The Rembrandt Secret Read online

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Do they know why he was killed?’

  ‘They say it was a robbery that went wrong.’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Not like that, Philip. They left the paintings, all the valuable objects they could have taken. Why would they leave them?’

  ‘I suppose they were disturbed.’

  ‘They were looking for something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know!’ she said. ‘I keep imagining what Owen must have suffered. How he looked, what he was thinking. I keep wondering why I wasn’t there …’

  ‘Thank God you weren’t.’

  ‘I’d gone to the country to visit some friends,’ Charlotte went on. ‘I never usually did that. I’d spoken to Owen on the mobile earlier that night and he was worried, I could hear it in his voice. I rang him later to say goodnight and he was surprised because it was so early, until I explained that there was going to be a dinner party and it might finish late. He was always a bad sleeper; he would take pills and then he was out cold for hours. I should have called him when I went to bed, but I didn’t. Then my phone went in the early morning and I picked it up without looking at the number and I said ‘hello, darling, did you sleep,’ but it wasn’t him. It was the police …’

  Philip held her tightly, burying his face in her hair.

  ‘I should have called him when I went to bed,’ Charlotte said again. ‘He might have answered the phone, and it might have stopped him going down into the basement.

  He might still be alive if I’d called. I could have saved him!’

  ‘No,’ Philip said firmly. ‘It wasn’t down to you to save him. His death had nothing to do with you, or what you didn’t do, or could have done.’

  ‘How do I live without him?’

  ‘You’ve still got me,’ Philip answered, knowing that he would never be enough.

  She wept quietly, hardly making a sound, Philip holding onto her and looking at her portrait hanging over the mantelpiece. It was Owen who had organised the sittings with a celebrated artist he knew, and Philip had agreed to it. And over the years, he had grown to like his wife’s lover; not that he knew Owen, but he approved of his behaviour. And Philip could enjoy his affairs, feeling less guilty knowing that his wife had someone. He never suffered the misery of jealousy when she wore an outfit or a piece of jewellery he did not recognise. Phone calls and letters that came to the Park Avenue apartment didn’t disturb him; he saw them, instead, as another indication of how remarkable Charlotte was. She had inspired love in two men, constant, unwavering attention – which was something Philip had never managed. Aside from his wife, no woman had loved him enough, which was why Philip Gorday felt it was only right that he support Charlotte while she grieved. Right that he didn’t ignore her distress, or believe – selfishly – that it diluted her affection for him.

  It was almost ten o’clock when Charlotte finally fell asleep, Philip having given her a sleeping tablet. When he was sure he couldn’t wake her, he lifted his wife off the sofa and took her into their bedroom. Gently he laid her on the bed and tucked the covers around her. She moved, troubled, murmuring under her breath, but she didn’t wake.

  House of Corrections,

  Gouda, 1652

  I’ve been ill, coughing up blood. A lot of the women do that here because the work’s hard, it’s always cold and the food isn’t good. No fresh fish from the market, or new bread. No thick yellow cheese that you have to chew on your back teeth … An old friend came to see me yesterday. She brought some sweetmeats, smuggling them under her apron, cackling like an idiot when she was confronted. The guard thought she was just another mad old mare, and let her in … Women gamble with their looks. When you’re young you can play a full hand, but when you’re older the stakes get tougher, the face cards showing your age … I used to love cards, and skittles.

  When I was a kid, when I was at home, my brother played with me in the back yard, with the skittles my father had made us. My mother was busy, a midwife, always coming home or leaving home, never seeming to stay long. She carried a bag with her which she made me promise never to look into. But I did. One day when I was six I saw the steel instruments and the tubing and snapped the bag closed, because I hoped I’d find a baby in it.

  I had a baby once … Sshh … I’m back now, shuffling these papers. I had to stop writing for a while until it was safe again. Where was I? Oh yes, I had a baby when I was very young. Too young, they said, but it wasn’t true. They took my baby away … Listen to me. They carried him off in the middle of the night whilst I slept and when I woke I felt the bed next to me and there was nothing. Not even a warm spot where his body had been … When I wouldn’t stop crying, my father struck me. My brother locked my bedroom door and whispered that I was a whore and what else could our parents do?

