The Rembrandt Secret (45 page)

‘When I have the letters—’

‘People will still laugh. Because it’s
you
that’s funny, Tim, and you’d still be the butt of the joke.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Marshall could see that the security guard had turned to talk to the other guard and – in that instant – he took his chance.

Knocking Tim back in his seat, Marshall ran for the dais. Stumbling up the few steps to the platform he reached the nearest painting and took a penknife out of his pocket. Almost as though he was slashing the throat of an animal, he brought the blade across the canvas. The picture sliced into two as the bearded merchant was summarily decapitated from his elegant painted ruff.

Before Marshall had a chance to escape, two security guards overpowered him, almost breaking his arm as they forced him to drop the knife. Hustled out of the auction hall, Marshall was half carried, half dragged, into the foyer. When the police arrived minutes later he was told he was under arrest and would be taken to the police station to be charged. He said nothing. Looking over the shoulder of one of the policemen, Marshall could see the shocked
faces surrounding him – many of whom he recognised – and as he was led away he also realised that he was, for the first times in days, safe.

At the police station he made one call – asking for his lawyer, Philip Gorday.

‘Marshall’s safe.’

Relieved, Georgia sighed down the phone. ‘Where is he?’

‘In jail.’

‘Oh,’ she said sarcastically, ‘well that’s OK then, isn’t it.’

‘I’ll get him out soon,’ Philip went on. ‘Apparently Marshall thought the letters were going to be published before the auction. He’d tried to get them to the papers, but when there was nothing in the news he took some drastic action of his own. You’ll read all about it.’

‘Spare me the suspense. What did he do?’

‘Your ex-husband slashed one of the Rembrandt paintings.’

‘
Marshall?
’ she said, incredulous.

‘It was a fake.’

‘Did he know that when he slashed it?’

‘Marshall did. The dealers didn’t,’ Philip said suavely. ‘That’s why he’s in jail. He’s an unusual man.’

‘Has he given you the Rembrandt letters?’

‘Yes,’ Philip said, ‘and the police have arrested Timothy Parker-Ross for the murders—’

‘
Parker-Ross?
’ Georgia replied, stunned. ‘But he’s one of Marshall’s oldest friends! Jesus, Parker-Ross! Are they sure it’s him?’

‘Apparently he confessed. Seemed rather proud of what he’d done.’

Philip could sense Georgia’s incredulity. ‘What was he like?’

‘Someone no one took seriously. Someone who seemed kind, harmless. The last person you’d ever suspect …’ She glanced towards Samuel Hemmings, sitting by the fire, listening to the conversation. ‘What about Dimitri Kapinski?’

‘From what I can gather, Kapinski
was
employed by Parker-Ross last year, but moved on. Parker-Ross travelled extensively, seems he picked up Kapinski along the way. He was already a criminal, keen for the money, and when he moved to London, Parker-Ross got him working for him.’

‘So why did he leave Parker-Ross? Why change sides?’

‘Because his brother was involved,’ Philip said. ‘Kapinski actually had some scruples and wanted out of it when he found out he was following Nicolai.’

‘But Parker-Ross didn’t commit the murders himself?’

‘No.’

‘So he must have had another accomplice.’ She looked over to Samuel, holding his gaze as she formed the next words. ‘Was it Teddy Jack?’

‘No. Teddy Jack was helping Marshall all the time. Teddy Jack hired Kapinski to keep an eye on him.’

‘While he was keeping an eye on us?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Smart.’

‘That he was,’ Philip agreed. ‘He felt bad about what happened to Owen Zeigler and a real need to protect Marshall. To prove himself.’

‘So what will happen now?’

‘The letters will be published, the list of fakes will be made public, and they’ll try to hang a public order notice on Marshall. But it won’t stick. He should be home soon.’

‘So it’s nearly over?’

Drumming his fingers on his desk, Philip stared at the papers in front of him.
So it’s nearly over?
The one thing he had never suspected of Georgia was naivety, but here she was, actually hoping that life would return to normal. Philip knew otherwise. He knew that the backlash was just starting. When the list of fakes was published, all hell would break loose. Dealers would claim that the Rembrandt letters were a hoax; they would demand authentications – many of them – to keep the case open and prolonged. Money would change hands for experts who would swear that the letters were fake. But in the end, they would be proved authentic.

