Fate Prevails: A Gothic Mystery

By P. Schaeffer

During the 80 Years War (1568-1648) between the Netherlands and Spain, a three-paneled altarpiece (tryptic) by Dutch artist Hieronymus Bosch, disappeared. It hasn’t been seen since.
Fast forward four centuries. In Charleston, South Carolina, Jacob Dyke lives alone in a once-opulent, now decrepit, mansion (Dyke Huis). He lives as a hermit, his only outside contact is his housekeeper, Barbara Dahl.
Hanging on a wall in the mansion is a painting that Dahl recognizes as a triptych in the style of Bosch. If authentic, this would send shock waves through the art world. It would also be worth a fortune. Dahl cannot believe it is the real deal.
The housekeeper overhears her employer in conversation with a stranger, breaking all precedent. She eavesdrops and hears a plan to pass the tryptic off to the stranger, to keep it hidden from the world at large. Maybe the tryptic is real. To save the work, she removes the painting herself and stashes it in one of the many hidden nooks in the house…just in time.
That night, two culprits enter the home to lift the painting; of course, it’s not there. That’s when people start dying. The burglars kill Dyke, then the burglars are killed. Forces are at work that will do anything to possess the Bosch.
Detective Jack Scott is brought in on the case. A New York City private investigator whose specialty is recovering stolen art is engaged as a consultant to investigate the theft. He has his own baggage—PTSD from his service in Afghanistan. He is paired with Charleston police detective Adam Newman to find the Bosch and solve the murders. The two find themselves engaged in a tumult of murder and spine chilling events. Sadly, evil prevails.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669838319

Book preview

Chapter 1—Dyke Huis

Charleston, South Carolina boasts a unique display of architecture, from the antebellum to the Belle Epoque. Numerous Queen Anne, Greek Revival, and Federalist mansions have been maintained with their original beauty intact—veritable time capsules. Dyke Huis is one of those vestiges—a Queen Anne beauty. It was built with the money of unfettered capitalism. In its time, Dyke Huis was foremost among the city’s ostentatious showplaces. The majority of fortunes are made on the backs of other fortunes and in the shadows of bold men with big ideas. While the internal combustion engine was being developed in the nineteenth century, Geert Dyke got into the game. He was not as insightful as the far-seeing minds of his age, nor was he as inventive as the original thinkers who were shaping the future, but he was practical. Geert learned about the internal combustion engine and about the heavy machinery made possible by this source of power. The founder of the Dyke American pedigree contributed nothing to the genesis of this technology, but he secured a pittance of the capital being generated by the progress of mechanization.

And a pittance of the nation’s industrial boom was a sizable fortune that had lasted the Dyke family for three generations. The power of the internal combustion engine required a new kind of fuel: petroleum products. In Geert Dyke’s time, the distillation of petroleum products from oil frequently resulted in overheating and the degradation of the products. Dyke solved this problem by developing a prototype that reduced pressure, allowing the oil to be boiled at a lower temperature. The end result of this inspiration was a baronial lifestyle for Geert Dyke. Dyke Huis was a relic of that grand eraIt should be noted that Geert Dyke was a playful eccentric. When he threw parties, he would ask his guests to bring their children. He, himself, sired nine children. He would have them play games in which he, also, participated. On this account, Dyke Huis was designed for children to play. They could race along the great central corridor. The attic was suited for hopscotch, The impressive structure built by the great grandfather of Jacob Dyke was a red brick edifice with decorative wood details and a slate roof with four chimneys. Dark green shutters framed the front windows. The show-place home had been erected in an exclusive section of the city, among other impressive houses of the upper class. Now, 150 years later, Dyke Huis was one of the few Queen Annes still well-maintained and inhabited by a single family—a family of one, at that. Set farther back from the street than most of its neighbors, it had a twenty-five-foot-long walk to the front door.

Every morning, a tall, middle-aged woman with short brown hair showing hints of grey, (and wearing soft-soled walking shoes this day), appeared before the house and followed the walk to the entrance. She picked up the newspaper lying on the stoop, entered the security code into the keypad, and let herself in.

