The Rembrandt Secret (22 page)

He had decided that he would leave the bulk of his estate to charity – half to The Art Fund, the other half to the local church and school. Now that his protégé was dead, his valuable book collection would go to the British Library and his few paintings to the local art gallery. After a lot of thought, Samuel had bequeathed several impressive pieces of silver to Marshall, as well as his old, and long unused, Austin car. He thought it would amuse him. As for Mrs McKendrick … Samuel paused, mentally increasing the sum he had first decided on. After all, no one made a Battenberg cake like his housekeeper. He wondered fleetingly if his gift would be enough. After all, what
would
be recompense for her finding her employer’s
body? Either dead from natural causes, or murdered and, worse, mutilated.

Disturbed, Samuel tried to shake off his sudden melancholia. The previous night he had been anxious, but it was daytime now. He could see his surroundings and the first timorous stirrings of spring. And after spring, summer would come lush and laughing into the garden, warming the house and mottling the walls with sun … Two weeks had passed, Samuel told himself, over two weeks since Owen’s murder. Perhaps it was over. Perhaps the whole terrifying business would simply end …

He opened a second letter and was reading it hurriedly when the phone rang next to him.

‘Hello?’

‘Samuel, it’s Marshall.’

He took in a breath. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, and you?’

‘All right.’

‘Did you know that my father had a girlfriend?’

‘No!’ Samuel replied, genuinely taken aback. ‘Owen never said anything about a woman.’

‘Her name was Charlotte Gorday. They knew each other for eighteen years.’

Taking off his glasses, Samuel rubbed his eyes, then wheeled himself over to the window. ‘I didn’t know anything about her. Does it matter?’

‘She’s dead. Committed suicide the day before yesterday.’

Down the lawn Samuel could see the gardener arrive and take the mower out of the shed. Ponderously the man
then walked up and down the grass, cutting it close to the earth.

‘She killed herself? Why?’

‘Doesn’t it seem odd?’ Marshall pressed him. ‘My father’s girlfriend dying?’

‘Should we be talking about this over the phone?’

Marshall laughed without humour. ‘You think someone’s listening?’

‘I don’t know, someone could be.’

A silence, then, ‘I want you to move into a hotel,’ Marshall said.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Samuel, listen to me—’

‘Don’t say you’re worried about me, Marshall,’ Samuel replied, acidly. ‘Last time we spoke you seemed to think I was the devil incarnate. In fact, you even intimated that you didn’t trust me.’

‘I’m sorry, Samuel, really. It’s been difficult.’

‘For all of us.’

Marshall kept his voice even. He didn’t want to frighten Samuel Hemmings, but he wanted to make sure that the historian was safe. And living alone, handicapped, in a remote house was inviting trouble. If Stefan van der Helde, Owen Zeigler and Charlotte Gorday – all able-bodied and fit – had been overpowered and killed, Samuel Hemmings would stand no chance at all.

‘You have to go to a hotel.’

‘No.’

‘Samuel, please!’

‘What about you, Marshall, are you going to hide in a hotel?’

‘That’s different—’

‘Because you’re able-bodied?’

‘Yes,’ Marshall admitted. ‘And because I have no choice.’

‘Since when?’ Samuel countered. ‘What’s changed?’

‘I need to find out who killed my father.’

‘Forget it,’ Samuel replied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘If you ask me, it’s over. I think the killer has the letters.’

‘No, he doesn’t. I have them.’

Samuel could hear the mobile phone connection crackling and presumed that Marshall was on the move.

‘
You
have them?’

‘They were sent to me.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘In London. I’m coming down to see you,’ Marshall replied. ‘I just want to make sure you’re safe—’

‘Where are they? The letters?’

Marshall ignored the question. ‘You
did
read them, didn’t you?’ he said.

Samuel glanced over to the dog bed, remembering the copies taped underneath.

‘Yes, I read them. All but one. Apparently your father didn’t trust me any more than you do, Marshall. I didn’t say anything to Owen at the time, but the letters ended too abruptly. One, at least, was missing. I don’t know how Geertje Dircx finished her testimony.’

Surprised, Marshall stopped walking. He was on the Embankment, opposite Cheyne Walk, looking out over the
blank eye of the Thames. A chill was blowing, making scuffs on the water; a tug boat was passing yards away, churning up a baby tide.

‘Who sent the letters to you, Marshall?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘All right, look at it another way –
why
did they send you the letters?’

Marshall stared into the dark water. ‘Like you said, Samuel, I’m Owen’s son. I suppose I was the natural person to send them to.’

