The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  ‘Tonight. On the six o’clock flight.’

  ‘OK.’

  Marshall took in a breath. ‘It might mean trouble.’

  ‘It always means trouble.’

  ‘I can pay you.’

  ‘I could do with the money, no work around.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought about going back up North, but it’s just as bad there, so I just decided to sit on the bed and get stoned for a while.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘A bit maybe. I thought about your father. Kept going over what he did and said about those fucking letters, trying to think if there was something I’d forgotten. And I thought about the people he knew, and what I’d done when I was working for him, and I kept wondering who’d kill him like that – him, and the others. Killing someone, yeah, I can understand that. In temper, I can understand it. In the heat of the moment. But torturing someone? Making it last? No, I don’t get that. And I’m not going to let them do it to me.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘Good, because we have to work together now, Teddy. I think it’s the only way we’ll survive.’

  ‘Even though you don’t trust me?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ Teddy replied. ‘Maybe if I was in your shoes I wouldn’t trust anyone either.’

  ‘I’m asking you to look out for my ex-wife. I must trust you.’

  ‘How long are you staying in Holland?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I’ll keep in touch.’ Marshall paused. ‘But don’t let Georgia know what you’re doing. She’s smart, she won’t be easy to fool.’

  Teddy nodded. ‘And you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I thought not.’ Teddy smiled. ‘No plan?’

  ‘Well, I know they’ll come after me. I can draw them out that way. And if they’re coming after me, they’re not going after anyone else.’

  ‘Which means that you’re going to set yourself up?’

  Marshall hesitated. ‘They won’t stop. That much is obvious.’

  ‘Is there anyone else left – apart from you, Samuel Hemmings, and me – that knows about the letters?’

  ‘Only Georgia.’

  ‘And then there were four …’ Teddy said quietly. ‘Four down, four to go.’

  ‘Don’t let anything happen to her!’ Marshall snapped. ‘You keep her safe, you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you. But who’s going to do the same for you?’

  House of Corrections,

  Gouda, 1654

  He hired a new maid, younger than me, called Hendrickje Stoffels. She came to help me out, and I hated her from the instant I saw her. Knew in her cat’s eyes what she was after. Titus didn’t like her, clung to me, but she wasn’t going to be his nurse. Just keep house, help me. Jesus, she helped me. She helped me out of my master’s bed. She watched, feline, plumply sleek, never once looked at the painting on the landing. Didn’t believe in ghosts. I know that.

  She will, when she hears them walk the house at night and sees Saskia’s face at the window, looking in, or drawing back the curtains around the bed … I’m jumping in my story. Did I tell you that Carel became so clever? So very very skilled. I watched him work and used to creep back into the studio late at night, and lift the cover over his canvas. And wonder how the child – that had kicked me in my ribs as he grew in my belly – could paint so well. So well he impressed his father … Carel knew I admired his work and was kind. Never patronising or dismissive, like Gerrit Dou, with his round, bird’s-eye glasses and his clever verbal barbs. Carel didn’t know I was his mother, he was just kind. Because kindness became him.

  He got that from me …

  Then suddenly he was gone. Rembrandt hadn’t told me he was sending him away. Didn’t say a word. Carel was just there, and then not there. When I asked him about it, Rembrandt said he had set our son up in his own studio in Delft, where he was going to be a triumphant success … I had to let him go, without a word. What else could I do? His monkey, Rembrandt told me, was clever. So clever he would work for his father and they would make money. Fabulous amounts of money. Midas would have been envious. We will dupe all Holland, we will dupe the world, he said, nuzzling my neck with his thick lips.

  We will dupe the world. But Rembrandt coughed when he said it, as though his throat choked on the words … Would Carel get into trouble? I asked, curled up against Rembrandt in bed. And he snorted, and told me to stay quiet, that no one knew about our son. And if – oh God – if I ever mentioned it he would deny it. Ruin Carel’s career … Say nothing, he told me in the big bed. Stay silent … Carel must never know his real parents and no one must ever know of the work he was doing for his father.

