by Alex Connor
Undaunted by her reputation or her manner, Marshall told her the details – without, of course, mentioning anything about the letters. Alert, and with something close to excitement in her eyes, Lillian listened, puffing on her cigarette, her eyes narrowed.
‘So who did it?’
‘No one knows. The police haven’t caught anyone.’
‘The police couldn’t catch a cold,’ she responded. ‘I’m so sorry. Your father was a friend of mine.’
‘I know.’
‘One of the few men I had time for around here,’ Lillian went on, knowing that Marshall was holding back and wondering what he was hiding. Her instincts leapt into action, her brain was galvanised. ‘Mind you, he had some mad theories.’
Marshall said nothing.
‘There was some wild tale about Rembrandt.’ She flicked her ash into a waste bin and paced the gallery. Her expensive shoes were too tight, her ankles puffy from the plane journey. ‘We used to talk about it, make up stupid stories about painters. Once, when we were drunk, we spent half the night trying to outdo each other. I believed that Leonardo’s boyfriend, Salai, was his bastard, and your father said he thought that Rembrandt had a son.’
‘He did,’ Marshall replied, unmoved. ‘Titus.’
‘Oh, your artistic education is improving,’ Lillian replied, now certain there was something to be uncovered. ‘There was a time when you thought Duccio was a brand of condom.’
He smiled, but refused to be drawn. Lillian sat down and crossed her short legs. Although Marshall had been warned from childhood about Lillian Kauffman, he admired her intelligence and, despite her acid tongue, knew her to be honest.
‘Are you staying here?’
‘Maybe,’ Marshall replied. ‘I’ve not made my mind up about what I’m doing.’
‘What about Teddy Jack?’
The question caught him off guard. ‘What about him?’
‘Was he questioned?’
‘You think Teddy Jack had something to do with my father’s murder?’
‘I think Teddy Jack was devoted to your father,’ she replied, smoothly. ‘He did many jobs for Owen. You see, living above the shop, as I have done for over twenty years, I can see people’s comings and goings. Mr Jack used to visit your father at very odd times.’
‘It must be useful having insomnia.’
She didn’t even blink. ‘Then again, Tobar Manners was also a frequent visitor. Is he still alive?’
‘Very.’
‘Pity,’ Lillian replied. ‘I was hoping your father’s murderer might turn out to be a serial killer.’ She looked around the gallery, then back at Marshall. ‘What aren’t you telling me? Oh, I know people say what a cow I am, and it’s true. But I was fond of your father and know a lot about what goes on around here. You don’t, and I could help.’
‘The police—’
‘Are arses,’ Lillian cut in. ‘The art world is as enclosed as a monastery. You have to work here, or be born into it, to understand it. No outsider can penetrate this world. You can’t afford to be ignorant here.’ She paused, then said, ‘Your father was looking for those letters, the Rembrandt letters’ – her eyes narrowed fleetingly – ‘Oh, I see a response! Very good, Marshall, no one else would have caught it. So you know about the letters, do you?’
‘No.’
She ignored him. ‘I knew your father had them—’
‘Really? Where?’
‘I don’t know that,’ she answered blithely. ‘I just know he had them. Now – speaking metaphorically of course – if there were Rembrandt letters, and if they proved that Rembrandt had a son, why would that matter?’ she asked herself, putting out her cigarette and pacing again. ‘It wouldn’t matter. Unless there was something about the son which was important … Am I warm?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Before Owen found the letters he would talk about Rembrandts being faked en masse. So is there a connection between the fakes and the son?’
Marshall shrugged.
‘Of course there are forgeries discovered everyday. Fake paintings, fake sculptures, fake letters – but then again, no one would kill for fake letters, would they?’ Lillian asked, not waiting for a reply. ‘But if the letters contained something dangerous, or something which could affect the art market then, yes, people would kill for them.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You have to tell me, Marshall.’
