Philip paused, thinking of what he had just learnt. In reality, Hieronymus Bosch had only lived for twenty-three years. Long enough to become famous, his visions and images immediately recognisable – and easy to reproduce. Hieronymus Bosch had created a template for his family to follow. God only knows how many paintings he had done while he was alive or how many sketches and drawings had been created by him – all ready for his avaricious family to draw upon. With the collusion of the Church, all they had had to do was to secure, and fulfil, the endless commissions.

Work for a dead man.

Paid for by a deceitful clergy.

Hieronymus Bosch was to have no headstone, no mourning. His death was never to be acknowledged; his marriage a sham. And then Philip realised something else: the only documents known to the world concerning Hieronymus Bosch were the entries in the account books of The Brotherhood of Mary. Entries that were obviously false, recording a life made up, created to keep a corpse alive. And with those entries came the counterfeit commissions. The man had died long ago, but the name had been made to work on.

Getting to his feet, Philip hid Sabine Monette’s mobile at the bottom of his suitcase and grabbed his coat. He understood why the world would want a chain that had belonged to Hieronymus Bosch, but how much more would the Catholic Church want the secret suppressed?

He would have to be very careful to profit from this, Philip thought. He was in trouble, and he knew it. No wonder Sabine Monette had been killed. There were a few collectors and dealers ruthless enough to employ any means to secure something priceless – and scandalous. The chain wasn’t just an object of beauty, it was a revelation. And it might well prove to be his way to a cushy life … Philip paused, his fear giving way to greed. This could be a way to dump Gayle and marry his mistress. A way to flaunt his success to his peers and relish the fortune that was sure to be his.

Or it might mean his destruction. Only this time it would be his body in a hotel room, the notorious initials H B carved into his dying flesh.

Bloody hell, Philip thought despairingly. Why, in God’s name, had he taken Sabine Monette’s phone?

Twenty

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

‘I thought I’d find you here.’

Nicholas turned, surprised to find Eloise Devereux standing in the doorway of the vestry. She was bundled up against the cold in a tailored coat, her blonde hair tucked under a black hat. Elegant, groomed as always, although her eyes were swollen from crying. ‘I have to talk to you about Claude.’

Closing the vestry door so that Father Michael wouldn’t overhear them, Nicholas showed Eloise into the church, and settled into one of the back pews. She hesitated, then sat down next to him, pulling off her gloves, revealing her right hand bandaged to the wrist. Quickly she pulled down her sleeve to cover it.

‘Claude was killed—’

‘What?’ He wanted to reach out to her but resisted. They had been friends, but only because of Claude. And at times Nicholas had noticed envy on Eloise’s part: a jealousy for a history that had not included her.

‘He was murdered two days ago.’

‘I didn’t know …’ He stared at her. ‘You said he was killed. Why?’

‘You know why,’ Eloise said quietly, her skin bloodless in the cold church. A shiver ran through her and her lips parted for an instant, then closed again.

‘I don’t know, Eloise–’

‘Hieronymus Bosch … Don’t deny it, Nicholas. I don’t blame you for anything. I didn’t know anything about the chain until yesterday when I went through Claude’s papers. His will …’ Her English accent was perfect, polished. ‘He was too young to make a will. You’re supposed to do that when you’re old. But he made one, in great detail. He took care with it, almost as though he knew that it would be needed.’ She stopped, stared at her hands, at her wedding band. ‘That Bosch painting originally belonged to Claude’s father, Raoul.’

The news surprised him. ‘Raoul Devereux owned the painting?’

‘Until it was stolen from his gallery. The following year he died, and the Bosch was never seen again. But apparently it re-emerged in England, and was bought by an elderly man. The same man who gave it to Gerrit der Keyser to sell for him …’

The name went like a bolt into his spine, but Nicholas said nothing.

‘… The person who bought it was Sabine Monette. Of course you know that. But although the painting was valuable there was more to it. A secret, hidden in the chain by which it was hung. Apparently every connector between the links had a piece of paper in it. A note. Twenty-eight in all, which made up a testimony. Did Sabine know that? Did she read it?’ Her eyes turned on Nicholas. ‘She was murdered. Like Claude. But then you know that too – you and Sabine were close. So now tell me, Nicholas, why have my husband and your friend – who both knew about the Bosch secret – been killed?’

‘I didn’t know that Claude was privy to any of this. We never discussed it—’

She was composed, but brusque. ‘Where’s the chain?’

‘I don’t know—’

‘Liar,’ she said softly. ‘You can’t protect me, I don’t want you to. You aren’t my husband or a member of my family. I’m not your responsibility, Nicholas – I am my own person. I mean to find out who killed my husband, and why. Claude said the notes told of a conspiracy, but he didn’t say what it was.’

‘I’m sorry he told you any of it—’

‘You have no right to judge my husband!’

‘He was also my friend, and as such I can judge him,’ Nicholas replied, glancing up at the altar. ‘Have you still got the letter he wrote?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then destroy it. And forget what you read—’

‘How very presumptuous of you,’ Eloise responded. ‘You can’t tell me what to do. I want to know more, not less. What did the papers say?’

‘I don’t know.’

A soft sound escaped her lips as Eloise rose to her feet and looked around her. ‘Strange that you should come back here. I thought you weren’t allowed to enter a church again.’

‘Excommunication doesn’t mean I’m banned from the Church. It’s a penalty, dished out in the hope I’ll repent.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘So it’s reversible? Not much of a punishment.’

‘It is to a priest. I can’t receive the Eucharist and I won’t get a Catholic burial. Unless I repent, of course.’ He held her gaze, feeling the animosity. ‘Which I won’t. I despise the Catholic Church. I’m not here for forgiveness, but for another reason entirely.’

‘What reason?’ she asked, without turning to look at him. ‘I believe there was a murder here recently—’

‘How did you hear that?’

‘I come from a wealthy family. The only child of an over-indulgent mother and a rich – if absent – father. I married Claude for love – money didn’t matter to me then. But now I recognise its value. You see, now I can find out anything I want, because I can buy information. Money is a wonderful lubricant. It oils people’s memories.’

He was surprised by her. The Eloise he remembered had been a reserved woman, discreet, without particular opinions. The wife of his best friend, the woman who had made Claude happy. Nothing more. But the person Nicholas was now listening to was altogether different. He didn’t know this woman.

‘The man who was murdered here was a vagrant,’ Nicholas explained. ‘His death isn’t related to what we’re talking about.’

She turned, walked back to him and looked down into his face.

‘What are we talking about, Nicholas? Two murders, an ancient mystery, something so dangerous that you’re here babysitting an old priest.’ She nodded. ‘I told you, I can find out a lot of things when I want to. And I will find out who killed my husband and Sabine Monette.’