The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  Journalists from around the globe came to interview the director of the Museum of Mankind, and Tobar Manners, the broker for the sale. The owner of the Rembrandts was to remain anonymous, although, as Manners pointed out repeatedly, the history of the works was never in question. On camera he seemed a brusque, clever man, with a facility for words and an unexpected charm, as dazzling as a firefly. No one watching or listening to him would suspect the panic inside, the ever present fear that at any moment the paintings would be called out as fakes. And with proof.

  It had taken Tobar only half an hour to decide what to do after he had finished talking to Marshall. He had waited in the dubious hope that Marshall might call him back, but as the thirty minutes ended, Tobar picked up the phone and began calling his associates. He said nothing about the Rembrandts coming up for sale in New York, and certainly made no mention that they were fakes. But he made very certain that everyone he spoke to knew that the Rembrandt letters existed. That the theory Owen Zeigler had had for so long was actually proven. Rembrandt had a bastard son who had forged for him. Rembrandt’s son, by Geertje Dircx. The monkey was finally out of its cage.

  The news was met with incredulity in some quarters, but as the rumour had been going apace lately, there was almost a sense of relief that the letters had actually surfaced. Then, after the initial relief, the facts slammed home. Without exception, everyone realised the importance and the danger of the letters. Leon Williams visited Rufus Ariel; Tobar Manners joined them a little later, all three men oddly reserved. The murder of Stefan van der Helde was understood when it was known that he had authenticated the letters. The murder of Charlotte Gorday came into focus too, because of her being Owen Zeigler’s mistress. And when someone mentioned the murder of Nicolai Kapinski in New York, no one was in any doubt that the killings were all connected. They spoke of Owen Zeigler, and of his theory. They spoke of a colleague and sometime friend who had found a smoking gun and had passed it on.

  The barrel was now pointed at all of them – and in the hands of his son.

  Flinging open the door of Rufus Ariel’s gallery, Lillian Kauffman walked into the office beyond. Her expression was combative.

  ‘When exactly were you going to tell me?’

  ‘You already knew about the letters,’ Tobar said, his tone surly.

  ‘I didn’t know that Marshall had them,’ she lied, sitting down on a chaise longue and crossing her short legs. Her make-up was perfect at eight-fifteen in the morning, her voice flinty as she studied Tobar. ‘Why put Marshall in danger by advertising the fact? I would have thought you’d done enough damage to that family.’

  ‘He told me to tell everyone.’

  ‘That he has the letters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? It would just mark him out.’

  ‘I didn’t ask why,’ Tobar replied unpleasantly. ‘He just asked me to pass on the message. Which I duly did.’

  She regarded him for a long moment, taking in the unreadable expression and level voice. Was he lying? Difficult to tell, but if Marshall had wanted to set him self up, why? Fiddling with one of her earrings, Lillian glanced at the three men, each displaying different emotions. Tobar Manners, inscrutable; Rufus Ariel, pink and chilling; Leon Williams edging panic, his thin, long legs stretched out in front of him as he slumped in his chair, nursing an acid stomach.

  ‘Maybe he wanted to flush out the killers,’ she offered, watching them all turn to her. ‘Well, it would, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You really think one of us is a murderer?’

  ‘No, Rufus, I think maybe all three of you are,’ she replied blithely. ‘Besides, the murders have a theme, copying Rembrandt paintings. How arty is that?’

  ‘I didn’t know about that!’ Leon murmured, disturbed as he looked round at the other men. ‘Who knew about that?’

  ‘There’ve been rumours,’ Rufus replied. ‘In the last killing Nicolai Kapinski was blinded.’

  Nauseated, Leon glanced away, and Lillian continued with her previous theme.

  ‘I was joking, of course, but then again, all three of you do have contacts. You could arrange things, get someone else to commit the murders for you. Don’t look at me like that, Leon! I remember that your grandfather was jailed for fraud. He could have made some useful contacts in Wormwood Scrubs.’

  ‘That’s a damn lie!’ Leon spluttered. ‘He was innocent.’

  Raising his eyebrows, Rufus turned to Lillian, his baby face malign. ‘What about you, Lillian? I imagine you could be as deadly as Medea.’

