The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  ‘He did,’ Marshall replied coldly.

  ‘Yes … he did.’ The emotion suddenly drained from Nicolai’s voice. ‘I think Charlotte believed that she had found someone to buy the letters. Maybe when Owen didn’t agree to sell them she had to disappoint the buyer and go back on her word.’

  ‘And was killed for it?’ Marshall said.

  ‘I don’t know for sure. Maybe.’

  Shaking his head, Teddy smiled knowingly. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Charlotte Gorday could have sold the letters any time she wanted to – because she had them.’

  That certainly surprised Marshall who, out of the corner of his eye, saw Nicolai look over to him. Marshall had been hearing many things about his father’s intricate relationships, but now, finally, he was seeing the results of Owen Zeigler’s mendacity. His father had told everyone part of his story, never confiding fully in anyone, so that each person ended up with their own version of the truth. He thought back on Nicolai’s earlier words: Your father kept all of us apart, without appearing to – left a little bit of suspicion between us – his way of making sure we would always be on our guard with each other.

  Marshall stole a cautious glance at Nicolai. He could see he had been wrong-footed, and wondered which way he would jump; whether he would tell Teddy that the letters were now in Marshall’s possession or stay silent and keep the knowledge to himself.

  ‘So where are the letters now?’

  Teddy’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Whoever killed Charlotte Gorday must have them.’

  ‘And who killed her?’ Nicolai asked him.

  Teddy Jack didn’t answer immediately. Marshall stared at him, registering the huge hands, the thick shoulders, the muscled forearms. A powerful, dominant man. A man capable of violence, indeed once imprisoned for it. But murder? Marshall, less certain of that, recalled how he had found Teddy Jack almost suffocated in the packing case. Was it a real attempt on his life, or a set-up? Something he had organised to throw suspicion off himself?

  ‘How would I know who killed Charlotte Gorday?’ Teddy asked, staring at the accountant. ‘You think I did?’

  ‘I never said that, I—’

  ‘Jesus, you fucking prat!’ Teddy shouted. ‘You pen-pushing, shiny-arsed bookkeeper. You think that you knew what went on in Owen Zeigler’s life? You knew what he wanted you to know—’

  ‘I knew more than you did!’

  Teddy laughed. ‘Owen didn’t trust you, Nicolai. He told me that many times. He liked you, felt sorry for you, but he didn’t trust you.’ Teddy paused, deftly positioning the final blow. ‘He thought you were crazy, did you know that? He used to send me to Poland to find that brother of yours, and sometimes laugh about it behind your back – there’s no brother, he’d say. Poor Nicolai, not right in the head. But we have to be seen to be doing the right thing. He pitied you.’

  His eyes bulging, Nicolai stared at the big man. Marshall stepped between them. ‘Stop it. Let it drop.’

  But Teddy Jack ignored him. ‘He thought you were a good accountant though,’ he continued. ‘A creepy little shit, but good with the books—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Marshall shouted, as Nicolai looked away, clearly shaken, breathing heavily. He stared out over the rooftops, hardly moving, and Marshall expected him to turn back to Teddy Jack at any moment. To tell him he was wrong. That Charlotte Gorday didn’t have the letters, that he had sent them to Marshall. He could feel the shudder of injury come from the Pole, but – to his impressed surprise – Nicolai kept his counsel.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said finally, getting to his feet. He picked up his briefcase and swiftly made for the stairs.

  Marshall ran after him, finding Nicolai already out in the street when he caught up with him.

  ‘Wait!’ he called out, catching the little man’s arm. He could see that Nicolai was close to tears, fighting emotion, desperate not to make a fool of himself. ‘I don’t believe my father said any of those things. I know he relied on you, Nicolai, and I know for certain he liked you.’

  Dumbly, the Pole nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Teddy Jack that I have the letters?’

  ‘Because I wanted him to think the letters had been taken. Because I wanted to keep you safe,’ Nicolai said finally, his voice wavering. ‘You see, there’s something you have to understand. It wasn’t me your father didn’t trust – it was Teddy Jack.’

