The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

‘Yeah, that’s the point,’ he had replied. ‘Couldn’t you have found someone to take her for seven days?’

  And then, two nights later, the girl had gone missing. The police had been alerted, Eve panicked, Philip certain that the child had run off deliberately to cause even further disruption. They found her forty- eight hours later, sleeping on a beach, hungry and defiant.

  She was using the same defiant tone now. ‘Philip Gorday?’

  ‘So it is you, Georgia.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I never expected to hear from you.’

  ‘My mother always expected to hear from you. She spent her life expecting to hear from you,’ Georgia replied curtly. ‘I heard about your wife’s death, I’m sorry.’

  He was caught off guard. ‘Thank you for that … Why have you called me?’

  ‘Not to plead my mother’s case, she’s married again. Settled down.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘So am I,’ Georgia replied, pausing to find the next words. ‘Apparently we have some people in common – and I don’t mean my mother.’

  ‘We do? Who?’

  ‘My ex-husband, Marshall, is Owen Zeigler’s son.’ She could hear Philip take in a breath and continued. ‘Marshall doesn’t know that I ever knew you. I didn’t like lying, but to be honest, I was glad you were out of my life and I didn’t want you back. Anyway, he didn’t even know that your late wife was his father’s mistress, and I didn’t think I should be the one to tell him.’

  She paused, remembering how she had bumped into Charlotte one day in London, when she was coming out of the Zeigler Gallery. She had been a long time friend of Eve’s and recognised Georgia immediately.

  ‘My God,’ Charlotte had said, smiling. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘I was visiting my father-in-law.’

  The news had impacted Charlotte like a bullet. ‘Your father-in-law?’

  ‘Yes, Owen Zeigler. I’m married to his son, Marshall.’

  With an effort, Charlotte had covered her surprise. ‘I see … And how’s your mother keeping these days?’

  ‘She’s fine.’ Georgia had known at once what had been going through Charlotte’s mind. ‘Don’t worry, she’s not with Philip again. That affair’s long been over.’

  Behind Charlotte’s eyes there had been a flicker of relief as she changed the subject. ‘Owen never told me you were married to his son.’

  ‘No?’ Georgia had queried. ‘Well, maybe he likes his secrets.’

  Having lived with a promiscuous mother who was adept at lying, Georgia had a well-developed instinct for conspiracy. Although fond of Owen, she had sometimes suspected that he had kept things back – and time had proved her right …

  ‘Are you still there?’ Philip asked down the phone.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here. I don’t want Marshall knowing about our connection. He doesn’t need to know about that part of my past.’

  ‘It was just one week, Georgia—’

  ‘For you, maybe! For me, it was years of my mother’s obsession with you. Christ, Philip, you were a bastard with her.’

  He said nothing. He knew it was true.

  ‘Anyway, that wasn’t why I called,’ Georgia went on. ‘Marshall’s in trouble. Our marriage didn’t work out, but we’re still close. He’s involved in something dangerous, and I think you might know something about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Rembrandt letters … Ah,’ she said, counting the seconds of silence, ‘I knew you would. Did Charlotte tell you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who told me. Let’s just say that I’ve heard about them. And about Owen Zeigler’s death, which was apparently connected.’

  ‘I have to ask you something, Philip: you’re not involved in this, are you?’

  ‘What are you talking about!’

  ‘Well, it would be one way to get revenge on Owen Zeigler, wouldn’t it—’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being Charlotte’s lover.’

  Exasperated, Philip took in a long breath before answering. ‘You really think I’d be capable of that? You really think it mattered so much to me? We led separate lives. Charlotte was free to have lovers—’

  ‘That’s what you said to my mother, but you still got into rages if she cheated on you,’ Georgia said coolly. ‘You don’t like losing, Philip, you never did. Perhaps Owen Zeigler was a thorn in your flesh for too long.’

  ‘Don’t insult me.’

  ‘Don’t insult me either,’ she replied, her tone testy. ‘I’m worried about my ex-husband and I’m not going to be polite to save your feelings. I have to know if you’re involved in this whole business.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Georgia replied evenly, ‘So you don’t know about Stefan van der Helde?’

