The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your father was a very worried man.’

  ‘I know that. What was he worried about?’

  ‘Money. Or the lack of it,’ Nicolai said, standing up and putting the briefcase on his seat. Then, oddly, he sat down on it. A comical gesture veering on the tragic.

  ‘Was that all? Just money?’

  ‘He was going to lose the gallery.’

  ‘I know, he told me,’ Marshall admitted, watching Nicolai. ‘Look, I wasn’t going to do this for a while, but seeing as you’re here we could take an inventory today, work out the value of our stock, and then sell it as best we can to pay back my father’s creditors.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  Taken aback, Marshall stared at him. ‘I don’t know. Don’t you?’

  ‘No. Your father only confided in me at the end. I have some information, but not all of it by any stretch.’ Nicolai jiggled his leg again, restless, agitated. ‘I left a message for Teddy Jack to come here for a talk.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I want to see him, talk to him. But I don’t think he’s coming.’ Nicolai glanced at his watch. ‘It’s past nine now, he should have arrived.’

  ‘And what if I hadn’t been here?’ Marshall asked, his tone sharp. ‘How would you have got into the gallery then?’

  ‘With my key.’

  ‘You have a key?’

  ‘Yes, so does Teddy Jack. And the porters.’

  ‘So any of you could have got into the gallery at any time?’

  ‘No. Only I know the code for the alarm.’

  Suspicious, Marshall looked at the little man.

  ‘If you knew how to turn off the alarm, and you have a key, why didn’t you use it this morning? You didn’t know I’d be here to answer the door, so why didn’t you let yourself in?’

  Nicolai blinked. ‘Because my key was stolen a few days before your father was killed.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Of course! He wasn’t worried, he said he would get another key cut.’

  ‘He didn’t think to change the locks?’

  ‘He had no reason to.’

  ‘He was murdered,’ Marshall countered. ‘He had reason.’

  ‘He couldn’t have known that. Your father didn’t expect to die.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘Because I knew him,’ Nicolai replied. ‘The last time I spoke to your father he said he had an idea, a way to get out of trouble. He said he was going on a trip—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t ask?’

  ‘It wasn’t my place to ask,’ Nicolai replied, ill at ease. ‘Why are you talking to me like this! I’m not your enemy. I cared for your father, I was with him from Monday to Friday, every week of God knows how many years. We became friends …’ He paused, pushing his glasses on top of his balding head. ‘Your father was closer to me than anyone – outside my own family. Did he ever tell you about my brother who went missing?’

  Marshall nodded. ‘Yes, he told me.’

  ‘Did he tell you that he tried to find him, all these years later, when everyone else thought I was just crazy. But not your father. He set Teddy Jack on it.’

  Stunned, Marshall stared at the agitated man. ‘Teddy Jack?’

  ‘He did a lot for your father, and your father was a complicated man. He got involved in different circumstances, with different kinds of people. Sometimes he relied on Teddy Jack,’ Nicolai said, jiggling his leg frenetically. ‘He watched people, or tried to find out where they were. Like Luther. Teddy went over to Poland and investigated the disappearance of my brother. Found out some things no one had ever known before – that Luther had been abducted.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Nicolai shrugged. ‘There was a paedophile in our village, but it wasn’t him. Everyone thought it was, but Teddy Jack found evidence that Luther had been taken to a children’s home in Warsaw. It happened back then, sometimes. Children from remote villages were kidnapped and passed on for adoption. I wondered if my father had organised it … they paid good money, you see. They paid well for a male child.’

  ‘What else did Teddy Jack find out?’

