The Rembrandt Secret (9 page)

‘But if it was genuine why would this casket have ended up in a
synagogue
?’

Sighing, Owen had faced his mentor. ‘Rembrandt was close to the Dutch Jews, he painted them many, many times. He was also friendly with the rabbi of that particular synagogue. Titus actually explains what happened in a note he pinned to some contract. There was an agreement between him and the rabbi that the latter would keep the casket hidden in the synagogue in return for one of Rembrandt’s paintings.’

‘Which one?’

‘I don’t know. It was probably destroyed in the fire.’

Gripped, Samuel had leaned towards Owen, his concentration intense.

‘But why did Titus go to such lengths to hide this casket?’ His clever eyes narrowed. ‘What else was in the box?’

‘A series of very personal letters.’

‘Whose letters?’

‘Geertje Dircx.’

‘Rembrandt’s
mistress
?’ Samuel had replied, awestruck. ‘Jesus, you have letters written by Geertje Dircx? What do they say?’

‘No one knows much about Geertje, do they? Just rumours about her and what happened to her.’ Owen paused, grabbed at a breath. ‘Well, these letters were written by her from the asylum to which Rembrandt had committed her. They are her testament to the violence she endured, of the treatment meted out to her by the world’s greatest painter. For loving Rembrandt she was given twelve years hard labour.’

Staggered, Samuel had leaned back in his seat. ‘I thought it was a rumour.’

‘The letters are the proof.’

‘Titus must have read them …’

Owen had nodded sadly. ‘Yes.’

‘So why didn’t he destroy them, I wonder …’

‘Titus loved his old nurse, Geertje. He would have felt some loyalty to her and wanted to preserve her testimony. At the same time he would have wanted to hide his father’s culpability.’

Sighing, Samuel had said, ‘You think
Geertje
gave Titus the letters?’

‘No … I think she turned to the church after she was released. After all, where else could she go? She had no home, no job. She couldn’t go back to her family who had betrayed her. In my opinion, I think Geertje gave the letters to a priest.’

‘So how did they end up with a
rabbi
?’ asked Samuel. It seemed obvious that Owen had given the matter considerable thought.

‘What if the priest, having read the letters, was scared and thought he should return them to the famous and powerful Rembrandt? Then the painter, relieved, would have put them away with his mass of other paperwork and his personal letters – history tells us he was a compulsive hoarder who seldom threw anything away. Then, over time, perhaps Rembrandt forgot all about them. He’d moved on, the court case was over, and Geertje was to all intents and purposes dead to him. Rembrandt presumably just got on with his life.’

‘Until?’

‘Until he was older and in real money trouble and hounded by his creditors. Only his son could get him out of it by having his father declared bankrupt and taking over the whole business. Titus would then have had to trawl through all the mountains of paperwork to do with his father’s work, and personal correspondence too. I believe
that
was when Titus found Geertje’s letters, and
that
was when he hid them. He knew how dangerous they were.’

‘And your father left the letters to you?’ Samuel said, hiding his unexpected, and unwelcome, envy. ‘What did Neville want you to do with them?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘No suggestions?’

Owen smiled. ‘My father writes that at first he thought of them as my inheritance; that I could sell them for a fortune one day. That as long as I had them, I would have a nest egg. Then, as the years passed, he realised I’d never sell them.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’ Slumping back in his chair, Owen had shaken his head, his expression incredulous. ‘Jesus, Samuel, I wake up in the middle of the night and think about what I’ve read. I see her, Geertje Dircx, in that House of Corrections. Incarcerated, forgotten, scribbling away at those notes, and praying that someone would read them one day and know what happened to her.’

He turned to Samuel and held his gaze. ‘She said that Rembrandt painted a portrait of her. I’ve been looking at his pictures around that time, trying to work out which one it is.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Not yet,’ Owen had admitted. ‘But some people believe it’s her likeness in
Susannah and the Elders
. I look at the painting, look into her eyes and I think about her, Geertje. About her son, about the tragedy of it all. And I think about how the world would view Rembrandt if they knew her story.’

Samuel brought his thoughts back to the present. Subdued, he moved over to the nearest bookcase and took down a volume, searching out the reproduction of
Susannah and the Elders.
When he found it, he looked intently at the young woman, with a bland, oval face, staring out at him. She had been painted as Susannah at the moment she was about to bathe – suddenly surprised by the old men watching her and holding a cloth to hide her nakedness. Her eyes were darker than the water under her feet …

Samuel stared into those eyes. Was he looking at Geertje Dircx? Before she was ill, and abandoned. Before she was imprisoned. The Geertje Dircx who was painted while she yielded to her lover and cared for his son. The woman whose words from the grave could ruin a reputation and undermine an industry.