‘No, Lillian, I don’t have to tell you anything. There’s nothing to tell,’ he replied, his face impassive.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’ she retorted. ‘You need help. And I can help you. Do you realise how many people would be after those letters? Either to destroy them, or use them? Owen used to talk to me about it – oh, this is a long time ago, when he’d bang on about his bloody theory every time we had a few drinks. He’d say that if Rembrandt had had a son who was proved to have created many of his father’s works, the value of Rembrandts would topple. I can see Owen now, drinking a pink gin, leaning back in that chair’ – she pointed to one beside the empty desk – ‘He never seemed to tire of talking about it. Then suddenly, around a year ago, your father stopped talking about Rembrandt. He was struggling with money at the gallery, sales were down. He kept it quiet, but he let a few hints slip.’
Marshall could see her clever mind working, drawing on everything she remembered.
‘I noticed his silence on a subject with which he had previously seemed obsessed. The fact lodged in my brain.’ She tapped her left temple. ‘Your father could be obvious at times. His sudden reticence spoke volumes.’
‘Maybe he just went off the idea.’
‘Oh, yes, people do that,’ Lillian said sarcastically. ‘They just drop an obsession which they’ve been chasing for decades. And around that time that your father “went off” the idea, I remember noticing that Samuel Hemmings was visiting a lot.’
‘He was my father’s mentor.’
‘Did he authenticate the letters?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Don’t get snotty with me, Marshall,’ she said coldly, ‘I’m trying to help.’
‘Really? How could you help me?’
‘Have you got the letters?’
He thought of them sitting in the Amsterdam bank.
‘No.’
‘All right,’ she said, taking in a breath. ‘Let’s play a bit longer, I love a good game. I’ve had a marvellous holiday, my brain’s just burning to work. So, shall we take it from the beginning? Are the Rembrandt letters authentic?’
Marshall shrugged, watching Lillian.
‘Samuel Hemmings could have authenticated them, I suppose. But then again, maybe he’s not enough of an expert in Rembrandt. So who is?’ She paused, her back suddenly rigid. ‘Stefan van der Helde was murdered last year in Amsterdam. Van der Helde would have been the perfect person to authenticate the letters.’
Marshall realised that Lillian Kauffman wasn’t going to let go. She had fixed her bite on her prey and wasn’t going to give it up. Her mind was filtering everything she knew, drawing on information she had collected, old information which had seemed trivial but was now beginning to gel together into a sensational whole. Marshall watched her, her eyes brilliant, her logic at work, and was impressed.
‘I’d say Van der Helde was murdered because of the letters, so they must be authentic. My God,’ she said urgently, ‘what do they say? Tell me, Marshall, what do they say?’
Standing up, he walked to the door. ‘Thank you for coming over, Lillian, but I’ve some work to do—’
‘You have those bloody letters, don’t you?’ She looked up at him fiercely. ‘Christ, Marshall, if you do, watch your back. And remember, I’d be a bloody good ally.’
He was tempted, but decided against talking to her further. He remembered the mistake he had made in confiding in Georgia. Anyone involved in the Rembrandt letters was under threat.
‘Honestly, I don’t know about any of this. I don’t know what
my father was talking about. We never spoke about his business,’ Marshall replied, his voice steady. ‘I really do have to go now, Lillian—’
‘You need me. Don’t throw my offer in my face!’
‘I don’t mean to offend you, Lillian.’
‘Mrs Kauffman to you, boy,’ she replied, her tone autocratic. ‘You haven’t earned the right to familiarity yet.’
25
Rinsing her hair in the shower, Georgia paused, thinking she heard the phone ringing. Grabbing a towel, she moved out into the bedroom and then realised that the answer phone was picking up the message. Or, rather, the lack of message. Annoyed, she moved back into the bathroom and turned the shower on again, putting her hand under the water to check the temperature. The water was slow to heat up, she thought, wondering if she should turn the boiler on again, but then stepped gingerly under the tepid stream. Her teeth chattering, she danced from foot to foot, the blind drawn over the bathroom window shifting slightly behind her.
