‘Who said it did?’ Lillian responded, then continued,
‘As I say, Owen was uneasy for a long time, but when nothing else happened, he relaxed. Unfortunately, though, he was getting deeper and deeper into trouble in London. His business was failing, the bank was threatening to foreclose, the country house had been remortgaged, he was up to his gills in debt … You know this, Teddy, don’t deny it.’
‘Like you say, Mrs Kauffman, Mr Zeigler never told anyone the whole story. Not even me.’
‘I think he told you more than he told anyone,’ she answered simply. ‘In fact, I’m sure he did. And I think that as he got more deeply into debt, he realised there was only one way out. To sell the Rembrandt letters. I don’t think that it was ever Owen’s intention to ruin Rembrandt’s reputation and bring down the art world. I think that it was only when he saw people turn their backs on him and then realised, when he was on his uppers, that his oldest friend would cheat him, that Owen decided if he was going to go down, he would take the rest of them with him. It was desperation and shock that forced his hand. If one dealer had come to Owen’s aid I believe those letters would never have seen the light of day.’
Silent, Teddy shrugged. Lillian leant back in her seat, coolly confident. ‘I watched you come and go from that gallery at all hours. You were always reporting to Owen, always busy. Some of the jobs I knew about – like Dimitri Kapinski. Owen was fond of his little accountant and wanted to do him a good turn. I suppose that when you found Dimitri, it was a bonus to discover he was a criminal; someone you could use at a later date … You and Owen were very alike, Teddy. You both kept little pockets of your lives secret from the other.’
‘This is rubbish—’
‘No, not at all,’ Lillian replied. ‘I’ve a bloody good brain, and I’m as sneaky as the best. And I knew Owen a lot longer than you did. I imagine that Owen was setting up his coup for a long time,
but you got impatient.
When the recession came, you saw a way to make a killing – fast. Fuck the art world and Rembrandt’s reputation – that might interest Owen, but not you. Did you try and convince him, Teddy? Was it before, or after you found a buyer for the letters?’
Teddy blanched, smiling sardonically as he turned his head away from her. ‘You’ve got a vivid imagination,’ he said.
‘And luckily, I’m an insomniac.’ She gestured to the window. ‘For years I’ve watched the comings and goings of Albemarle Street and I saw you bring Timothy ParkerRoss to see Owen. Not once, many times.’ She shrugged. ‘Of course, Owen was his mentor, so his visits weren’t unusual. But what
was
unusual was the argument I overheard the night before I went on holiday—’
‘That meant nothing.’
‘On its own, no. But together with all the other pointers, it would make anyone think.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You see, I heard Owen
fire
you, Teddy. I heard him tell you to get out and never come back. Now, why would he have done that to his closest ally? Unless he didn’t trust you anymore.’
‘I was damn nearly killed because of those letters!’
‘Of course you were. You’d failed the people who wanted them! What good were you to anyone after that? You were lucky Marshall happened along and found you that night, or you’d be dead too.’
She folded her arms, her varnished nails orange against the black of her tailored jacket, as a man suddenly walked in from the back room. Taken by surprise, Teddy watched Marshall approach, his face set as he glanced over to the little woman on the gilt chair.
‘Thanks, Lillian.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said simply. ‘I told you I’d be a good help.’
Nodding, Marshall turned to face Teddy Jack.
‘Was that when it all came apart?’ he asked, his voice cold. ‘Timothy Parker-Ross wasn’t the innocent everyone thought and once he caught sight of his particular Valhalla, you were out of the game. He was going to get those letters, no matter what. And
no one
was going to stop him.’ He paused. ‘You were outclassed, Teddy, and you knew it. To be honest—’
‘Marshall, listen to me—’
‘No, I don’t want to hear it,’ Marshall cut in bluntly.
‘I’ve been thinking all of this over for weeks, trying to make sense of it. Then I talked to Lillian and finally, it became clear. You
had
to help me after I’d saved your life, or it would have looked suspicious. Besides, you were really rattled, shaken up. I don’t suppose you ever thought you’d be a victim, did you?’
‘I didn’t want anything to happen to your father.’