  My baby had been such a pretty baby. Too pretty for a boy.

  One, two, three … there goes the guard. One, two, three. I can hear him pissing up against the outside wall … I was supposed to forget my baby. They’d called me names, so I acted them out. Promiscuous, that was the word. Promiscuous, the same word Rembrandt used all those years later in court. The word my brother and my neighbours used to back him up, to get me put away. I gave evidence, but I also argued. A coarse woman who was more than capable of lying and making trouble for a respectable man – or so they thought … Rembrandt looked at me in that courtroom as though he wanted me dead.

  Putting me away would have to be enough.

  I never thought he would have done that to me. Not even after I’d played my last face card and I reminded him of his son. Of Carel. I told him, that is your child. Your child … He pretended I was lying, but he knew. Remembered being that clumsy lout, groping a neighbour’s girl … Remembered when he was nudged to remember. Then realised that under his roof was his old lover and his bastard son.

  I thought the knowledge would protect me, but it sentenced me … Ssssh, here we go, here we go … The guard’s feet, the pissing … I can see out of the high window that sliver of the world they’ve left me with … I cut myself when I came here first. Rubbed my wrist against the iron bedstead where the metal had worn sharp. Went through the flesh, but not deep enough.

  I would like to have chosen my own death.

  19

  New York.

  Coming in from the park, Philip Gorday unfastened the lead from the dog’s collar and walked back into the apartment block. When he had gone out earlier, Charlotte was still deeply asleep, the pill he had given her working overtime. He suspected that it was the first time his wife had rested properly since Owen Zeigler’s death, and he’d stayed out for over an hour, unwilling to disturb her.

  The doorman looked up from his desk. ‘Morning, Mr Gorday.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘No mail for you or your wife.’ He paused, looking at the sturdy lawyer as he moved towards the elevator. ‘How is your wife? She seemed very tired when I saw her yesterday.’

  ‘She had a bad flight, I’m giving her a lie-in,’ Philip replied. ‘I’ll tell her you asked after her.’

  Entering the elevator, he pressed the button for the seventh floor, stroking his dog’s head absent-mindedly. Perhaps he should call their family doctor, get some sedatives prescribed to see Charlotte through the next few days. And then, maybe, they would take a trip. He could afford to take time off, even a month if she would agree to it. Thoughtful, Philip opened the apartment door, hushing the dog to be quiet and letting the animal into the kitchen. The drapes in the sitting room were still drawn, a light blinking on the answer phone. He played the message, wrote down a name and reset the machine. Going back into the kitchen, Philip put on some coffee and looked at the headlines in the Times, then checked his shares in the financial pages. The dog, tired from its walk, slumped beside the radiator, breathing rhythmically as Philip sat down to read.

  He finished the paper and his second cup of coffe
e, put everything on the counter and went out into the passage. There was no sound from the bedroom, which meant that Charlotte was still sleeping. For a moment he wondered if he should simply leave her a note to explain that he had left for work, but thought better of it and moved to the door. As quietly as he could, Philip entered the darkened room, moving towards the windows to partially draw the drapes. But as he passed the bed he felt something brush against his leg and jumped, reaching down to feel his wife’s hand.

  ‘Charlotte? Charlotte!’ he said urgently, snapping on the bedside light and then turning back to her.

  She was lying across the bed, one arm over the side, almost touching the carpet. Through the pale peach silk of her negligee, a large dark stain spread across her ribcage, a tear in the fine material dark with thickening blood. And in her right hand she was still holding the knife she had used to kill herself. The knife which had slid so accurately and so desperately into the vessels of her heart.