  Then Hendrickje came … I would have stayed quiet for the rest of my life. It would have been enough. I would have made it enough … Carel was out of my life, but he was successful, married, there was no reason to talk. What good would it do him to know his real mother? … But then Hendrickje came and soon she was raising her eyes behind me and making Rembrandt laugh. And he became impatient and scolded me, mocking me in front of the pupils and letting Hendrickje sit for them. I was being usurped. In his heart, in his bed, and in his studio.

  But I kept quiet … I swept the black and white tiles and carried the water. I loved Titus and made herrings, and I waited for Hendrickje to leave, for this new passion of Rembrandt’s to wane. After all, I was his real mistress and the mother of his son. He would come back to me. In time. I had a hold over him through Carel. I just had to wait, that was all. I had the upper hand.

  It wasn’t enough.

  31

  Hurriedly packing a suitcase, Marshall heard the bell ring in the gallery below. For a moment he considered ignoring it, then ran downstairs to find Tim Parker-Ross waiting in the doorway. He grinned shyly as Marshall let him in, ambling through to the back of the gallery and standing under the skylight.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like that dinner tonight,’ he said, putting his head on one side, his expression curious. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything was wrong.’

  ‘No, but I’ve known you since we were kids,’ Tim replied kindly. ‘I can always tell when you’re worried.’

  ‘It’s just that there’s so much to sort out. I don’t know if I’m going to sell up the gallery or keep it running.’

  ‘Keep it running?’ Tim replied. ‘Wow, that would be something. I mean, I’m not being rude, but you’ve never been into the art business. Bit like me really.’

  ‘But I heard you’d just opened another gallery.’

  Tim raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Worst time, hey? I’ve no head for business, probably lose a fortune … So, you’re not on for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t make it, Tim.’

  He nodded, looking round. ‘Well, maybe later in the week. By the way, I saw Tobar Manners this morning, in a terrible state.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He was talking about two big Rembrandt portraits coming up for sale in New York.’ Tim scratched his nose thoughtfully. ‘Tobar wants to broker the deal. Make a killing.’

  ‘Yeah, well he’s good at that.’

  ‘You hate him, don’t you?’

  ‘He cheated my father,’ Marshall replied flatly. ‘I’d like to see him ruined.’

  Embarrassed, Tim laughed, shuffling his feet. ‘I don’t like him either. He always talks to me as though I’m a fool. He confuses me, makes me stammer. I can never think when he’s around.’ His voice speeded up, then dropped. ‘I heard Tobar Manners needs this big deal with the Rembrandts, or he’ll be ruined.’

  ‘Then let’s hope he doesn’t get it,’ Marshall replied, changing the subject. ‘I have to get on with some work now, Tim.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course.’ He nodded towards the bag at the top of the stairs. ‘You going away?’

  ‘Just overnight,’ Marshall lied. ‘I’ve a translating job to do. I’ll be back before you know it.’

 
; ‘We’ll have dinner then,’ Tim said, nodding and walking off down the street.

  For a moment Marshall watched him go, a lonely figure with no home or family, but kind. Always kind. Deep in thought, Marshall returned to the flat, only to hear a loud banging on the gallery door moments later. Impatient, he went back downstairs and found Lillian Kauffman at the door.

  As he let her in, her expression was confrontational. ‘You’re fucked.’

  ‘No, Libra,’ Marshall replied smoothly. ‘I’ve things to do—’

  ‘Look, you bloody idiot, I’ve told you, I can help. I don’t suppose you noticed anything strange the last two nights?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like men watching your gallery,’ Lillian said. ‘And when you went out earlier, I could have sworn someone was following you.’

  ‘You watch too much television.’

  ‘I watch the street, darling, and I see what goes on,’ she said, her tone curt. ‘I don’t need a television, I’ve been making my own entertainment for years. I don’t suppose you knew that Leon Williams was gay, did you?’

