Rembrandt's Ghost Page 3

  ‘‘A Wall Street type?’’

  ‘‘Yes, a retired one.’’

  Now they’d really reached the end of the conversation.

  ‘‘Well . . .’’ he said.

  ‘‘Well . . .’’ she answered. ‘‘It was great fun meeting you. Perhaps I’ll see you again.’’ Last chance. If he didn’t pick up the hint it would all end right here, a road not traveled at all.

  ‘‘I do hope so.’’ A polite smile, a little shy, and then he turned and he was gone. Finn dropped back into her chair. The English Travis Magee had just ridden off into the rainy sunset. To top things off Ronnie appeared in her office doorway ten minutes later. He looked like her grade school nerd friend Arthur Beandocker having one of his asthma attacks. His face was tomato red above the knot of his expensive tie, his eyes were bulging, and a vein on his temple was throbbing like a kettledrum.

  ‘‘His Grace was here and I wasn’t informed.’’ His voice was as choked as the look on his face.

  Finn stared. ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘His Grace, the duke, of course!’’

  Finn had a sudden image of Ronnie greeting John Wayne at the entrance to Mason-Godwin. ‘‘There hasn’t been any duke here.’’

  ‘‘Doris sent someone to you named William Pilgrim, correct?’’

  ‘‘Billy. A boat bum according to him.’’

  ‘‘Billy, as you call him,’’ said Ronnie with a shiver, ‘‘is Lord William Wilmot Pilgrim, Baron of Neath, Earl of Pendennis, Duke of Kernow.’’

  ‘‘He said his name was Billy. He never mentioned being all of that.’’

  ‘‘What did he want?’’

  ‘‘He had a painting he wanted evaluated.’’

  ‘‘What did you tell him?’’

  ‘‘He thought it was a Jan Steen. It wasn’t. It was a reasonably good fake.’’

  ‘‘You aren’t qualified to tell a Jan Steen from a forgery, Miss Ryan. That is why we employ experts in the field.’’

  ‘‘It was fixed to the stretcher with staples, Ron.’’

  ‘‘That doesn’t mean anything! It would have been relined!’’

  ‘‘But it wasn’t,’’ Finn answered calmly, biting her tongue. ‘‘It was on the original canvas. A dead giveaway, as you know. An original Steen canvas would be three hundred years old. Unlined it would have rotted away decades ago. It was a fake. There was no question about it. The signature was wrong as well. It might have been a Tom Keating done on a bad day, but that’s it.’’

  ‘‘You told him this?’’

  ‘‘Of course. Why would I lie?’’

  ‘‘It was not your place to tell him anything. I should have been informed. His Grace the duke is potentially a very valuable customer and not to be dealt with by a lesser employee of the firm.’’

  ‘‘A lesser employee?’’ Finn said coldly.

  ‘‘His Lordship requires a certain level of deference and respect you are unable to provide, I’m afraid,’’ said Ronnie with a sniff. Finn resisted the urge to kick the pompous idiot where it would do the most good. Instead she stood up from behind her desk and shrugged into her raincoat.

  ‘‘I’m going home,’’ she said. ‘‘Back to my lesser flat in Crouch End.’’ She picked up her umbrella.

  ‘‘You’ll do no such thing!’’ stormed Ronnie. He moved to stand directly in her way. He glanced at the expensive, wafer-thin Patek Philippe that glittered on his wrist like a large gold coin. ‘‘It’s not gone five yet.’’

  ‘‘I’m going home,’’ repeated Finn. ‘‘And if you don’t get out of the way, I’m going to do exactly what my self-defense coach at school told me to do to people like you.’’

  The tomato look deepened on Ronnie’s face, but he stood aside. ‘‘I’ll have you sacked!’’ he hissed as she pushed by him.

  ‘‘Sack you,’’ she muttered, heading down the stairs. She’d had enough of Ronald DePanay-Cottrell, enough of Mason-Godwin, and enough of the whole damn country.