Closing the book, Samuel’s thoughts went back to that summer day in the garden. He had watched Owen carefully – then asked if he could see the letters.

‘Of course you can. I thought you’d want to, once they’d been authenticated,’ Owen had answered, passing Samuel a package. ‘They’ll make you cry, I warn you.’

And they had. They had made Samuel cry, and excited him, and fascinated him. They had left him wrung out with emotion and – as he touched them – he had been aware that he was among the very few people on earth who had ever been privy to this secret part of Rembrandt’s life. The story was incredible, and yet unfinished … Samuel had wondered about that many times over the last year. It had seemed to him that the letters had ended abruptly, without a proper conclusion.

He had said as much to Owen, who had agreed. But something in the
way
he had said it made Samuel suspect that he had not been allowed to see all the letters. A possible last letter and the agreement between Titus van Rijn and the rabbi had perhaps been withheld from him. Perhaps Owen hadn’t wanted to keep everything together; perhaps he had divided the papers up and hidden them separately for security reasons. Either way, Samuel’s protégé was keeping something back. The thought had piqued Samuel at the time, since it seemed to indicate a lack of trust on Owen’s part, but he had duly returned the letters after he had read them.

Turning his rheumy eyes towards the corner of the room, Samuel stared at the dog’s bed. It was never moved, never disturbed, his housekeeper not daring to enter her employer’s room or touch anything. So the dog’s bed had stayed in the same place for years, long after the dog had gone. Dust had drifted underneath the bed, particles of fluff had sidled into the dark space. But there was something else in that darkness, under the empty bed. An envelope taped to the underside of it. An envelope containing a copy of the Rembrandt letters.

A copy Samuel had taken without Owen Zeigler’s knowledge.

A copy which could well cost him his life.

12

Amsterdam

Walking to the back of the restaurant on Warmoesstraat, Charlotte Gorday took a seat at a table in a booth. Marshall sat down opposite her, facing a fly-spotted mirror through which he could see the premises behind him. The place was hushed; only a few customers sitting at the bar in that morose little period between the end of office hours and the evening rush. Without being obvious, Marshall scrutinised the woman as she rummaged in her bag.
His father’s mistress
… It had never occurred to Marshall that Owen Zeigler would have a lover. Hadn’t he seemed the resigned widower, content to live with the memory of his dead wife rather than the reality of a living woman? But here she was, his father’s mistress. Charlotte Gorday.

The name meant nothing to him, had just added to his confusion. It seemed that everything he had believed about his father had been a smokescreen, hiding the truth. What else didn’t he know? What else was there to find out about someone he had thought he knew? The shocks had come one upon another, with no preparation, stripping away the respectable image of Owen Zeigler and revealing a completely different persona. And now this woman, sitting in front of him – his father’s lover.

She looked up, her eyes grey, freckled with hazel. Her steady gaze was contradicted by the shaking hand that held her coffee cup.

‘You didn’t know about me, did you?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry, but your father was a very private man.’

‘Even more than I thought,’ Marshall said cryptically. ‘As every day passes I’m finding out things I didn’t know.’

He paused. She wasn’t what he would have expected from the word ‘mistress’. Nothing vulgar or garish about her appearance; she was not overly young or overly blonde. Indeed, she had a faintly timid elegance, a refinement which reminded him unexpectedly of his mother and made her usurpation the greater blow.

‘Do you know why he was killed?’ she asked, her tone wavering.

‘Do you?’

‘No, why would I? I was just told it was a robbery that turned into a murder. At least, that’s what the police said when they talked to me, but I don’t believe it.’

Surprised, Marshall studied her. ‘Did you see the police in London?’

Charlotte nodded.

‘But you live in Amsterdam?’

‘No. I came over here to talk to you. I missed you in London, so I came here. I called by your flat yesterday, but there was no reply. Someone – one of your neighbours – told me you were travelling, but that you were never away for too long, so I thought I’d just wait until you returned. I know the city well.’

‘Did my father – did he tell you about his circumstances? He was facing ruin before he died. Did you know that?’

She held Marshall’s look for a long instant, embarrassing him.

