The Rembrandt Secret (8 page)

BOOK TWO

10

Amsterdam.

Wrung out from travelling, Marshall walked into his flat, flung his suitcase on the floor, and turned on the light. The faint drift of dampness reminded him that he had left the heating off. A stack of mail lay on the rush mat. Picking it up, he recognised – with a shift to his heart – his father’s writing. Locking the door and bolting it, he moved into his main room and sat down with the letter on the coffee table in front of him.

Marshall knew at once what the envelope contained. The Rembrandt letters. Just as he knew that once he opened the package and read them he would be committed to his father’s cause. And, more importantly, closer to the reason for his father’s death. Marshall leaned back in the leather chair, his gaze fixed on the package. These were the letters for which Owen Zeigler had been killed. The letters for which his murderers had tortured him.

His thoughts turned to his last conversation with Samuel Hemmings. He had been wary of the old man, mistrustful, probing.

‘… people would pay a lot to own these letters.’

‘Or steal them.’

‘Or steal them,’ Marshall agreed. ‘That was the risk, wasn’t it? That instead of leverage, they became a death sentence.’

‘If they exist,’ Samuel said steadily.

Oh yes, they existed. Marshall stared at the large brown envelope, in which his father had sent them to him for safekeeping. Possibly Owen had panicked, had wanted the letters out of London, away from his circle, the people he knew. But
which
people? Who was his father afraid of? Strangers? Or someone close, intimate? He considered who had been close to his father – close enough to be a confidante, close enough to learn of the letters. Samuel Hemmings … Nicolai Kapinski … Teddy Jack … Marshall kept staring ahead, wondering how people he had liked and trusted had so quickly become suspects.

Again he thought of Samuel Hemmings. How could he be wary of the man who had been such a part of his childhood? His father’s mentor? But then again, Samuel Hemmings was very ambitious – and old. Perhaps he wanted to die with a flourish, and exposing the Rembrandt letters would certainly do that. What better epitaph for a mischievous iconoclast than evidence which would undermine one of the world’s greatest painters? How much pleasure would Hemmings have got from seeing attributions overturned and reputations publicly sabotaged? What better revenge would there be than to ridicule the art world, to reveal the truth about Rembrandt’s bastard, the monkey in the works who had made apes of them all.

But despite his ambition, or the temptation, would Samuel Hemmings
really
have hurt his father? Marshall kept on staring at the brown package, thinking of the accountant, Nicolai Kapinski. A gentle little man, sweet natured – except for those sinister lapses. Perhaps Nicolai had sat too long up in the eaves, seen too much of the money Owen Zeigler had earned. Perhaps jealousy had brooded, curdling with the sound of the cooing pigeons until, one day, the dark imp inside the Pole struck out.

Of course there was also Teddy Jack, a man he had met only once. The man Marshall knew least about, except that his father trusted him implicitly. Had that been wise? Had he perhaps confided too much in the Northerner? Perhaps Teddy Jack had learnt of the letters and found a buyer … Or maybe he had just killed Owen for them, for
him
to use
?
Tobar Manners’ face flashed in front of Marshall. For all his denials, people knew that Manners’ gallery was struggling as the recession bit deeper. The Rembrandt letters would have been catastrophic for his business, which relied on Dutch art sales. If Manners’ attributions were discredited, his reputation would be obliterated. As soon as the letters came to light and the art world started questioning every Rembrandt painting, Manners would stand to lose a fortune.

Remembering what his father had told him, Marshall realised that if the letters were exposed it would not be the first time Rembrandt’s work had been reassessed. In 1969 the Rembrandt Research Project had been set up in the Netherlands to look at every available painting and, using the most sophisticated methods, determine once and for all which were painted by Rembrandt and which by his pupils. As a result, a number of previously authentic works had been demoted and the number of authentic Rembrandts swelled – if not in number, certainly in value. Then, in 2004, four oil paintings which had previously been attributed to Rembrandt’s pupils, were declared to have been painted by the Master. Three were in private American collections, the last was owned by the Detroit Institute of Arts. Other rediscoveries of Rembrandts included a self-portrait, estimated to be worth £34,000,000, which was recovered by the Danish police nearly five years after its theft from Sweden’s National Museum. And, in addition, several of the Rembrandts which were reattributed in 1969 had been promoted again.