‘But you know nothing about the art world, or about Rembrandt. You would be easy to dupe.’

‘Would you rather they’d been given to you?’ Marshall parried. ‘No, I don’t think you would, not really, not now. My father died for those letters and I want to know who killed him. And I want to make sure that they don’t get hold of the letters, because otherwise my father’s death means nothing.’

‘You don’t know who you’re up against.’

‘Do you?’

‘No,’ Samuel said truthfully. ‘I can’t help you, but I can warn you, Marshall. You’re out of your league. If you don’t go to the police, you don’t know what you’ll bring down on your head.’

‘We both know I’m not going to the police, Samuel,’ he said coolly. ‘Are you in your study?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Get one of your books on Rembrandt.’ He paused, waiting. ‘Ready?’

Struggling, Samuel opened a volume on his desk, the phone tucked under his right ear.

‘Now, look at the painting of
The Stoning of St Stephen
.’ Marshall said. He could hear Samuel turning over the pages, then pausing. ‘Stephen … Stefan. Stefan van der Helde’s stomach was full of stones …’

There was a sharp intake of breath from the old man.

‘Now, turn to
The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Joan Deyman
…’

Samuel hurried, through the pages while Marshall waited, until the image was looking up at him. ‘Yes, I see it …’ he said. His gaze moved over the picture, stared at the split scalp, the emptied-out belly of the corpse. ‘Oh, Jesus, your father …’

‘Yes,’ Marshall said softly. ‘You see it. Now look at
The Death of Lucretia
– and remember what I told you. Charlotte Gorday stabbed herself. Or rather, she was stabbed.
Now
d’you see why I want you to get out of your house?’

Transfixed, Samuel stared at the images, looking from one to the other in shock.

‘I have to see someone this afternoon, I have to keep an appointment—’

‘You have to leave.’

‘
I can’t leave here!
This is my home, Marshall. I’m an old man in a wheelchair; if anyone wants to catch up with me they won’t have to try very hard.’ His humour was strained. ‘I can’t leave this place. This is all I have, no one’s driving me out. Anyway, Mrs McKendrick’s here. She’ll be here until my lawyer leaves.’

‘And tonight?’

‘I can’t change my life now. It’s too late—’

‘You might not have a life to change if you don’t watch out,’ Marshall said firmly. ‘I’m coming down tonight.’

‘What for?’

‘I need you to help me with something.’

Puzzled, Samuel frowned. ‘What can I help you with?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ Marshall replied. ‘You need to get someone in the house. Someone able-bodied, someone around after Mrs McKendrick leaves for the day. You can’t be on your own at night.’

‘I don’t know anyone,’ Samuel said stubbornly. ‘I can’t just ask someone to come here and babysit me—’

‘Yes, you can. You’re handicapped, it would be a perfectly normal thing to do.’ Marshall replied. ‘Or get a male nurse.’

‘A nurse! I’m not having some bloody nurse around me, fussing and taking my pulse every half an hour.’

Patiently, Marshall took in a breath. ‘All right, don’t get a nurse – but get someone. There must be someone in the village you could pay to stay over. Get a man who looks capable of handling himself, there must be someone looking for a job.’ He paused, his tone serious. ‘Don’t brush this off, Samuel. Three people have died already – don’t be the fourth.’

Leaning against the counter of the village bakery, Doug McKendrick bit into the hot meat pie and winced as the gravy scalded his tongue. On a cold day there was nothing like a meat pie, he thought, wiping the gravy off his chin
with the back of his hand. Hearing the door open, he turned, and nodded a greeting to his brother-in-law Greg Horner, the part-time driver for Samuel Hemmings.

Always critical, Greg looked at Doug sourly. ‘Why don’t you try to get some of that pie into your mouth?’

‘Ah, stop moaning. That’s what you need, a good meal,’ Doug replied, taking another bite and refusing to acknowledge that his mouth was on fire. Ruddy-faced, he stared at Greg. Miserable sod, he thought, never a smile. ‘What,’ he said, after swallowing the mouthful, ‘are you doing here today? The old man want you?’

‘He does now.’

‘It’s Thursday, Mr Hemmings never wants you on a Thursday.’

‘Get off the counter and talk outside,’ the owner said, pushing Doug’s elbow off the glass and pointing to the door. ‘You’re dripping gravy everywhere.’