‘I believe that,’ Marshall said. ‘I
do
think you felt guilty, up to a point. After all, you didn’t know how dangerous things were going to get. You didn’t realise people were going to be killed, and I know you were fond of my father. But you were broke, Teddy, skint. No money, a criminal record, no chance of getting a good paying job. Your options were limited and then, suddenly, this opportunity drops in your lap.
‘I bet you couldn’t understand why my father wouldn’t release the letters. It wouldn’t have made sense to you, at all. Sell them and cut your losses, was what you advised him, wasn’t it? And when he didn’t, you fell out with him. Then you got to thinking – if Owen Zeigler was going to pass up a golden opportunity, you’d get those letters for yourself.’
‘I was broke.’
‘I understand. Broke and angry,’ Marshall said, nodding. ‘So what did you do then? My father was dead, you had to stay close to me to find out where the letters were. You had to be my ally to be in with a chance.’
Shifting his position, Teddy stared down at his big hands.
‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Marshall agreed. ‘You were used, Teddy. I’m afraid my father used you, and so did Timothy Parker-Ross. When all this started someone said to me ‘You can’t understand this business because you’re not a part of it. It’s a closed world, with its own rules and punishments. An outsider can never penetrate it’ – and they were right. Owen Zeigler was my father and I
still
couldn’t get inside.’ He looked at Teddy, his expression resigned. ‘You didn’t deliberately let my father’s killer in—’
Teddy’s head shot up.
‘Never! I thought Parker-Ross would help him because he had money and besides, your father had always looked out for him. Parker-Ross seemed like he’d be discreet, old school.’ Teddy shook his head. ‘I just wanted Owen to sell the letters and get himself out of trouble. He was panicking so much, rambling on about the art world and how it had let him down. All those friends who’d been crawling up his arse for years turned their backs on him, no one offered to help. I’d never seen your father like that, so out of control. I thought I was doing him a favour, honestly I did. I even offered to sort out Tobar Manners for him – I could have got that Rembrandt, but your father wouldn’t let me. He said Manners would get his come-uppance.’ He bowed his head, stricken. ‘When it went bad, all I could do was to look out for you. Nothing would have happened to you, or Samuel Hemmings, or Georgia. On my life, I’d never have let anything happen to you … You know that, don’t you? I owed you that much.’
Silent, Marshall nodded,
Teddy looked at him. ‘What d’you want from me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No, I just wanted to know the truth, that was all,’ Marshall said quietly. ‘Go home, Teddy, go back up North. You’re out of your depth down here and frankly, the game’s not worth the candle.’
49
Sussex
,
England.
Mrs McKendrick looked around Samuel Hemmings’ study, thinking about the old man. He had died two days earlier and she had been drafted in to tidy up the house and make it ready for the auctioneers to take away the furniture and sell off the best pieces. Pleased with her inheritance, Mrs McKendrick took to her task with enthusiasm, clearing out Samuel Hemmings’ bedroom first, and feeling genuine sadness when she saw his reading glasses by the bed. Next to them was a book of Giorgione’s paintings and an old magazine article written by Bernard Berenson.
In the bathroom she emptied the cupboards, and pushed aside the wheelchair as she passed back into the passage. The days of parties and house guests had long gone, but she remembered when the house had been full most weekends, the garden taking the overspill of people on summer nights. But for the last few years there had been few visitors, just temporary guests who had stayed for a night or two, and Samuel’s solicitor, come to make changes in his will. Busily, she returned to the study, sighing at the mounds of books and magazines piled alongside the chimney breast and on either side of the old desk. She then glanced over to the dog bed, remembering the Labrador who had slept there for so many years, and shook her head at the poignancy of it.
There was to be quite a grand funeral. Her employer had been well known and well liked, and if most of his contemporaries were already dead, there were many of younger generations who would want to pay their respects. Obituaries in the papers had been kind, describing Samuel as acerbic but perceptive, and always brave. A man who remained challenging into his ninth decade. They spoke of his disability too, of the debilitating arthritis which had forced him into a wheelchair for the last ten years of his life. Some made reference to the fact that, before his illness, Samuel Hemmings had been a skilled, if amateur, artist. Mrs McKendrick hadn’t known that, and wondered why none of her late employer’s works had been hung in the house. Perhaps, she thought, it was like so many other abilities, forgotten with the passing of time.