  23

  Waking early, Samuel Hemmings reached for his glasses on the bedside table, put them on and watched the bedroom come back into focus. Outside the window, he could hear a blackbird, the spare branches of a winter tree just visible from where he lay. He seemed surprised at first that he had not been disturbed, then amused, pleased that no one could see his embarrassment. Slowly, Samuel sat up, struggling to move his legs over the side of the bed and get himself into his wheelchair. He still had some little use of his lower limbs, but preserved it as much as he could, preferring to be out of the wheelchair only when necessary – or when he needed to seem younger. People, he knew only too well, could be bigoted. Look, sound and act like an old man, and no one listened to you anymore.

  And Samuel liked to be listened to. It tickled his vanity that people admired him; appealed to his personal ego that he could still command respect or incite an argument. Wheeling himself into the hall, he turned off the alarm, hardly believing how nervous he had been the previous night. But then that was what the dark did to everyone. When the light faded, no man was completely brave. At the front door, he unbolted the main locks, leaving only the Chubb on so that Mrs McKendrick could let herself in. Reaching into the wire letter tray, he took out the papers and two letters, wheeled himself into his study and shut the door behind him.

  His gaze moved over to the dog bed and then back to his post. Nothing of any importance caught his attention, so he turned his thoughts to what had been occupying them the previous night – his solicitor’s visit. Never before had he thought of making preparations for his death: his funeral, the partitioning of his assets. But since Owen’s murder, Samuel had been determined to put his affairs in order as soon as possible, hence the visit from his so-licitor that afternoon.

  He had decided that he would leave the bulk of his estate to charity – half to The Art Fund, the other half to the local church and school. Now that his protégé was dead, his valuable book collection would go to the British Library and his few paintings to the local art gallery. After a lot of thought, Samuel had bequeathed several impressive pieces of silver to Marshall, as well as his old, and long unused, Austin car. He thought it would amuse him. As for Mrs McKendrick … Samuel paused, mentally increasing the sum he had first decided on. After all, no one made a Battenberg cake like his housekeeper. He wondered fleetingly if his gift would be enough. After all, what would be recompense for her finding her employer’s body? Either dead from natural causes, or murdered and, worse, mutilated.

  Disturbed, Samuel tried to shake off his sudden melancholia. The previous night he had been anxious, but it was daytime now. He could see his surroundings and the first timorous stirrings of spring. And after spring, summer would come lush and laughing into the garden, warming the house and mottling the walls with sun … Two weeks had passed, Samuel told himself, over two weeks since Owen’s murder. Perhaps it was over. Perhaps the whole terrifying business would simply end …

  He opened a second letter and was reading it hurriedly when the phone rang next to him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Samuel, it’s Marshall.’

  He took in a breath. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, and you?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Did you know that my father had a girlfriend?’

  ‘No!’ Samuel replied, genuinely taken aback. ‘Owen never said anything about a woman.’

  ‘Her name was Charlotte Gorday. They knew each other for eighteen years.’

  Taking off his glasses, Samuel rubbed his eyes, then wheeled himself over to the window. ‘I didn
’t know anything about her. Does it matter?’

  ‘She’s dead. Committed suicide the day before yesterday.’

  Down the lawn Samuel could see the gardener arrive and take the mower out of the shed. Ponderously the man then walked up and down the grass, cutting it close to the earth.

  ‘She killed herself? Why?’

  ‘Doesn’t it seem odd?’ Marshall pressed him. ‘My father’s girlfriend dying?’

  ‘Should we be talking about this over the phone?’

  Marshall laughed without humour. ‘You think someone’s listening?’

  ‘I don’t know, someone could be.’

  A silence, then, ‘I want you to move into a hotel,’ Marshall said.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Samuel, listen to me—’

  ‘Don’t say you’re worried about me, Marshall,’ Samuel replied, acidly. ‘Last time we spoke you seemed to think I was the devil incarnate. In fact, you even intimated that you didn’t trust me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Samuel, really. It’s been difficult.’

  ‘For all of us.’

