Free The Bosch Deception by Alex Connor Page B

many,’ Nicholas had lied.
    â€˜I imagine you’ve let everyone s-s-see the same piece?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I can’t tell you any more yet.’
    Elliott had made the same low sound in his throat. ‘Why all the secrecy?’
    â€˜It’s for an article—’
    â€˜About wh-wh-what?’
    â€˜I can’t say.’
    â€˜Must be important, or you’d t-t-tell me.’
    â€˜Nothing important.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Thank you, Mr Elliott. I’ll settle your fee—’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜
Unstuck?
How?’
    â€˜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