Tossing some yellowed newspapers into a black bin bag, she picked up the worn tartan rug which had always covered the old man’s legs. It should be thrown away, she thought, and yet knew that she would take it home. Fold it, put it aside, but keep it none the less … Walking over to the desk, she looked at the blotter and saw three letters. One addressed to herself, one to her solicitor, and one to Marshall Zeigler. Opening her own letter, she read:
Dear Mrs McKendrick
,
Thank you for all your many kindnesses over the years and for your loyalty. I do hope you will accept your little inheritance and enjoy it. You looked after me very well indeed and made my life a good deal more comfortable than it might have been, especially in my last, slower years.
With very kind regards, and thanks
,
Samuel Hemmings.
PS. As a last task, would you please make sure that my solicitor and Mr Marshall Zeigler receive their letters?
Glancing at the two remaining missives, Mrs McKendrick tucked them into her basket. When she finally left the house, hours later, she passed by the mail box in the village and posted both letters, pushing them carefully through the slot and making sure she heard them fall to the bottom of the box.
50
Marshall was writing notes, his head bowed, his whole attention focused on the work in hand. The media had tired of him, but the art world hadn’t, and when he had called at the Zeigler Gallery earlier in the week, someone had thrown a stone through the front window. It landed at his feet, a smooth grey pebble of disgust. Resigned to his unexpected celebrity, he had gone to the door and looked out, but no one came forward and after another moment he went back inside.
Questioned by the police on both sides of the Atlantic, Marshall had finally been cleared of all charges and had returned to London to oversee the sale of the gallery. His notoriety placed him in demand in some quarters, but his reserve made him back off. The death of his father and the realisation of how little he had known him had changed Marshall, made him a more thoughtful man, and a less trusting one, too. It had also made him dissatisfied with his life. The calm profession of a translator had lost its appeal; the hours of silent work no longer suited him. He found himself losing concentration, his mind slipping back to Samuel Hemmings, Teddy Jack and Nicolai Kapinski. He found, to his intense surprise, that he missed those days, missed living on the edge, not knowing what was coming next …
His thoughts often turned to Georgia, and Marshall would have to force himself to remember that she was married to Harry. Although he had heard about the miscarriage, he kept his distance, comforting her in a phone call but not visiting. Both of them knew that would be dangerous.
And so, in a heightened state of mind, which the passing weeks did nothing to diminish, Marshall Zeigler sifted through the post which had accumulated over the last month. Many letters were still addressed to Owen, many bills too, but there was some mail addressed to himself, care of the Zeigler Gallery. One particular envelope caught his attention and, pushing aside the rest of the pile, he stared at it, recognising Samuel Hemmings’ writing. He had known of Samuel’s death and was going to attend the funeral, but the letter came as a surprise.
Sitting down, Marshall opened the envelope and took out several folded sheets of paper, all in the same ostentatious handwriting which he knew was Samuel’s. For a moment he thought back to the old man and the country house, to the conversations they had had, to the view into the garden beyond. For an instant, he could feel the atmosphere of that study; see the book-lined walls, recall the battered sofa in front of the fire and the way that the sun had faded the fringe of the curtains. And for a second Marshall almost imagined that he heard the sound of the historian’s wheelchair rolling over the floorboards.
Moved, Marshall turned to the letter and began to read:
My Dear Marshall
,
Of course if you’re reading this, I will have passed on. I might be able to see your reaction, or not. I never was much of a believer in life after death, but then again, it wouldn’t be the first time I was proved wrong. I appreciated what you did for me at the end, Marshall. I had no family of my own and your concern was touching. It helped me when the days were so full of pain and the nights so full of regret. But I wonder – if you had had any knowledge of what I am about to tell you – would you have been so caring of my safety?
Let me be clear with you – I cared for your father and admired him. From the first time we met, I saw his intelligence and his skill. He had all the potential to be a great dealer, a connoisseur. His intellect was never lacking, it was his character which was threadbare.