Chapter 2—At Odds

Entering Dyke Huis, one was greeted by the warm sheen of burnished woodwork. Its patina, seeming to glow from within the wood itself, was impressive. One’s eyes followed the elaborately carved banister to the second floor, to the soft colored tones of light filtered through stained glass

The tall woman, the housekeeper, Barbara Dahl, had been performing the same morning ritual for almost 20 years. Proceeding along the central hallway of the home, she passed the parlor, living room, library, great room and the formal dining room on her way to the kitchen, where she prepared the usual breakfast: one soft-boiled egg, a saucer of fresh fruit, toast with marmalade, and coffee. She laid this on a small silver tray and retraced her steps to the front door.

As she returned to the stairway, she looked at the beautiful things Mr. Dyke had acquired throughout his long life. The man—young and in love who bought his bride the purple enameled Faberge jewelry box with elaborate gold trim that now sat on a shelf in the great room; the ardent young beau who bought for his wife’s birthday a Tiffany hammered silver teapot with gold dragonfly embellishment which was now found in the dining room.

This man, this lover of life and beauty, was no longer of this world, although he was not yet beyond it. He had become cantankerous, withered and worn out—capable of bristling and being bristled. At the base of the flight of stairs the housekeeper retrieved the newspaper from the small table where she had left it and began her climb. Twenty years earlier, when she had become the caretaker of Dyke Huis, she thought the stairway was magnificent. The heavy, artfully carved oak balustrade and turned spindles, with their elaborate details, seemed like works of art. She had never seen anything like the soft rose and green, silk and wool, runner carpeting the upstairs hall. Most impressive of all were the stained glass windows in the exterior wall—to one’s left, when climbing the steps—four 8 foot tall, narrow windows that banked upward with the stairway’s incline, displaying stylized scenes from nature: hollyhocks, wisteria, serpentine branches with wind-fluttered leaves…all in brilliant greens and blues and pinks and gold, illuminated by the sun.

Now, at 57 and carrying extra pounds, her effort going up the stairs had become a labor. She had to carefully place one foot on a tread and warily lever herself up, one slow step at a time. Her knees rebelled. When she reached the second floor, her forehead glistening with perspiration, she set down the tray, primped her hair and realigned her skirt. Then she tottered to her employer’s bedroom. Ms. Dahl knocked three times on the bedroom door and waited for a response.

Yeah? Is that you p-pigeon?

Pigeon was the name old Dyke used as a show of affection—an indication he was in a good mood this morning. The housekeeper thought, this would be a good time to discuss restoring the once-beautiful garden at the front of the house. It was currently overgrown with weeds and volunteer trees—not even a glimmer of its once resplendent appearance. The garden’s state was a bone of contention between the woman and her employer.

Pigeon gently pushed open the bedroom door and slipped in. She placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table and asked, How are you this morning, Sir? Did you get a good night’s sleep?

Ya, I’m feeling p-pretty good today, answered the frail, thin old man with a gaunt, angular face.

It’s beautiful out. Maybe you would like to go for a short walk. The flowers are blooming; the gardens are beautiful.

Dyke shouted, Don’t treat me like I’m senile. I see where you’re going. You’re going to p-pester me some more about the old flower bed out front. Well, save your breath. You know what it would cost to p-put it straight? They’d send three men out here…each one getting $20 an hour. And they’d spend three days at it…over $1400. You want me to take that out of your wages?"

Ms. Dahl shrank back. I was only thinking it would improve the appearance from the street.

Old Dyke propped himself up on his elbow. He scolded, Ideas are cheap when you’re spending someone else’s money. His voice got louder, We will never speak of this again, understand? It’s my home; you are hired help. These are not your decisions to make.

At this point Dyke had outstripped his puny strength. The arm supporting his head collapsed; he fell back onto the bed and the air whistled from his weak lungs.

Barbara Dahl rushed to him, Are you OK, Sir? Do you need a doctor?

No, no, just give me a few minutes and I’ll be alright. As his strength returned, the old man took his pigeon’s hand and said, You and I—we must’t argue. You are all I have. We both know I don’t have much time left. I have arranged for you to be well taken care of.

You’re too kind, Sir. It would please me to see you happier in your remaining time. Now, do you plan to get out of bed today?

Yes…fixin’ to, soon as I have my p-privacy.

Do you need any help?

I reckon not. I’m a big boy, now.

Not so big as you can take care of yourself. You’re in your second childhood, old man, Dahl thought but did not say. Then I’m going back downstairs. There is plenty to do. Ring for me if you need anything.

He croaked in a sluggish voice, I’ll be fine. Don’t rile me so. I get too excited.

