The Rembrandt Secret (26 page)

‘So the dealers haven’t changed much over the years,’ Marshall commented drily. ‘I suppose Van Uylenburgh knew these Rembrandts were actually by Govert Flinck?’

Samuel shrugged. ‘How do I know? I imagine he guessed. There was a lot of money to be made. Rembrandt wasn’t above getting colleagues to bid up one of his paintings at auction—’

‘To make more money?’

Samuel shrugged. ‘Rembrandt had expensive tastes. He loved to collect paintings, silver, armour, furniture, china. In fact anything. Many of his valuable antiques he used in his pictures, but it seems that he just loved to spend.’

Thoughtful, Marshall stared at the Flinck portrait, then asked, ‘But if Rembrandt had people queuing round the block, how did he have time to undertake every commission?’

‘And there you have it!’ Samuel replied, leaning back in his wheelchair. ‘Rembrandt trained his pupils in his manner. Nothing wrong there – Rubens did the same – but where Rembrandt differed was that he would allow the work of the best pupils to be passed off as his own.’

‘You’re joking,’ Marshall said, feigning ignorance.

‘No, there’s evidence from the period. Houbroken, a
friend of Govert Flinck’s son, says that Flinck’s paintings were accepted as authentic Rembrandts – and sold as such.’ Samuel replied. ‘But we don’t have any evidence which says conclusively that such and such a painting was by
Bol
or
Flinck
or
Fabritius
.’

‘What about Fabritius?’

‘He was Rembrandt’s best pupil,’ Samuel replied, showing Marshall Carel Fabritius’s self-portrait of a young man. The face was strong, with a firm mouth and steady, level gaze. Intelligence shimmered around the features, but it wasn’t painted like a Rembrandt and had a look which was unique.

Surprised, Marshall stared at the image. ‘Fabritius didn’t paint like his father.’

‘No. Not when he was satisfying his own taste. Then he chose cooler colours, muted tones, like
The Goldfinch
, which is a masterpiece.’

‘But Geertje Dircx says that Carel Fabritius was Rembrandt’s monkey. That not only was Carel his son, but he was the chief assistant to Rembrandt—’

‘His main
jonggezel
.’

‘His what?’

‘His collaborator.’

‘His forger, you mean.’

‘And how clever it was,’ Samuel replied thoughtfully, ‘to pick the pupil with the greatest talent – but the one least influenced by the Master. People would easily suspect Bol or Flinck, but not Fabritius. Besides, Carel Fabritius didn’t stay in Amsterdam, he moved to Delft, away from
the studio, apparently well away from his mentor’s influence. To all intents and purposes, he studied with Rembrandt in the early 1640s and then left to run his own studio.’

‘So if we hadn’t read Geertje Dircx’s letters we would never have known about any of it?’

‘We wouldn’t have known that Fabritius was Rembrandt’s bastard, but over time there have been a few interesting attributions which have been reversed,’ Samuel said. ‘In Pasadena there’s a
Bust of Rembrandt
which has now been attributed to Fabritius, and in the collection of the Duke of Wellington is a pair of portraits, a man and his wife, which were long considered to be by the master. But not now.’

‘So people have suspicions?’

‘There have
always
been suspicions, but without proof. As I said, Rembrandt wanted to turn out as much work as possible. Over the centuries his works have been attributed and reattributed, but as most of them are considered to be authentic the value of Rembrandts have held worldwide.’

‘So the letter which name the paintings?’

Shaken, Samuel Hemmings stared at Marshall, his voice hardly more than a murmur.

‘The letter which
name
the paintings?’ He was alert in his chair, his eyes glistening, his expression shrewd. ‘Do you mean to tell me that there’s a list of the pictures Carel Fabritius painted for his father? A list of works which everyone thinks are Rembrandts but were actually created by his bastard son?
A list of fakes?
’

Marshall took in a breath. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘No, I didn’t bloody know! The list was in the last letter?’

Marshall nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘The one your father didn’t let me see.’

‘You didn’t see that one?’

‘No, and I always wondered
why
Owen didn’t let me see it – but now I know,’ Samuel replied, smiling ironically. ‘That last letter is the key to the whole fraud, isn’t it? Without it, it’s just Geertje Dircx’s word. The evidence of a mad woman.’ Sighing, he wheeled himself over to the corner of the room, his cane extended and poked at the empty dog bed.