  Marshall kept his voice even. He didn’t want to frighten Samuel Hemmings, but he wanted to make sure that the historian was safe. And living alone, handicapped, in a remote house was inviting trouble. If Stefan van der Helde, Owen Zeigler and Charlotte Gorday – all able-bodied and fit – had been overpowered and killed, Samuel Hemmings would stand no chance at all.

  ‘You have to go to a hotel.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Samuel, please!’

  ‘What about you, Marshall, are you going to hide in a hotel?’

  ‘That’s different—’

  ‘Because you’re able-bodied?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marshall admitted. ‘And because I have no choice.’

  ‘Since when?’ Samuel countered. ‘What’s changed?’

  ‘I need to find out who killed my father.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Samuel replied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘If you ask me, it’s over. I think the killer has the letters.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. I have them.’

  Samuel could hear the mobile phone connection crackling and presumed that Marshall was on the move.

  ‘You have them?’

  ‘They were sent to me.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘In London. I’m coming down to see you,’ Marshall replied. ‘I just want to make sure you’re safe—’

  ‘Where are they? The letters?’

  Marshall ignored the question. ‘You did read them, didn’t you?’ he said.

  Samuel glanced over to the dog bed, remembering the copies taped underneath.

  ‘Yes, I read them. All but one. Apparently your father didn’t trust me any more than you do, Marshall. I didn’t say anything to Owen at the time, but the letters ended too abruptly. One, at least, was missing. I don’t know how Geertje Dircx finished her testimony.’

  Surprised, Marshall stopped walking. He was on the Embankment, opposite Cheyne Walk, looking out over the blank eye of the Thames. A chill was blowing, making scuffs on the water; a tug boat was passing yards away, churning up a baby tide.

  ‘Who sent the letters to you, Marshall?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘All right, look at it another way – why did they send you the letters?’

  Marshall stared into the dark water. ‘Like you said, Samuel, I’m Owen’s son. I suppose I was the natural person to send them to.’

  ‘But you know nothing about the art world, or about Rembrandt. You would be easy to dupe.’

  ‘Would you rather they’d been given to you?’ Marshall parried. ‘No, I don’t think you would, not really, not now. My father died for those letters and I want to know who killed him. And I want to make sure that they don’t get hold of the letters, because otherwise my father’s death means nothing.’

  ‘You don’t know who you’re up against.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No,’ Samuel said truthfully. ‘I can’t help you, but I can warn you, Marshall. You’re out of your league. If you don’t go to the police, you don’t know what you’ll bring down on your head.’

  ‘We both know I’m not going to the police, Samuel,’ he said coolly. ‘Are you in your study?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Get one of your books on Rembrandt.’ He paused, waiting. ‘Ready?’

  Struggling, Samuel opened a volume on his desk, the phone tucked under his right ear.

  ‘Now, look at the painting of The Stoning of St Stephen.’ Marshall said. He could hear Samuel turning over the pages, then pausing. ‘Stephen … Stefan. Stefan van der Helde’s stomach was full of stones …’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the old man.

  ‘Now, turn to The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Joan Deyman …’

  Samuel hurried, through the pages while Marshall waited, until the image was looking up at him. ‘Yes, I see it …’ he said. His gaze moved over the picture, stared at the split scalp, the emptied-out belly of the corpse. ‘Oh, Jesus, your father …’

  ‘Yes,’ Marshall said softly. ‘You see it. Now look at The Death of Lucretia – and remember what I told you. Charlotte Gorday stabbed herself. Or rather, she was stabbed. Now d’you see why I want you to get out of your house?’

  Transfixed, Samuel stared at the images, looking from one to the other in shock.

  ‘I have to see someone this afternoon, I have to keep an appointment—’

  ‘You have to leave.’

  ‘I can’t leave here! This is my home, Marshall. I’m an old man in a wheelchair; if anyone wants to catch up with me they won’t have to try very hard.’ His humour was strained. ‘I can’t leave this place. This is all I have, no one’s driving me out. Anyway, Mrs McKendrick’s here. She’ll be here until my lawyer leaves.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  ‘I can’t change my life now. It’s too late—’

  ‘You might not have a life to change if you don’t watch out,’ Marshall said firmly. ‘I’m coming down tonight.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I need you to help me with something.’

