by Alex Connor
Marshall reached for the door handle. ‘I’m sorry, but I have an appointment—’
‘But I have to talk to you,’ she cut in, urgently. ‘Before you leave here or do anything else. We have a great deal in common.’
‘Maybe we do, but I’m not talking to you until I know who you are.’
‘I’m Charlotte Gorday,’ she replied, her intelligent eyes fixed on his. ‘I was your father’s mistress.’
11
When he opened his eyes, Teddy Jack found himself in a dark, enclosed, confined space, his hands automatically reaching up and banging against a lid only ten inches above him. Panic rose immediately as Teddy made himself feel along the lid over his head. He was in a box. Not a coffin, it was a box, about the size of a coffin and as confined, but he could feel nail heads on the inside and slats against his back. Suddenly he realised that he was in a packing crate, one of the boxes used to ship paintings abroad. Sweating, he felt along the lid, the nail of his index finger trying to lever it open. But instead his nail broke, and screws held the lid tightly in place.
All right, Teddy told himself, think, be calm. Think … He could feel the sweat running down his back and between his buttocks, and resisted the temptation to call out because he didn’t know whose attention he would attract. Slowly, he breathed in, smelling the air around him. Wood shavings, and something familiar: rabbit size. It was one of the materials they used to prepare, or restore, picture frames. So, he was in the basement of the Zeigler Gallery. Someone had seen him break in and followed him … And now he remembered the blow to the back of his head, the soft squelch of his scalp as it split, and then nothing as he pitched into unconsciousness.
And woke up in a box …
His ear pressed against the wood, Teddy listened for sounds, but the basement was silent. The funeral wake was over and the people who had visited the gallery seemed to have gone. God, how long had he been here? He didn’t know if it was day or night. Certainly there were no noises or footsteps, no sliver of light coming through the lid. And then another thought occurred to Teddy Jack – a thought which made his stomach heave. The packing cases were built to withstand any amount of rough handling – after all, the shipment of a valuable painting was a serious matter – so the crates were constructed to withstand being accidentally dropped, or any violent movement in an aeroplane or a ship. A series of wooden slats and leather straps held the painting inside, and the space between the work and the sides of the crate was bolstered by packing materials, kept separate from the surface of the picture but offering additional cushioning. In such a way the painting would be protected from any damage in transit, and the box was sealed tight against any water damage.
In other words, the crate was air tight … Teddy began to shake, clenching and unclenching his now sweating hands. He knew – because he had made and packed many of them – that there would be steel straps around the outside of the crate. Vertical and horizontal. Straps so strong they could prevent the crate being smashed to pieces if it was dropped.
So strong they could keep a man inside without any hope of escape.
Feeling uncharacteristically depressed, Samuel Hemmings wheeled his chair over to the fire his housekeeper had lit for him. The chill he had caught at Owen Zeigler’s funeral had seeped into his bones, into his feet, aching in their slippers, and his hands clumsy with rheumatism. He thought fleetingly of how he had once promised that he would retire abroad, in the heat. But the years had passed like days and he had stayed in Sussex until he was too old to consider travelling any further than London.
Grasping his pen, Samuel opened the notebook on his lap and tried to turn his attention to an article he was writing on the National Gallery, but no words came. His brain was soggy with unease. Had he been right to lie? he asked himself, thinking back. He was an old man and had seen much in his life, but perhaps he had become too remote from the world, too busy with theories and opinions to confront reality. It was simple to take a stance over a dead painter; easy to pass judgement over what had long gone.
For many years, giving exclusive, intimate dinner parties had been a pleasure to Samuel, who would invite a handful of influential people to his Sussex home where they exchanged ideas. And gossip. Sheltered from financial anxiety, he enjoyed the gathering of competing intellects, and had encouraged younger dealers and writers who sat around the oval dining table, talking until the early hours; enjoyed listening to the bristle of ambition and the flutter of creativity. Excellent food, expensive wine, and comfortable sleeping arrangements had been provided for his guests, nothing changing as the years passed and the guests came and went. Even when the dog died, his bed still stayed in the corner, unmoved.
