The Rembrandt Secret (41 page)

‘Marshall will have gone over there for the sale. What time is it there?’

Blinking, he struggled upright in his wheelchair, glad to have something to concentrate his mind upon. ‘About four in the afternoon,’ he said at last. ‘You think that’s where he’s gone?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Does Marshall know anyone in New York?’

‘No, but I do,’ Georgia replied. ‘I know someone he could go to for help. I got Marshall’s new mobile number off Teddy Jack.’

‘But no answer?’

‘No.’

‘So leave a message.’

‘I have, several times,’ she admitted, ‘but he’s not called me back.’

Georgia was hoping that the reason her ex-husband hadn’t been back in contact was because he was angry, rather than that he was unable to call her. After all, to advise him to go to Philip Gorday, of all people, would have come as a shock to Marshall. She could imagine only too easily what he would think: Why had she never mentioned Philip before? And had she known about Charlotte Gorday? Chewing the side of her finger nail, Georgia stared at the mobile in her hand. She should have said some
thing a long time ago. Now Marshall would be suspicious, wondering
why
she had kept the relationship a secret. Especially in light of Charlotte’s association with Owen, and their inter-related deaths.

Damn it, call me! She willed the mobile to ring, asking herself why she had never told Marshall about knowing the Gordays. It was true she hadn’t wanted to think about her past, or her mother, and the subject had never come up – until Marshall found out about Charlotte, that is. Now, seeing the situation through Marshall’s eyes, Georgia knew she should have spoken up then, realising that he would wonder now what else she was hiding …

Guiltily, she thought about Harry, and remembered what they had told her at the hospital. Georgia had explained the reason for her absence by saying she was having trouble with her pregnancy and had been advised to rest. The lie made a worm in her heart, but at least Harry was improving; he was off the ventilator, breathing for himself, holding his own … She thought of her husband and felt, with profound contrition, only partial relief. Surely Harry should have been her first priority? Her first thought? And yet Marshall had usurped him in her present thoughts. Without understanding how it happened, circumstances had revived her feelings for her first husband.

Angrily, Georgia poked at the fire, the flames desultory, then she moved back to the table and sat down again.

‘I have to do something …
We have to do something.
’

As if he were coming out of a long afternoon sleep, Samuel stirred his sluggish thoughts into activity. If he
was honest he had temporarily faltered; unnerved by the gruesome death of Nicolai Kapinski and afraid for himself. The arrival of Georgia had compounded rather than alleviated his fears. Why was Teddy Jack corralling them together? To take care of them? Or make a bigger target? His suspicions had shamed him. After all, hadn’t Teddy Jack simply been following Marshall’s instructions to protect the people he cared about?

The alternative was too disturbing to contemplate. Being left alone, a man in a wheelchair, in a deserted house … He looked at Georgia, remembering that she was pregnant, and shook himself alert.

‘What
can
we do?’

‘I dunno,’ she replied, then asked him, ‘How did Owen got hold of the Rembrandt letters?’

‘He would never tell me. I asked him many times, but I could never get it out of him.’ The lie was smooth, convincing.

Picking at the cuff of his jumper, Samuel avoided Georgia’s gaze as his thoughts slid back to a summer day in 1973 and Owen – lit up, blazing like a firework, his usual urbanity giving way to a frenetic, overcharged excitement. Samuel had known the look; that rush of almost erotic triumph, and had felt his heart quiver with envy.
Owen Zeigler had the Rembrandt letters
and Samuel’s only consolation was knowing that his protégé would never misuse them. Dry-mouthed, Samuel had studied Owen and seen his own life rear up like a cheap pony in front of him. His learning, his teaching, his theories, would all
pale by comparison with the lushness of his pupil’s discovery. His own status would be relegated to second, a perpetual Dr Watson of the art world, and his bitterness at the realisation had uncoiled like a snake in his guts.

A bitterness of which he was ashamed. A bitterness he would never admit to anyone.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Georgia said, cutting into Samuel’s thoughts. ‘Owen must have said
something
about how he got them.’

‘He said nothing to me. Perhaps he told Marshall,’ Samuel replied, feeling his way tentatively, wondering how much Marshall had confided in his ex-wife. If keeping Georgia in ignorance was meant to protect her.

