The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  ‘A person wouldn’t kill for that!’

  ‘Someone deranged might.’

  Thoughtfully, Georgia rested her chin on her hands. ‘But if that was true, the killer could simply have stolen the letters from Owen. Or come to some agreement with him.’

  ‘To buy them? No, Owen Zeigler would never have sold them.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Never?’

  A moment passed, Samuel taking a while to reply.

  ‘Normally I would say never, but Owen was getting desperate. His business was failing, his friends had turned their backs on him. A desperate man might act out of character.’ He paused, then shrugged dismissively. ‘But no, even in the mess he was in, I don’t think Owen would have sold the letters. Possessing them was everything to him.’

  Georgia nodded.

  ‘So it comes down to greed – the killer’s greed. He wants to use the letters to control the market. If he – and only he – knows which Rembrandts are fakes, he’d be able to blackmail collectors, even galleries. No one would want to see their priceless Rembrandts demoted.’

  Suddenly galvanised, Samuel pushed back his wheelchair and moved over to the furthest bookcase. After looking for a moment, he brought down a narrow volume and wheeled himself back to the table. It was a record of every painting attributed to Rembrandt.

  ‘Did you see the list of fakes, Georgia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What if the paintings which coincided with the murders were on that list? What if they were some of those painted by Rembrandt’s monkey?’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘But no one’s seen the list, apart from Marshall. Oh Christ, he’s in real trouble, isn’t he?’

  Her voice dropped as she stood up and moved into the hall. Re-dialling her ex-husband’s mobile number, she listened to the recorded message and then began to speak:

  Marshall, it’s Georgia.

  Look, I know it must have been a shock to find out that I knew the Gordays, but I’ll explain why I didn’t tell you when I see you. In the meantime, Philip Gorday can help you. I’ve left his details with my last message. He’s waiting to hear from you. He’s a lawyer with a lot of contacts. Ring him – No! don’t ring, go to his home … Please go to him for help.

  You can’t do this alone.

  Ringing off, she glanced at the clock, working out that it would be past eleven at night in New York. Marshall was on his own, in the middle of a city he didn’t know. And the auction was taking place at ten the following morning. He had eleven hours to get through. Eleven hours to survive …

  The world was wicked that night.

  43

  Unable to sleep, Lillian Kauffman got out of bed and padded into the galley kitchen of the flat over her gallery. She then made herself some decaffeinated coffee and took it into the front room, which overlooked Albemarle Street. Without turning on the light, she sat at the window seat and looked out at the unlit Zeigler Gallery. She had lived in the area long enough to remember when it was a café, and the years which followed when no one wanted to take the premises over. Rumours of the ghost kept some away, others balked at the inflated rent, and she had been glad to see the urbane Owen Zeigler arrive. And stay.

  They were bosom drinking buddies. Lillian had always been able to hold her drink and Owen was a steady consumer. If they were celebrating a deal, or a big sale, they would open a bottle of Krug; if they were gossiping they would line up several bottles of wine, and drink and talk into the small hours. It was Lillian who was the first to hear of Owen’s marriage plans, and they downed a fair amount of Chardonnay when Marshall was born. After Owen’s wife died, Lillian had sat with her old friend and together they had drunk brandy. Lots of it. And stayed very sober.

  They had been close in the way only loners can be. Open and affectionate, but always drawing back, keeping themselves intact. It didn’t surprise Lillian that Owen had not been a natural father, or that he had been so obsessed with his Rembrandt theory. What did surprise her was Marshall’s readiness to take over his father’s martyrdom. She hadn’t expected that, and was sorry for it. She would have liked to see Marshall Zeigler mourn his father and then return to his own life in Holland.

  Lillian guessed that no one had expected Marshall to be so relentless. To care so much. Maybe they had thought he would recognise his limitations, come to accept Tobar Manners’ betrayal and Owen’s murder. Certainly no one – and Lillian had spoken to many people – had anticipated Marshall’s fervent, almost Messianic, zeal. From being the truculent, art-loathing kid, he had found a purpose in avenging his father’s death and had transformed himself. The attractive, clever, memory-busting translator had metamorphosed into someone else entirely.

  Her glance moved back to the empty Zeigler Gallery. Oh, yes, Lillian thought, there were ghosts, all right, and some of them were living. Marshall Zeigler was proof of it.

  Slipping into the doorway of an apartment building on Ninth Avenue, Marshall shook the rain off his coat and nodded to the porter. Glancing back, he noticed a man on the street opposite and wondered if it was the same person who had ransacked his hotel room. After leaving Central Park, Marshall had gone back to the hotel to find the door of his room open. There had been no trolley outside, no cleaner’s paraphernalia, no reason for anyone to be inside his room – unless they had broken in.

  He hadn’t stayed around any longer, but had pressed the elevator button for the ground floor, then ducked out of the elevator at the last moment and headed down the fire escape stairs. It had been twenty-two floors to the street, but Marshall carried on down another floor to the basement and found himself in the hotel laundry. A few Oriental women had given him no more than a passing and uninterested glance as he moved quickly through the steam vapour and headed for the smoky outline of the street entrance. Once there, Marshall had looked around him, and then noticed that it had started to rain.