  ‘I don’t know Leon Williams. And anyway, why would it matter if he was gay?’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘Gossip is important, darling. It pays to know everything about everyone. Leon Williams is a dealer. Used to be a friend of your father’s. Rufus Ariel’s little running mate.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, that’s by the by. I’ve been thinking all day about what’s been going on. And about those letters, and about the sale coming up in New York. Two Rembrandt portraits, set to make a fortune. Everyone’s excited by it. It’s going to make big money.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘But only if the Rembrandts are authentic, because if they’re fakes, you’re screwed.’

  Marshall raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’

  ‘If you have proof they’re not by Rembrandt, then their value will plummet.’ She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. ‘And everyone who was set to make a fortune will be seriously out of pocket. Unless, of course, they can suppress the information: stop the letters coming out.’ She tapped her foot impatiently and lit a cigarette. ‘I heard about a young man the other day who had knifed and killed another man for his mobile phone. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About how little someone will kill for. If a mobile phone worth – what? Twenty quid? – is worth murder, then killing for something which could lose someone millions and millions of pounds would be pretty much essential.’ She paused, fiddling with one of her extravagant earrings. ‘You can’t hold onto those letters, Marshall. They’ll kill you for them.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘Don’t piss about! I can understand why you wouldn’t want to go to the police. I can see you’d want to find out who killed your father, and deal with them yourself – and get your own back on Tobar Manners. But you’re only going to get killed—’

  ‘What if I don’t have the bloody letters?’

  ‘Don’t insult my intelligence.’ Lillian was curt. ‘We have to talk about this. You can arse about with me all you like, but you must have thought of the alternatives, Marshall. You can make the letters public and bring down Rembrandt’s reputation and undermine the art market; or you could sell them to someone who would pay you a handsome price so that they could keep them quiet. And keep the market stable. Or you could sell them to someone who could use them covertly, and blackmail the dealers.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  Her voice hardened as she cut him off.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve even thought of that yourself, Marshall? I mean, you could crucify Tobar Manners, and get your revenge at the same time if you let it be known that some paintings he sold as authentic Rembrandts, weren’t.’ She drew on her cigarette, staring at Marshall intently. ‘I can see you want to keep your cards very close to your chest. I don’t blame you. But you have to do something, Marshall, or someone else will make the first move.’

  He stared at her in silence.

  ‘They’ve killed your father,’ Lillian continued. ‘And Charlotte Gorday, Stefan van der Helde, and now Nicolai Kapinski.’

  Marshall’s head shot up. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Philip Gorday is a friend of mine.’

  ‘Jesus, does everyone know everyone else?’

  ‘He’s my lawyer. He represents my American interests.

  Besides, Philip has collected paintings for years, and I knew Charlotte very well.’

  ‘Apparently everybody did, except me.’

  ‘Don’t be defensive, Marshall, your father wanted to keep his private life private. After all, did he know who you were screwing?’

  ‘You’ve got sex on the brain.’

  ‘At my age, on the brain is the only place it can be,’ she replied, tartly. ‘I know that Owen wouldn’t have wanted the letters to come out, especially not in a recession, and I know you want to honour his wishes. But you can’t just sit on them, because they’ll come for you, Marshall. You must know that. They’re already watching you. God, isn’t this getting through your thick skull?’

  ‘I found my father’s body, so yes, Lillian, it’s getting through to me.’

  She had the grace to look momentarily embarrassed.

  ‘When they catch up with you, you’ll have a choice: give them the letters, or they’ll kill you.’

  ‘And even if they get what they want, they’ll kill me anyway. If I know who they are, they won’t let me go,’ Marshall replied, his stomach clenching. ‘I’m not a brave man, Lillian. I didn’t want to get involved in any of this, but I am. And I have to deal with it the best way I can.’

  ‘Your father wouldn’t have wanted you to get killed,’ she said impatiently. ‘Of course, there is one other alternative. You could destroy them.’