  True to his word, there was a message from Doris on her answering machine by the time she got back to her flat. She’d been summarily fired. A final paycheck would be mailed to her and the Home Office notified of her unemployment status in regard to her work visa. All very cold and efficient. There was also an envelope put through her letterbox from a London lawyer. The perfect end to a perfect day. To console herself she went down to the restaurant below and splurged on a twelve-ounce Daisy Cheese Daddy with coleslaw, chili fries, and a side of guacamole. To hell with the South Beach Diet and to hell with bloody England.

  3

  SIR JAMES R. TULKINGHORN, Q.C., KCBE.

  Barrister & Solicitor

  47 Great Russell St, No. 12, London WC1.

  Telephone: 020 7347 1000 Cable: Tulkinglaw

  Dear Miss Ryan:

  It would be to your particular advantage to attend a meeting in my chambers tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 p.m. Should you decide to appear please be so kind as to bring some form of picture identification with you, preferably a valid passport. Until then I shall remain

  Yours truly,

  James Tulkinghorn, Esq.

  The letter was signed with an illegible scrawl. It was dated the previous day and had been hand-delivered; there was neither stamp nor post-mark. It looked as though the signature had been scratched with a quill; there were little spatters of ink sprayed around on the creamy, linen stationery. The man’s name, the letter, and even the address were all like something out of Dickens. She knew that because she now sat three doors down from it at the local Starbucks. Tulkinghorn’s office was above an antiquarian bookstore named Jarndyce, which looked equally Dickensian with its small, dusty display window and its dim lighting. According to a plaque on the wall, the famous Victorian children’s book illustrator Randolph Caldecott had once lived there.

  She slid the letter back into its envelope and placed it in her shoulder bag beside her passport. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what she was doing here. She’d never heard of this man Tulkinghorn and she had no idea what particular advantage there could be in meeting with him. On the other hand, with the sudden passing of Mason-Godwin from her life she didn’t have much else on her plate right now, except for getting out of Dodge.

  Remarkably, the rain had moved on to some other unlucky part of Britain, at least for the time being. It was sunny and warm so she’d chosen one of the little café tables outdoors. She drank her Americano and nibbled on a biscotti as she looked around. On the far side of Great Russell Street a little farther down the crowds were gathering in the big open courtyard in front of the British Museum, standing like some enormous transplanted Greek temple in the middle of London.

  Outside the wrought-iron fence the huge polished black German tour buses with their dark-tinted windows gleamed like giant beetles, tourists spilling out of them onto the sidewalk like pale little maggots in Lederhosen. They chattered excitedly and scuttled across the sun-bright courtyard, vanishing into the gloomy depths behind the row of giant columns, intent on an afternoon of ‘‘kultur’’ peering at the famous Rosetta Stone, the famous Bog Man, and the infamous Elgin Marbles; this after all was one of the settings for The Mummy and its sequel. If it was good enough for Brendan Fraser it was good enough for a hausfrau from Stuttgart and her husband, nicht whar? Finn made a little snorting sound and took a sip of her coffee. She’d spent too long under Lady Ron’s thumb; she was getting as cynical as he was.

  ‘‘Hello.’’ It was a familiar voice. She looked up, shading her eyes in the bright, early afternoon sun. It was Billy Pilgrim or, more properly, His Grace the duke of whatever and all the rest of it. This time there was no Harvard sweatshirt. He wore a well-tailored suit, a nice oxford-cloth shirt in pale blue, and a tie to match. The shoes were shiny, the hair was brushed, and the cheeks and chin were clear of stubble.

  ‘‘You clean up well, my lord,’’ said Finn.

  ‘‘You know, then.’’

  ‘‘I was told in no uncertain terms. In
fact I was fired for not knowing your pedigree,’’ she said, unable to keep the chill out of her voice.

  ‘‘Oh dear!’’ The blond-haired man looked horrified. He dropped down into the chair across from her. ‘‘I can talk to them if you’d like, explain the circumstances . . . make them understand.’’ Finn caught the edge in the last words. The pedigree she’d mentioned had weight and he knew it.

  She shrugged off the suggestion. ‘‘No sweat. It had to happen sooner or later. I couldn’t take much more of that place.’’

  ‘‘But still, I mean, really . . .’’