Baffled, Marshall watched him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Come over here, will you?’

As Marshall did so, Samuel looked at him, then gestured to the basket. ‘Turn it over.’

‘Turn it over?’

‘Please.’

Nodding, Marshall flipped over the dog bed, and saw a faded brown package taped underneath. Without looking at Samuel, he pulled the parcel free and weighed it in his palm.

‘The letters?’

‘A copy.’ Samuel wheeled back to the fire, shivering although the temperature had not fallen. ‘This is a greedy business, the art business. We’re all ravenous for success, money, reputation. Reputation above everything. We want to make our names, so that people will remember us and our intellectual detective exposés.’ He laughed sourly, his
hands folded on the tartan rug over his legs. ‘This copy was supposed to be my guarantee.’

‘Of what?’

‘My part in history,’ Samuel replied. ‘My guarantee that I knew about the letters, that I was in on it. That this incredible information
I
was privy to. When people talked about the Rembrandt letters in the future they would remember Owen Zeigler
and
Samuel Hemmings, because I would write about them. I would be in on it.’

‘Only if my father revealed them.’

‘But he would have done, in time!’ Samuel snorted. ‘Not now. I understood that, it would have been wrong for the truth to come out now. But in a couple of years, when the economy’s recovered, when New York and London are back to their old greedy ways –
then
he could have published them. Blown the whole art market up. Boom!’ He made a sound with his lips, his hands raised, palms upwards. Then he let them drop back into his lap. ‘I was living for it, Marshall. It kept me alive. I could hold on, knowing that I had something to hold on for. I used to look over to that dog bed and smile, thinking about the packet taped underneath and know that I knew the truth.’

‘You never felt tempted to expose them yourself?’

There was a pause. ‘The time wasn’t right.’

‘And besides, you didn’t have all of them, did you?’

The historian’s head shot up, his expression defiant. ‘Implying that if I
had
got them all, I’d have gone behind your father’s back? Had them published and taken the credit for myself?’

‘I didn’t mean that!’

‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Samuel hurled back. ‘You’re not that different from your father, after all, are you, Marshall?’

‘Think what you like—’

‘I’ll do just that!’ he snapped. ‘You come here, wanting to pick my brains, wanting to get a potted history of Rembrandt so you can understand the business. Well, you can’t, Marshall,’ he said fiercely, ‘you
can’t
– not until you’ve spent years and decades reading and looking, and caring. You can’t learn a few facts and think you can go up against experts. You want the easy way and there isn’t one. Your father knew that, he knew how much effort had to go into making a reputation.’

‘I don’t want a reputation in the art world—’

‘No! And you never did!’ Samuel replied, wheeling himself away towards the window and looking out. His face was white, and on his cheeks were two bright spots of colour which revealed how angry he really was. ‘And you have the temerity to suspect me. To doubt me!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Of course you are,’ Samuel replied, still staring out of the window at the empty garden. ‘We’re all sorry. To be honest, at this moment, I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on the Rembrandt letters.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘You think not?’ Samuel parried, looking over to his visitor. ‘Three people already dead, Marshall. Because of those letters.
Three people dead.
And it won’t stop there. I didn’t want to spend the last of my days frightened, with some
goon playing at being bodyguard. That wasn’t the way I pictured my demise. Yes, I’ve been ambitious and egocentric; yes, I’ve wanted the limelight and courted it. But essentially I’m not brave and I’m not up to this. You’re young enough to want to fight. I understand that. You want to prove something, find out who killed your father. You feel almost excited by what you’ve learnt about Rembrandt and the letters. But I’m old and in a wheel-chair – fear is not the last emotion I want to feel.’

Subdued, Marshall stared at his hands, taking a moment before he spoke again. ‘I always envied you and my father.’

‘Envied?’

‘Yes,’ Marshall said, nodding. ‘You had such passion. Such a fire for this business. Such commitment. I would watch you both and wonder why it was all so exciting. After all, the artists were dead, the paintings weren’t as interesting as a movie. It was dry and over. Done with.’ He sighed. ‘Then my father was murdered and I realised that, no matter how insane it seems to the outside world, people kill, and are killed, for the reputation of dead artists. They kill for auction prices, to keep the market up, the name protected.