  ‘No,’ Philip said honestly.

  ‘He was a Dutch dealer who was tortured and murdered after he authenticated the Rembrandt letters. He was killed for them. As your wife might have been—’

  ‘And Nicolai Kapinski, your father-in-law’s accountant.’

  This was news to Georgia.

  ‘I didn’t know about that … That makes four deaths, Jesus … Last time I spoke to Marshall he tried to convince me that it was a hoax, told me not to worry – but how the hell can I not worry? He’s got those letters, and people are killing for them.’ Georgia hurried on. ‘You can’t repeat any of this, Philip, it’s in complete confidence. It’s just that I didn’t know who else to ask for help. I had to come to you, Philip, you owe me – and besides, you always had connections in the art world. I remember how you used to talk to my mother about art. You always had an interest.’

  Deftly, he changed the subject. ‘Why doesn’t your ex-husband go to the police?’

  ‘He has his reasons.’

  ‘Maybe he does, but I don’t know how I can help him.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know either, but if he gets in really deep – I mean, if Marshall needs a lawyer—’

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘I don’t want a bill.’

  He grimaced down the phone. ‘You were always charming.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ She paused, thinking, then asked, ‘How did you find out that Owen’s accountant was killed?’

  ‘Nicolai Kapinski came to see me a few days ago. He wanted to know if I had the Rembrandt letters.’ Philip glanced over to the door, watching his secretary through the glass. ‘Kapinski was an odd, nervy little man, but he was really scared and what he said played on my mind. He also thought Charlotte had been murdered … Anyway, I didn’t have copies of the letters and I told him that, but something niggled about what he’d said, so I went to his hotel to talk to him. When I arrived, he’d already been killed.’

  ‘Did the police catch anyone?’

  ‘No. They’ve had no more luck in New York than they did in London,’ Philip replied. ‘You should try to convince your ex-husband to go to the police and tell them the whole story.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Marshall won’t do that. And besides, he’s changed his mobile number and left the gallery. I’ve tried calling him at his flat in Amsterdam, but no reply. I don’t where he is, or where he’ll go next. I don’t know what’s happening, but if he’s gone for the letters and they find him, God help him.’

  Philip heard the imminent panic in her voice and tried to calm her. ‘Where are the letters now?’

  ‘Marshall lives in Amsterdam, so I reckon he’d have them there.’

  ‘What’s he going to do with them?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she said desperately. ‘I’ve been trying to work out his next move. If the letters are made public they’ll rock the art market, so Marshall won’t publish them—’

  ‘But someone else might? And they could control the market that way?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a list of fakes with the letters.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘I know. Can you imagine how val
uable that would be?’

  Frowning, Philip rummaged around on his desk, then moved over to the table by the window. Underneath the day’s papers was a catalogue of the specialist auction coming up at the Museum of Mankind in central Manhattan: an auction of two Rembrandt portraits.

  ‘If your ex-husband calls, you put him straight on to me.’

  ‘Why, what is it?’

  ‘I believe,’ Philip said evenly, ‘that he’s in even more danger than you think.’

  36

  Wheeling himself over to the door, Samuel was about to leave his study when the phone rang. Hurriedly, he turned his wheelchair round, knocking it into a table as he did so and spilling some tea. Just reaching the phone on its last ring, he snatched it up.

  ‘Hello!’

  ‘Samuel, it’s Marshall.’

  Samuel sighed, wondering why he was so nervous. Outside the door, Mrs McKendrick began vacuuming; a moth beat its wings helplessly against the lining of one of the study curtains.

  ‘Did you find out anything?’

  ‘Geertje Dircx made a note about the paintings, a little memento to remind her that the portraits could be identified because the man had a beard.’