Outside on the pavement, Doug took another bite of his pie, Greg nursing a cup of black coffee. It was well known in the village that Greg Horner had once had a business of his own, but had lost it. Something he could never get over. Working as a part-time handyman and chauffeur had made his already bitter nature curdle. When he looked at Samuel Hemmings he thought of all his ambitious plans which he had been certain would bear fruit. He would be successful, that much had always been obvious to Greg. But not to anyone else, and he took his failure as a mark of his bad luck, rather than of his own doing. His natural surliness had not encourage custom at
his garage, and as the business faltered and his wife started an affair with the landlord of the Crown, Greg’s grudge against the world had hardened.

What irked him more was the happy contentment of Doug McKendrick. When he had first married Greg’s sister, Doug had been an oily-haired rocker with a motor bike. Thin as a garden hose, winking at the girls. When Lily got pregnant Doug had done the right thing, wearing his greased quiff to the wedding. Greg had sneered at his sister’s choice, and he’d never stopped sneering over the years which followed. Making sure he married a snobbish widow from the village, he opened his garage and lorded it at the local pub and round the shops. Every atom of his being was puffed with conceit – until another garage opened nearby and provided the locals with a choice. No one needed to go to Greg Horner any more, and within two years his business had failed. Forced to take work as a handyman, Greg managed to salvage some respect by working part-time as a chauffeur, but his demotion rankled with him and his wife’s infidelity had succeeded in finally curbing his ego.

And all the time Doug had been a happy man. Still living in the same place he had taken his wife when they married, he hadn’t changed or progressed in life, and seemed to feel no need to. The child which had necessitated their bond ended up a rather dull, round-faced girl who worked as a nanny for the local solicitor. When her charge grew up she took a job at the Co-op in the village, then married and moved away. With amazement Greg
Horner had observed his sister and brother-in-law, wondered why they didn’t rebel against the boredom of their lives, their lack of status. He never realised that they pitied him.

‘So,’ Doug asked, finishing his pie and screwing up the brown paper bag, ‘
are
you working for Mr Hemmings today?’

Greg paused to make the answer seem more important. ‘I’ve just collected his solicitor from the station.’

‘Solicitor, hey? Wonder what he’s come for. It’ll cost money, whatever it is.’

‘He’s up from London,’ Greg replied, eager to embellish the tale. ‘Mr Hemmings said he was coming for a meeting this afternoon. Said it was important. Lily’s made a cake.’

‘
Cake?
’ Doug repeated. ‘She never said.’

Greg was about to move away, but couldn’t resist passing on his news. ‘Mr Hemmings has asked me to stay at the house for a bit.’

‘
You never!
’

‘True,’ Greg replied, nodding. ‘Asked me to come on in the evenings, when Lily goes off. I reckon he’s not feeling up to being alone anymore. You know, being in that wheel-chair most of the time must be a struggle. I suppose he wants company.’

God, Doug thought, the old man must be pushed if he had chosen his brother-in-law for company.

‘What are you supposed to do?’

Greg could see that the news had irked the usually
equable Doug, and the thought pleased him. ‘Nothing much, just be around. There’s a flat over the garage where Mr Hemmings said I could stay. He wants me to be in the house until he goes to bed, but after that, my time’s my own.’ He paused, the idea hadn’t appealed to him at first, but now that he could see Doug’s unexpected discomfort, it was growing on him. ‘You should see it. Nice little bathroom, bedroom, sitting room. Really comfortable.’

‘He never asked
me
to stay at the house.’

‘You never worked for him!’

‘My wife does.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe he thinks we’ll get on better.’

Miffed, Doug stared at Greg, his tone sly. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right – if you don’t mind fetching and carrying for an old man.’

‘He’s paying me well enough not to mind.’

Smiling stiffly, Doug nodded. ‘Like I said, being a nurse-maid might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I hope it goes well for you. You could do with some excitement in your life.’

Turning into the garage of the Sussex house ten minutes later, Greg was surprised to see a car in the driveway. He had collected the lawyer from the station, so who was this? Parking, he stared over the hedge, but couldn’t see anyone. He lifted his suitcase out of the car boot, then climbed the steps to the room above the garage, where the stuffiness smelt warm from the heating. Greg glanced out of the window towards the house. From this vantage point he could see anyone approaching – or leaving. He
liked the idea. His insomnia had plagued him most of his life and made the nights elastic. He had lost count of the hours he had spent staring out of windows into empty streets. At least, living at Samuel Hemmings’ house it would be a different view, if nothing else … He sighed, glanced over the mature garden and the long drive, then turned back his suitcase. Perhaps Doug was right. Perhaps he
was
just going to be a babysitter for an old man.