by Alex Connor
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Of course you are,’ Samuel replied, still staring out of the window at the empty garden. ‘We’re all sorry. To be honest, at this moment, I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on the Rembrandt letters.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘You think not?’ Samuel parried, looking over to his visitor. ‘Three people already dead, Marshall. Because of those letters. Three people dead. And it won’t stop there. I didn’t want to spend the last of my days frightened, with some goon playing at being bodyguard. That wasn’t the way I pictured my demise. Yes, I’ve been ambitious and egocentric; yes, I’ve wanted the limelight and courted it. But essentially I’m not brave and I’m not up to this. You’re young enough to want to fight. I understand that. You want to prove something, find out who killed your father. You feel almost excited by what you’ve learnt about Rembrandt and the letters. But I’m old and in a wheel-chair – fear is not the last emotion I want to feel.’
Subdued, Marshall stared at his hands, taking a moment before he spoke again. ‘I always envied you and my father.’
‘Envied?’
‘Yes,’ Marshall said, nodding. ‘You had such passion. Such a fire for this business. Such commitment. I would watch you both and wonder why it was all so exciting. After all, the artists were dead, the paintings weren’t as interesting as a movie. It was dry and over. Done with.’ He sighed. ‘Then my father was murdered and I realised that, no matter how insane it seems to the outside world, people kill, and are killed, for the reputation of dead artists. They kill for auction prices, to keep the market up, the name protected.
‘I saw my father’s body and there was nothing dull about that. It was fresh and venal. When the police said it was a bungled robbery, I knew they’d leave it at that, because you’re right – no one understands the art world unless they’re in it. No one realises the brutality of it, the ruthlessness, unless they’re a part of it. No one can conceive of the lengths people will go to – unless they’ve moved in it and watched it.’ His voice fell. ‘And yes, Samuel, God forgive me, but for the first time in my life I do feel a kind of excitement. Because I want to find the person who did this to my father. And I want to make sure that they don’t get the Rembrandt letters and destroy them. Or worse, use them, and profit by them. It’s not because I give a damn about some dead Dutchman, but because I care about some dead Englishman.’
Impressed, Samuel stared at his visitor. ‘You’re putting yourself in danger.’
‘Everyone who knows about the letters is in danger.’
‘Yes,’ Samuel agreed. He picked up his copy of the letters and to Marshall’s amazement, he threw them into the fire. Both men watched them burn until, with little left of them but embers, Samuel turned back to Marshall, and said, ‘You need help.’
‘Yes, maybe I do.’
‘You should have a plan. Know what you’re going to do next,’ Samuel went on. ‘Have you anything to go on?’
‘The killer or killers must be in the business, otherwise they’d never go to such trouble with the murders. Setting them out like Rembrandt reproductions – that’s a specialised touch. They have a contrived look, artistic, eerily cultured.’ He caught Samuel’s attention and held it. ‘I don’t think the person who’s behind all this is the actual killer. I think someone else does the killing. The person who’s after the letters is clever, patient. He wants to show his refinement.’
‘D’you know who he might be?’
‘No. I just know that he’ll come after me,’ Marshall replied, reaching for his coat. ‘He’s found out that my father, Teddy Jack and Charlotte Gorday didn’t have the letters, so now he’ll be wondering who else would be likely to have them. And that leaves me.’
‘Or me.’
Marshall shook his head. ‘No, Samuel. You didn’t have all the letters, you don’t know everything, and now you don’t even have a copy. And I’m certainly not going to let you read the last one, that would be fatal. Stay in semi-ignorance. You’re not safe, but you’re not able to give this person what they want. You don’t know enough for them to kill you.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘So do I. Don’t let anyone too close, you hear me? Keep your housekeeper or Greg Horner with you at all times. Don’t go out alone, don’t be alone—’
‘But what if the killer gets to you?’
Marshall stared at the old man, puzzled. ‘If he gets to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
Samuel shrugged. ‘Think about it, Marshall. If you’re killed, who’ll stop him then?’