‘I saw my father’s body and there was nothing dull about that. It was fresh and venal. When the police said it was a bungled robbery, I knew they’d leave it at that, because you’re right – no one understands the art world unless they’re in it. No one realises the brutality of it, the ruthlessness, unless they’re a part of it. No one can conceive of the lengths people will go to – unless they’ve
moved in it and watched it.’ His voice fell. ‘And yes, Samuel, God forgive me, but for the first time in my life I
do
feel a kind of excitement. Because I want to find the person who did this to my father. And I want to make sure that they don’t get the Rembrandt letters and destroy them. Or worse, use them, and profit by them. It’s not because I give a damn about some dead Dutchman, but because I care about some dead Englishman.’

Impressed, Samuel stared at his visitor. ‘You’re putting yourself in danger.’

‘Everyone who knows about the letters is in danger.’

‘Yes,’ Samuel agreed. He picked up his copy of the letters and to Marshall’s amazement, he threw them into the fire. Both men watched them burn until, with little left of them but embers, Samuel turned back to Marshall, and said, ‘You need help.’

‘Yes, maybe I do.’

‘You should have a plan. Know what you’re going to do next,’ Samuel went on. ‘Have you anything to go on?’

‘The killer or killers must be in the business, otherwise they’d never go to such trouble with the murders. Setting them out like Rembrandt reproductions – that’s a specialised touch. They have a contrived look, artistic, eerily cultured.’ He caught Samuel’s attention and held it. ‘I don’t think the person who’s behind all this is the actual killer. I think someone else does the killing. The person who’s after the letters is clever, patient. He wants to show his
refinement
.’

‘D’you know who he might be?’

‘No. I just know that he’ll come after me,’ Marshall replied, reaching for his coat. ‘He’s found out that my father, Teddy Jack and Charlotte Gorday didn’t have the letters, so now he’ll be wondering who else would be likely to have them. And that leaves me.’

‘Or me.’

Marshall shook his head. ‘No, Samuel. You didn’t have
all
the letters, you don’t know everything, and now you don’t even have a copy. And I’m certainly not going to let you read the last one, that would be fatal. Stay in semi-ignorance. You’re not safe, but you’re not able to give this person what they want. You don’t know enough for them to kill you.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘So do I. Don’t let anyone too close, you hear me? Keep your housekeeper or Greg Horner with you at all times. Don’t go out alone, don’t
be
alone—’

‘But what if the killer gets to you?’

Marshall stared at the old man, puzzled. ‘If he gets to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

Samuel shrugged. ‘Think about it, Marshall. If you’re killed, who’ll stop him then?’

‘Jesus, darling, what is it? God, God.’ Distressed, Harry ushered Georgia into the sitting room, passing her a brandy and putting his jacket around her shoulders. She was wearing only a bath towel and she was shaking, but angry, her voice strident as she rubbed her bare legs to warm them.

‘Bloody kids!’ she snapped. ‘I was just taking a shower and smash went the window! God, I just ran, and when I looked back, there was this man on the stairs. Our neighbours called the police and they caught the little sod in the garden on Littlejohn Road.’ She pushed her damp hair back from her face. ‘Apparently they break into houses when they think people are at work. And usually I would have been.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said dismissively. ‘I’m fine. As fine as anyone can be, trying to take a bloody shower and then running out of their house half naked.’ She laughed hoarsely, touching her stomach. ‘Poor baby, all that excitement.’

Harry stared at her hand on her stomach. ‘Is it …?’

‘Fine,’ she reassured him. ‘Honestly, you do worry.’

‘Well someone did just break into the house.’

‘Did they steal anything?’ she asked suddenly, getting to her feet and looking round. ‘Have you checked?’

He laughed, holding her to him tightly. ‘You’re an ass, Georgia, what difference does it make if they stole anything? All I care about is you and the baby.’

‘Me and the baby are fine,’ she replied, ‘but what about the cash in the desk drawer? Did you check?’

The phone ringing next to them interrupted their conversation. Harry answered.

‘Oh, hi there, Marshall … Well, I can get her, but now’s not the right time. We’ve just had a break-in—’