Rubbing his knuckles, Samuel stared into the fire and thought about Owen Zeigler. He had not wanted to know the details of the murder, but on his return home, he had searched the Internet and read everything he could about his friend’s death. The details were shocking, terrifying, bringing overdue reality into the Sussex house. His friend had been tortured and killed. Dear God, Samuel thought, if Owen, why not him? Nervously he sipped at his tea, his hand unsteady. Verbally brave, he was mortally afraid of death – and pain. He knew all about pain. Rubbing his knuckles again, Samuel tried to imagine what Owen had suffered and wondered how his protégé had faced death… but he didn’t believe for one moment that the killers had found the Rembrandt letters.
Certainly Samuel had hoped that he might convince Marshall that they had, and that therefore they were both out of danger. But he was lying to Marshall and himself. His mind turned to paintings he had studied over the years, portraits and visions of martyrs’ deaths. Flayings, decapitation, all borne with fortitude and the knowledge of a reward after sacrifice. A spiritual lottery win. But Samuel knew he had not the makings of a martyr. In print, he could challenge and parry, but in reality he was old, crippled, and he wanted to live.
His tea finished, Samuel wheeled himself into the hall and set the burglar alarm, watching the flashing red light flicking thirty times until it went out, to indicate that the outer doors of the house were secure. As ever, he would be alone at night. Mrs McKendrick only came in at nine in the morning and stayed until seven p.m., having made his dinner. She left it on a tray in the kitchen, within Samuel’s reach, and for the remainder of the evening he would usually work, or talk on the phone. Conversation fascinated Samuel, and his phone bills were a testament to the extent and length of his calls. Not only that, but during the last year he had extended his interest to the Internet and was now an active member of several historical and antique sites. To Mrs McKendrick’s astonishment, pieces of unexpected machinery had started to arrive – pieces Samuel had bought on Ebay. Like the extra large, extra complicated microwave and the industrial washing machine with the built in dryer. Faced with alarmingly complex machinery, Mrs McKendrick would fold her arms and refuse to use them, leaving them wrapped in their plastic in the garage, although Samuel was convinced that before long he would manage to get them indoors and in use. As he said, people had to get used to change. Only the psychotic couldn’t adapt.
Or the very old.
He sighed to himself. He had never thought of himself as old, but he was feeling old now. And lonely. Wheeling himself down the corridor, he headed for his sleeping quarters downstairs, next to a bathroom which had been altered to accommodate his disability. Upstairs was off limits to him now, and the rooms closed up except for when guests visited. Samuel had thought of getting a lift installed, but had decided against it. Until now. Now he was wondering about upstairs, remembering the rooms which were barred to him, the landing and attics as remote as Dubai. The house was too big, of course, but he would never leave it. Could never imagine having to uproot himself and his books, or readjust his thinking and habits to a new, convenient home. He could adapt his ideas, but his lifestyle? No.
And yet … Gripping the sides of his wheelchair Samuel patrolled the downstairs rooms, checking the front door, which had already been locked. Wi
th the windows curtained, and the alarm set, he should have relaxed, but Samuel Hemmings felt nervous. He was crippled, frail. Vulnerable. His house was outside the village, out of sight and earshot. Anyone could approach without being seen. Anyone could watch from the bushes in the day time and break in when darkness fell. For the first time in his life he felt afraid of living alone. The evening seemed to expand before him interminably, its usual pleasures dimmed. Unable to read or think with clarity, Samuel moved back to sit in front of the study fire, with the phone on a table next to him.
Would they come for him? If they had come for Owen Zeigler they would come for anyone else who knew about the Rembrandt letters … He thought back, to a summer day, hot with flowers and bees humming manically around the high trees.
‘Let Stefan van der Helde look at the letters,’ he had said to Owen. ‘He’s caught out every forgery in the last twenty years.’