  Puzzled, Samuel frowned. ‘What can I help you with?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ Marshall replied. ‘You need to get someone in the house. Someone able-bodied, someone around after Mrs McKendrick leaves for the day. You can’t be on your own at night.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone,’ Samuel said stubbornly. ‘I can’t just ask someone to come here and babysit me—’

  ‘Yes, you can. You’re handicapped, it would be a perfectly normal thing to do.’ Marshall replied. ‘Or get a male nurse.’

  ‘A nurse! I’m not having some bloody nurse around me, fussing and taking my pulse every half an hour.’

  Patiently, Marshall took in a breath. ‘All right, don’t get a nurse – but get someone. There must be someone in the village you could pay to stay over. Get a man who looks capable of handling himself, there must be someone looking for a job.’ He paused, his tone serious. ‘Don’t brush this off, Samuel. Three people have died already – don’t be the fourth.’

  Leaning against the counter of the village bakery, Doug McKendrick bit into the hot meat pie and winced as the gravy scalded his tongue. On a cold day there was nothing like a meat pie, he thought, wiping the gravy off his chin with the back of his hand. Hearing the door open, he turned, and nodded a greeting to his brother-in-law Greg Horner, the part-time driver for Samuel Hemmings.

  Always critical, Greg looked at Doug sourly. ‘Why don’t you try to get some of that pie into your mouth?’

  ‘Ah, stop moaning. That’s what you need, a good meal,’ Doug replied, taking another bite and refusing to acknowledge that his mouth was on fire. Ruddy-faced, he stared at Greg. Miserable sod, he thought, never a smile. ‘What,’ he said, after swallowing the mouthful, ‘are you doing here today? The old man want you?’

  ‘He does now.’

  ‘It’s Thursda
y, Mr Hemmings never wants you on a Thursday.’

  ‘Get off the counter and talk outside,’ the owner said, pushing Doug’s elbow off the glass and pointing to the door. ‘You’re dripping gravy everywhere.’

  Outside on the pavement, Doug took another bite of his pie, Greg nursing a cup of black coffee. It was well known in the village that Greg Horner had once had a business of his own, but had lost it. Something he could never get over. Working as a part-time handyman and chauffeur had made his already bitter nature curdle. When he looked at Samuel Hemmings he thought of all his ambitious plans which he had been certain would bear fruit. He would be successful, that much had always been obvious to Greg. But not to anyone else, and he took his failure as a mark of his bad luck, rather than of his own doing. His natural surliness had not encourage custom at his garage, and as the business faltered and his wife started an affair with the landlord of the Crown, Greg’s grudge against the world had hardened.

  What irked him more was the happy contentment of Doug McKendrick. When he had first married Greg’s sister, Doug had been an oily-haired rocker with a motor bike. Thin as a garden hose, winking at the girls. When Lily got pregnant Doug had done the right thing, wearing his greased quiff to the wedding. Greg had sneered at his sister’s choice, and he’d never stopped sneering over the years which followed. Making sure he married a snobbish widow from the village, he opened his garage and lorded it at the local pub and round the shops. Every atom of his being was puffed with conceit – until another garage opened nearby and provided the locals with a choice. No one needed to go to Greg Horner any more, and within two years his business had failed. Forced to take work as a handyman, Greg managed to salvage some respect by working part-time as a chauffeur, but his demotion rankled with him and his wife’s infidelity had succeeded in finally curbing his ego.

  And all the time Doug had been a happy man. Still living in the same place he had taken his wife when they married, he hadn’t changed or progressed in life, and seemed to feel no need to. The child which had necessitated their bond ended up a rather dull, round-faced girl who worked as a nanny for the local solicitor. When her charge grew up she took a job at the Co-op in the village, then married and moved away. With amazement Greg Horner had observed his sister and brother-in-law, wondered why they didn’t rebel against the boredom of their lives, their lack of status. He never realised that they pitied him.