‘Marshall’s clammed up entirely about the letters,’ she replied, her tone short. ‘Why wouldn’t Owen tell you how he got hold of them?’

‘I don’t know!’ Samuel replied, emphatically, surprising Georgia. ‘I’m sorry, but I still find it difficult to know that Owen didn’t trust me.’

Samuel wasn’t lying, he
did
find it difficult, but he understood why. He knew he was too covetous, too ambitious to share, and his punishment was not so much in being beaten to the historic find, but in Owen’s recognition of his true character. All the years Samuel had believed he had led Owen Zeigler by the nose – grooming him and making him an ally for his old age – his protégé had listened and confided in him, allowed Samuel to believe that he owed him a debt of gratitude and honour – but that was not so. For all the knowledge Owen had been
given by his mentor, Samuel had long since been compensated. For the tutelage and insights, he had been rewarded. Owen Zeigler had paid off the debt completely, and added the interest of his charm.

But his complete confidence? Never.

Picking up a sheet of paper and a biro from a container on Samuel’s desk, Georgia turned to the old man. ‘I tell the kids I teach to write things down, make lists. Put things on paper.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like what’s been happening,’ she said firmly, jotting down the names of the victims and the manner of their deaths. ‘Can I see the reproductions of the paintings?’

Samuel passed a book over to her, depicting Rembrandt’s
The Stoning of St Steven.
‘Stefan van der Helde was forced to swallow stones. He was martyred.’

‘What about Owen?’

Samuel turned several pages, stopping at the
Anatomy Lesson of Dr Joan Deyman.
‘This echoes Owen Zeigler’s death.’

‘Oh, shit.’

‘I don’t think you should be doing this in your condition.’

Georgia gave Samuel a slow look. ‘I have to look at it. I might end up in this condition. I might be killed –
you
might be killed.’

‘I’m old.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ she said flatly. ‘I need to try and work this out. Show me the other paintings.’

Reluctantly, Samuel continued. ‘This is
The Suicide of Lucretia—
’

‘Charlotte Gorday?’

‘Yes.’ He turned over another dozen or so pages and paused at
The Blinding of Samson.
‘Nicolai Kapinski had his eyes gouged out.’

Horrified, Georgia pulled the book round to face her. In Rembrandt’s painting the overpowered Samson was being held down, the triumphant Delilah running away with his shorn hair. But that was not all. Not only was Samson overpowered, but one of his attackers was driving a metal spike into his eye, the socket imploding inwards, blood spurting from the wound.

‘People considered the painting melodramatic—’ Samuel began.

‘Especially Samson,’ Georgia finished drily.

‘After this work, Rembrandt toned down the content of what he painted. He was never so bloody again.’

Still making notes, Georgia looked at her silent mobile and then turned back to Samuel.

‘We know that the killer – or killers – copied the Rembrandt paintings.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘To show us they were connected?’

‘OK, that would make sense,’ Georgia agreed. ‘Any other reason? I mean, do they follow a chronological order?’

‘No … but it
is
a way for the killer to show off his knowledge.’

‘Why would that matter?’

‘It would matter to someone cultured, and to someone who wanted to own the letters. Someone who thought they had a
right
to them.’

‘You think the killer just wants to own them?’

‘Maybe, or maybe the person wants to feel close to Rembrandt.’ Samuel paused, his lethargy was lifting, his brain was regaining its intellectual keenness. ‘The killer could be saying that he understood Rembrandt, that he was paying him tribute with the murders. A way of flattering the painter. Or he might actually believe that by getting hold of the letters, he could protect Rembrandt’s reputation.’

‘
Protect him?
’

‘You know what was in the letters,’ Samuel said, carrying on immediately. ‘If they were exposed, Rembrandt would be seen not as a genial old genius, but as some spiteful, vindictive, greedy bastard. If someone had worshipped the painter, that would be unacceptable.’

‘A person wouldn’t kill for that!’

‘Someone deranged might.’

Thoughtfully, Georgia rested her chin on her hands. ‘But if that was true, the killer could simply have stolen the letters from Owen. Or come to some agreement with him.’

‘To buy them? No, Owen Zeigler would never have sold them.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Never?’

A moment passed, Samuel taking a while to reply.