26
‘Jesus, darling, what is it? God, God.’ Distressed, Harry ushered Georgia into the sitting room, passing her a brandy and putting his jacket around her shoulders. She was wearing only a bath towel and she was shaking, but angry, her voice strident as she rubbed her bare legs to warm them.
‘Bloody kids!’ she snapped. ‘I was just taking a shower and smash went the window! God, I just ran, and when I looked back, there was this man on the stairs. Our neighbours called the police and they caught the little sod in the garden on Littlejohn Road.’ She pushed her damp hair back from her face. ‘Apparently they break into houses when they think people are at work. And usually I would have been.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said dismissively. ‘I’m fine. As fine as anyone can be, trying to take a bloody shower and then running out of their house half naked.’ She laughed hoarsely, touching her stomach. ‘Poor baby, all that excitement.’
Harry stared at her hand on her stomach. ‘Is it …?’
‘Fine,’ she reassured him. ‘Honestly, you do worry.’
‘Well someone did just break into the house.’
‘Did they steal anything?’ she asked suddenly, getting to her feet and looking round. ‘Have you checked?’
He laughed, holding her to him tightly. ‘You’re an ass, Georgia, what difference does it make if they stole anything? All I care about is you and the baby.’
‘Me and the baby are fine,’ she replied, ‘but what about the cash in the desk drawer? Did you check?’
The phone ringing next to them interrupted their conversation. Harry answered.
‘Oh, hi there, Marshall … Well, I can get her, but now’s not the right time. We’ve just had a break-in—’
She snatched the phone out of her husband’s hand. ‘Marshall?’
‘You had a break-in?’ he asked nervously, his grip tightening on the phone. ‘Are you all right? What happened?’
‘It was just kids. Apparently they’ve burgled a few places around here. Nothing to worry about. Honestly, I’m fine. Harry’s just panicking because of the baby.’
On the other end of the line, Marshall took a moment to respond.
‘The baby?’
‘I was going to tell you next time we met up,’ Georgia said hurriedly. ‘I’m over three months gone.’
‘Congratulations,’ he replied, a knot in the pit of his stomach.
He had told Georgia about the Rembrandt letters and here she was, on the phone, telling him that there had just been a break-in at her house and that she was pregnant … Jesus, he thought to himself, how could I have put her in such danger? What was I thinking? He could imagine her hair, her face – and for a second had an image of it mutilated and bloodied.
He struggled to keep his voice even. ‘Georgia, you remember what we talked about last time we met? About the letters?’
‘Yeah’
‘You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’
‘Only the BBC—’
‘Georgia, you didn’t tell anyone, did you?’
She dropped her voice, making sure that Harry couldn’t overhear. Behind her, she could just make out the sound of the kettle whistling in the kitchen.
‘No, of course not! I said I wouldn’t. Harry doesn’t know. No one does.’
‘Forget what I told you. It was all rubbish. I was wro
ng.’
‘Hang on,’ Georgia said, running upstairs with the phone and throwing it onto the bed. Then she pulled on a warmer robe and wrapped her hair in a towel before picking up the phone again. ‘That’s better, I was cold—’
‘Cold?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Georgia replied, hurrying on. ‘Now, what are you talking about?’
‘What I told you, the Rembrandt letters. They don’t exist. It was a hoax.’
‘Your father’s death wasn’t a hoax though, was it?’ she said, her intelligence as sharp as ever. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing. I’ve told you, it was a hoax.’
‘So your father was killed for nothing?’
‘It was a robbery that went wrong. Just like the police said.’
‘Have they caught the murderer?’
‘No.’
‘So how do they know?’
‘Because there have been other break-ins around the area, in other galleries. Apparently they think my father was tortured to give up the combination of the safe.’
‘Which he didn’t.’
‘No, Georgia, he didn’t.’
‘And Stefan van der Helde?’
‘A gay murder, or just another break-in.’