‘I wasn’t dependent on your father, if that’s what you think. I have my own income. For God’s sake, I was helping him!’ she burst out, her lips trembling for an instant before she regained her composure. Slowly she touched her throat, her skin fragile, a gold chain showing at the open collar of her silk shirt. ‘I loved your father, I didn’t need a meal ticket.’ She reached for her bag, flushing with annoyance. ‘You’re not like him.’

‘I‘m sorry if I offended you,’ Marshall said, putting out his hand to stop her leaving. ‘I was just taken aback, that’s all.’

‘And I used the wrong word. I should have said
lover
, not mistress. But English isn’t my first language and even after so long I sometimes make mistakes when I’m upset.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘I’m Swiss,’ she said, hurrying on. ‘I loved your father more than any other man.’

‘Why didn’t you marry him?’

She snorted, colouring slightly. ‘Because I’m already married.’

Caught off guard, Marshall repeated.

‘Married?’

‘My husband works and lives in America. Philip didn’t want a divorce so we kept up a respectable front, and in private we lived our own lives. It’s not uncommon. Besides, we have a strong bond … But not like I had with your father, that was special.’

She paused, as though the words had come out too quickly and were perhaps ill judged. Folding her hands on the table between them, Marshall noticed that she wore no wedding ring, only a large signet ring with a seal. Her nails were short and groomed, but across her right wrist was a faint scar. Before Marshall could check her other wrist, Charlotte tucked her hands under the table, out of sight. Her expression wasn’t combative, but wistful, almost sad.

‘I suppose I shouldn’t have just turned up like this, unannounced. But I had to speak to you about your father.’ She smiled suddenly and became unexpectedly beautiful; giving a hint of what his father had loved. ‘There’s no one else I can talk to, no one else who knew about us.’

‘How long did you know my father?’

‘We were lovers for eighteen years.’

Marshall stared at her incredulously. ‘
Eighteen years?
’

‘We were always discreet. It was the way your father wanted it. And he was very protective of you. I think he believed that you would never accept anyone after your mother’s death—’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It’s what he thought.’

‘He should have talked to me about it.’

‘He said he tried.’

Stung, Marshall said, ‘I didn’t know him at all, did I?’

‘I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. How much did he know about your life?’

‘Only what I told him.’

She smiled generously.

‘Maybe you two
are
similar, after all.’ A moment passed before she spoke again. ‘I don’t believe it was just a robbery. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The police interviewed me but I couldn’t tell them anything, except that I knew Owen was in trouble and owed a lot of money, but I have to tell you something now, something which won’t put me in a good light. When we realised how bad everything was with the business, I wanted your father to run.’

‘Run?’

She nodded.

‘I told him that we could leave the country, go to Spain, South America. Switzerland. I had enough money for us to live quite well. The Zeigler Gallery and the paintings would be sold in absentia, the staff paid, any other profits passed over to his creditors.’ She sighed, fighting despair. ‘I just wanted him out of London, away from that gallery. I wanted him safe.’

Alerted, Marshall leaned towards her. ‘Why wasn’t he safe?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me, but I just know he wasn’t only worried about debts. There was more to it than money worries. I
knew
the man, there was more.’ She took a breath, then hurried on. ‘Owen told me everything about his work, his dealings. I knew about his finances. I was the only one who did. Even his accountant didn’t know the truth until the end. But despite everything we shared – and it was a lot over eighteen years – I knew your father was keeping something from me. What was it, Marshall?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, keeping his voice expressionless, the package in his inside pocket resting against his heart. ‘All he told me was about his business. He said he’d lose the gallery, that’s what was panicking him. That place was his life, his pleasure. He loved his work, and his reputation meant so much to him—’

‘No, there was more!’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘I
know
there was more to it than that,’ Charlotte said, looking away, fighting tears.

Swallowing, she struggled to compose herself. Marshall was tempted to confide in her, but resisted. Apparently his father had loved this woman for eighteen years, but if that was true, why hadn’t he confided in her? To protect her? Or because he didn’t trust her?

‘I don’t know how I’ll live without him,’ she said simply, getting to her feet. For a moment she stared ahead, then turned back to Marshall. He thought she was about to be angry, but her voice was quiet, resigned. ‘I thought you’d be able to explain, to give me closure. To tell me something that would make his death bearable. I’m sorry, it was too much to expect.’