Owen had been very serious that day. Well dressed as ever, he had sat with Samuel in the garden, under the arch of bay trees. Waving aside a wasp with one manicured hand, he replied, ‘He’s seen them.’
Samuel had paused, surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. He says they’re genuine.’
And how the sky had seemed to change in that instant. The bay trees cast a darker shadow, the sun listless behind the summer house, the birds watching from the tops of leafy trees. For an instant Samuel had been jealous, wanting to be young again. In the running. Wanting to share the uproar which would follow the exposure of the letters. Envy had inclined him to spitefulness. ‘Is Van der Helde sure they’re authentic?’ he asked, in a tone that implied disagreement.
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Then you must take good care of them, Owen.’
Owen had nodded, obviously thoughtful. ‘I will. I always have.’
Taking a long, slow breath, Samuel’s mind went further back. To the first time he had ever heard about the Rembrandt letters. It had been in the summer of 1973, not long after the death of Neville Zeigler, when an excited Owen had come down to Sussex in a great hurry. He brought a package, which he put down and unwrapped on the table in the study. It turned out to be a sturdy medium sized casket, set with brass decoration, standing defiant in the sunlight.
‘What is it?’ Samuel had asked, almost amused. ‘It doesn’t look worth much.’
‘The casket isn’t valuable. It’s what’s inside,’ Owen had replied. ‘When my father was alive he used to tease me about knowing something which could “bugger up the art world good and proper”. I asked him what it was, but he’d never tell me. Then a few years ago, he started to elaborate. He said there was a scandal about Rembrandt, some sordid secret – and he had proof.’ Owen shrugged his shoulders. ‘I still thought it was a joke. Then his so-licitor gave me this.’
Both men had looked at the box, Samuel frowning. ‘Go on.’
‘With the casket was a letter from my father. After the war, being Jewish, he settled in the East End of London, where he married and started a business. As you know, he dealt in bric-a-brac, all sorts, but he had a good eye and sometimes he bought well.’
Owen had paused, apparently still in some form of shock, then said, ‘Not long after the war, in 1953, there was a sale in Amsterdam of Jewish religious artefacts and my father went over to have a look. There had been a fire at a synagogue and they were selling off anything which could raise money for the repairs. My father saw the casket, and although it was blackened, burnt at one corner and he couldn’t open the lock, he bought it. Thought he could clean it up and sell it on as a jewellery box.’ Owen ran his finger along the casket lid. ‘He said in his letter that it took him a long time to restore it, and when he had, he realised it was rather well made. Not worth a fortune, but very old. Naturally, he then began to wonder if there was anything inside it worth having.’
‘Was there?’
‘My father writes that it took him four hours to finally wheedle open the lock without damaging the casket. When he did, he found a lot of old bills, receipts and letters …’
Samuel could sense the muted excitement in his protégé’s voice. ‘Were they dated?’
‘Yes, from the seventeenth century.’
Samuel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Any signatures?’
‘Yes, on the invoices and on some legal papers. The names Titus and Rembrandt van Rijn.’
Raising his eyes Heavenwards, Samuel smiled. ‘You don’t believe—’
Owen had cut him off immediately. ‘The papers hadn’t been disturbed for a long time. Just put away, forgotten, the documents of Rembrandt’s bankruptcy and overdue loans, and Titus’s agreement to take over the running of his father’s art business.’
‘But if it was genuine why would this casket have ended up in a synagogue?’
Sighing, Owen had faced his mentor. ‘Rembrandt was close to the Dutch Jews, he painted them many, many times. He was also friendly with the rabbi of that particular synagogue. Titus actually explains what happened in a note he pinned to some contract. There was an agreement between him and the rabbi that the latter would keep the casket hidden in the synagogue in return for one of Rembrandt’s paintings.’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know. It was probably destroyed in the fire.’
Gripped, Samuel had leaned towards Owen, his concentration intense.
‘But why did Titus go to such lengths to hide this casket?’ His clever eyes narrowed. ‘What else was in the box?’