  20

  Having checked with the police that he could return – and stay – at the gallery, Marshall took his case up into the flat where he had lived as a boy. Oddly, he was not afraid, because he felt both obliged and compelled to be there. He was fully aware that some people, not least Georgia, would be surprised, but as he moved into his old room he felt a strangely comforted. He was back home. That his father had been murdered in the basement below did not prevent him from staying; neither did fear for his own safety. The premises were alarmed, and Marshall had realised that if he was going to be watched, he would be watched anywhere. What point would there be in moving to Amsterdam? Or New Zealand. Or France. He had the Rembrandt letters, and if they knew that, and if they still wanted them, nowhere would be safe. If he was under threat, he would be under threat everywhere, so why not stay in the place he called home?

  Or was it that he hoped to draw someone out? Marshall would never have taken himself for a brave man, but he was a good son. He had admired his father, and now felt the kind of guilt only offspring can feel on the unexpected death of a parent. Sighing, he unpacked his case, pulling open the drawers in the cabinet he had used as a child. Inside one was a newspaper, dated 1978, on top of which he now laid some clothes.

  He was relieved that the original Rembrandt letters were in the Dutch bank, out of anyone’s reach but his. Then he thought of the copies, secreted in his half completed translation of Dante, and decided that he would hide the copies after he had read them again. Marshall had always had a redoubtable memory, and he was relying on that ability to memorise the letters, detail for detail. When they were safely lodged inside his head, he would destroy the copies, leaving only the originals in Amsterdam.

  He plugged in his mobile phone to charge it and noticed that he had missed two calls. He listened to the messages. One was from Teddy Jack:

  I wanted to say thanks again. I don’t know how much your father told you about me, but I was in jail, long time back, and I did some jobs for him … Watching people and the like. I just thought you might like to know, because I think you might need me.

  Listening to the message again, Marshall found himself baffled. I did some jobs for him. Watching people and the like … Why would his father have hired an ex-convict to spy on people? For what reason? And which people? Not for the first time Marshall realised how little he knew of Owen Zeigler. He had seen his father as a charming, urbane man in an elegant business. Cultivated, respected, respectable. But the other part of Owen Zeigler – the man he didn’t know – had a former criminal as a confidant. That Owen Zeigler had debts, secrets, enemies, and a lover. And if Marshall was going to find out who had killed him he had, first and foremost, to find out who his father had really been.

  Moving to the second message on his mobile, Marshall was surprised to hear the well modulated tones of Charlotte Gorday:

  I rushed off without explaining what I needed to see you about. I thought I could return to New York and just go on as normal. But I now know I was wrong. Please return my call.

  Glancing at his watch, Marshall decided that it was too late to phone and he would call Charlotte the following day. Then he thought better of it and entered her New York number, waiting for her to pick up. It rang out several times before it was answered, but not by Charlotte.

  It was a man’s voice, American, that said a curt ‘Yes?’

  Thrown by this, Marshall took a moment to answer. ‘Is Charlotte there? Charlotte Gorday?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Marshall, Marshall Zeigler.’ He paused. ‘Is she there?’

  ‘Are you any relation to Owen Zeigler?’

  ‘His son,’ Marshall replied, feeling uneasy. ‘Could I speak to Mrs Gorday now?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My wife is dead,’ Philip Gorday said, his voice flat. ‘She committed suicide.’

  No, Marshall thought, not suicide. No one left a phone message saying that they needed to talk urgently if they were about to end their life.

  Cautious, he said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘She was depressed about your father’s death. She couldn’t handle it. I didn’t realise how hard it had hit her …’ Philip Gorday paused, surprised to be talking to the son of his wife’s lover. Surprised to be talking at all. ‘She stabbed herself.’ He repeated the words, as though by repetition they would make more sense. ‘Stabbed herself. Right in the heart … I would never have suspected that. An overdose, yes, but a knife? She was elegant, always perfectly turned out, stabbing seems too ugly for her.’

  Uncertain of what to say, Marshall hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, really sorry.’

  ‘Did you know Charlotte?’

