Free The Bosch Deception by Alex Connor Page A

late Middle Ages ledger for an article he was writing. And so, gradually, Nicholas had begun to translate the papers, alternating the three scholars so that no one would ever possess the full meaning.
    And then the name
Hieronymus Bosch
had come up and the questions began. As with the others, Nicholas had asked the British expert Sidney Elliott for secrecy, but his trip to Cambridge had been an uneasy one. Elliott was well into his fifties, a hunched intellectual with a stammer, wearing bad clothes and working in a makeshift laboratory. Although an expert in his field, his early promise had nosedived becauseof family problems and his ambition had all but petered out – until Nicholas Laverne had shown him one of the Bosch pieces.
    Bending down to look at it, Elliott had made a low sound in his throat, then glanced up at Nicholas.
    â€˜Wh-wh-where did you get this?’
    â€˜I’m afraid that’s confidential information. As I say, I’m a journalist and I need to speak to you in complete confidence.’
    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—’
    â€˜Wh … wh … what language is it in?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Without anyone else being involved?’
    â€˜
Is
there anyone else involved, M-M-Mr Laverne?’
    â€˜I’ve spoken to two other experts,’ Nicholas admitted, ‘but I heard you were the best.’
    â€˜No, you just want three opinions to see if they all tally,’ Elliott said bluntly. ‘How m-m-many pieces of paper are there?’
    â€˜Not