  ‘I can’t do that. They’re history, proof—’

  ‘Of Rembrandt’s bastard,’ Lillian said slyly. ‘No, I didn’t think you’d go for that suggestion. It would be too much like betraying Owen, wouldn’t it, Marshall?’

  Nodding, he moved towards the back of the gallery, followed by Lillian, and sat down at his father’s old desk. Above him the skylight let in the day; the pilot light on the boiler made a popping sound as the heating came on. On the desk lay a pile of unopened post addressed to Owen Zeigler, and the answer phone was flicking with several messages. For a moment it seemed as though Owen was simply out of the gallery and would return in an instant, pick up his mail and answer his calls. And in the office in the eaves Nicolai would call down the stairs, while the porters brought in frames at the basement door … But they would never come back, not his father, nor the accountant. Not Charlotte Gorday. They were ghosts now, joining the murdered soldier at the bend on the stairs.

  ‘Marshall?’

  He looked up, surprised by his own melancholia. ‘What?’

  ‘The letters are not worth dying for,’ Lillian said firmly. ‘They were your father’s obsession, not yours.’

  He sighed, trying to read her face. ‘Who’s doing it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who are the killers, Lillian? You should some have some idea. You know everyone, you hear everything. You’ve got a clever mind and a quick brain, much smarter than mine. Christ knows, you’ve told me that often enough. You know everything that goes on. So who’s mad enough to being doing all this? Who’s clever enough? Come on, Lillian, even I know that the Russians have bought up some of the prime galleries. The rents getting raised again? Too high? Is someone putting pressure on?’

  ‘The Russians are just bully boys.’

  ‘Maybe. But you can’t deny that they’d jump at the chance to get hold of the Rembrandt letters. Much less work to blackmail the dealers, rather than have to go around collecting all those rents.’

  ‘I’d have heard something.’

  ‘Of course, you are the eyes and ears of this neighbourhood. In fact.’ He paused. ‘What’s to stop it being you?’

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid! I mi
ght have stolen the letters, but I’d never torture someone I liked.’

  Marshall smiled. ‘But don’t tell me you haven’t thought about who it might be. There must be someone you suspect? I’ve suspected damn near everyone. I thought for a while it might be Nicolai Kapinski, then Teddy Jack, and even Charlotte Gorday—’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘A woman could kill, with help. That’s what the police said, anyway,’ Marshall replied. ‘She wouldn’t be strong enough to do it on her own, but if she had an ally she could.’

  ‘Charlotte wasn’t capable of killing anyone.’

  To her surprise, Marshall laughed. ‘You know something? I even doubted Samuel Hemmings, and he’s in a wheelchair, for God’s sake!’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve suspected everyone. And now most of them are dead, and I’m no nearer to knowing who killed my father.’

  ‘The police—’

  ‘Have no idea! They’ve never even made the connection between the murders. Why should they? They don’t know about Rembrandt or the letters, so why should they connect killings in Holland, New York and London? I’ve asked around, and in Amsterdam Stefan van der Helde was thought to be a gay murder. Charlotte Gorday’s death was put down to suicide. As for Nicolai, they said he was just unlucky, that he was killed while being robbed, probably by some addict. For the police, there’s no reason to connect the deaths – and I’m not giving them the reason.’

  ‘Just making yourself bait?’

  He ignored the comment. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I could have known my father’s killer. Spoken to them. Broken bread with them, gone to the same exhibitions. They could have come to the gallery, or even visited our house in the country, and I wouldn’t have known. And that’s what sickens me, that when I find out who killed my father, I’ll have known them. Maybe even liked them.’

  She snorted impatiently. ‘Or then again, they could be complete strangers.’

  ‘No,’ Marshall said. ‘There was no forced entry at Stefan van der Helde’s flat. No forced entry here. My father let his killer in. He knew them. Charlotte Gorday was stabbed without a struggle. Someone got so close to her there was no disturbance in her bedroom. And as for Nicolai, poor little Nicolai, he let them into his hotel room. He was terrified, in a strange city, and yet he let them in.’