  ‘But why?’ she countered. ‘I adored Owen and wouldn’t hurt Marshall. And besides, I don’t deal in Dutch art.’

  ‘It wouldn’t just affect Dutch art, it would rock the whole market. We’d all suffer.’

  ‘We’ve all made fortunes, don’t you have any savings?’ Lillian replied, seeing them exchange glances. ‘Oh dear, never put anything away for a rainy day? Or even a spot of drizzle, by the looks of it.’ Her voice was amused. ‘The recession was never going to happen to us, was it?’

  ‘You needn’t look so bloody pleased about it,’ Tobar said testily. Lillian remained implacable.

  ‘Of course those Rembrandts coming up for sale … If they did turn out to be fakes—’

  ‘Fuck off, Lillian.’

  She stood up, amused, and left, crossing over and walking to the Zeigler Gallery when she thought she saw a movement behind the window. Curious, she peered in, then rattled the door handle. No one answered, but Lillian wasn’t satisfied and, pushing open the back gate, walked down the basement steps. Knocking at the basement door, she waited, then rapped loudly and imperiously on the glass.

  A moment later, the huge figure of Teddy Jack came into view as he opened the door. He nodded, then stood back for her to enter.

  ‘I’ve just seen Tobar Manners and his cohorts,’ Lillian began, walking into the basement area.

  The porters had long gone, the blood stain on the floor had dried to a raw umber, the window had been repaired. Slowly she looked around, her gaze resting on the large waste pipe where Owen Zeigler had been tied. At the bottom of the pipe was a strip of police tape, and a scratching of sawdust.

  ‘What d’you want, Mrs Kauffman?’

  ‘Maybe I should ask what you’re doing here, Teddy?’

  Shrugging, he leaned against the bench, lighting a cigarette. ‘I couldn’t keep away.’

  ‘Some say the murderer always returns to the scene of his crime.’

  ‘So you did it, did you?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘You know, I still imagine Owen here. Think I can hear his footsteps overhead, or the phone ringing in the gallery above.’

  ‘He was very fond of you.’

  Teddy nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘He relied on you,’ she went on. ‘I don’t want to know the details, Teddy, but I know you did some unusual jobs for Owen …’

  He said nothing.

  ‘ … and I know that Owen was never indiscreet, or injudicious about his confidants. Neither is his son.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why would Marshall Zeigler suddenly announce – via the odious vessel of Tobar Manners – that he has the Rembrandt letters?’ She perched on a stool, her feet just brushing the floor. ‘It’s a bit like being spotted by a bear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if you were camping with your family and a bear burst out of the woods – if you were brave and wanted to protect the ones you loved – you would call attention to yourself. Then the bear would go after you, and not your family.’ She paused. ‘Is that why Marshall did it?’

  ‘Of course that’s why he did it.’ Teddy agreed. ‘Don’t repeat this to anyone, but his ex-wife’s husband was the victim of a hit and run last night.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Harry Turner will live, but I don’t know in what kind of a state. I’ve got Georgia somewhere safe, along with Samuel Hemmings.’

  ‘Does Marshall know?’

  ‘No,’ Ted
dy replied, inhaling deeply on his smoke. ‘Marshall asked me to watch Georgia, but it was obvious when Harry was injured that I had to get her into hiding, and ensure Samuel was safe too. I’ve got people with them now.’ He regarded Lillian steadily. ‘Trouble is I don’t know where Marshall is. I don’t even have a number to ring him on. He keeps changing his phones … Have you got a contact number?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you where he was going?’

  ‘Not a hint.’

  ‘D’you think he’d go to New York?’

  ‘He might … for the sale.’

  ‘Mrs Kauffman,’ Teddy began steadily, ‘I should warn you not to go around blowing your mouth off. You should be more careful what you say – and who you say it to.’

  ‘I’m not scared!’ she snapped. ‘Besides, who’d believe an old Jewish broad like me?’

  He paused, wondering how he might best phrase the next words. ‘You should leave your gallery for a while. Until all this has been sorted out.’