Dahl stepped up to the bed and affectionately put her hand on the old man’s forehead. I’m sorry.

Chapter 3—The Mysterious Stranger

The next day, as Barbara Dahl arrived at the mansion, she was still rattled by Old Dyke’s unkind, disparaging rant of the day before. Does he have no respect for me… no appreciation of my efforts? she wondered. Doesn’t he feel any personal connection after almost 20 years? She was crushed by the realization that she could be replaced as casually as a threadbare rug.

The housekeeper let herself into the entryway, she was immediately rooted to the spot by what she heard. From upstairs came the sound of two men’s voices. She recognized her employer’s gravelly voice, but who was the other? The presence of another person in the house broke all precedents. Never in Dahl’s tenure had this happened. What could it possibly mean? she reflected.

She stepped silently to the base of the stairs but could not make out the words coming from above. She climbed carefully to the landing. Here the stairs veered to the right. She didn’t climb higher for fear of being seen. Besides, now she could hear the conversation.

First came her employer’s voice, I will decide where my treasures go; they are mine, after all. You have no role in the decisions. I’m certain your only interest in those objects is financial gain. When have you ever come to visit? Now you are here to beg for valuables. They must go where they will be appreciated.

"Ah!" Realization clicked in Barbara Dahl’s mind. It’s the nephew. Back after all these years. She remained quietly on the stairs, not wanting to miss one word passing between the two men.

But uncle, don’t you want them to stay in the family, where they will be appreciated…cared for?

The family? What family is left but yourself? The end of our line is near. I fear you will disperse all these beautiful things to the highest bidders, when they should be shared with the world—displayed in museums and p-public p-places. They should fall under the care of p-people who recognize their real value.

Uncle, are you so tight-fisted you wouldn’t allow me even one memento to remember you by?

And I suppose you have something in mind?

Well…I do, actually, the nephew said. It’s not the most notable piece in your collection, but it is a part of my fondest memories when I visited as a child.

What would that be? the old man asked.

I would like that big, old painting that hangs in the library.

Not the Bosch, Dahl thought, in a panic.

Really? Dyke responded. Why that p-particular p-piece?

Like I said, it’s part of my fondest memories.

Let me tell you a little something about that p-painting, Dyke said. It is very rare, p-painted by a very famous artist. No one on earth knows it exists except me, and now you.

The nephew asked, Who painted it?

Hieronymus Bosch, the great Dutch p-painter.

Never heard of him.

That says a lot about your education, Dyke scoffed. Bosch is revered, not just by we Dutch folk, but by art lovers around the world. Let me tell you, that p-painting downstairs could be sold for millions if its existence were made known. You can bet the Nederlanders would sue for its return. That is our secret: the great Dyke treasure. No one in the world knows the p-painting still exists. And with a p-price tag like that, the best way to p-protect it is to keep it a secret.

Dahl heard her employer say, Such a great treasure, a valuable treasure…it must be entrusted to the right person, one who appreciates it and knows how to care for it. You aren’t even familiar with its creator. Like I said, your desire for that work is simply greed.

I think it’s unfair to call me greedy. All those who came before me in our line—were they greedy too? Tell me uncle I’m interested to know——How did you come to possess such a costly object.

The money’s not important. It is a cultural treasure. It must be p-preserved. Acquiring this magnificent work is an interesting story and a bit of a history lesson. It has been in our family for well over 500 years. You know the eighty-year’s war, yah?

Can’t say that I do. History is not my strong suit.

Dyke sighed, Of course, you don’t. Listen then. The great Bosch was born in the town of Hertogenbosch in the fifteenth century? Our family, too, lived there at the same time. Bosch didn’t give us the p-painting. He made it for a church; it was an altar p-piece, a triptych—you know ‘triptychs’?

No idea.

Wooden panels, there’s three of them fastened together, each p-panel has a p-painting on it, and the three taken together tell a story, and they are for displaying in churches, above the altars. The p-painting downstairs is a triptych. In the time of Bosch, the Dutch were a strong people, a mighty nation. The Spanish wanted our wealth. For eighty years we fought them, and we beat them, too."

All very interesting, but what about the panel? the nephew pressed.

"P-patience, young man. The p-panel downstairs had been in St. John’s cathedral. In the war with the Spanish, there was much killing. Homes were burned, businesses too, and even churches. St. John’s was damaged and defiled by the filthy Spanish. My ancestor felt he must save the p-painting; it was his Christian duty. He took it and hid it at his home.

