir of a family member. So well known; their own lives lived within memory of the Quinta del Sordo and the Spaniard’s reach. Every etching, drawing and painting had been looked at by the brothers, every anecdote Detita told them repeated, until Leon’s uneasiness had censored Ben’s teasing. How fitting it had been that the old man’s skull should come into Leon’s hands, because no man would have valued it more.

So much that it had cost him his life.

Deep in thought, Ben flicked through the preparatory tapestry drawings and the paintings which followed on. This was the youthful Goya, seducing women and climbing the precipice to the top of the Spanish court. This was the dark man who had made love to a nun, and had painted nudes so daring the Inquisition had come after him. This was the young, lusty Francisco, with his dowdy wife and his bed full of majas. This was the court painter who, although not well born, could insult the royals obliquely with his satire, could flatter a doomed duchess, and who was wily enough to keep his balance on the political tightrope of Spain.

Closing the book, Ben opened another, feeling a closeness to his brother, almost hearing Leon talking behind him.

Look at this, Ben – just look at this. No one could paint fabrics like Goya …

His hands moved over the colour prints, over the painting of Mariano, the son of Goya’s only surviving child, Javier. There had been rumours that Javier had created the Black Paintings, but it was unsubstantiated. Thoughtful, Ben opened one of Leon’s last notepads. His words were written loosely, some in shorthand, others down the margin, vertically, as the ideas hit him. Just looking at his handwriting brought back the clever flightiness of Leon’s brain, coupled with his intense – and haunting – perception.