And then the market would rock on its already unsteady feet. Collections, museums, private owners would all question their Rembrandts. Those on the list would be uncovered and exposed, virtually priceless works of art relegated
to inexpensive forgeries. And with the news of the forgeries would come the revelation of Rembrandt’s secret. Rembrandt’s monkey. Of Carel Fabritius, Rembrandt’s bastard with Geertje Dircx. Very soon, not only Rembrandt’s paintings but also his character would be re-evaluated … No, Philip thought to himself, it wasn’t over and it wouldn’t be for years.

‘It’s not that simple,’ he said, finally. ‘Marshall will have made a lot of enemies.’

He thought of his conversation with Marshall and of his client’s muted triumph at demoting the Rembrandts Tobar Manners had so desperately wanted to sell. Seeing his fortune literally slashed in front of his eyes, Manners had also seen revenge in action. Spooked, he had returned to London and then moved on, no one knew where. Not even Rosella.

‘No one can hold anything against Marshall,’ Georgia went on. ‘The truth was in the letters.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger?’

‘All right, what else
could
he have done? Died for them? What good would that have been?’

‘No good at all, but perhaps Marshall could have thought all this through a little more. He
could
have destroyed the letters when he first got them. Four people died.’

‘And he was damn near the fifth!’ she said shortly. ‘You’re such a hypocrite, Philip. I remember you telling my mother how truth was everything in law, and in life. How veracity always triumphed. How it
should …
So what changed?’
she challenged him. ‘What Rembrandt was, and what he did, is in those letters. And now the world will read them. The woman he tortured will be heard, and his bastard recognised. The truth will come out.’

Philip smiled distantly to himself and said, ‘A client once told me that the absolute truth is an instrument that can only be played by an expert.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘I advised him to start lying.’

Covering his eyes with his arm, Marshall lay back on the bunk in the cell, trying to sleep. He had talked to Philip Gorday at length and was waiting to be released, for the guard to come and tell him he was free to go home. The auction house had wanted to press charges, Philip had told him, but when the truth came out they had hesitated. Marshall’s reckless action was excusable, but between the shock of the damage and the exposure of the letters, he was going to be left to sweat a while in jail.

Philip had fielded the media, who were clamouring to line up interviews with Marshall on his release. He told them that Marshall Zeigler
would
be talking – but not for the time being. Exhausted, Marshall kept his eyes closed, remembering the expression on Tobar Manners’ face when he had slashed the painting. Marshall had been so quickly overpowered that he hadn’t had a chance to look at anyone else, just Manners. And he had held his gaze while the police were handcuffing him and jerking him to his feet.
Tobar’s expression had said everything before he skirted the crowd and disappeared out the back of the auction room, a beaten man. Marshall, hoisted to his feet, had been marched out. In passing the crowd, he had caught sight of Rufus Ariel and turned his head to look for Timothy Parker-Ross – but his seat was empty.

Screwing up his eyes, Marshall thought about Parker-Ross. He had never suspected him, not even considered him. He’d suspected every cunning, clever person his father had ever been involved with, but not the kindly fool … His mind turned back to his youth, to the two of them jumping onto London buses. Then he remembered the last time he’d seen Timothy Parker-Ross in London, deceptively caring as he called around at the gallery.

‘What’s up, Marshall?’

‘
I didn’t say anything was wrong.
’

‘No, but I’ve known you since we were kids. I can always tell when you’re worried …’

Marshall flinched as he recalled other conversations.

‘You’re like me. You’ve never been really interested in the art business. But then again, you got out, made another career for yourself. I never had the brains to do anything else …’

‘I’m a fool, everyone knows that.’

A fool. A vicious fool. Overlooked, underestimated. With a character which had brooded on its ill treatment for years. A fool in public, a thug in private. Marshall rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to understand. How
could
Timothy Parker-Ross be a killer? he thought blankly. Maybe the actual killings had been done by others; perhaps
Tim would have focused on the letters, dismissing the murders as an unpleasant necessity. After all, the letters must have seemed his only hope, the one thing that would ensure him status in a world which sneered at him. Perhaps, Marshall thought, his longing for power would have expunged everything else – even the death of a man who had helped him and protected him.