  ‘All this?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No, Teddy, I don’t. And I’m not going anywhere. I live at the gallery. It’s my home, and no one’s scaring me out of it.’ She tapped the back of his hand. ‘I have an alarm system which would fry anyone who so much as touched the windows. I have a panic button direct to the police—’

  ‘Both of which rely on electricity.’

  She blanched. ‘What?’

  ‘Someone could cut the wires, Mrs Kauffman, and you’d be helpless.’ He stared at her, unblinking. ‘You know about the letters, that makes you vulnerable. Let me get you somewhere safe.’

  She rallied fast. ‘Do guns run on electricity?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, I thought not … I have a gun, Teddy, and I happen to be a very good shot. My late husband taught me how to defend myself. Trust me, I wouldn’t think twice about shooting someone.’ She smiled, her lipstick vivid. ‘I’m not running away. I’ve never run away from anything.’

  ‘I can’t watch you here.’

  ‘I don’t need watching! Watch Georgia, watch Samuel Hemmings, poor bastard’s in a wheelchair. And besides, he knows all about the letters. He was Owen’s mentor—’

  ‘But he didn’t see all of them.’

  Her pencilled eyebrows rose. ‘He didn’t?’

  ‘No, he never saw the list of fakes.’

  ‘How d’you know?’ she asked, her tone suspicious.

  ‘Marshall told me,’ Teddy replied, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘He said that Samuel Hemmings was safer because he didn’t have all the information. You see, the only people who are really in danger are the ones who know everything.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘Have you seen the letters and the list?’

  ‘No!’ Lillian laughed, genuinely amused. ‘I heard about them for years, but never saw them. To be honest, I never thought they really existed.’ She slid off the stool and walked to the back door, then turned. ‘Thanks for worrying about me, but it’s Marshall who needs help now.’

  And with that she walked out, her footsteps fading gradually on the street above.

  ‘I can’t stay here indefinitely!’ Georgia said, pausing beside the fireplace in Samuel Hemmings’ study. ‘I want to see Harry.’

  ‘Phone the hospital again,’ he replied, ‘they keep you in touch. You know what Teddy Jack said, we have to stay here.’

  Sighing, she turned to the old man and folded her arms, watching him at his desk. He had aged considerably in the last weeks, an angina attack proving the strain he had been under. His hands were not shaking any more than usual, but the skin seemed stretched, the blue veins visible. As though desperate to keep his mind focused, Samuel was working on a paper, typing laboriously at his computer, his gaze moving from the keyboard to the garden, and back again repeatedly. Aware of how difficult the circumstances must be for him, Georgia tried to curtail her restlessness. But although she had called the hospital three times that day, and been assured that her husband was making steady progress, she was unable to cover her unease.

  Luckily Samuel Hemmings was not a stranger to Georgia. They had met at her wedding to Marshall, and several times afterwards at the Zeigler Gallery. But the clever, sharp-witted historian she remembered seemed now reduced, shrivelled into a fallen leaf.

  Walking over to the table, she stood looking at the reproductions Samuel had laid out.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘It’s the way the victims were killed.’

  She slid out a chair and sat down. ‘You mean that each killing mirrored a Rembrandt painting?’

  He nodded. ‘Nicolai Kapinski’s was the last. His eyes were gouged out – The Blinding of Samson.’ Samuel paused, taking off his glasses, and turned to her. ‘You shouldn’t be thinking about any of this. Teddy said you were pregnant. You should be resting.’

  ‘How can I?’ She pulled the reproduction of The Blinding of Samson towards her. ‘Each victim’s death represents a painting?’

  He nodded.

  ‘How theatrical,’ she said, although she had wrapped her arms around her body protectively.

  The baby wasn’t moving and she wondered anxiously if the trauma would injure the foetus. Then Georgia realised that if she was killed, the child would die too … Her mind wandered back to Charlotte Gorday, then Owen Zeigler, finally resting on the memory of a summer six years earlier. She had still been married to Marshall then, and they had fought – the subject wasn’t important – and she had walked off. Defiant, she had stayed away for over six hours, knowing he would worry and knowing she was punishing him. Just as, when a child, she had punished her mother because she felt unwanted and resentful on that romantic holiday break Eve had planned with Philip Gorday …

  Staring at her stomach, Georgia made a promise to herself that if she survived she would never walk away from anything or anyone again. Because it was so passively violent. So silently hostile. She might fool herself and say that she was avoiding confrontation, but by leaving, she had known full well that she would fill the beloved’s head with terrifying anxiety. When all this was over, when she was home again, with Harry well and the baby born; when life was once more hers, and normal, she would never again walk away from anything.