Feeling the water temperature rise, Georgia relaxed, the heat soothing her shoulders and back. She would phone Marshall later, give him an earful for not returning her calls … Her thoughts drifted as she wallowed under the warm water. Only six more months, she thought excitedly, six more months and she would be a mother. Smiling, she bit her lip. When she was married to Marshall they hadn’t wanted children; they were too young and too full of plans to settle down. But Harry was another type of man. Reliable, loving, a father in his pram. Made to be the head of a family.
Georgia shook her wet hair, then placed her hands on her stomach and pushed it out, arching her back. She wondered fleetingly what she would look like when her stomach swelled further, and made a mental note to get some Bio Oil to rub in to prevent stretch marks. Gazing at her fuzzy reflection in the tiles, she could see her arched back and rounded belly, see herself languidly soaping her skin … Behind her the blind shifted slightly, while Georgia sang to herself under the warm water and turned the HOT tap higher. But the water went suddenly cold and, cursing, she jumped out of the shower. Wrapping the bath towel around her, she made her way into the kitchen and stood in front of the boiler, staring at the timer knob and twisting up the temperature.
Suddenly, from above her head, came the crashing sound of glass. She jumped and looked up, then realised instantly that it came from the bathroom and was about to run back upstairs to see what was happening when she saw the shadow of a figure on the landing. Backing away, she scrambled for the front door handle – and then she ran, half naked, into the Clapham street.
Parking outside Samuel Hemmings’ Sussex home, Marshall was just turning off the engine when he noticed someone watching him from the steps on the side of the garage. A thin, morose man was smoking a roll-up, his jacket over his shoulders, his eyes curious under beetling brows. Carefully pressed trousers and shined shoes gave him a kempt look, but his face was heavily lined and sour.
Nodding, Marshall called over to him. ‘Is Mr Hemmings in?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Marshall Zeigler. Who are you?’
‘Greg Horner,’ he replied, flicking some ash off his smoke. ‘I’m staying here for a while. Keeping an eye on the place – and who comes here.’ He walked down the steps, over to where Marshall was standing, his glance resting admiringly on the car. ‘Nice.’
‘Didn’t you used to have the garage in the village?’
‘Yeah, sold it,’ Greg replied, lying and putting a more positive spin on the truth. ‘I remember your father. He used to spend a lot of time up here. Sorry about what happened to him.’ He dropped the fag end onto the gravel and ground it out with the heel of his polished shoe. ‘He was a gentleman. I bet the old man’s taken it hard?’
‘Yes, he has.’
Greg dropped his voice, although no one could possibly have heard him from the house.
‘Mr Hemmings never used to mind being here on his own. But now …’ he let the inference trail. ‘You don’t think about it, do you?’
Marshall blinked. ‘About what?’
‘Being able-bodied. No, you don’t think about it, but it must be hard, not being able to get around and do for yourself. I don’t suppose,’ Greg went on, his tone authoritative, ‘that Mr Hemmings will want to go back to being on his own. Not after having me around. Looking out for him.’
‘I don’t suppose he will,’ Marshall replied, moving into the house.
Samuel was bent over a book at the round table under the window when Marshall walked in. Looking up, he raised his eyebrows.
‘Have you met the guard dog?’
Marshall nodded. ‘Got the teeth marks to prove it.’
Smiling, Samuel leaned back in his wheelchair. ‘I thought you’d be impressed. You wanted me get someone around the place.’
‘Well, he certainly won’t be inviting company,’ Marshall replied, sitting down at the table and flicking over the pages of a book. Tired, he yawned and then rubbed his eyes, Samuel watching him carefully. In the short time since his father’s death, Marshall’s face had gained a wary look, but despite his obvious exhaustion, his eyes were alert, his deep voice stable.
‘Did you look at the paintings I told you about?’
Samuel nodded. ‘Very carefully.’
‘It’s a pattern, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it looks that way.’
‘I need some help.’
‘Yes, you said that on the phone. What kind of help?’
‘I need you to teach me.’
Surprised, Samuel stared at his visitor. ‘Teach you? Teach you what?’
‘About Rembrandt.’