  ‘That Luther had gone to live with adopted parents called Levinska, but they left Poland and the trail ended.’ Nicolai stopped jiggling his leg, his eyes now huge with distress. ‘There was nothing more after that, nothing more to find.’ Nicolai could see Marshall’s amazement. ‘You’re surprised by all this, aren’t you? But you didn’t know your father like I did. All his kindnesses. He wanted to help. If he cared about you he wanted to help. So when I got my depressions he sent me round to his doctor on Harley Street, paid the bill. Paid all the bills for my treatment, even when I said he should take it out of my wages. He had money, he always said, more than enough …’ Nicolai shifted his position on his seat. ‘I would have done anything for your father … You should have got to know him more.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marshall admitted, sitting down beside the attic window. ‘Every day I hear things about him, things I never knew. Like his involvement with Teddy Jack – and Charlotte Gorday.’

  Instinct made him throw out the name, the little man’s head shooting up. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yes, I met her.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A few days ago. Why?’

  Restless, Nicolai took the briefcase from underneath him and hugged it to his chest. ‘Your father didn’t want you to know about her. He thought you wouldn’t approve of their relationship. That’s what he told me, anyway. She was very good for him, at first. Very kind, always considerate. She used to travel between New York and London, take your father away when he needed a break.’

  ‘I’m glad he had her in his life—’

  To Marshall’s amazement, Nicolai laughed. It was a high pitched sound, bitter and unexpected.

  ‘What did she say to you when you met?’

  ‘She was very upset about my father’s death.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘She said that he had told her he was worried about business, but she was insistent that there was something else worrying him – but she didn’t know what it was. She asked me a few times if I knew.’ Marshall paused, watching the little man. He was leading Nicolai Kapinski on, trying to draw him out. ‘I told her I didn’t know anything other than that my father had money troubles.’

  ‘What did she say then?’

  ‘Nothing. She accepted it. That was the first and last time I saw her.’ Marshall paused. ‘D’you know she’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wrong-footed, Marshall stared at the accountant. ‘She committed suicide.’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Lost her mind because of grief over my father’s death,’ Marshall went on. ‘I spoke to her husband – he was shattered, but he accepted it.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Me?’ Marshall replied. ‘Why would I doubt her suicide?’

  ‘Because your father was murdered. Perhaps Charlotte Gorday was also murdered?’

  Needled, Marshall stared at the little man. ‘Why would she be killed?’

  ‘For the same reason your father was.’

  A draft of cold air drifted around them. It seemed to come up from the floor below, as though someone had walked into the gallery. Off balance, Marshall felt suddenly threatened. Not by the accountant, but by the palpable malice that was in the room. The abrupt shift into suspicion. Both men knew more than they were admitting, but each was waiting for the other to be the first to confide. Glancing towards the staircase, Marshall thought he heard footsteps, but when he looked back to Nicolai, he was composed.

  ‘My father was killed because a robbery went wrong,’ Marshall said, finally answering the accountant’s question.

  But the explanation didn’t satisfy the little man. Instead he muttered under his breath and began to jiggle his left foot impatiently again. His short f
ingers rapped on the top of the oversized desk, a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. Still nursing his briefcase, his eyes became watery, his confusion intense.

  ‘I kept many secrets for your father,’ he said at last. ‘It was my way of rewarding him for all he’d done for me. But now, now I wonder if you should have been told more, if I should tell you more. Would it be breaking my word…? This is very difficult for me, very hard. You see, your father kept all of us apart, without appearing to—’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Charlotte Gorday, Teddy Jack, and me,’ Nicolai said. ‘I know your father confided in Teddy sometimes. I know he must have confided in his lover, but he never made it clear. Left a little bit of suspicion between us – his way of making sure we would always be on our guard with each other.’

  Frowning, Marshall stared at the accountant. ‘I never realised he was so manipulative.’

  ‘He wasn’t – at first. It got worse in the last few years,’ Nicolai explained. ‘Then, in the last year, your father trusted none of us completely. He thought I didn’t know why.’

  ‘But you did?’

  ‘Tell me the truth, Marshall – do you know why your father was killed?’