  Quickly, Samuel scrabbled around the books on his desk and pulled a catalogue towards him. ‘I have a reproduction of them now. The woman is wearing a typical Dutch cap; the man has a small ruff and a beard.’ He flicked over the pages hurriedly, testing his memory against the facts.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Checking something.’ Samuel went on, glancing over all the portraits Rembrandt painted in 1653. ‘There are two other paintings of men with beards, but no companion portraits. These were the only pair of portraits painted that year.’

  ‘So these are the ones on the list?’

  ‘Yes. They’re the only portraits we know that stayed in Dutch private hands for centuries, which narrows it down even further.’ Samuel rubbed his eyes. ‘Incidentally, I found out something else. The portraits were referred to as the Issenhirst portraits but only once, in an old 1957 catalogue. They were supposed to be put up for sale, but they never made it to the auction. They were withdrawn and—’

  ‘Disappeared for a while,’ Marshall finished for him. ‘So the New York paintings are fakes. Rembrandt’s monkey painted them.’

  ‘Dear God!’

  ‘How much would they make if it came out that Carel Fabritius was the artist, not Rembrandt?’

  ‘About a hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds.’

  Marshall, glancing around as he walked through Amsterdam and approached a bridge over a canal, was amazed. ‘So little?’

  ‘Fabritius isn’t regarded as an Old Master, but as one of Rembrandt’s many pupils.’ Samuel dropped his voice.

  ‘Where are you? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Marshall replied, glancing behind him again. This time he was suddenly aware that he was being followed and paused, looking into the cloudy water of the canal. ‘I have to go, Samuel.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What my father would have wanted me to do,’ Marshall replied, looking around again. ‘If I get the chance.’

  Before Samuel could reply, he clicked off his phone.

  Scratching his beard, Teddy Jack looked into the rear-view mirror of his van and watched Georgia walking up to her house. He had been keeping an eye on her since Marshall left. As she opened her front door and walked in, Teddy sighed and took out his mobile, running through the images he had captured on the camera. The first was of Tobar Manners hurrying around Albemarle Street with Rufus Ariel; two further images were of Georgia, but the last photograph was the one which made him smile wryly.

  On the evening Marshall had left for Heathrow, Teddy had trailed him. And at the airport, he had snapped the person who was following Marshall. Teddy recognised the man. In fact, he had known him for a while, had even tracked him once … Georgia’s door opened again, and Teddy saw an athletic, wiry man enter the house. Georgia’s husband, Harry Turner. After waiting for another few minutes, Teddy drove off, parked in a side street and called Marshall on his mobile.

  It rang out several times before Marshall picked up.

  ‘I’ve got a photograph of the man who’s been following you in London.’ he began, without so much as a greeting.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Someone’s following me now,’ Marshall replied, obviously rattled.

  ‘Go to a public place, don’t stay out on the street,’ Teddy advised him. ‘Keep in crowds, with people.’ He guessed that Marshall was walking fast, heard his breathing speed up. ‘You’ll never guess who’s been following you in London.’

  ‘Probably the same person following me now. Who?’

  ‘Dimitri Kapinski.’

  Marshall stopped walking. The street was deserted, slicked from a rain storm, and empty. Too empty. Moving into the nearest bar he ordered a beer. He then stood, tense, by the counter with his back towards the wall, scanning the faces around him. The sudden realisation that he was afraid hit him with a jolt.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘You said Dimitri Kapinski,’ Marshall replied, understanding coming fast. ‘Nicolai’s brother?’

  ‘The same.’

  Marshall dropped his voice. ‘Why would he be involved in any of this?’

  ‘Especially as his brother was murdered,’ Teddy said evenly. ‘Perhaps they were working together?’

  ‘Nicolai? No,’ Marshall replied, ‘not him. He wasn’t the type. He wouldn’t have hurt my father.’

  ‘You never know who’s the type and who isn’t. People change type when they’re under pressure.’ Teddy could hear the sounds of the crowded Amsterdam bar in the background. ‘Have you got the letters with you?’

  ‘No.’ Marshall replied, wanting to add – only in my head. He knew that he didn’t need them on his person as every word was committed to memory. The actual letters were to remain in the bank for safekeeping, with no one but himself able to get at them. As for the key, Marshall had put that in an envelope and posted it to the Zeigler Gallery, London.