‘A series of very personal letters.’
‘Whose letters?’
‘Geertje Dircx.’
‘Rembrandt’s mistress?’ Samuel had replied, awestruck. ‘Jesus, you have letters written by Geertje Dircx? What do they say?’
‘No one knows much about Geertje, do they? Just rumours about her and what happened to her.’ Owen paused, grabbed at a breath. ‘Well, these letters were written by her from the asylum to which Rembrandt had committed her. They are her testament to the violence she endured, of the treatment meted out to her by the world’s greatest painter. For loving Rembrandt she was given twelve years hard labour.’
Staggered, Samuel had leaned back in his seat. ‘I thought it was a rumour.’
‘The letters are the proof.’
‘Titus must have read them …’
Owen had nodded sadly. ‘Yes.’
‘So why didn’t he destroy them, I wonder …’
‘Titus loved his old nurse, Geertje. He would have felt some loyalty to her and wanted to preserve her testimony. At the same time he would have wanted to hide his father’s culpability.’
Sighing, Samuel had said, ‘You think Geertje gave Titus the letters?’
‘No … I think she turned to the church after she was released. After all, where else could she go? She had no home, no job. She couldn’t go back to her family who had betrayed her. In my opinion, I think Geertje gave the letters to a priest.’
‘So how did they end up with a rabbi?’ asked Samuel. It seemed obvious that Owen had given the matter considerable thought.
‘What if the priest, having read the letters, was scared and thought he should return them to the famous and powerful Rembrandt? Then the painter, relieved, would have put them away with his mass of other paperwork and his personal letters – history tells us he was a compulsive hoarder who seldom threw anything away. Then, over time, perhaps Rembrandt forgot all about them. He’d moved on, the court case was over, and Geertje was to all intents and purposes dead to him. Rembrandt presumably just got on with his life.’
‘Until?’
‘Until he was older and in real money trouble and hounded by his creditors. Only his son could get him out of it by having his father declared bankrupt and taking over the whole business. Titus would then have had to trawl through all the mountains of paperwork to do with his father’s work, and personal correspondence too. I believe that was when Titus found Geertje’s letters, and that was when he hid them. He knew how dangerous they were.’
‘And your father left the letters to you?’ Samuel said, hiding his unexpected, and unwelcome, envy. ‘What did Neville want you to do with them?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘No suggestions?’
Owen smiled. ‘My father writes that at first he thought of them as my inheritance; that I could sell them for a fortune one day. That as long as I had them, I would have a nest egg. Then, as the years passed, he realised I’d never sell them.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’ Slumping back in his chair, Owen had shaken his head, his expression incredulous. ‘Jesus, Samuel, I wake up in the middle of the night and think about what I’ve read. I see her, Geertje Dircx, in that House of Corrections. Incarcerated, forgotten, scribbling away at those notes, and praying that someone would read them one day and know what happened to her.’
He turned to Samuel and held his gaze. ‘She said that Rembrandt painted a portrait of her. I’ve been looking at his pictures around that time, trying to work out which one it is.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet,’ Owen had admitted. ‘But some people believe it’s her likeness in Susannah and the Elders. I look at the painting, look into her eyes and I think about her, Geertje. About her son, about the tragedy of it all. And I think about how the world would view Rembrandt if they knew her story.’
Samuel brought his thoughts back to the present. Subdued, he moved over to the nearest bookcase and took down a volume, searching out the reproduction of Susannah and the Elders. When he found it, he looked intently at the young woman, with a bland, oval face, staring out at him. She had been painted as Susannah at the moment she was about to bathe – suddenly surprised by the old men watching her and holding a cloth to hide her nakedness. Her eyes were darker than the water under her feet …
Samuel stared into those eyes. Was he looking at Geertje Dircx? Before she was ill, and abandoned. Before she was imprisoned. The Geertje Dircx who was painted while she yielded to her lover and cared for his son. The woman whose words from the grave could ruin a reputation and undermine an industry.