  The question jangled in the stuffy air between them. When Marshall didn’t answer, Nicolai sat down again, close to tears. Reaching for his handkerchief, he wiped his eyes and then put his glasses back on, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing as though he was about to choke. And then he spoke again: ‘He would have been all right if he hadn’t found those letters.’

  ‘What letters?’

  The little man exploded, all control gone. ‘Don’t lie to me, Marshall! There’s no time for this. You know what I’m talking about – the Rembrandt letters, the letters your father believed would make his reputation. The letters he guarded so assiduously. The letters which changed everything. As soon as they came into his life his luck altered.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Owen couldn’t resist letting a little information slip, and word got out, rumours about Owen Zeigler’s theory. That stupid theory! His father – old Zeigler – had put the idea in Owen’s head a long time ago, but when he left the Rembrandt letters to his son, it wasn’t a theory anymore, it was fact. Before that, it had been just one more art theory, one more ludicrous hypothesis the dealers indulge in all the time. Their pet theories about their pet artists, always trying to prove a new artistic Eucharist. The art world everywhere – London, New York, Amsterdam – is populated with conjecture. But most theories are unproven.’ He held Marshall’s gaze. ‘But when Owen inherited the letters he had proof.’

  Marshall took in a breath. ‘Did he tell anyone?’

  ‘He told me. And I imagine that he told Samuel Hemmings. Hemmings was his mentor, after all, they’d talked about the Rembrandt theory for years, on and off. I suspect Teddy Jack knew as well, and I know for certain that Charlotte Gorday knew.’ Nicolai glanced away from Marshall. ‘She was lying to you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When she said she’d no idea what your father was worried about, she was lying. Testing you, trying to discover whether you knew about them. Trying to find out if you had them.’ Nicolai paused, ill at ease, sweating. ‘Did you tell her you had them?’

  Marshall paused, seeing the trap. ‘I never said I had them.’

  ‘I posted them to you! I know you have them,’ Nicolai replied, his voice rising, then falling into a monotone. ‘After your father died, I mailed them to you in Amsterdam. I used an old envelope your father had addressed to you, but never sent, so you would be sure to open it. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what your father would have wanted. I just wanted to get them rid of them… I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I panicked. I hadn’t the courage to burn them.’

  Transfixed, Marshall stared at the frightened man.

  ‘Before you sent them to me, did you read them?’

  Exasperated Nicolai threw up his hands. ‘How could I? I don’t speak Dutch. But I knew you could read them.’

  ‘What about Charlotte Gorday?’

  ‘She spoke the language, as does Samuel Hemmings. He speaks and reads it fluently, as your father did. Probably better than your father did. I know what was in the letters only because your father told me. I imagine he told Teddy Jack too. After all, he couldn’t read them.’ Nicolai sat up in his seat, perched uneasily. ‘You can’t suspect me, Marshall! Not now. I had those letters in my hand, I could have kept them, used them. Not told anyone. Think about it. If I’d wanted them, I had them. There was nothing to stop me from keeping them, but I sent them to you. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, maybe I shouldn’t have involved you – but you’re Owen’s son, and there was no one else I could trust.’

  ‘What about Charlotte Gorday? She’d been in my father’s life for eighteen years. She loved him. Why didn’t you trust her?’

  ‘Why?’ Nicolai asked wearily.

  ‘Yes. Why didn’t you trust her?’

  ‘Because she was blackmailing your father, that’s why,’ Nicolai replied, turning to the window and looking out onto the London skyline. ‘And now she’s dead.’

  22

  Before Marshall could respond to Nicolai Kapinski’s revelations, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and turned to see Teddy Jack walking into the office. He didn’t seem surprised to see Marshall and nodded, glancing over to Nicolai. The difference between the two men was marked; the accountant small, nervy; Teddy Jack in a denim shirt and jeans, casual, relaxed. He seemed completely altered from the disturbed man Marshall had rescued; his physical size all the more impressive against the diminutive stature of the accountant.