  ‘I only met her once. She was—’

  ‘Extraordinary.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marshall agreed, trying to keep the call going. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘You’re like your father. He was always kind,’ Philip replied, his voice trailing. ‘It’s all right, you know.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Charlotte killing herself. I wish she hadn’t, but she loved him very much, you see.’ Philip faded on the other end. ‘He won in the end.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He got her. Your father – he took her with him. Even when he was dead, she loved him more than she loved me.’ Philip took a slow breath. ‘It was not his fault. I have only myself to blame, Mr Zeigler. I have only myself to blame.’

  The call ended and Marshall listened to Charlotte’s message again. And then again, memorised it before he wiped it. His father’s lover had killed herself out of grief over Owen’s death. It was feasible, believable, even likely, in a woman who had lost the man she most loved. People did react badly in grief. They behaved out of character, because they weren’t really themselves at that time. Everyone knew that shock could change a person, made a good person vicious; a clever person dull; a well- groomed, elegant woman violent. No, Marshall thought, it wasn’t right. He agreed with her husband; it was too much out of character.

  The woman Marshall had met in Amsterdam had been poised. Deeply upset and troubled, but still with enough pride in herself to apply her make-up and perfume. Not out of vanity, but habit. A way of carrying on with normality, in order to preserve normality. Charlotte Gorday could have taken an overdose. Might, in a moment of blurred sanity, have thrown herself off the top of a building, making a graceful angel out of her dying fall. But drive a knife into herself? Risk mutilation? Butchery? Risk pain and failure? Not even on the strength of one short meeting did that seem like something Charlotte Gorday would have done.

  Stabbed. Eviscerated. And then there were the stones in Stefan van der Helde’s stomach. The stones no one had ever understood … Marshall stared ahead, his mind running over the facts. The first victim had been Stefan van der Helde, with the stones. The second, Owen Zeigler, disembowelled. The third, Charlotte Gorday, stabbed through the heart … Was it a suicide? Or had she been killed too? Had Charlotte Gorday been mur
dered? Marshall paused, asked himself why. Because of her closeness to his father, or because she might have known about the Rembrandt letters …?

  ‘Jesus,’ Marshall exclaimed aloud, and ran downstairs into the gallery, turning on the lights.

  He could half remember something from his childhood, but the memory was faint and needed jolting back into focus. What was it, he thought, making for his father’s office at the back. What was it he was trying to remember? Stones. Evisceration. Stabbing.

  Looking round Owen’s study, Marshall wrestled with his memory. He was suddenly a child again, bored with sitting still. Owen had been busy that weekend. They had been going to Thurstons, but his father had been detained by a customer who had come in to see him unexpectedly. As an hour had dragged on, Marshall had slid off his chair and gone to the window to look out, down into Albemarle Street.

  It was winter then, dark coming early, the flat shaded behind him. Wait for me, Owen had told him, this is an important customer, just wait. Preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed Marshall slipping out of the office and making for the flat upstairs, where he had opened the window and felt the chill of that December afternoon, snow promised before nightfall. Looking across the street to the offices opposite, he had stared at a group of typists working at their machines, noticing how one of them kept fiddling with her glasses. His attention had then moved to the street below, where the spindly shape of Timothy Parker-Ross was coming into view.

  Leaning out, Marshall had called down to him.

  ‘’Lo there!’

  Startled, the lanky Parker-Ross had looked up, waving a gangly arm.

  Hearing footsteps coming upstairs, Marshall had then closed the window and hurried out, meeting his father on the landing.

  ‘Are we going now?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Owen had replied, ‘it’s important, Marshall, you have to be more patient.’

  He had been sulky, out of temper. If his mother had still been alive, she would have kept him company, but his mother was dead and the days seemed full of his father’s business, and waiting. Always waiting. No cooking in the kitchen, no music playing from his mother’s radio. No television even, because somehow when she died the sound and colour of everything had died too. Bereft, he had longed to leave London that day and go to the country where the house was still welcoming, still carrying something of his mother in its walls. But instead he had been told to wait, and keep waiting …