‘She stole it. I have the bitch on tape.’

‘You have her taking the chain off the painting you had just sold to her,’ Philip replied, his tone oily. ‘I’ve had it checked out. Any court in the land will tell you that possession is nine tenths of the law. The fact that you missed out on something because you were too slow doesn’t count.’

‘You smug bastard, I should kick you in the bollocks,’ Gerrit replied, slamming down the scissors he was holding.

‘If you want the chain back you can bid for it at the auction. Oh, come off it, Gerrit – you can’t start going around saying that you were cheated, not without everyone starting to look at where the painting came from. How it was stolen from Raoul Devereux’s gallery all those years ago, then turned up in the Cotswolds, and then found its way to you.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t afford to have people questioning how you obtained the picture and its scandalous chain—’

‘That chain is mine by rights!’

‘That’s debatable. Like I say, if you want it, bid for it. Of course, I can’t rely on your being successful – there might be a few other interested parties.’ Philip continued, feeling his way along, wondering just how much Gerrit der Keyser knew. ‘But then again, it is only a chain. Even if it belonged to Hieronymus Bosch, it is only a chain—’

‘A very valuable chain.’

‘So perhaps you and I could have a private sale.’

‘Perhaps I could have your head nailed to the door.’

Philip shrugged. ‘You lost, Gerrit. It’s snakes and ladders and this time you failed. Next time you’ll be luckier. By the way, I could have you done for breaking and entering.’ He jerked his head to where Honthorst was standing. ‘Tiny Tim out there burgled my office.’

‘What he does in his spare time has nothing to do with me.’

‘He works for you – you’re responsible.’

Gerrit pulled a face. ‘If it rains outside my gallery is it my fault you get pissed on when you walk out?’

Smiling, Philip walked to the door. ‘After all, Gerrit, it’s only a chain. You’ve never been interested in gold before.’

A moment fluttered between them, buoyed up by their combined malice.

‘A chain’s a chain,’ Gerrit agreed. ‘Paper’s paper. Words are words. But if you put all three together, you could make quite a fucking story out of it.’ He put his head to one side like a scrawny crow, cupping his hand around his left ear. ‘Hear that? That click?’

Philip frowned. ‘What?’

‘I think that’s the sound of your number coming up.’

And here I am again, between the yew trees.

Nicholas turns over in bed, straining to lift eyelids that won’t open, that won’t let his body admit he is dreaming. His arms shift like broken windmill sails against the sheets. He is walking in his sleep and now it is dark again. Here I go, here I go …

The outhouse is covered in ivy; Nicholas doesn’t remember that; but knows that nature will have moved on, his own past ageing. He calls out, waits for Patrick Gerin and his friend to appear, to leave the back door of the church and move to the outhouse where the ivy grows.

But no one comes. And in the dream the ivy slinks over the broken roof and through the windows of the outhouse. As he watches, it slithers under the padlocked cupboard door and then stops. A moon, white as cut paper, grins like an imbecile through the grappling yews.

I know this part, he thinks. I know this – it’s always the same … Nicholas reaches out, grasps the handle, feels the door open and then sees the boy. He is mewling, on his last, damp breath, under the dust, puffy from beatings, naked as a lamb, ivy twisting and curling around his cold limbs.

Thirty-Nine

Exhausted from lack of sleep, Nicholas nursed the coffee he was holding and studied his sister. He had to admit that he was impressed by her. Over the years they had been estranged he had thought of Honor often, remembering her the last time they had spoken, when she had tucked the money into his pocket without his knowing. Money that had saved him when he was on his uppers in Liverpool. He had lost count of the times he had started to write to her, or picked up the phone to call. But he had always bottled out.

He had tried to convince himself that he was being thoughtful. Later, after his disgrace, that had been the truth. But there had been thousands of times before when he could have bridged that chasm between them. It would have taken so little to bring him back home. Even less to stay in the wilderness.

And now Honor was sitting in the kitchen of St Stephen’s Rectory eating a chicken sandwich. Honor, her hair black as molasses, her eyes alert.

‘So,’ she asked, after swallowing a mouthful. ‘if the chain’s now with Philip Preston, you should be safe.’

‘I still know about the Bosch conspiracy. I know about the Church and what they did—’

‘Let it drop! You could move back to France, show them you’ve walked away, that you’re not going to do anything about it. They’ll leave you alone if you back off,’ Honor said impatiently. ‘You’re just looking for trouble if you pursue this. Let someone else do it.’

‘No!’ he snapped. ‘The chain came to me – it’s my responsibility.’ He reached out to touch her hand and then drew back, folding his arms. ‘Do you ever think about our childhood?’ he asked suddenly.

She nodded, taking another bite of the sandwich.

‘Did you think you’d go into the law then?’ he continued.

‘Did you …’ she swallowed … ‘think you’d go into the Church?’ When he didn’t reply, she went on. ‘We couldn’t understand it, you know. You being a priest. We weren’t even Catholic. Everyone thought you were joking.’

‘Everyone always thought I was joking.’ Nicholas replied, changing the subject. ‘Eloise Devereux shouldn’t have told you about Bosch—’

‘Yes, she should,’ Honor replied, finishing the sandwich getting up to make some tea for both of them. ‘She doesn’t know the whole story though. Not what the secret is. Neither do I.’ Honor turned back to her brother. ‘You avoided telling me yesterday – are you going to tell me today?’

‘No.’

‘I think you should,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘So what was it? Were the paintings faked?’

He winced.

‘Of course … It had to be something like that. But there’s more, isn’t there? I know. I can see it in your face. What else?’

Again he hesitated.

‘Oh, come on, Nicholas, you have to tell me. I know too much to be innocent, and too little to be of any bloody good.’

‘I’ve told you, it’s dangerous.’

‘And I’ve told you, it’s too late to think about that. I’ve crossed over to your side now. All you have to do is to trust me.’ She took his hand, gripping it tightly. ‘Poor lost boy, hey? Henry was always so organised, I was always so confident, you – you were always such an outlaw.’

He laughed, embarrassed.

‘All the girls fancied you, even when you came back from London that time with filthy hair and stinking. Yeah, you did stink. Uncle David was horrified – took to his rooms and turned the volume up on that old record player.’

‘And refused to talk to me for a week.’ Nicholas remarked. ‘Does the record player still work?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Honor said. Then, changing the subject, ‘How many women have you slept with?’

‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘I have a theory, you see. You were so randy when you were young, I reckoned that either you’d had too much sex or it had put you off completely. That’s why you could take a vow of chastity.’

He glanced at her left hand. ‘You aren’t married.’

‘I was,’ Honor said, shrugging. ‘Didn’t last. And now I’m single at thirty-six, with no kids. Never wanted them, never will … Don’t run off again, please. You’re the only family I’ve got. There are only two of us left, Nicholas. We need each other. I have to get back to work now.’ Standing up she walked to the door and turned. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Someone left a note for you on my car.’