Marshall stopped reading, stunned by these words, and took a long pause before reading on:
Owen lacked discipline. And worst of all, he lacked trust. Your father had great charm, but no talent for friendship. I had limited charm, but was a great friend to those I took under my wing. Years ago, Owen Zeigler was introduced to me and he wanted to learn, to know everything he could about the Dutch painters. He worshipped the great artists of Holland: Vermeer, Frans Hals, and Rembrandt. He liked the cool tones, the dour Dutch skies and doughy faces of their sitters. His attraction for this period was heightened when he discovered, and bought, that small Rembrandt he treasured so much. The Rembrandt Tobar Manners lied about. The Rembrandt which was one hundred per cent genuine.
You must understand your father, Marshall, for any of this to make sense. You must also understand me, and the art world. The dealers, the connoisseurs, the traders, the auctioneers and the historians live to uncover some monumental discovery. They dream of it as other men dream of women. Because with knowledge – unknown before, uncovered only by them – they have status. And a hidden, voyeuristic insight into the great. We know we are all dwarves beside Rembrandt, Leonardo and Titian, but we all long for that covert look into the lives of the giants.
I was no different. All my life I strived to uncover something important. Which I did. I wrote perceptively about Goya and the Dutch painters. I argued attributions and mocked Brit Art. I predicted the downturn of contemporary realism, and as far back as 1940 I knew Caravaggio would seduce a new generation of followers. But I’m getting off my story, I must stick to the facts. And they are as follows.
You probably don’t remember your grandfather, Neville Zeigler. He was a very secretive character. As a Jewish refugee, he had every right to be suspicious of people and their motives, but he passed this wariness – and weakness – down to his son. Luckily Neville Zeigler was also clever. He knew his ambitions were limited by his foreign status and by the times in which he lived, but Owen was another matter.
Neville’s ambition for his son was unbounded. While Neville laboured in markets and later in a dour little brica-brac shop in the East End, he coached the boy Owen in art history. He trailed him round galleries and exhibitions, and was rewarded by his son’s natural intelligence and instinctive passion for the subject. Who knows what Neville Zeigler’s past was? I never knew, but his drive and skill must have had their roots in some wellspring of breeding and culture. By the time Owen was in his teens he was dazzling; Neville was remote as a ghost, driving his star child on.
Of course he was well rewarded. He lived to see Owen go to university and finally slide into the gluey womb of the art world. Father and son were different, but in some ways alike. Both kept secrets. Neville kept his secrets very well, perhaps too well. When I had known your father for a couple of years he introduced me to Neville, and I found him intriguing; we even became friendly. He spoke of what he wanted for his only son, but constantly worried about money. I suspect that Neville had lost a great deal when he came to this country before the war, and his penury rankled. Even when he had made a good sale, he worried about how long the money would last and he used to talk about the art world and rage at the blanket greed of the dealers.
I couldn’t argue with that.
And Neville had a wish – one of the few he ever confided in me – that he wanted to be able to leave Owen an inheritance so that, whatever might happen in the future, his son would always be secure. He longed to find something valuable, some painting or art work. He wasn’t a fantasist, but I know he dreamed of this. Seeing Owen’s potential, I had always been keen to mentor him, and Neville was grateful, knowing my name would advance his son further. Owen and I became close, two people dissimilar in age, but identical in interest and ambition. And we talked about that favourite subject of the art world – the theory.
Theories spring up like daisies in this business. Your father and I talked often of such things, and one day, after I had known him for a couple of years, Owen said that he believed Rembrandt had had a bastard son. He said that Geertje Dircx could have borne Rembrandt a child when they were both young. A child who was farmed out to another family – a child called Carel Fabritius. After all, your father went on, Dircx had certainly worked for Rembrandt, and been sent to an asylum. Wasn’t that too brutal a punishment for a woman he had simply fallen out of love with? Why would Rembrandt go to the trouble of having an ex-mistress committed?
Unless she knew something so damaging she had to be locked away and silenced.
You know the story, Marshall, you’ve read the Rembrandt letters, you listened to Geertje Dircx’s history. So what you’re wondering now is – what am I going to say next? Guess, Marshall, try and guess before you read the next lines. Or perhaps you want to throw this letter away, and never know the answer. You can choose. But be warned, if you read on, you’ll be given some information which will change you, and your life. Information which will demand action from you. Or inaction. But certainly a choice.
I think we both know that you’ve changed. You can’t look away now, can you?
It was only supposed to be a joke.