After the great victory of the Dutch people over the swinish Spanish, we began to rebuild our city. Money was collected to restore the churches. By then, the ancestor who took the painting to save it was no longer living. His son, or maybe his grand-son, held the p-painting and would not relinquish it. He claimed it was rightfully ours because we Dykes had taken it from under the noses of the invading Spanish and protected it so many years. It was a family secret, our secret, the p-panel by the great Bosch. Now you know the story.

Dyke continued, Something this p-precious must have a good home. So you see, I can’t p-pass the p-painting on to you. It wouldn’t mean anything to you. I must find someone who will cherish it and make sacrifices to preserve it. While I still have breath in my body I must find a good, p-permanent p-place where it will be well cared for.

If you give it to me I could sell it, you know, to someone who would appreciate it, who would know how to take care of it, the nephew pleaded.

NO! the old man howled with surprising force. Before that, it should be returned to the Nederlanders. It is their treasure and not a source of personal gain. Perhaps we should have returned it centuries ago.

That might have been the right thing to do, I suppose. Why not just return it now and be done with it?

I cannot bring myself to do it. The centuries we Dykes have deprived our people of their birthright plagues me. I do not want to feel their scorn.

Both men fell silent. Soon, Ms. Dahl heard footsteps descending the stairs. She quietly slipped backwards into the parlor, out of sight.

The housekeeper kept quiet as she heard the stranger mutter to himself as he passed by the drawing room’s open door, Shit, if he thinks I’m gonna give that painting up to somebody else, that I’m gonna let something worth that kinda money pass to some lucky putz, he’s nuts. I’m the heir; it belongs to me.

As the sound of the stranger’s footsteps neared the front door the housekeeper couldn’t resist a peek. She peered around the door frame just in time to glimpse a figure leaving: a man in a long dark coat and with red hair.

As the mysterious stranger walked down the street, he mused, I’m supposed to stay tucked away, out of sight, just because that senile old man says so? I don’t see the need for total secrecy. Nobody knows me here. I could easily lift that painting off the wall and no one would be the wiser.

Then another train of thought arose—‘and is the man you saw that night, carrying the large, bulky package, present in the courtroom today?’

Yes, that’s definitely him, your honor.

The mysterious stranger imagined, I’m beginning to see why Dyke wants to do this on the QT; I’m going to need somebody to take the fall if things go wrong; I don’t want to end up in prison again. What I need is somebody to do the dirty work, to run the risks and actually steal the painting. He can’t have any ties to me. But who? I don’t know anybody in Charleston. And it’ll be tricky—finding a guy who can do the job but won’t cut and run with the painting.

It was midnight when, with the bill of a red baseball cap pulled low over his large sunglasses, the collar of a leather jacket high around his neck, this vulture set out in a search of a patsy or two. In Marion Square, he found them: a pair of homeless guys trying to put together enough capital for more booze, a place to stay, whatever.

One guy was big, massive, and stooped; the other was short and appeared tense—tightly wound. The promise of a roof over their heads got their attention; the promise of a job that paid real money put a gleam in their eyes.

A summoned uber driver recommended what turned out to be sleazy lodgings: ‘Rooms by the hour or by the night.’ He took them to the ‘Rest Well’ motel, whose sign had been amended to ‘Best Hell’ by taggers. The trio got out of the backseat, and the mystery man, clearly in charge, told the driver to wait. The two laggards stayed outside while the man with a plan went inside to sign the register; he returned with the key to room 118.

So gents, what say we inspect your quarters. Then I’d like to discuss the business opportunity that will pay you handsomely.

Handsomely? The shorter man asked.

Well, I would say it’s a tidy sum for a simple job.

Is this something illegal? Archie and me don’t want no trouble.

I don’t think, strictly speaking, that it’s illegal...more like sneaky. I’m playing a little trick.

It won’t cause us no trouble, then?

Naw, no way.

The men had reached room 118. They pushed the door open, stepped into the languishing space, and took in the ambiance, if that term even applied. The carpet and ceiling had water damage. The drape covering the room’s only window drooped where the curtain rings were missing, and it was badly stained. An ammonia-like odor permeated the space; black mildew was visible on the tub and tile through the open bathroom door. The two derelicts looked around approvingly.

In a Bogart persona, the man wearing sunglasses at night said, Let’s get to know one another, and he pulled out a pint bottle of