The Bosch Deception (18 page)

‘A world of dreams (and) nightmares in which
forms seem to flicker and change before our eyes.'

Art historian Walter Gibson

‘The Temptation of St Anthony' [detail]
After Hieronymus Bosch

's-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, 1473

Hieronymus never discovered how his family found him, but someone betrayed him
.

For once the studio door had not been locked. (Was it his gentle brother, Goossen?) Hieronymus had taken his chance to escape and made for Amsterdam, an overcrowded and filthy city where a stranger would be less likely to attract interest. Even a sickly, pale young man wearing clothes unsuited for the cold. All around him streets had lurched into other streets, the webbing of canals banked with markets. Congested alleyways were piled with pig manure and rotting offcuts of fish and meat, dogs scavenging alongside beggars. Men who had lost legs fighting in the wars of Brabant played hurdygurdies on street corners while women carried children on their shoulders as they weaved a foul pathway through the mud. It was like 's-Hertogenbosch but on a larger scale, seen through a fish-eye lens, grand and terrifying
.

Hieronymus found lodgings, using the little money he had managed to steal from his father's study. Money he had earned,
but never received. And in his place of safety he slept with a chair propped up against the door handle to stop anyone entering. Strange, he thought in the darkness. I was imprisoned and now – a free man – I imprison myself. A prisoner always
.

He dreamed of his chimeras, his hands moving in sleep as though he were painting. He woke, turned on the straw mattress, felt the prickle of a flea bite and fell back to sleep
.

Coughing woke him around six, because his lungs were cold and the air damp. As he had done for over three months, he coughed up phlegm and spat it into a rag, blood spotting the corners of his mouth. His forehead was tacky with sweat, his narrow chest heaving, his ribs a dull ache of pain. Then the attack subsided and he fell back into a clammy sleep
.

He dreamed he was sitting by water, drawing with a stick of white chalk on an ebonised rock. He dreamed that the studio in 's-Hertogenbosch had burned to the ground, that his family had all perished, and felt no sadness. As the night turned over, he lay on the straw with the city fleas and dreamed of a boat coming for him, taking him through the canals of Amsterdam and into the sea beyond. As he rode the water, monsters followed him and he reached out his hand to touch the chimeras, the men fish and the flying ghouls. Animals with human heads told him stories, and under the lapping sea a shoal of demons drew the boat onwards
.

He was crying in his sleep so loudly that it woke the man in the room next door, who called for the landlady. When she found Hieronymus he was grey, shiny with fever, his fingers still clenching a stick of white chalk
.

Uncharacteristically thoughtful, Gerrit der Keyser sat in the sauna with a towel around his middle, his bifocals steamed up. He was trying to take his mind off his diet and the effects the medication was having on him. Like the puffy feet he had had to cram into his handmade shoes that morning. Feet and ankles like dimpled tripe, his silk socks tourniquets to the flesh. He had been quite good-looking once, but that was about five hundred years ago …

He blew his nose loudly, looking around. But he was alone, steaming, sweating, his glasses beginning to slip down his nose as he thought back. Sabine Monette – Sabine Guillaine when he first knew her – had been absurdly attractive, and clever. Much too clever for the life of a bourgeoise. It had been summer in Provence … Gerrit laughed aloud. Fucking summer in Provence! Christ, he sounded like a travel brochure. But it
had
been summer and it
had
been Provence and he had met this scrumptious piece of French arse and fallen in love.

Which had been easy when he had all his hair, all his heart vessels were working, and his sex drive could have powered a nuclear war … He could remember Sabine very well now that he allowed himself to remember. Pushing aside the grasping obsession of his work and his lascivious chasing of money, Gerrit thought nostalgically of his younger self. If they had met a little later, when he had set up the gallery and his fortunes were on an upward course, they could have made a go of it.

But then Miriam had come along and her father had offered to invest in Gerrit's new gallery, and he would have been a fool to pass up the chance. Of course in return for the money he had had to marry the girl, but Miriam had been a reasonable wife. Jealous, certainly, but blissfully stupid. If he had thought of Sabine over the years which followed Gerrit might have had a fleeting pang of regret. Now and again as he remembered the brutality of his leaving … he put it down to youthful callousness. At least that was what he told himself.

And then Sabine re-entered his life. She was in her forties, still glaringly handsome, and now wealthy. Apparently his leaving had not destroyed her. Neither had their furtive affair spoiled her chances of landing a good catch. To Gerrit's chagrin, Mr Monette was even richer then he was. With a better looking wife … A few years later Sabine contacted Gerrit and asked about a painting he had just purchased. She spoke to him over the phone as though he were a minion. Which, in a way, he was.

Rearranging the towel over his thighs, Gerrit took off his glasses and closed his eyes. He was so hot he thought he might expire, his heart pumping like over-boiling soup. But he stayed where he was, thinking of Eloise Devereux.
His daughter
 … Why he hadn't made the connection immediately he couldn't imagine. She was so like her mother. Same elegant limbs and luminous eyes, but lacking in Sabine's sensuality and warmth. Eloise was a beautiful woman but a chilling one.