  ‘How are you?’ Teddy asked Marshall. ‘I was hoping to see you.’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  Settling himself in one of the old armchairs, Teddy looked around him, seeming at ease as someone can be only when they know their surroundings well. For a moment Marshall was the one who felt out of place.

  Waiting to hear what else Nicolai was going to tell him, Marshall said, ‘Well, go on Nicolai. What were you saying about Charlotte Gorday?’

  ‘You know about her?’ Teddy asked.

  ‘Yes, and apparently you must have done too. You don’t look at all surprised.’

  ‘Your father wanted to be discreet—’

  ‘For eighteen years? That’s a lot of discretion.’ Marshall leant on the desk and looked from one man to the other. He felt uncomfortably cornered, as though they were accomplices in something from which he had been deliberately excluded – and he was unexpectedly angered. His father’s secrets seemed to be a link between the two men, and their complicity exacerbated Marshall’s growing guilt. To find himself cut out of his own father’s confidences had been hard – but he knew he had no right to expect otherwise. After all, they had not shared an intimate bond. But to find himself begging for crumbs of information was humiliating.

  ‘Did anyone else know about her?’

  Teddy shook his head. ‘No. Only us.’

  ‘But you heard what happened to her?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  It was a statement of fact, without emotion, and seemed chilling to Marshall. How did Teddy Jack know about Charlotte Gorday’s death so quickly? And Nicolai?

  ‘She committed suicide.’

  Marshall could hear Nicolai clear his throat, and a look passed between him and Teddy Jack. After a moment, the big man shrugged. ‘I don’t think it was suicide.’

  ‘You think she was killed?’

  ‘We both think she was killed,’ Teddy replied, glancing over to the accountant for confirmation.

  ‘Because she was blackmailing my father?’

  This time it was Teddy Jack’s turn to look surprised. Leaning forward in his chair, he stared at Marshall.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Nicolai did. Just now.’

  Slowly he turned to the accountant. He seemed almost hurt to have been excluded. ‘Why was
she blackmailing him?’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Of course you know!’ Teddy snorted. ‘Unless you’ve just made it up – which wouldn’t surprise me. You were always trying to make out that the boss preferred you, that he confided in you more than he confided in me.’ He rubbed his big hands together sheepishly, moderating his tone. ‘He would have told me if Charlotte Gorday was blackmailing him.’

  But Nicolai wasn’t going to back down. Instead he laid his hands flat on the desk in front of him, a smudge of triumph in his voice.

  ‘I wondered if you knew. Sorry to spring it on you,’ Nicolai said lightly.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘But why would she blackmail him?’

  Marshall studied Teddy Jack as Teddy waited for his answer. His eyes closed for an instant then opened again, fixing on Nicolai. ‘I’m not playing fucking silly games.’

  Nicolai coloured. ‘Neither am I! The only person who played games is dead. Charlotte Gorday blackmailed Owen because of the letters.’

  The words were out, Marshall watching the interplay between the two men.

  ‘She’d known about the letters for a while,’ Teddy countered. ‘Why would she suddenly blackmail him now?’

  ‘Charlotte Gorday wanted him to sell them and use the money to clear his debts,’ Nicolai replied, his tone even. He seemed almost smug that he had been privy to the confidences of the dead man. ‘She badgered him about it, said they could find a buyer, raise a fortune, but Owen wouldn’t have any of it.’

  ‘How d’you know this?’ Marshall asked.

  ‘I overheard an argument they had,’ Nicolai replied. ‘I’d known about the letters for months. I advised your father not to tell her about them – I thought it would be dangerous.’

  Angered, Teddy Jack lashed out. ‘He trusted her!’

  ‘And look where it got him!’ Nicolai retorted. He turned back to Marshall. ‘Charlotte loved your father, but she didn’t understand what the business meant to him, what his reputation meant. Your father would never have exposed those letters – and never ever for money. He’d been looking for them for years; it was like a pilgrimage, the Holy Grail. He would have protected those letters with his life.’