‘Normally I would say never, but Owen
was
getting desperate. His business was failing, his friends had turned their backs on him. A desperate man might act out of character.’ He paused, then shrugged dismissively. ‘But no, even in the mess he was in, I don’t think Owen would have sold the letters. Possessing them was everything to him.’

Georgia nodded.

‘So it comes down to greed – the killer’s greed. He wants to use the letters to control the market. If he – and only he – knows which Rembrandts are fakes, he’d be able to blackmail collectors, even galleries. No one would want to see their priceless Rembrandts demoted.’

Suddenly galvanised, Samuel pushed back his wheelchair and moved over to the furthest bookcase. After looking for a moment, he brought down a narrow volume and wheeled himself back to the table. It was a record of every painting attributed to Rembrandt.

‘Did you see the list of fakes, Georgia?’

‘No.’

‘What if the paintings which coincided with the murders were on that list? What if they were some of those painted by Rembrandt’s monkey?’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘But no one’s seen the list, apart from Marshall. Oh Christ, he’s in real trouble, isn’t he?’

Her voice dropped as she stood up and moved into the hall. Re-dialling her ex-husband’s mobile number, she listened to the recorded message and then began to speak:

Marshall, it’s Georgia.

Look, I know it must have been a shock to find out that I knew the Gordays, but I’ll explain why I didn’t tell you when I see you. In the meantime, Philip Gorday can help you. I’ve left his details with my last message. He’s waiting to hear from you. He’s a lawyer with a lot of contacts. Ring him – No! don’t ring, go to his home … Please go to him for help.

You can’t do this alone.

Ringing off, she glanced at the clock, working out that it would be past eleven at night in New York. Marshall was on his own, in the middle of a city he didn’t know. And the auction was taking place at ten the following morning. He had eleven hours to get through. Eleven hours to survive …

The world was wicked that night.

Unable to sleep, Lillian Kauffman got out of bed and padded into the galley kitchen of the flat over her gallery. She then made herself some decaffeinated coffee and took it into the front room, which overlooked Albemarle Street. Without turning on the light, she sat at the window seat and looked out at the unlit Zeigler Gallery. She had lived in the area long enough to remember when it was a café, and the years which followed when no one wanted to take the premises over. Rumours of the ghost kept some away, others balked at the inflated rent, and she had been glad to see the urbane Owen Zeigler arrive. And stay.

They were bosom drinking buddies. Lillian had always been able to hold her drink and Owen was a steady consumer. If they were celebrating a deal, or a big sale, they would open a bottle of Krug; if they were gossiping they would line up several bottles of wine, and drink and talk into the small hours. It was Lillian who was the first to hear of Owen’s marriage plans, and they downed a fair amount of Chardonnay when Marshall was born. After
Owen’s wife died, Lillian had sat with her old friend and together they had drunk brandy. Lots of it. And stayed very sober.

They had been close in the way only loners can be. Open and affectionate, but always drawing back, keeping themselves intact. It didn’t surprise Lillian that Owen had not been a natural father, or that he had been so obsessed with his Rembrandt theory. What
did
surprise her was Marshall’s readiness to take over his father’s martyrdom. She hadn’t expected that, and was sorry for it. She would have liked to see Marshall Zeigler mourn his father and then return to his own life in Holland.

Lillian guessed that no one had expected Marshall to be so relentless. To care so much. Maybe they had thought he would recognise his limitations, come to accept Tobar Manners’ betrayal and Owen’s murder. Certainly no one – and Lillian had spoken to many people – had anticipated Marshall’s fervent, almost Messianic, zeal. From being the truculent, art-loathing kid, he had found a purpose in avenging his father’s death and had transformed himself. The attractive, clever, memory-busting translator had metamorphosed into someone else entirely.

Her glance moved back to the empty Zeigler Gallery. Oh, yes, Lillian thought, there were ghosts, all right, and some of them were living. Marshall Zeigler was proof of it.

Slipping into the doorway of an apartment building on Ninth Avenue, Marshall shook the rain off his coat and
nodded to the porter. Glancing back, he noticed a man on the street opposite and wondered if it was the same person who had ransacked his hotel room. After leaving Central Park, Marshall had gone back to the hotel to find the door of his room open. There had been no trolley outside, no cleaner’s paraphernalia, no reason for anyone to be inside his room – unless they had broken in.