‘I had proof!’

‘Which wasn’t reliable. Or so you said,’ Father Michael replied, eyes hostile now. ‘What d’you want? No one’s seen you for years – why come back now?’

‘I need to talk to you. It’s important. I wouldn’t have come back to London otherwise.’

‘Where were you?’

‘France.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Why d’you care?’ Nicholas countered.

‘You don’t look well.’

‘But I’m better now. Much better.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I won’t stay for long – don’t worry. But I need some help before I go. And before you refuse, remember you owe me—’

‘Nothing.’

‘Think back, Father. Examine your conscience,’ Nicholas replied, pulling a cloth bag from the inside pocket of his coat. Silently he shook out the contents, a heavy gold chain falling on to the bleached wood of the kitchen table. With his forefinger he straightened it out, the gold weighty, its value obvious.

The priest put on his glasses and stared at the chain. ‘It looks old.’

It is old. Centuries old,’ Nicholas replied, ‘and it’s worth a fortune. The gold itself could fetch thousands, its provenance millions. But the real value lies in what the chain held.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The past. You’re a historian, Father – you know all about the religious organisations of the old Catholic Church,’ Nicholas replied, weighing the chain in his hands. ‘What d’you know about the Brotherhood of Mary?’

‘Brotherhood of Mary … let me think for a minute.’ The priest gathered his thoughts. ‘… It was also known as the Brotherhood of Our Lady. It was one of many groups which worshipped the Virgin in the late Middle Ages.’

‘In Brabant?’

‘All around Europe, especially in the Netherlands. There was a Brotherhood of Our Lady in ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ The priest was unable to resist the temptation to flaunt his knowledge. ‘Devotion centred on the famous miracle-working image of the Virgin, the Zoete Lieve Vrouw, in the church of Saint John, where the Brotherhood had a chapel.’

Nicholas was listening intently. ‘What else?’

‘The congregation consisted of members from Northern Netherlands and Westphalia. It supported the religious and cultural life of ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ Father Michael leaned back in his chair, suddenly suspicious. ‘Where did this chain come from?’

‘’s-Hertogenbosch. The same city Hieronymus Bosch came from. Apparently he was commissioned to create paintings for the Chapel of Our Lady there.’ Nicholas continued, ‘Bosch’s father managed to get most of his family employed by the Brotherhood. Hieronymus was the most talented, the most famous of all of them, but his grandfather, father and brothers were painters too. They must have been quite a force to reckon with. You knew that Bosch’s father, Antonius van Aken, was artistic advisor to the Brotherhood?’

‘You’ve obviously read up on it, so why are you asking me for information?’

‘You’re the expert; I’m just learning as I go along.’

Abruptly, Father Michael rose to his feet. ‘I don’t want trouble!’

‘I’m asking about a religious organisation and a painter. What trouble could come from that?’ Nicholas asked. ‘I’ve found out some facts, but you know a lot about Hieronymus Bosch, the artist. You’ve always been interested in him. So tell me what you know.’

The priest hesitated, then sat down again.

‘Bosch lived and died in his hometown. There’s no documentary evidence that he ever left the place where he was born. But then again, there are very few details about his life. Sometime between 1479 and 1481, he married Aleyt Goyaerts van den Meerveen. She was older than him, a wealthy woman in her own right. After they married, the couple moved to the nearby town of Oirschot because she’d inherited a house and land from her family.’

‘Did they have children?’

‘Apparently not.’

The elderly priest was regarding his visitor with caution. Perhaps if he gave Nicholas Laverne the information he wanted, he would leave – and stay away. He brought with him too many memories, too many reminders of scandal. Once he had been a friend, a colleague, but that was a long time ago.

‘The final entry in the accounts of the Brotherhood of Our Lady notes that Bosch died in 1516.’

‘Are his paintings valuable?’

The old priest nodded. ‘Of course! And rare. He’s highly collectable. Sought after by connoisseurs and galleries everywhere.’

‘So the art world would be interested in anything to do with Hieronymus Bosch?’

‘Naturally. Who wouldn’t be?’

Nicholas stared at the old man. ‘You were always a fan of his.’

‘I studied History of Art before I entered the Church. You know that, and that’s why you’re picking my brains now. Hieronymus Bosch has always fascinated me. He was a great religious painter.’

‘You preached his vision of Hell often enough—’

‘It was important in the Middle Ages for people to be scared away from sin,’ the priest retorted. ‘Bosch served a purpose. He warned the congregation of what would happen if they turned from God. He painted images that everyone could understand. He was a visionary.’

Nicholas toyed with the heavy chain in his hands, as the priest watched him.

‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ Father Michael said at last. ‘You never brought anything but trouble. We were glad to be rid of you. Things have been quiet for the last ten years. Until …’ He paused and Nicholas picked up on his hesitation.

‘Until what?’

The priest thought of the homeless man who had been burned alive outside the church only days before.

‘Nothing of any interest to you. There was an incident, that’s all.’

The priest was unsettled, suspicious. Was the re-emergence of Nicholas Laverne connected with the murder? Was the man sitting across the kitchen table, only feet away from him, somehow involved in the death of the homeless man? The victim no one could place. The man without identification, or history. Burned to death in the porch of the church. His church. The church where Nicholas Laverne had once listened to confession and given absolution of sins. From where the Church had exiled him as a traitor, a liar, the Devil’s recruit. Excommunicated because of his exposing of a scandal, his complete rejection of the Christian faith and, worse, his abuse of the Host at Mass …

Father Michael remembered it as though he were watching it take place before his eyes. Nicholas had been hounded for going to the press, but although barred from the Church, he had entered their neighbour church, St Barnabas’s, one day and made his way to the altar rail. Father Luke had been giving Mass and had looked at Nicholas in horrified disbelief as he knocked the wine and wafers out of his hands, the red wine spotting his white and gold vestments as the congregants fled to the back of the church.

It had been an unholy sin.

The old priest closed his eyes against the image. Nicholas had then left, shouting at the top of his lungs, whiteskinned with fury. A madman. No, not a madman … But now he was back, a decade later, and what had he become in the meantime? the priest thought uneasily. A murderer?

‘What is it?’

His mouth dried as Nicholas stared at him, unblinking. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘You, Nicholas,’ the old priest replied. ‘I’m afraid of you.’

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