Could the art world shoulder another attributions scandal about Rembrandt? Could museums, collections, galleries and private buyers accommodate such a catastrophic hit? Marshall knew that one of the only areas which was fireproof was the Old Masters, especially Rembrandt. They alone could hold their value, because of their rarity and the esteem they had built up over centuries of trading. A Rembrandt could always command respect and a huge sale. But a
demoted
Rembrandt was another matter. A Rembrandt which had been painted by a pupil was an auction also-ran. Even if that pupil happened to be Rembrandt’s bastard …

Marshall picked up the package and weighed it in his hand, turning it over and scrutinising the envelope. Everyone in the art world be desperate to get hold of its contents, to use them to destabilise the market, or to make certain that they were destroyed in order to protect their interests.
And he, Marshall Zeigler, had them in his hands
… After another slight hesitation, Marshall opened the envelope and shook out the contents onto the table in front of him. The sheets of paper were of differing sizes and yellowing with age, the writing on them clumsy but not uneducated. The ink had faded in parts, but the script was still decipherable and, for Marshall, who was fluent in Dutch, easily readable.

Yet before he began to read, he looked back into the package, hoping to find a note from his father. But there was nothing there, and he felt oddly cheated. He had longed for a communication, something to blunt the horror of Owen’s murder, but the package had obviously been sent in haste.

Carefully Marshall laid out the pages on the table in front of him, trying to work out their order. The letters were in a square hand, careful, but in places uncertain, as though written in difficult circumstances. The slant of the writing varied too. Sometimes it was even on the page, sometimes it sloped to one side, the words veering off towards the edge of the paper. At last he began to read, and he knew instinctively that the letters were genuine. He realised that he was bearing witness to a crime from centuries earlier.

Gradually, as he read on, the long dead Geertje Dircx was present in his flat, talking to him, her world coming alive as Marshall read about her incarceration. He could imagine the dread of being thrown out by her lover, the shock at being deceived by her own family, giving evidence against her. And her horror at having to face a twelve-year sentence in the Gouda House of Corrections – a sentence which could well mean dying in prison. From being Rembrandt’s mistress, Geertje had become his ex-lover, labelled as an aggressive hysteric and locked away, silenced.

Turning to the next page, Marshall found the first mention of Rembrandt’s monkey, and then paused, unnerved, as he noticed a piece of recent, clean paper clipped to the top. The note was written in a hurried, urgent hand:

I have had these letters checked out thoroughly, Owen.
They are genuine. The paper and ink are from the right
period, the watermark accurate. The ageing is also in line
with what you believe. The tests were redone three times.
To the best of my knowledge, and that of another leading
expert, these letters were written by Geertje Dircx in 17
^th-
century Holland. They stand witness to a moral crime
and an artistic deception, the fallout from which – I don’t
have to tell you – could be disastrous.

Be careful with these letters, old friend. They could be
lethal in the wrong hands. They are certainly dangerous
and I advise caution.

The note was signed Stefan van der Helde
.

The light was fading. Marshall went over to the window and pulled down the blind, flicking on a lamp to illuminate the chilly room. Pouring himself a drink, he returned to the notes. The name Stefan van der Helde echoed dimly in his head for a minute or two, then fell, like a Bagatelle ball, into the forefront of Marshall’s memory: Stefan van der Helde. Murdered in Amsterdam the previous year. Sodomised and tortured, forced to ingest stones – a macabre detail which had made the unsolved case even more memorable … Marshall felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Stefan van der Helde had read, and authenticated, the Rembrandt letters.

And – like Owen Zeigler – he had been murdered.

Hearing a door slam closed below him, Marshall gathered the letters together, and the note from Van der Helde, and put them back into the envelope. He would have to hide them but, where? He wondered suddenly why his father would have endangered him deliberately, then realised that Owen probably had had no choice. He had had to get rid of the letters, and sending them out of the country, to his translator son, must have seemed the only alternative.

But two men had already been killed for them and Marshall fought panic as he remembered his last conversation with Samuel Hemmings:

‘I was your father’s closest friend—’

‘
Which puts you in danger, doesn’t it? Because whoever’s after the letters might think you had them.’

‘Or you, Marshall. After all, you’re his son.’

‘Christ,’ Marshall said out loud, snatching up his coat and making for the door. He would go to his bank and put the package into a security box, then hide the key. Tucking it into the inside pocket of his coat, he ran down the two flights of stairs towards the entrance, but as he reached the main door it opened and a woman walking in blocked his exit.

‘Marshall? Marshall Zeigler?’

He paused, then nodded. ‘Yes. Who are you?’

Without answering, she moved past him into the entrance hall. She was a woman around fifty, elegantly dressed, her hair just brushing her shoulders, her hands fiddling, agitated, with her car keys.

‘I need to talk to you—’

‘Who are you?’ Marshall asked again.

He could feel the package pressing against his rib cage, could almost sense the words burrowing under his skin, wriggling into his bloodstream. Perhaps the woman had been sent to identify him. To point him out …

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. With 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.’