In the 1960s, Neville had been to an auction in Amsterdam. There had been a fire in a synagogue, and the authorities were trying to raise funds for the repairs by selling off anything salvageable. As the items were religious Jewish artefacts, your grandfather was naturally interested. He bought a few items and then spotted a casket, badly scorched. Thinking he could repair it then sell it on as a jewellery box, he was disappointed to find that he couldn’t undo the lock. Fire damage and age had warped the casket, so he held onto it, unsold. He kept it in his office, where I spotted it one day and realised just how old it was.
‘Fifteenth century,’ I told him.
‘
Worth much?
’
‘Not if you can’t open it.’
It was then the idea occurred to me. Asking if I could have a go at releasing the lock, I took the casket home. After some effort, I did open it and it was empty. But not for long. When I returned the casket to Neville, I lied; telling him that I hadn’t been able to open it, but he should keep trying. And then I waited. I knew that the next time Neville tried the lock, it would open and he would find the old papers I had secreted inside. The Rembrandt letters. Yes, Marshall, I hid those letters in Neville Zeigler’s box.
You see, I wrote them.
Marshall flinched, read the words again, hardly taking them in. Samuel Hemmings had written the letters? How could that be? No, it couldn’t be possible … His hand shaking, Marshall continued to read.
But days passed and Neville said nothing. Weeks passed, then months, but not one word was uttered. All that changed was Neville’s attitude. He became withdrawn, cooler with me. He made excuses to be busy when I called at the shop and would only talk easily of Owen’s progress. In fact, he grew even more certain of his son’s success, almost jocular, as though he felt secure in a way that people do when they have backing. When they believe themselves rich.
And then it struck me. Neville had found the letters, but he wasn’t going to share his discovery with me. After all, I knew nothing of his coup, did I? Neville didn’t know I had planted the letters there. I’d told him that I hadn’t been able to open the casket, so how would I know of any documents? For a while I wondered if I should confess, but Neville’s deliberate choice to keep quiet about his discovery rankled with me. How dare he? I thought. Weren’t we friends? Hadn’t I mentored his son for years? How deceitful of Neville Zeigler to banish me from his good fortune, from his release from the tyranny of his poverty. He had wanted a find, and I had given him one.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking, Marshall, how did I dare to be angry with Neville? Oh, but I was. Time passed, and he never said one word about the letters. Perhaps he knew I’d planted them and was waiting for me to confess. Or he was turning the joke back on me, but I doubt that. I believe he thought he had found his gilded nest egg and when he hinted, now and again, about having some secret, I wanted to laugh, to tell him the truth. But as the years went on my revenge was watching Neville Zeigler believe he had outsmarted me. Samuel Hemmings, the respected, wealthy art historian, outflanked by an impoverished refugee. I told myself that when Neville died, and the Rembrandt letters had passed to his son – which they would, of course, hadn’t he always dreamt of leaving Owen an inheritance? – then would be the time to tell the truth. My protégé and I could laugh about it. Then.
Or so I thought.
In 1973, when Neville died, your father told me he had been left some letters concerning Rembrandt. I smiled over the phone and asked him to bring them to show me. But instead of wanting to share his moment of elation with his mentor, Owen hesitated. His mistrust injured me. For once, he was not his urbane self, and stammered an apology. He said he wasn’t being evasive, but that he had wanted to get the letters authenticated before he showed them to me. Me! Of all people. Me! The person who had taught him. Me! The friend and mentor. Me! The man who had trusted him with my knowledge and my affection.
The discovery of the Rembrandt letters changed your father, or maybe his suspicious streak – inherited from Neville – grew until it engulfed his common sense. But, as ever, he took my help quickly enough. On my recommendation, he took the letters to Stefan van der Helde for authentication – yet when your father came back to London he was shifty, unlike himself. Well, Owen said, Van der Helde had authenticated them, but he should get another opinion.
I offered him mine. It was rejected on the grounds that we were too close, I would be biased. That I would obviously want to please him by authenticating the discovery. How could he put me into such a difficult position? Owen asked. We were friends, very close friends, he would be asking me to put my reputation on the line. A reputation I had built up over years … The truth was, he didn’t trust me. Thought I would expose the letters myself, claim the victory as my own. You thought the same, Marshall. But you were both wrong.