‘Read it, and then you’ll wish it wasn’t.’

Sitting on the sofa in his office, Judith watched as her husband slid out some papers and sat down at his desk. It took him a couple of moments to find his reading glasses, then he glanced at the first page. And the signature. Thomas Littlejohn. It was dated a month earlier.

‘When did this arrive?’

‘Last night,’ Judith replied. ‘The builders who have been working next door for the last three months finally finished and were packing up. They found the letter and realised that it had been delivered to number one-hundred and eighty-nine instead of number one-hundred and eighty-eight.’ She folded her arms, her face set. ‘Go on, read it!’

‘But why would Thomas Littlejohn write me a letter?’ Hiram wondered out loud, turning back to the pages.

Dear Hiram,

Of all the dealers in London I judge you to be the most honest. It is that, together with your learning and interest in the late Middle Ages, that determined that I send this vital information to you.

I know you – like many others, especially my family – will have wondered where I have been for the past eighteen months. To put it simply, I was hiding. I wanted to protect those I loved and keeping my distance was the only way I could ensure their safety. I have been threatened

and followed for many years – because of what I know.

Unnerved, Hiram glanced up at his wife. Judith remained stony-faced.

… A while ago I was given sight of a valuable chain, supposedly once the property of Hieronymus Bosch. That in itself would have been remarkable, but it was what the chain held that proved to be disastrous. Within the links of the chain were papers that told the story of a deception.

A fraud concerning Bosch. Proof that he had died in 1473, not 1516 as previously believed.

The fraud was perpetrated by the artist’s own family with the collusion of the Catholic Church …

Hiram paused, his head thumping. He didn’t want to read any more, but he had no choice. Judith had been right to try and protect them, but it was too late. A letter from a dead man had put them both right back in the centre of the volcano.

… I don’t have to tell you what this means. It would jeopardise the art world and the Catholic Church. Some people would do anything to expose this scandal. Others would do more to conceal it.

Although the chain and the papers are not in my possession, I know about them, and that has forced me to live like a fugitive.

Reassurances that I would not reveal the secret have proved worthless. I know – and that in itself has damned me.

Be wary of Gerrit der Keyser and Conrad Voygel, but be careful around Philip Preston too. All three men are cunning and greedy. Der Keyser would use the secret to further his own ends, blackmail people to keep it secret. How many museums and collectors would hate to see their Bosch masterpieces exposed as fakes? As for Conrad Voygel, he would do anything within his means to get his hands on such a prize, another trinket for a trickster. And Philip Preston? He would want the chain for its value, but he might sell on the secret to other interested parties for a finder’s fee.

Of course that depends on who is the strongest of them all. Which one proves to have the biggest bite. Which one will remain standing after a bout that could see some – or all of them – ruined or dead.

No one is to be trusted, Hiram, and remember also that the Church is involved. And the Church has tremendous power. Few would dare to take it on. Some have in the past, to their cost.

There is one more piece of the puzzle I should tell you about. There is a clue in one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings, The Garden Of Earthly Delights. The figure in the right-hand panel of Hell – the image that has become known as the Tree Man. This is, in fact, a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch himself. A young man, crippled, impotent, helpless.

‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ [Panel of Hell]

After Hieronymus Bosch

Of course it could not be a self-portrait as it was created after his death, but whichever member of his family painted it meant it to stand as a testament to his suffering.

Do I have to tell you what you are up against, old friend? I am genuinely sorry to have to share this with you, but I need a witness in case anything should happen to me. Someone else has to share this information. I am returning to London soon and will contact you. I have heard that the chain has recently been found. No doubt before long it will be doing the rounds. We must stop this.

Don’t think of going to the police. I did a while ago and was treated as a lunatic. They do not know or understand the machinations of the art world, but you and I do.

Until we meet again,

With gratitude,

Thomas Littlejohn

Without saying a word, Hiram took off his glasses and stared at his wife.

‘You know what he’s done, don’t you?’ she asked, her face ashen. ‘That bastard’s just signed our death warrants.’

Thirty-Eight

Even though it was bitterly cold, Carel Honthorst was sweating as he heaved himself up the steps to Philip Preston’s office and walked in unannounced. Feigning nonchalance, Philip looked up from his desk.

‘What do you want?’

‘Mr der Keyser wants to see you.’

‘When did the accident happen?’

Honthorst frowned. ‘What accident?’

‘The one that took away the use of his legs,’ Philip replied smartly. ‘If Gerrit wants to talk to me, he knows where I am.’ He rose to his feet, pausing beside the Dutchman and staring at his shiny face. The sweat was affecting his concealer and his pores gaped like craters. ‘Why don’t you use fake tan? It would be more convincing.’

Honthorst blinked slowly. ‘Mr der Keyser wants you to come to his office.’

‘Like I said—’ Philip stopped abruptly as Honthorst caught hold of his arm and twisted it up behind his back. The pain made him gasp, Honthorst jerking his wrist with every word he spoke. ‘Mr der Keyser wants to talk to you. Now.’

*

When they arrived at the gallery, der Keyser was standing outside, admiring his window display: three paintings by a follower of Van Dyke, one of a child with a dog. Maudlin. As he spotted Philip, Gerrit smiled and walked in. A moment later Philip followed, shoved inside by Honthorst who then stood on guard at the door.

Straightening his tie, Philip’s expression was outraged. ‘I don’t like—’

‘Being fucked about?’ Gerrit said. ‘Me neither. But there you go, people fuck you about the whole time. Only the other day we were talking about some chain and some ex-priest, and all along you knew where it was. My chain.’

‘Sabine Monette’s actually,’ Philip replied, watching as Gerrit began tending a potted palm. ‘And before that it was stolen from Raoul Devereux’s gallery years ago.’

‘I bought it in good faith! If it was stolen, I didn’t know about it.’

‘Come off it – you wouldn’t have cared,’ Philip replied, pointing to the Dutchman outside. ‘Call him off. I have to get back to the office, I’ve got a big auction coming up—’

‘With my fucking chain in it!’

Playing for time, Philip sat down and crossed his legs.

Surprised by the show of nonchalance, Gerrit kept tweaking at his plant, clipping off the brown, dry edges of the leaves with a pair of nail scissors. ‘I want it back.’

‘So buy it at the auction.’

‘I’m not fucking buying it, you smarmy prick!’ Gerrit roared. ‘It’s mine.’

‘No, it belonged to Sabine Monette. You sold it to her with the Bosch painting—’