Elliott had sat down, rubbed his left eye and finished off the cold cup of coffee on his laboratory table. He didn’t offer Nicholas a coffee, hot or cold. His hands were blue-veined, his wrists big-boned, his shoulders broad. In his youth he would have been impressive, intimidating even.

Uncomfortable in the chilly temperature of the laboratory, Nicholas had pushed him. ‘I need the writing translated—’

‘Wh … wh … what language is it in?’

‘I don’t know – that’s your speciality.’

Elliott had nodded, sliding off his stool and reaching for a magnifying glass. He moved surprisingly quickly, regaining his seat and bending over the paper again. He had said nothing, giving Nicholas time to look around. Having seen better days, the laboratory was ramshackle, a broken window boarded up, the overhead strip lights glowing with a greenish hue and humming with age. Off the laboratory, Nicholas had noticed a small office with a glass door and a print of a painting by Dürer on the wall.

Elliott had made another sound in his throat, but had said nothing as he scrutinised the writing.

‘I need to have it authenticated and dated,’ Nicholas had told him. ‘And we should keep this quiet.’

They had both been looking at the piece of paper on the table between them. Paper 2 out of the 28 Nicholas had found.

Finally, Elliott had straightened up and put down the magnifying glass.

‘It’s D-D-Dutch – old Dutch, educated Dutch. In the Middle Ages, the main language spoken in B-B-Brabant was medieval Dutch, called Dietsch or Thiois. In the southern part of the Duchy, Latin d-d-dialects were spoken.’

‘What does it mean?’

He had touched it with his forefinger, prodding it in a tentative manner. ‘It means “The B-B-Brotherhood of Our Lady. Bought and b-b-bribed.”’ The historian had then glanced back at Nicholas, his curiosity piqued. ‘What a curious thing to write. I wonder what it m-m-means. I wonder who wrote it. Someone educated, naturally. That long ago m-m-most people couldn’t read or write. So we’re looking at a cultured m-m-man.’ He flipped the paper over with his finger. ‘I’d guess it’s from the Middle Ages b-b-because of the style of writing and the type of paper. But I’m just going on a hunch and decades of experience.’ He had smiled, the sarcasm withering. ‘I’d have to have it p-p-properly authenticated to prove I’m right.’

‘Without anyone else being involved?’

‘Is there anyone else involved, M-M-Mr Laverne?’

‘I’ve spoken to two other experts,’ Nicholas admitted, ‘but I heard you were the best.’

‘No, you just want three opinions to see if they all tally,’ Elliott said bluntly. ‘How m-m-many pieces of paper are there?’

‘Not many,’ Nicholas had lied.

‘I imagine you’ve let everyone s-s-see the same piece?’

‘No, the others have seen copies of this piece. You’re the only one who’s seen and handled the original.’

Elliott had nodded, looking back at the specimen as Nicholas thought of the other papers – and their meaning. The meaning that had curdled inside him. Mouldered like bad food, gumming the vessels of his heart and leaching oxygen from his brain. That he – of all people – should be the one to find the testament. That an excommunicated priest should uncover a conspiracy that would tarnish the Church and stun the art world. Not that he cared about the latter. Nicholas Laverne wasn’t interested in Hieronymus Bosch as an artist, he was interested in Bosch as a victim. As the casualty of a conspiracy shocking in its cruelty.

‘Won’t you confide?’ Elliott had asked, turning on his stool to look at Nicholas. ‘I can sense there’s m-m-more to this than you’re letting on.’

‘I can’t tell you any more yet.’

Elliott had made the same low sound in his throat. ‘Why all the secrecy?’

‘It’s for an article—’

‘About wh-wh-what?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Must be important, or you’d t-t-tell me.’

‘Nothing important.’

‘Bullshit.’

Taken aback, Nicholas had reached for the paper. But Elliott had grabbed his wrist. ‘I haven’t had m-m-many adventures in my life, Mr Laverne. Far fewer than most men. If there’s an adventure in the offing, I w-w-want in on it.’

Angered, Nicholas had shaken off his grip. ‘It’s just words.’

‘Oh, Mr L-L-Laverne, words are the most dangerous commodity on earth.’

When Nicholas had left Cambridge that night, he had been uneasy. Sidney Elliott had unsettled him. He had the feeling that the academic had seen something that had triggered his interest and stirred his curiosity. The very thing Nicholas had wanted to avoid. So when the tests results came back and proved that the paper and the ink dated from the fifteenth century, Nicholas had been satisfied but abrupt.

‘Thank you, Mr Elliott. I’ll settle your fee—’

‘Tell me wh-wh-what the paper is and that’ll be fee enough.’ The academic had paused on the phone for an instant, his tone wheedling. ‘I can be useful to you. I know m-m-many people who deal in artefacts like antique writings.’ His tone shifted, becoming almost belligerent. ‘You n-n-need an expert. A novice like yourself will only come unstuck.’

‘Unstuck? How?’

‘Take my offer of help, Mr Laverne, or f-f-find out the hard way.’

Reluctant to involve Sidney Elliott any further, Nicholas had pieced together the twenty-eight pieces of writing himself, together with their translations. The other two experts had also authenticated and dated the papers. They were all genuine. Luckily Nicholas had only let Elliott see one piece of writing. He had then put them in the order in which they had been numbered and had taken them to the bank for safe keeping. Where they had stayed, hidden, until now.

Rousing himself, Nicholas took out his mobile and photographed every paper. Then he returned the originals to the security box and handed it back to the bank manager. When he left the building there was a downpour, the sky water-marked, a ridiculous rainbow touting its promise of luck.

Seventeen

Huddled in his armchair, Father Michael waved away the daily woman who came in to clean and make his meals. He was old, tired and uneasy, and hearing the sound of the radio coming from the kitchen he wondered how something that used to be so comforting could now be so intrusive.

The memory of the previous night made him shudder. The man had seemed to come into the church from nowhere, sliding into the pew next to him and crossing himself. Surprised, Father Michael had glanced at him as he knelt, his profile fixed, his eyes closed. And suddenly he had felt a terrible unease. Without wanting to make it too apparent that he was moving away, the old priest had waited for a couple of seconds and then begun to slide along the pew. But he had only moved a little when the stranger’s hand reached out and gripped his wrist.

‘A moment,’ the man had said, still staring ahead at the altar. ‘I haven’t finished praying.’

Father Michael had remained where he was, the stranger still holding on to his arm as he prayed, lips moving silently. Finally he had released his grip and slid back into the pew. Without looking at the old priest, he began talking again.

‘You know Nicholas Laverne.’

There was a moment’s hesitation, Father Michael being uncertain how to respond.

‘You do know Nicholas Laverne,’ the big man had repeated, still staring ahead. And that had been the most chilling aspect of him – his refusal to make eye contact. ‘I’ve seen him come here, so you must know him. He was a priest here once, under your guidance.’

‘Yes,’ Father Michael had agreed reluctantly. ‘I know Nicholas Laverne.’

‘He was thrown out of the Church.’

‘He was excommunicated, yes.’

‘And yet he came back to visit you after so long. Why was that?’

‘He can come back to see me at any time he wants. Nicholas has not been banished from here.’ Afraid, the old priest had stared at the stranger’s profile. ‘Who are you?’