And of course it was possible. He had slept with Sabine and the timings were accurate to their affair. But he was strangely miffed by having been excluded from fatherhood. Then again, if he
had
been told that she was pregnant would he have married her? Gerrit opened his eyes wearily. He was getting old, developing that most dangerous human trait – a conscience. He had managed – profited – without one for many years. No broken sleep for Gerrit der Keyser; no fucking guilty regrets; no looking back and feeling queasy about the past.

Until now … Gerrit scowled into the steam, the sauna a little replica of Hell. It made him think of Hieronymus Bosch and the chain. And how Sabine had cheated him out of it. Smart move, he thought with grudging admiration. Was that her revenge? After all, she would have known it was valuable. Perhaps she had even known about the papers hidden inside it.

But
he
hadn't known about the secret then. Not until later, when the chain had left his hands and the rumours
began. Stories about a deception perpetrated by the Bosch family and the Brotherhood of Mary. He didn't know the whole story, but enough to realise it was explosive.

Gerrit sighed. Sabine had always been clever and finally she had bested him. But it had cost her. Murdered in a hotel room, initials carved into her stomach. Unexpectedly, Gerrit felt tears behind his eyes and blinked, shocked by emotion he hadn't experienced for a long time. He could remember the young Sabine so well, her rounded stomach warm under his lips. Not grey-skinned, aged, ripped up … Even in the heat, Gerrit shivered as an image of Sabine lodged in his mind – and beside it, an image of their daughter.

The beautiful, and vengeful, Eloise.

While Gerrit was brooding in a sauna in Piccadilly, Judith Kaminski had returned to London and entered the gallery by the front. Once inside she paused, confused, hearing the battering against the back door. Dropping her handbag, she ran towards the noise, pushing Hiram aside and shouting: ‘Who's there!'

The banging paused.

‘Who's there?' she repeated. ‘I've got a gun, I warn you, and I've called the police. They're coming.'

She could hear a muffled curse and then heavy footsteps running off, dying out in the distance. Silence fell. Neither of them moved. For several moments Judith stood rigid, facing the back door, then she slowly turned. Hiram was slumped in his chair, his mouth slack.

‘I caught the earlier train …' she said blankly.

‘Good.'

‘… If I'd got the one I was intending to catch I wouldn't
have got here for another hour.' She stopped, moved over to her husband, stroking his head as he rested it against her stomach. ‘I knew I shouldn't have gone to Brighton.'

The following morning Judith Kaminski made her way over to Philip Preston's auction house in Chelsea. The street was greasy with rain and her high heels caught on the edge of the pavement. Righting herself, she entered the building, spotting Philip at the back of the hall.

‘Can I have a word?' she asked. Philip winched up his best smile and showed her into his office. Once inside, he slid behind his desk and watched as she took a seat. ‘It's about the chain,' she explained.

‘Ah.'

‘Ah?' she repeated. ‘I think
ah
is an understatement. My husband was threatened last night at the gallery—'

‘That has nothing to do with me.'

‘Oh, hear me out!' Judith replied. ‘I haven't got all day so let's get down to it. You're auctioning a chain that belonged to Bosch. And what else?'

‘Should there be something else?'

‘You are a schmuck, Philip,' she retorted. ‘You and I know there's a lot more to this than a chain. You knew Thomas
Littlejohn, didn't you?' He nodded and Judith continued. ‘He knew about the chain's secret and he's dead. As are Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux – three people connected to the art world murdered. Why?'

‘The chain's valuable. It belonged to Bosch—'

‘Bah!' she said dismissively. ‘Let's try again, shall we? What do you know? And I suggest you tell me the truth, because if you don't, my next stop is Gerrit der Keyser. Or maybe Conrad Voygel – I hear he's back in London—'

Philip put up his hands. How much to tell, how much to keep secret? Judith Kaminski had a big mouth and her husband was a leading authority on the Middle Ages. Perhaps, instead of excluding them, it might be to Philip's advantage to bring them into the fold.

‘There's a rumour going around about some papers hidden in the chain—'

‘Have you seen them?'

‘Yes.'

Relieved, Judith blew out her cheeks. ‘Well, that's a start. So you know about the Bosch secret?'

‘Yes, but how d'you know?'

‘Thomas Littlejohn sent us a letter. He wanted a witness in case anything happened to him.' She shrugged. ‘Hiram thought that if we said nothing no one would find out what we knew. He was wrong.' She leaned towards the desk. ‘I love my husband more than you can imagine, and I tell you here and now I will do
anything
to protect him. He's a good
man, something of a novelty in this business, and I won't see him hurt. Do I make myself clear?'