Marshall swallowed. He had to know if Parker-Ross had been at the murders. Had to know if his old friend had watched Owen Zeigler being tortured and gutted. If he had seen Stefan van der Helde sodomised and forced to swallow stones. If he had witnessed the knife go into Charlotte Gorday and split her heart. And if he been in that bleak hotel room and seen Nicolai Kapinski held down, his eyes gouged out, blood choking him as he died …

Had Tim seen all this? Jesus,
had
he?

Marshall had been right about one thing – the victims had all let him in. They had all known Timothy Parker-Ross and would never have been frightened of him. Van der Helde, Owen, Charlotte Gorday, Nicolai Kapinski – they would have recognised him as being part of their world. Someone no one feared. Of course Owen would have let Parker-Ross into the gallery, into the basement. Marshall could picture it only too easily, his father talking to the man he had thought of as another son. Perhaps Parker-Ross had asked him for the Rembrandt letters, tried to make some kind of deal. Marshall knew that his father wouldn’t have taken him seriously; would have laughed it off.

Letters, Owen would have said. What letters, Tim? He would have looked at him and smiled, thinking that of all people Timothy Parker-Ross wouldn’t have the clout to be able to handle something of such importance. No, Owen would have said, there are no letters …

With a shudder, Marshall wondered when his father first realised what Parker-Ross really was. When did he first fear him? Did the initial blow come from Parker-Ross, or from his accomplice? Not from Tim, surely. He had always been so afraid of blood, turning his head to one side if anyone cut themselves … So when did he turn his head away from Owen Zeigler? At what point did he separate himself from that death and the other violent deaths to come?

Hearing a banging, Marshall opened his eyes and glanced at the door, waiting for it to open. But it stayed closed, locked. Sighing, he stared back up at the ceiling. He would ask to talk to Timothy Parker-Ross, because he wanted to hate him. Wanted to know more. Because Parker-Ross was still partially the playmate of Marshall’s childhood, too benign to be feared …

And then Marshall realised that everyone would see Parker-Ross in the same way. That a clever lawyer could get him off by pleading insanity. Regurgitate the public-school upbringing, the bullying, the patronising dislike of the art world grandees; the people who admired his father so much, and pitied the son more by comparison. A mirror would be held up to the business, with all its petty spites recalled. Poor Timothy, they would claim, he
had money, but nothing else. No affection, no love. Detached, he had rattled around the world as an outsider, and then, obsessively and compulsively, he had fixed his thoughts on the Rembrandt letters. The way, finally, of making his name.

Anyone could understand that, couldn’t they? No, Marshall thought, and he had to make sure that no one
ever
understood what Parker-Ross had done.

Sighing, he sat up on his bunk and went to the door, calling out, ‘Hey, I need to see my lawyer.’

A guard came down the corridor and paused outside his cell. ‘You want something?’

‘My lawyer. Philip Gorday. I want to see him. I should have been out of here by now.’

‘That so?’

‘Yeah, that’s so. Please, can you get hold of him for me?’

‘Gorday, you say?’

‘Philip Gorday.’

‘He left a message for you,’ the guard went on. ‘He said to tell you that he’d be back soon.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘London—’

‘
London!
’ Marshall snapped, incredulous. ‘He can’t have! He can’t leave me here.’

‘He can, and he has.’

‘Let me out!’

‘Mr Zeigler, you must know I can’t do that,’ the guard replied, shrugging. ‘Relax. Your lawyer will be back.’

‘Did he say when?’

‘No, he just said he’d be back soon.’

‘Can I make a phone call?’

‘You had your phone call.’

‘Can I send a message?’

‘Do I look like a fucking pigeon?’ the guard replied curtly. ‘There’s nothing you can do, but wait. So wait.’

House of Corrections,
Gouda, 1654

For many days I did not touch the pen. The nib weighed heavy as a pail of water.

No one in Delft knew anything. It’s being called ‘’t Sekreet van Hollandt’. The secret of Holland. So many secrets … It was the 12
^th
October at 10.30 in the morning. It was warm, nothing unusual, still, without rain, even a small sun … They say the shudder reached the island of Texel in the far north.