‘And both men tortured, and both galleries left intact,’ Georgia said smoothly. ‘Perhaps someone should tell these burglars that they’re supposed to take something.’
‘This is not funny—’
‘No, Marshall, this is bullshit.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, come on, Marshall, I might teach kids but I’m all grown up and I know when I’m being fobbed off.’ She paused, smiling as Harry came into the bedroom with a cup of coffee. ‘Thanks, darling. I’m just talking to Marshall about something he’s working on. I won’t be long.’
Nodding, he left the room. Georgia waited until she could hear her partner’s footsteps move into the sitting room and then turned her attention back to Marshall. ‘You can’t lie to me. I was married to you, remember? I can always tell when you’re spinning a yarn. Honestly, Marshall, if you’re worried about the break-in, it was just that. A break-in.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘Who?’
‘The burglars?’
‘I just saw one man.’
‘What colour? Height? Weight?’
‘Jesus, Marshall, he was on the landing, standing against the light, I couldn’t see anything about him clearly!’ She paused, keeping her voice steady. ‘The police caught him in a neighbour’s garden—’
‘They caught him?’
‘Yes, he was a kid. I told you, it’s nothing important, and it has nothing to do with your bloody Rembrandt letters.’
Momentarily relieved, Marshall took in a breath. At first he had needed a confidante, but as time had gone on and the danger of the situation had become more apparent, he had felt guilty for involving his ex-wife. His pregnant ex-wife. His thoughts turned to Charlotte Gorday and he flinched, wondering how to warn Georgia without spooking her.
‘Look, I just want you to be careful, that’s all.’
‘I know, I will be,’ she replied. ‘Is this because of the baby?’
‘No, I was going to talk to you anyway.’
‘So, it’s serious?’
‘No, it’s—’
‘Serious.’
He nodded. Then, realising she couldn’t see him, said, ‘Perhaps I should talk to Harry.’
‘No! Don’t involve him, I don’t want him to know. He’s a worrier. A great husband, but a worrier. I can’t have you telling him, Marshall, not when I’m pregnant. It’s not fair, and you shouldn’t ask it. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll forget everything you told me.’
But he knew she wouldn’t. She was too bright to wipe it from her memory.
‘I won’t see you for a while.’
Now she was worried. ‘What?’
‘I’ve a lot to do, Georgia. I’ll be tied up.’
‘So call me.’
‘I will. If I get the chance.’
Gripping the phone, she found herself anxious for the first time. ‘Marshall, you can’t cut yourself off. I have to hear from you, know you’re all right.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he assured her, knowing that he would dump his mobile immediately he got off the phone. If Georgia didn’t know how to contact him, it was one way he could safeguard her. ‘Don’t worry about me. Just look after yourself.’
She clung to the phone. ‘Look, you stupid bastard, don’t go getting into trouble, you hear me? You’re a translator, not some vigilante.’
‘I want to ask you something.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘How would you have described my father? Not in looks, in character.’
She paused to consider her answer. ‘I loved him. Owen Zeigler had a brilliant mind. Perhaps he could be devious, but he also had a great passion for what he believed in.’
‘That’s right,’ Marshall said. ‘And I never had that passion. Until now—’
She cut him off, because she was suddenly afraid for him. ‘You’re not your father, Marshall. You’re honest and smart, with a memory like a computer. You’re a brilliant academic, Marshall, but you’re only good in your own world. Stay in it – and stay safe.’
‘How can I?’ he asked gently, ‘when I now know it would never be enough?’
House of Corrections,
Gouda, 1654
It is hard to write these words. But I want to give a true account of my history. I cannot alter anything; cannot better it, make myself more respectable. I am what I did … When Carel had been working with Rembrandt for a while I would watch them and see likenesses. So much so I wondered that no one else had seen them too. Rembrandt’s nose was a miller’s nose, Carel’s large, but finer. Rembrandt’s mouth was not appealing, his teeth always giving him trouble. Carel’s mouth was wider, his teeth even, like the painting outside the barber’s. But their mannerisms echoed each other.