Laughing, Samuel leaned back, his jumper spotted with gravy, his eyebrows raised.
‘What the hell for?’
‘Because I don’t understand what’s going on,’ Marshall confessed. ‘I’ve read the letters, but I don’t really know why they’re so important. I don’t know how the business works. Or how Rembrandt lived. I’m reading his mistress’s letters and I’ve only half the picture.’
‘Dear God, if your father could hear you now,’ Samuel said, flicking crumbs off the tartan rug which covered his knees. ‘He had to die to get you interested in art.’
Marshall smiled wryly. ‘Yes, ironic, isn’t it? But I have to know what I’m talking about. Look, I’ve inherited these bloody letters and the responsibility. People are dying because of them, so shouldn’t I know what I’m doing?’
‘Your father studied for a lifetime, and it didn’t save him.’ Reaching for the bell, Samuel rang it vigorously and Mrs McKendrick came in a few moments later. ‘Could we have some tea, please, Mrs McKendrick?’
‘Cake?’ she asked simply, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
Samuel nodded. ‘Oh yes, and cake.’
Smiling, Mrs McKendrick left the room and Marshall turned back to the old man.
‘Just tell me what I need to know, Samuel.’
Wheeling himself over to the fire, Samuel poked the flames into life, then looked over his shoulder towards his visitor.
‘Why are you suddenly trusting me?’
‘Because you told me about the letters,’ Marshall said frankly. ‘I knew then you weren’t lying.’
The door opened, and both men watched in silence as Mrs McKendrick laid down a tray on the table in front of the fire. When she had left the room again, Marshall poured the tea and passed a cup to Samuel, saying, ‘This is very civilised.’
‘When life is in chaos, the civilised things matter,’ Samuel replied enigmatically. ‘This is very serious, Marshall.’
‘I know.’
‘And I understand why you don’t want to go to the police, but you should think about it. Something could happen to you—’
‘No, Samuel, I’m not going to the police. Don’t ask me again. This is something I have to do myself. For myself and my father … I thought he’d sent me the letters, but it wasn’t him after all. It was Nicolai Kapinski. He sent them to me,’ Marshall paused for an instan
t. ‘Funnily enough, that’s made me more determined, not less. I was chosen to sort all this mess out.’
‘But you don’t have to get killed to prove it.’
‘I don’t intend to get killed,’ Marshall retorted. ‘But the more I hear about my father, the more I realise he wasn’t a happy man. He didn’t really trust anyone around him, and that’s a sad way to live, Samuel. I should have been closer to him.’
‘You had your own life.’
‘Yes, and I was so determined to prove the point. I didn’t want to know about the art world, I wasn’t interested, and I made it very clear I wanted to follow my own career, but I realise now how much that must have hurt him.’ Marshall paused, regretful. ‘My father couldn’t share his interests with me, because I didn’t want to know. The only thing I remember about his books is dropping one when I was a kid and getting shouted at because I broke the spine. Oh, I know my father had friends, people around him, but the more I hear the more I realise his life was not ideal. I told you about his girlfriend?’
Samuel nodded.
‘Well, Nicolai Kapinski told me she was blackmailing him.’
‘What!’
‘And Teddy Jack, the man who was apparently my father’s closest confidante, believes the letters were in Charlotte Gorday’s possession and now her killer’s got them.’
‘So he doesn’t know you have?’
‘No, and Nicolai Kapinski hasn’t told him either,’ Marshall replied. ‘I was watching them both this morning, wondering who was lying and who was telling the truth. It’s like they were still competing for my father’s attention, even after his death. When he was alive, it seems that he was always pitting one against the other.’
‘Divide and rule,’ Samuel said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I will. Your father had many good qualities and a brilliant mind, but he had one major flaw – a total inability to trust anyone. I’d known him for years, shared all my research with him, my private thoughts and feelings, but he still didn’t trust me.’ Samuel thought about the Rembrandt letters, and the fact that Owen had kept one back. ‘I believe that if your father had trusted someone he wouldn’t be dead now. Don’t you make the same mistake.’
