The Rembrandt Secret (11 page)

Yet before he began to read, he looked back into the package, hoping to find a note from his father. But there was nothing there, and he felt oddly cheated. He had longed for a communication, something to blunt the horror of Owen’s murder, but the package had obviously been sent in haste.

Carefully Marshall laid out the pages on the table in front of him, trying to work out their order. The letters were in a square hand, careful, but in places uncertain, as though written in difficult circumstances. The slant of the writing varied too. Sometimes it was even on the page, sometimes it sloped to one side, the words veering off
towards the edge of the paper. At last he began to read, and he knew instinctively that the letters were genuine. He realised that he was bearing witness to a crime from centuries earlier.

Gradually, as he read on, the long dead Geertje Dircx was present in his flat, talking to him, her world coming alive as Marshall read about her incarceration. He could imagine the dread of being thrown out by her lover, the shock at being deceived by her own family, giving evidence against her. And her horror at having to face a twelve-year sentence in the Gouda House of Corrections – a sentence which could well mean dying in prison. From being Rembrandt’s mistress, Geertje had become his ex-lover, labelled as an aggressive hysteric and locked away, silenced.

Turning to the next page, Marshall found the first mention of Rembrandt’s monkey, and then paused, unnerved, as he noticed a piece of recent, clean paper clipped to the top. The note was written in a hurried, urgent hand:

I have had these letters checked out thoroughly, Owen.
They are genuine. The paper and ink are from the right
period, the watermark accurate. The ageing is also in line
with what you believe. The tests were redone three times.
To the best of my knowledge, and that of another leading
expert, these letters were written by Geertje Dircx in 17
^th-
century Holland. They stand witness to a moral crime
and an artistic deception, the fallout from which – I don’t
have to tell you – could be disastrous.

Be careful with these letters, old friend. They could be
lethal in the wrong hands. They are certainly dangerous
and I advise caution.

The note was signed Stefan van der Helde
.

The light was fading. Marshall went over to the window and pulled down the blind, flicking on a lamp to illuminate the chilly room. Pouring himself a drink, he returned to the notes. The name Stefan van der Helde echoed dimly in his head for a minute or two, then fell, like a Bagatelle ball, into the forefront of Marshall’s memory: Stefan van der Helde. Murdered in Amsterdam the previous year. Sodomised and tortured, forced to ingest stones – a macabre detail which had made the unsolved case even more memorable … Marshall felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Stefan van der Helde had read, and authenticated, the Rembrandt letters.

And – like Owen Zeigler – he had been murdered.

Hearing a door slam closed below him, Marshall gathered the letters together, and the note from Van der Helde, and put them back into the envelope. He would have to hide them but, where? He wondered suddenly why his father would have endangered him deliberately, then realised that Owen probably had had no choice. He had had to get rid of the letters, and sending them out of the country, to his translator son, must have seemed the only alternative.

But two men had already been killed for them and Marshall fought panic as he remembered his last conversation with Samuel Hemmings:

‘I was your father’s closest friend—’

‘
Which puts you in danger, doesn’t it? Because whoever’s after the letters might think you had them.’

‘Or you, Marshall. After all, you’re his son.’

‘Christ,’ Marshall said out loud, snatching up his coat and making for the door. He would go to his bank and put the package into a security box, then hide the key. Tucking it into the inside pocket of his coat, he ran down the two flights of stairs towards the entrance, but as he reached the main door it opened and a woman walking in blocked his exit.

‘Marshall? Marshall Zeigler?’

He paused, then nodded. ‘Yes. Who are you?’

Without answering, she moved past him into the entrance hall. She was a woman around fifty, elegantly dressed, her hair just brushing her shoulders, her hands fiddling, agitated, with her car keys.

‘I need to talk to you—’

‘Who are you?’ Marshall asked again.

He could feel the package pressing against his rib cage, could almost sense the words burrowing under his skin, wriggling into his bloodstream. Perhaps the woman had been sent to identify him. To point him out …

Marshall reached for the door handle. ‘I’m sorry, but I have an appointment—’

‘But I have to talk to you,’ she cut in, urgently. ‘Before
you leave here or do anything else. We have a great deal in common.’

‘Maybe we do, but I’m not talking to you until I know who you are.’

‘I’m Charlotte Gorday,’ she replied, her intelligent eyes fixed on his. ‘I was your father’s mistress.’

When he opened his eyes, Teddy Jack found himself in a dark, enclosed, confined space, his hands automatically reaching up and banging against a lid only ten inches above him. Panic rose immediately as Teddy made himself feel along the lid over his head. He was in a box. Not a coffin, it was a box, about the size of a coffin and as confined, but he could feel nail heads on the inside and slats against his back. Suddenly he realised that he was in a packing crate, one of the boxes used to ship paintings abroad. Sweating, he felt along the lid, the nail of his index finger trying to lever it open. But instead his nail broke, and screws held the lid tightly in place.

All right, Teddy told himself, think, be calm. Think … He could feel the sweat running down his back and between his buttocks, and resisted the temptation to call out because he didn’t know whose attention he would attract. Slowly, he breathed in, smelling the air around him. Wood shavings, and something familiar: rabbit size. It was one of the materials they used to prepare, or restore,
picture frames. So, he was in the basement of the Zeigler Gallery. Someone had seen him break in and followed him … And now he remembered the blow to the back of his head, the soft squelch of his scalp as it split, and then nothing as he pitched into unconsciousness.