  Pulling his coat over his head, he had run out into the street, hailing the first yellow cab he saw and slumping into the back seat. Asking the driver to wait while he checked his messages on the mobile, he found those from Georgia. Tired and suspicious, his first instinct had been to ignore them, but the last message – explaining about Philip Gorday – had decided him. He had a whole New York night to get through and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to do it alone. He couldn’t return to his hotel, couldn’t even get his clothes. All he had he was wearing – with the letters in his pocket.

  Resting his head against the back of the car seat, Marshall closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them again, seeing the driver watching him. He directed the man to Gorday’s address and, shifting position, he moved out of the man’s eyeline and stared out of the steamy window into the rainy night. He tried to console himself with the fact that although he hadn’t managed to send the e-mail, copies of the letters would now be on their way to the New York Times and The Times in London. He thought of Dean Foley, with the insect bite on his neck; of how he had looked so amazed when Marshall had thrust the letters into his hands. Amazed, yes, but compliant. Marshall was sure of that. After all, why wouldn’t he send the letters? In the morning the New York Times would publish them and the Rembrandt auction would be a disaster. No one would buy fakes, not when the letters and the list proved they were copies … He tried to smile to himself, to lift his confidence. When the news was out, Marshall told himself, he would be safe. No one would dare to touch him then.

  But tonight he was alone. And under threat.

  Punching out the number Georgia had given him, Marshall heard the phone connect.

  It was answered on the third ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Philip Gorday? It’s …’ Marshall paused, hurrying on. ‘It’s your friend from London.’

  ‘Marshall! Get over here. As soon as you can.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Don’t stop for anything or anyone,’ Philip went on.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Ninth Avenue, coming up for Forty-Ninth Street.’ />
  ‘OK, you should be here soon. Ring the bell and I’ll let you in.’ He paused. ‘Have you got them with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Marshall caught the eye of the cabbie and changed the subject. ‘I’ll be with you soon.’

  ‘Are they safe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In a bank?’

  Marshall paused, uneasy. ‘I can’t hear you, the connection’s breaking up—’

  ‘I asked where the letters are,’ Philip repeated, raising his voice.

  ‘Safe,’ was all Marshall would say, his distrust rising.

  ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘I’m hearing that a lot lately.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Philip reassured him. ‘You have to tell me everything, so I can help you.’

  ‘I’m losing the connection,’ Marshall lied. ‘If you can hear me, I’ll be with you soon.’ Then he rang off.

  ‘You want to get a better one.’

  Marshall looked at the cabbie through the mirror.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, you need a better cellphone. Connection’s usually good round here.’

  Ignoring the comment, Marshall asked, ‘How long before we get there?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘When we arrive, park a little way from the building, will you?’

  ‘You pay me, I’ll do it,’ the cabbie replied.

  They drove on for another few minutes, the cabbie finally pulling into the kerb and catching Marshall’s eye.

  ‘We’re here.’

  Anxious, Marshall glanced around the street, but he could see no cars following them, or any parked with people inside. Paying the cabbie, he clambered out and then bent down at the driver’s window.

  ‘Wait for me.’

  Shrugging, the cabbie slipped the car into park, and let the engine idle. The rain had stopped and the streetlamps made oil slick patterns in the puddles as a woman walked her dog. Hurriedly Marshall ran past her into the lobby of the building. There was no doorman behind the desk, so Marshall pressed the buzzer to Gorday’s front door and waited. No reply. Apprehensive, Marshall rang again. Then again, jabbing his finger repeatedly on the door bell and wondering why Philip Gorday wouldn’t let him in.

  Then suddenly he heard a car pull up only yards away from him. Panicked, Marshall rang the bell one last time. No answer. Then he turned and began running towards his waiting cab, but just as he reached it, the car slid into gear and drove off, leaving Marshall on the kerb – standing under the lamplight in full view of the men coming after him.

  House of Corrections,

  Gouda, 1654

  It was the devil’s winter. The canals froze in parts, the children skating under the bridges, merchants building fires on the ice. Underfoot there was nothing but milk whiteness until March, when it thawed and a little girl drowned, her body carried off by the callous tide. I remember it. Rembrandt said it would never be so cold again, but he was wrong … It is cold here, colder than being held underwater, cold in your lungs, cold in the vessels of your heart.

  I am thirty-nine, nearly forty. A good age for a woman, or a whore. They gave me twelve years imprisonment, at his behest, but when my son came and called me his mother, they could have given me twenty lifetimes in hell and I would have borne them.

  I told Carel to leave, leave Rembrandt and his greed, take his talent and his family and go away … Remote from Amsterdam. And his father. I wanted to say it, but didn’t. Couldn’t …

  Carel came back a second time, but he was different. He seemed taller, brooding like the oxen I’d once seen pulled onto the ice for slaughter. As if they knew their fate before seeing the knife. Before feeling the blade cross their throat … Carel told me of an argument between them, Rembrandt calling me a prostitute, a drunk. Promiscuous, he said, and Carel struck him.

  For me … he struck him for me.

