Antonius looked up at his youngest son and said: ‘We’ve waited for you all day.’

But as he went to take the first step, Hieronymus tensed. At eighteen years of age, he was already known as the most talented in the family. Thin, hardly more than five foot six tall, paint-spattered. Threatened on a staircase with gargoyles and chimera heads. His hand reached for the rail, feeling the slick smoothness under his fingers.

‘I was working, Father.’

‘Working,’ Antonius repeated, managing a sneer and a raising of brows as he looked back at his family in mock astonishment. ‘Our youngest teaches us to be diligent. What an example he sets – look at him and admire his devotion.’

Antonius moved past his youngest son, the others following. All but the old man, the grandfather, who sat evilly mute on the hall bench. Running after them, Hieronymus saw his father throw open the studio door, his movements heavy as he blundered towards the upright easel on which stood a scene of family life, sketched out, the finished details only in the portrait heads.

‘So what I was told was right,’ Antonius said, to the baying sniggering of his sons behind. ‘This is not what the Brotherhood wants.’ His arm went back and he knocked the wooden panel on to the floor. At once Hieronymus bent down to retrieve his work. But before he could, Antonius’s foot came down hard on his hand, splaying out his fingers as he applied pressure.

‘This is not religious!’ he brayed, ‘The Brotherhood paid for religious work. For the veneration of the Virgin. Not for pictures of peasants.’ He increased the pressure on his son’s hand. ‘You owe your life to me. Your birth killed your mother, but I raised you anyway. I accepted God’s will that He should take my wife and leave me a sickly boy, but in return you obey me, Hieronymus. You understand?’

‘I understand, Father.’

Slowly Antonius raised his foot, then smiled, gesturing to his other sons. ‘He has the Devil in him,’ he explained, brushing imaginary fluff off his clothes, ‘and the Devil must be subdued. Is that not right …?’

They nodded, glad that it was – as always – Hieronymus who suffered. Only one son, Goossen, felt shame and pity for his brother. Not that he dared show it.

‘… We worship and venerate Our Lady, the mother of Our Lord. That is our moral duty. We are employed to scare the wicked away from Hell and towards salvation.’ He turned back to Hieronymus. ‘I have arranged for you to undertake a commission.’ It irked him that he couldn’t give the work to his brothers or his other sons, but the Brotherhood had chosen Hieronymus. ‘You are to paint an altarpiece for the church of Saint John. This is a great honour and you must make the family proud of your achievement. This means status and money for all of us.’

Antonius stared at his youngest son, irritated beyond measure. A sickly, whey-faced youth with miraculous hands. A boy with a marvellous, precocious talent and nothing to say for himself. Antonius wondered why God had chosen Hieronymus to bless, why He had ignored the rest of the family and forced them to play second fiddle to an awkward runt.

Uneasy under his father’s critical gaze, Hieronymus coughed, doubling over for several seconds, bringing up phlegm. Disgusted, Antonius turned away, his gaze falling on a painting on the far wall. Hieronymus watched nervously as his father moved towards it, his revulsion obvious as he poked a plump finger at the panel.

‘Why do you paint this depravity? Why paint ugliness and monsters? Why not paint God?’

‘I have not seen God,’ Hieronymus replied, timid but holding his ground, ‘but I have seen, and known, many monsters.’

Unable to respond, Antonius left the studio, pausing outside to turn the lock on the door.

Eleven

Remembering what Sabine had said earlier, Nicholas watched the Dutchman as he backed out of Philip Preston’s office, closing the door softly behind him.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Him?’ Philip pulled a face. ‘God knows. But he’s a pushy sod. He wants to talk to me apparently – sneaked past my secretary earlier. I told him to go away.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t have time for unscheduled appointments,’ Philip continued, smiling. ‘Unless, of course, I know the visitor.’ His curiosity was like a lump in his throat. ‘You were telling me about the Bosch chain. What it held.’

But Nicholas was spooked. ‘Are you sure you don’t know him?’

‘I’ve never seen him in my life before.’

‘Did he give a name?’

‘Why d’you want to know?’ Philip asked, then, exasperated, called his secretary on the extension. ‘Did that man leave a name?’ Nicholas watched as Philip listened to the reply and put down the phone. ‘Carel Honthorst.’

‘Dutch.’

‘Sounds like it,’ Philip replied. ‘You were saying—’

‘Has he been here before?’

‘Christ!’ the auctioneer snapped. ‘No, I’ve never seen him before today. Why is it important?’

‘Because he knows about the chain.’ Nicholas replied, watching for any reaction in Philip’s face. But there was none. ‘He’s been hired by Gerrit der Keyser to retrieve it. Which makes me wonder why he came here. Unless you know him. Or you already knew about the chain.’ Nicholas leaned forward in his seat. ‘Has the gossip begun? Has der Keyser already talked to you?’

‘No, he hasn’t! All this is new to me.’ Philip crossed his legs, feigning nonchalance. ‘When did you get hold of the chain?’

‘Four days ago,’ Nicholas replied. ‘And four days in the art world is like a month in real life. A rumour could have gone round twice already.’

‘Not one I’ve heard,’ Philip replied coolly. ‘Of course there is another explanation – that you were followed here.’

A moment nosedived between them and Nicholas fell silent. Had he been followed? They knew Sabine Monette had taken the chain, and they would have known Nicholas was close to her. Had they watched him with her? And watched him visit the old priest at St Stephen’s church?

Spooked, he rose to his feet. ‘I have to go—’

‘We were talking!’ Philip said incredulously, watching as Nicholas grabbed the chain and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I’ll come back. But in the meantime, keep your wits about you,’ Nicholas said firmly. ‘And don’t talk to the Dutchman. Don’t tell him anything.’

Twelve

Honor was sitting by the window of her office with a file on her lap. When anyone passed in the corridor outside she glanced down, as though absorbed with her client’s case. But as soon as she heard the footsteps retreat she stared out of the window again. It wasn’t her brother, she told herself. It wasn’t Nicholas. The DNA test had finally confirmed it: the murder victim was not related to her. Related to someone, but not her.

Which meant that Nicholas was still alive, out there somewhere, and it meant that she was still waiting for contact from him. Suddenly the waiting seemed unbearable. Their uncle was old, irritable, slinking back into his Derbyshire home like a tortoise drawing in its head for winter. He had enjoyed his previous secluded lifestyle and was not prepared to let it be disturbed again. Even at Christmas.

So Honor had stopped visiting David Laverne, because she realised that he didn’t want to see her. Phone calls were fine – remote affection but nothing more. Once hand-some, David Laverne had shrunk into a grisly recluse, never revealing any hints about his past although Honor had once found photographs of him with a stunning woman. He had been holding her the way only lovers do, his face pressed against hers as though their skins were melting into each other. She recalled some vague memory of his being engaged – or was it married? – but nothing concrete. And she certainly didn’t ask him.