And woke up in a box …

His ear pressed against the wood, Teddy listened for sounds, but the basement was silent. The funeral wake was over and the people who had visited the gallery seemed to have gone. God, how long had he been here? He didn’t know if it was day or night. Certainly there were no noises or footsteps, no sliver of light coming through the lid. And then another thought occurred to Teddy Jack – a thought which made his stomach heave. The packing cases were built to withstand any amount of rough handling – after all, the shipment of a valuable painting was a serious matter – so the crates were constructed to withstand being accidentally dropped, or any violent movement in an aeroplane or a ship. A series of wooden slats and leather straps held the painting inside, and the space between the work and the sides of the crate was bolstered by packing materials, kept separate from the surface of the picture but offering additional cushioning. In such a way the painting would be protected from any damage in transit, and the box was sealed tight against any water damage.

In other words, the crate was
air tight …
Teddy began to shake, clenching and unclenching his now sweating hands. He knew – because he had made and packed many of them – that there would be steel straps around the outside
of the crate. Vertical
and
horizontal. Straps so strong they could prevent the crate being smashed to pieces if it was dropped.

So strong they could keep a man inside without any hope of escape.

Feeling uncharacteristically depressed, Samuel Hemmings wheeled his chair over to the fire his housekeeper had lit for him. The chill he had caught at Owen Zeigler’s funeral had seeped into his bones, into his feet, aching in their slippers, and his hands clumsy with rheumatism. He thought fleetingly of how he had once promised that he would retire abroad, in the heat. But the years had passed like days and he had stayed in Sussex until he was too old to consider travelling any further than London.

Grasping his pen, Samuel opened the notebook on his lap and tried to turn his attention to an article he was writing on the National Gallery, but no words came. His brain was soggy with unease. Had he been right to lie? he asked himself, thinking back. He was an old man and had seen much in his life, but perhaps he had become too remote from the world, too busy with theories and opinions to confront reality. It was simple to take a stance over a dead painter; easy to pass judgement over what had long gone.

For many years, giving exclusive, intimate dinner parties had been a pleasure to Samuel, who would invite a handful of influential people to his Sussex home where they exchanged ideas. And gossip. Sheltered from financial
anxiety, he enjoyed the gathering of competing intellects, and had encouraged younger dealers and writers who sat around the oval dining table, talking until the early hours; enjoyed listening to the bristle of ambition and the flutter of creativity. Excellent food, expensive wine, and comfortable sleeping arrangements had been provided for his guests, nothing changing as the years passed and the guests came and went. Even when the dog died, his bed still stayed in the corner, unmoved.

Rubbing his knuckles, Samuel stared into the fire and thought about Owen Zeigler. He had not wanted to know the details of the murder, but on his return home, he had searched the Internet and read everything he could about his friend’s death. The details were shocking, terrifying, bringing overdue reality into the Sussex house. His friend had been tortured and killed. Dear God, Samuel thought, if Owen, why not him? Nervously he sipped at his tea, his hand unsteady. Verbally brave, he was mortally afraid of death – and pain. He knew all about pain. Rubbing his knuckles again, Samuel tried to imagine what Owen had suffered and wondered how his protégé had faced death… but he didn’t believe for one moment that the killers had found the Rembrandt letters.

Certainly Samuel had hoped that he might convince Marshall that they had, and that therefore they were both out of danger. But he was lying to Marshall
and
himself. His mind turned to paintings he had studied over the years, portraits and visions of martyrs’ deaths. Flayings, decapitation, all borne with fortitude and the knowledge
of a reward after sacrifice. A spiritual lottery win. But Samuel knew he had not the makings of a martyr. In print, he could challenge and parry, but in reality he was old, crippled, and he wanted to live.

His tea finished, Samuel wheeled himself into the hall and set the burglar alarm, watching the flashing red light flicking thirty times until it went out, to indicate that the outer doors of the house were secure. As ever, he would be alone at night. Mrs McKendrick only came in at nine in the morning and stayed until seven p.m., having made his dinner. She left it on a tray in the kitchen, within Samuel’s reach, and for the remainder of the evening he would usually work, or talk on the phone. Conversation fascinated Samuel, and his phone bills were a testament to the extent and length of his calls. Not only that, but during the last year he had extended his interest to the Internet and was now an active member of several historical and antique sites. To Mrs McKendrick’s astonishment, pieces of unexpected machinery had started to arrive – pieces Samuel had bought on Ebay. Like the extra large, extra complicated microwave and the industrial washing machine with the built in dryer. Faced with alarmingly complex machinery, Mrs McKendrick would fold her arms and refuse to use them, leaving them wrapped in their plastic in the garage, although Samuel was convinced that before long he would manage to get them indoors and in use. As he said, people had to get used to change. Only the psychotic couldn’t adapt.

Or the very old.

He sighed to himself. He had never thought of himself as old, but he was feeling old now. And lonely. Wheeling himself down the corridor, he headed for his sleeping quarters downstairs, next to a bathroom which had been altered to accommodate his disability. Upstairs was off limits to him now, and the rooms closed up except for when guests visited. Samuel had thought of getting a lift installed, but had decided against it. Until now. Now he was wondering about upstairs, remembering the rooms which were barred to him, the landing and attics as remote as Dubai. The house was too big, of course, but he would never leave it. Could never imagine having to uproot himself and his books, or readjust his thinking and habits to a new, convenient home. He could adapt his ideas, but his lifestyle? No.

And yet … Gripping the sides of his wheelchair Samuel patrolled the downstairs rooms, checking the front door, which had already been locked. With the windows curtained, and the alarm set, he should have relaxed, but Samuel Hemmings felt nervous. He was crippled, frail. Vulnerable. His house was outside the village, out of sight and earshot. Anyone could approach without being seen. Anyone could watch from the bushes in the day time and break in when darkness fell. For the first time in his life he felt afraid of living alone. The evening seemed to expand before him interminably, its usual pleasures dimmed. Unable to read or think with clarity, Samuel moved back to sit in front of the study fire, with the phone on a table next to him.