  ‘There’s been a break-in at a gallery on Dover Street.’

  ‘Another?’

  Teddy sighed. ‘Lillian Kauffman was burgled too. She called the police.’

  ‘Did you talk to her?’

  ‘Yeah, she said nothing to them about the letters, just said she’d been burgled. And then she asked me where you were. Said I should help you out, because you’d make a crap hero.’

  ‘That sounds like her,’ Marshall said, scrutinising the drinkers around him. Suddenly he noticed a man watching him across the bar, and put down his drink. The man regarded him levelly, without blinking. Marshall looked away, and when he looked back, a woman had joined the man and they were laughing. God, he thought, calm down.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Keep an eye on Georgia,’ Marshall said firmly. ‘Make sure she’s all right, you hear me? Look after her until I get back.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Don’t let them get to her,’ he said urgently, thinking of his father’s violent death, and of Nicolai Kapinski. ‘I should never have got her mixed up in this, Teddy.’

  ‘I’ll see she’s OK, I promise,’ Teddy reassured him. ‘Trust me. What are you going to do now, Marshall?’

  ‘I’ll be in touch—’

  Teddy butted in quickly. ‘Before you go, I saw Tobar Manners today. He interrupted me when I was talking to Lillian – he thinks the peasants are deaf – but he was in a panic and he was talking about the letters.’

  ‘What did Lillian say?’

  ‘Told him to fuck off and grow up.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘Badly. He said that she’d take it more seriously if the letters turned up. Then she asked him if he was worried that the paintings coming up for sale in New York would turn out to be fakes. He looked like he wanted to slap her, but you know Lillian Kauffman. She just fidd
led with one of those doorstop earrings of hers and smirked at him. Said it would be justice for cheating your father.’

  ‘God, she doesn’t care what she says, does she?’

  ‘Nah, but Tobar Manners was really shaken, I could tell. She went on to say that it would be a blessing if someone got hold of the letters, a favour to the business, and then she said that if anyone had them it would be Rufus Ariel.’ Teddy paused. ‘Tobar Manners looked stunned, like maybe he hadn’t thought of that. Then he let it slip that a person could be in real trouble if they tried to hold on to the letters. Even killed.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘He said it.’

  ‘And Lillian?’

  ‘Said that she was looking forward to seeing two fake Rembrandts being exposed, and how it was a shame, seeing as how Tobar was acting as broker. But then again, what goes around, comes around.’ Teddy laughed. ‘She cares about you, said if you got strapped for cash, she’d help. I think she’s excited by the whole affair, wants to be in on it.’ Teddy paused for a moment, then took a shot in the dark. ‘You’re going to New York, aren’t you?’

  It was Marshall’s turn to be surprised. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because of the sale. Because if there’s one place on earth you should be now it’s New York,’ Teddy replied. ‘They’ll try and stop you, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you up for this?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ Marshall replied frankly.

  ‘All the dealers will be in New York for the sale. The people after you will be there too. It could be any of them.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘So how are you going to find out who it is?’

  ‘I’m going to flush them out,’ Marshall replied evenly. ‘He – or they – will have to show their hand. They want the letters, so they’ll have to try and get them off me.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Like I said, keep to the crowds,’ Teddy warned him, hearing the mobile connection breaking up. ‘Keep to the crowds.’

  Turning off his phone, Marshall left the bar and moved over a bridge. The sun was high, but giving little warmth, the bare trees were reflected in the canal below. He found himself thinking about his father, remembering. Many years earlier they had gone on a weekend to the Cotswolds, just after his mother had died. Owen had been rigid with grief and totally ignorant of how to cope with a young boy, and Marshall had been withdrawn. His memory shuddered as an image came back to him. One evening father and son had sat in the plush dining room of an expensive hotel, eating dinner, Marshall in his public-school uniform, Owen in a business suit. Their conversation had been forced, Marshall refusing to eat his fish, Owen embarrassed, his charm only working on the waitress.