  For a while there was no contact between them, then Carel was approached again, by Rembrandt’s agent. Bringing apologies, promises light as driftwood, bloated like bladder wrack … Carel told me this, told me he had agreed to work for Rembrandt again, and had worked throughout the winter, turning out paintings. Signed and passed off as Rembrandts. But not all of them. Not this time.

  Sssh … There is someone knocking against the outer door, and a dog barking that shrill petulant bark of an animal spoilt, fed well … Carel faked the paintings and then sold many of them on himself, cutting out Rembrandt and his agent. Pulling the knife across their throats. They did not know they were even bleeding … Carel told me all this and I felt the blade go across my own throat like the ox must have done, shock buckling my legs under me …

  I made a fortune, he said … Whilst the water was still frozen under the canal bridges, and another little girl skated over the thinning ice towards the grey horizon and the echo of the Matins bell.

  And he looked so much like his father that my hand went out to touch him and make sure it wasn’t van Rijn … Greed is a monkey too. Greed clings to its victims and hitches a ride on the backs of whores and crooks …

  But he saw what I was thinking and whispered in my ear,

  ‘The money is for you.’ Then his hand took mine and folded in my palm a bag of coins, so heavy my wrist ached … ‘Buy yourself out of this place. Buy yourself free …’

  And then the guard came in … I pushed the money bag into my sleeve. The guard told my son to leave. When I watched through the cell window Carel walked off, then turned and put up his hand again. But this time his fingers were together, tight, in rigor like a corpse.

  I am putting down the paper now. I cannot write any longer tonight …

  Today I believe it is my birthday, friends came with sweet-bread and a jar of herrings. I could make better, but thanked them. They studied me with that expression which tells you your looks have gone. We have no mirrors here … At night I lie on the bag of money and feel it against my hip bone and dream of freedom. I have the means to buy myself a door in the wall; a way out of this place.

  For a while knowing that is enough …

  I begin to plan. I begin to imagine living again. I begin to hope … I dream of going to Delft and visiting my son. And know I never will, but will stand on the corner opposite and watch his house. His wife, his children … I feel the coins press against my hip bone and think of my brother, my nephew, the neighbours who gave evidence against me, throwing in their lot with Rembrandt and his Stoffels woman …

  And I keep writing. Because now I know the words will be read. When I buy that door in the wall the world will listen to me …

  44

  New York.

  ‘Christ!’ Philip Gorday said, grabbing Marshall’s arm and dragging him back into the foyer of the building. ‘Lock it! Lock the door!’

  Marshall did so, his hand fumbling with the catch, then turned back to his rescuer. Only seconds before Marshall believed he had been set up; the men had been moving towards him just as Philip came out into the street and grabbed hold of his arm. They had raced for the elevator and when, breathing heavily from exertion, they reached Philip’s apartment, he had ushered Marshall into the sitting room and poured them both a drink.

  ‘Why didn’t you open the door when I rang!’ Marshall snapped, downing the brandy.

  ‘I didn’t hear it, I was in the basement.’

  ‘You knew I was coming—’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Philip replied, sitting down and trying to steady his own nerves. ‘You got here so quickly.’

  ‘Next time I’ll run round the block first,’ Marshall said bitterly, slumping back into the sofa. Then, softening his tone, he said, ‘Thanks for taking me in.’

  ‘I told Georgia to send you here.’ Marshall said nothing, just waited for Philip to speak again. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘I don’t know … yes. Yes, I am.’

  Nodding, Philip went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with some sandwiches. At once
the dog got up from its bed and padded over to the men, sitting between them.

  ‘Don’t feed him, he’s fat,’ Philip said, smiling slightly. ‘I should take him out for a walk—’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘No, maybe not tonight. Who were those men?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Have you been followed?’

  ‘All day. To the bank, my hotel. I lost them once, but they caught up with me here.’ Marshall paused, staring hard at Philip Gorday. ‘My ex-wife never told me that you two knew each other.’

  ‘I was her mother’s lover – on and off – for some years.’

  ‘She never mentioned it.’

  ‘Georgia is good at keeping secrets,’ Philip replied. ‘At least, she was when she was a child. She could bear a grudge too, but she was a strong person to have on your side. Tough little customer. Unfortunately, she was never on my side. In fact, until the other day I hadn’t heard from her, or seen her, for years. She contacted me because she thought I might be able to help you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I know about the letters.’

  ‘Obviously. You were married to Charlotte.’

  ‘My late wife didn’t tell me. Nicolai Kapinski told me.’ Philip saw Marshall’s surprise, and went on. ‘Charlotte and I were close, but she had a private part to her life.’

  ‘My father?’

  He nodded. ‘It was by mutual agreement. I had my women, and she had Owen Zeigler.’

  ‘Did you ever meet my father?’

  ‘No. I spoke to him over the phone a couple of times, but no, I didn’t meet him. When you called me I thought how similar you sounded – and you were kind about Charlotte’s death. That was like Owen too.’

  Marshall stared at the older man. ‘You’re all so sophisticated, aren’t you? With your lovers and mistresses, all your intrigues hidden under your carefully observed respectability. I have to tell you,’ he said flatly, ‘if Georgia had taken a lover I’d have wanted to kill him.’