‘I don't intend to hurt your husband,' Philip said smoothly. ‘You say that he's been threatened, but it wasn't by me. Oh, come on, Judith, everyone knows I'm a born coward. If I can't get what I want by stealth, I back off.'

She knew that much was true.

‘Well, someone tried to break into the gallery last night. Thank God I came home early—'

‘D'you know who it was?'

‘No. Do you?'

Philip paused, thinking. Would Honthorst go after Hiram Kaminski? Did the Dutchman know he was privy to the secret? And if it weren't Honthorst, who else might it be? Sticky, he thought. It was all getting very sticky indeed.

‘D'you know Nicholas Laverne?'

She shook her head. ‘No.'

‘He was the man who brought the chain to me.'

Judith narrowed her eyes. ‘Why?'

‘He wanted to sell it.'

‘The chain? Or the papers?'

‘Oh, you
have
seen them,' Philip said blandly. ‘I'm so glad you weren't bluffing. There's already one liar in this room.'

Slowly, Judith began to count on her fingers. ‘So you know the secret, Hiram and I know, this Nicholas Laverne knows, Thomas Littlejohn knew and so did Sabine Monette. Six people at least … For a secret it's pretty public. What about Gerrit der Keyser?'

‘He wants the chain back, but the secret? I don't think he knows, but then again, he might. Gerrit isn't a man to show his hand.'

‘What about Conrad Voygel?'

‘Desperate to buy the chain. Already offered me a fortune—'

‘Which you didn't take?'

‘I think I can get more at the auction.'

‘If you live long enough … Why risk it?' she asked, baffled. ‘What's money worth to you? Isn't your life worth more?'

‘Not the one I've got,' Philip replied curtly. ‘Anyway, I've hired security.'

‘I got to you easily enough.'

‘You're …'

‘A dumpy old Jewess?' She pulled a face. ‘Remember, the biggest threat comes from the most unexpected place. Napoleon knew that.'

‘The Russian winter finished his tactics.'

‘And we have a London winter to get through,' Judith replied deftly. ‘Or in this instance, three days. Have you been threatened?'

‘Why d'you think I got the security?' Philip replied. ‘Gerrit der Keyser has been throwing his weight around. He has a cohort – a big Dutchman. I know he sent him to talk to Sabine Monette.'

‘
You think he killed her?
'

‘He could have done, but Honthorst would be too obvious a suspect. And I don't know if Gerrit's a killer. A crook, yes. A
murderer, even once removed? Unlikely. But then you never know about people, do you?' Philip changed tack. ‘As for Honthorst, I think he's just hired muscle. More to intimidate than anything else.'

‘You think he could have been at our gallery last night?'

Philip dodged the question. ‘Did you call the police?'

‘I scared the man off, so why bring the police into it?'

‘Why not?' Philip countered. ‘But then again, they would ask questions, like
why
your husband was being threatened, and then you'd have to tell them about Thomas Littlejohn and his confession. Which would interest the police, seeing as how they're running around trying to find out who put a match to Mr Littlejohn.' He paused. ‘You didn't want to get involved, did you?'

‘I want to get my husband out of the mire, not drop him further in it.'

‘So why come and see me?'

‘Strategy.' She took out a large envelope from her handbag and passed it to him across the desk. ‘That's what Thomas Littlejohn sent us.
Everything
about the chain and the secret—'

‘I already know all about it.'

‘Not all of it.' She pointed to the envelope. ‘There's something extraordinary in there – a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch.'

‘What?' Eagerly Philip rummaged through the pages until he came across the image of
The Tree Man
. Incredulous, he looked at Judith. ‘
This
is Hieronymus Bosch?'

She nodded.

‘Jesus! Does anyone else know about this?'

‘Apart from us, only Thomas Littlejohn. And he's dead.' She tapped the desk with her forefinger. ‘You can do what you like with that. Drum up interest, the price of the flaming Bosch chain – whatever. I don't want anything. I don't want the chain. I don't want to be clever and try to sell what I know about the Bosch conspiracy. And I don't want to be paid to keep it quiet.'

‘So what
do
you want?'

‘Safety,' Judith replied. ‘I don't care if there was a cover-up, I care about my family.'

Philip was eyeing her suspiciously. ‘You're a dealer, Judith. Why give away something that's worth a fortune?'

‘It's only worth a fortune if you live long enough to enjoy it,' she replied. ‘I want you to do one thing for me. Tell everyone what you know—'

‘About the deception?'

‘Oh, that part's up to you! The rumour's spreading,' she said dismissively. ‘God knows how many people know already. I mean the painting. The chain. Everything. Tell them about
The Tree Man
and who it really was – Bosch.'

He was finding it hard to follow her. ‘And how does that help you?'

‘Who'll come after us for information that's been made public? Hiram won't be the only one to know then – he'll be one of many. Safety in numbers, it's called. I want the gun pointing at someone else, Philip, not my husband.'