  A noise outside interrupted her thoughts. ‘Where’s Teddy Jack?’ she asked Samuel.

  Sighing, he looked up from his books and pointed to the garden.

  ‘He’s gone now, but Greg Horner’s here and one of Teddy Jack’s men.’

  Curious, Georgia moved to the window. She could see Horner washing the car, his sleeves rolled up. He was soaping the headlights, rubbing a rag over them in curt, circular movements, his shadow mimicking the action. A little way off, across the garden, Georgia caught a glimpse of another man, someone she hadn’t seen before, younger, with cropped hair. He was very watchful, looking around him, at the house, the garden, even at Horner. His alertness was the very detail which worried her.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘One of Teddy Jack’s men.’

  ‘A Northerner?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  Samuel looked up. ‘No. This morning is the first time I’ve seen him.’

  Pulling a jacket over her shoulders, Georgia moved out of the house, skirting the garage and heading across the lawn. It had been raining again, and the heels of her shoes sank into the turf as she approached the stranger. Seeing her, he straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. He smelt of cigarettes and there was something familiar about him which Georgia couldn’t quite identify. A look she had seen in someone else’s face, an echo of another person.

  ‘Hello,’ she said simply, seeing his surprise as he nodded his greeting. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? Or coffee?’

  He paused. His eyes were very pale, his skin pockmarked around his neck. ‘Coffee.’

&nb
sp; ‘You’re not English,’ she said, smiling. ‘Where d’you come from?’

  ‘You should go back indoors—’

  ‘I need some air.’ Georgia laughed. ‘I have to stretch my legs. All that sitting around is boring.’

  ‘Mr Jack said I shouldn’t talk to you.’

  ‘Really? How dull,’ she said easily. ‘So, what’s your accent? Russian?’ She put her head on one side, teasing him. ‘I have two Russian children in my class.’

  ‘No, not Russian.’

  ‘Ah, you just sound Russian. D’you want sugar in your coffee?’

  He blinked. ‘Two spoonfuls, please.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Two spoonfuls, if you please,’ he repeated.

  ‘Polish.’

  He looked into her open, intelligent face and shrugged.

  ‘Polish, yes.’

  ‘I thought so. I’m usually good at accents,’ Georgia replied lightly. ‘I’ll get that coffee now.’

  Walking back towards the house, she paused beside Greg Horner, and, making sure she was not seen by the other man, tapped him on the shoulder. He turned his long-jawed face towards her.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘That new man. D’you know him?’

  ‘Nah, never seen him before.’

  ‘D’you know his name?’

  ‘Nah, Mr Jack just said he were here to help me out. Watching you and Mr Hemmings.’

  ‘So you know nothing about him?’

  Greg Horner squeezed out the rag he was holding and began to buff the car headlights. ‘Not a thing. And Mr Jack said to keep it that way. Said he could be a funny bugger, so to keep my distance. He said he was good in a fight though.’ He paused, straightening up. ‘Has he been bothering you?’

  ‘No. I was just wondering about him, that was all. He’s Polish.’

  ‘Well, that would account for it, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Him being a funny bugger,’ Greg Horner replied, turning back to the car and beginning to polish the bumper.

  A little later Georgia called the hospital and was told that Harry was stable, then she rang the Zeigler Gallery, knowing as she did so that no one would pick up. Inactivity didn’t suit her; her restlessness was only temporarily stilled when she took a late afternoon nap. But her sleep was disturbed by the image of a man with cropped hair climbing through the bedroom window and she woke, sweating, staring up to the unfamiliar ceiling, her breathing rapid. A lonely dread began to take shape in her brain, some insubstantial hint of menace. Against the drawn curtains she could hear a fly humming, even so early in the year, and the crunch of the gravel as someone walked over the drive. The day was beginning to turn down the covers to night, the light fading, as she struggled to her feet and moved out onto the landing.