He was my son. Our son. Then, when Carel had been studying for a year, Rembrandt showed me something he had painted, and I saw it. I thought he saw it too and wanted to let me know. Wondered if he would suddenly remember me, remember the girl in the country who had had his child. But he was looking at the painting and thinking something else entirely. Not that this could be talent he had passed down, but that this talent could be used … Greed was his weakness, did I tell you that already? I forget … I’ve been ill again, shakes, and vomiting with the milk, which is rancid, the bread sour, crawling with weevils. They make you work, but not lately, not me. Rembrandt is still giving them money to keep me here, they don’t want me to die …
Is some love still there? No, I doubt he cares. I know he does not.
Greed, yes, he was greedy. Greedy like a pig at making love. All fingers and tongue, all heaviness, and greedy with his money, his love for painting. His colours, rags, brushes wiped down the side of the canvas, his shoes wet with oil, making slime patterns on the wooden floor. And the munching, harrumphing sounds he made when merchants came to the house to be considered for portraits.
I know – I doubt he did – that they looked down on him. We were country bred. He was a miller’s son. Not upper class Dutch, not merchant arrogant. Van Tripp might sit for a portrait, but he thought the painter a boor. I could see it, Rembrandt could not.
In some ways, I was the clever one.
When he walked towards mirrors he would pause, adjust his head as though painting himself, and then admire his face. I wondered often what he saw. I knew he understood each open pore, each crease to the lip, every hair around his fleshy ears, and yet he used pigment to make an aristocrat out of the miller’s son. The painting of him laughing, Saskia on his lap, hung on the stairs, high up, so you could only see it from the top landing. I used to stare at it, wonder about her ghost, if she still came around the house looking for him. Her breeding was a scold to Rembrandt, a reminder of what he was not …
I
was bred like him. I was his natural wife. I was his son’s mother. And the truth used to tickle my tongue …
Then one night I told him. But I told Rembrandt whilst he slept and he heard nothing … Yet the day after he was different with me and stared at Carel longer than usual. His sleeping mind had heard me. Something was telling him. From then on, he gave Carel more time than his elder brother, Barent, or any of the other pupils. The creeping Govert Flinck might try to impress him, but Rembrandt encouraged Carel, held his elbow and guided his hand, passing down through his touch and blood the talent which we all watched grow daily …
I could clean out the grates, chop the wood, weary myself carrying pails of water that a horse would balk at – but did I care? Every callus told me of the time I had spent in the house, and in Rembrandt’s bed. Every swollen vein, each bruise, reminded me that I was working for the man I loved, and our son was working too. Sometimes my pride would make my heart race. I would stop, touch my breast and look upwards to the wooden ceiling. And laugh, because I was the mistress of the house, of the master’s heart, and the mother of Rembrandt’s son – his finest pupil.
He must have known it. But the mind takes longer than the heart to understand … then one night I was washing and turned. Rembrandt was watching me, and his face shifted. He remembered. Later we made love as though we had never met before. As though we were strangers, and I told him – spoke the words – that Carel was his son. That I was the girl who had lain with the miller’s boy …
He put his hand over my mouth, told me to keep it a secret, and never to tell Carel. Then he gave me a little trinket, something of Saskia’s … I think she saw us. I think she came down from that painting on the landing and stood at the bedroom door, and pulled back the drapes round the bed and damned me… I believe she did. My life darkened from that night onwards.
And Rembrandt, knowing his son, made a knecht out of him. His assistant, he said. Then a little later, his jonggezel. His collaborator … Govert Flinck was steeped in bile, up to his puffy neck; Ferdinand Bol, quiet as a pastor, watching his companion pupil rise like a summer moon. Rembrandt worked often into the night with Carel, making him copy portraits and soon – how soon it was almost shocking – he asked our son to paint a portrait of a sitter who was coming the following day.