His breathing laboured, Teddy Jack felt the warm trickle of urine snake between his legs. He didn’t know how long he had been in the crate but guessed it to be several hours, and all his frenzied shouting and kicking had attracted no notice. No longer caring whose attention he caught, Teddy pummelled the lid and, frantically moving his body from left to right in the tight confines, tried to turn the case over. He knew from the start that it was a wasted effort which would use up much precious oxygen, but simply lying still and waiting to die was unthinkable.

Exhausted, he finally stopped kicking, his hands clutching his head, his fingers raking at his beard. The Zeigler Gallery had been cordoned off, no one would come by. Not even the cleaner. It might be days before anyone returned and found him. And by then he would be dead …

Panting, Teddy closed his eyes, thinking of his past. If he had stayed in the North it would have been so different. He might not have made money, but had it been worth it? How much better might an uncomplicated life have been? A boring life … He thought desperately, longingly, of his ex-wife. Unaccustomed self pity made his eyes well up – how would she hear of his death? Would it matter to her? Probably not, she had moved on long ago. As for his parents, they were both dead, so who was left to grieve for Teddy Jack up North? And who would grieve for him in London? Just the working girls, and the woman at the café who made his tea the way he always liked it. In the final analysis, Teddy Jack realised that his closest friend had been Owen Zeigler, the man who had hired him and had come to confide in him. The man whose secrets he had carried for so long. And would now carry to the grave …

He should have walked away, should have resisted the temptation, but Owen had been persuasive and Teddy had always had something of the rogue about him. It had begun years earlier, not long after he had first come to work at the Zeigler Gallery. Owen had approached him in the basement, when the other porters were out having a smoke in the back yard.

‘Could you watch someone for me?’

Surprised, Teddy had glanced at his boss. ‘Watch someone?’

Coming from Owen, the request had seemed somehow less worrying. If Teddy had been asked the same by one of the working girls, he would have been wary, but his employer was a man with integrity. Teddy had seen how well he treated the other members of staff, how he made allowances for Nicolai Kapinski’s lapses and the receptionist’s bad time keeping. Owen Zeigler was fair in his dealings, a popular man, good natured and courteous.

And yet …

‘Why would you want me to watch someone?’

‘I told you when you first came here that the job might change a little,’ Owen had replied, picking up a book of gold leaf which was lying on the work bench. Carefully he had touched one of the gold leaves, the metal clinging greedily to his index finger like a fish going for bait. ‘I’m worried about one of the dealers. Timothy Parker-Ross. I knew his father, but now he’s dead I think Tim might be struggling.’ Casually, Owen had shrugged. ‘I just wondered if you could see what he does after hours. When his gallery’s closed. I’d like to know who he’s dealing with.’

And that had been it. A simple task, with a philanthropic intention, for which Teddy had been offered a generous fee …

The air in the box was turning sour now and Teddy was sweating profusely, his knuckles bleeding from where he had rapped against the lid. Fitfully he called out, but his voice sounded small even in his own ears and he knew it would hardly travel beyond the crate. His eyes closing, he allowed his mind to wander, his thoughts going back …

Timothy Parker-Ross had been something of an enigma. Well over six feet, he had lost most of his hair by the time he was in his thirties, and his nails were bitten to the quick. The perfect victim for the bully boys of the public school system, Tim had graduated to the extended bullying of the London art world. While his father was alive, he had been protected, brought in to work at the gallery because he lacked the confidence to seek an occupation elsewhere. So for years lanky, nervy Tim had followed his father around to the auctions, and sat in on private sales. With his lopsided smile and hesitant manner, he had impressed no one and commanded no respect. But he was liked. And he was trusted. And he made that enough.

When his father died unexpectedly Timothy Parker-Ross inherited the Parker-Ross Gallery, dealing in German and Dutch art. Within six months the gallery manager had left, taking the secretary with him. By paying exorbitant wages, Tim had managed to secure the sneering loyalty of the porters and the receptionist, but his overblown bids for indifferent works and his unshifting backlog of paintings had left his accountant exasperated. He wasn’t stupid, merely limited. In a less ruthless environment, Tim might have made a good living, but he was ill-equipped to deal with the bull pit of the art world and desperate to escape. So when another gallery owner had offered to buy him out, he had been tempted. Until Owen heard about their meetings.

Coughing hoarsely, Teddy scratched at the lid above him. Spittle was forming at the sides of his mouth, his skin was clammy, and his panic veered between indifference and terror. Stay calm, he told himself, breathe slowly, don’t use up the air … Again, he thought back in time to his surveillance of Parker-Ross. When he had reported his findings back to Owen, his employer had nodded.