  ‘‘It’s okay.’’ She paused, looking at him squarely. The silence went on. Across the street somebody yelled something in very loud German. It sounded like a drill sergeant giving an order instead of a mother calling to her children. Finally Finn spoke. ‘‘This isn’t a coincidence, is it, meeting like this?’’

  Pilgrim blushed redly. On him it was cute. She remembered the name of his boat, the Busted Flush. With a ‘‘tell’’ like that he’d be a lousy poker player.

  ‘‘No, I’m afraid not,’’ Pilgrim answered.

  ‘‘You knew I’d be here?’’

  ‘‘Not this particular spot, but I knew you were coming to Great Russell Street this afternoon, or at least I hoped you would be.’’

  ‘‘How?’’ Then she made the connection. ‘‘Tulkinghorn.’’

  Pilgrim nodded. ‘‘Sir James is my family’s solicitor. One of them at any rate.’’

  ‘‘And coming to the auction house, that didn’t just happen, either.’’

  ‘‘No. You are mentioned as a beneficiary in a relative’s will as I understand it. The circumstances are a little peculiar. I wanted to see who you were.’’

  ‘‘Did you know the painting was a fake?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ He laughed. ‘‘I was always told it was a Jan Steen. I should have known better. Half of my mother’s jewelry was paste as well.’’ He smiled shyly. ‘‘Ours is a hollow dukedom, I’m afraid. Not like the old days back in the twelfth century, plundering with Richard the Lionheart, whacking the Saracen hordes and all that.’’ He laughed.

  ‘‘Sounds like fun,’’ said Finn. ‘‘So you really did want to sell it? The painting, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Rather.’’ He nodded emphatically. ‘‘The Flush could use a refit and a hull scraping, not to mention the family pile on the coast. Falling to bits it is. Even the National Trust doesn’t want it, and it’s up to its ears in the tax. Meur ras a’gas godrik dhe’n wiasva ma!’’ The last had a rolling, rhythmic sound like music. It was beautiful, like something from The Lord of the Rings.

  ‘‘What language is that?’’ asked Finn, delighted.

  ‘‘The language of Pendragon and Trebarwith Strand, the language of Tintagel and King Arthur.’’

  ‘‘Cornish.’’

  ‘‘It is and I am,’’ said the duke. He held out a hand across the little table. ‘‘Am I forgiven for my deception?’’

  ‘‘I suppose so, Your Grace,’’ Finn answered. She shook his hand.

  ‘‘It’s still Billy,’’ he said. ‘‘No one calls me Your Grace except Tulkinghorn and my great-aunt Elizabeth.’’

  ‘‘Your great-aunt Elizabeth?’’

  ‘‘The queen,’’ said Billy.

  ‘‘You’re kidding!’’

  ‘‘Unhappily I am not. A great disappointment to all my cousins, I am, to be sure. I am one of that vast spawn of Victoria and Albert, discounting a few indiscretions along the way as I am given to understand. I should have amounted to more. I don’t even play polo!’’

  ‘‘How dreadful.’’

  He waggled his fingers. ‘‘I’m left-handed. They don’t allow left-handed polo players with the exception of cousin Charles.’’

  ‘‘The prince?’’

  ‘‘That’s the one.’’ He grinned. ‘‘No left-handed airline pilots, either.’’

  ‘‘I never thought much about it.’’

  ‘‘The world’s largest invisible minority. Terribly oppressed we are, except for Bill Gates. He’s left-handed as well.’’

  ‘‘So is Bill Clinton.’’

  ‘‘True, but then again, so is George Bush the Elder.’’

  ‘‘Michelangelo,’’ said Finn.

  ‘‘Leonardo da Vinci,’’ countered Billy Pilgrim.

  ‘‘Kurt Cobain.’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘A dead musician,’’ explained Finn.

  ‘‘Great-Aunt Elizabeth.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t know that.’’

  ‘‘Queen Victoria as well. Second cousin William. It runs in the family.’’

  Finn laughed. ‘‘We’re getting silly. We should stop.’’

  ‘‘Agreed.’’ Billy glanced at his watch, a big heavy thing in a steel casing that would have looked appropriate on a diver. A long way from the thin little bauble worn by Ronnie. ‘‘It’s just gone two. Sir James will be waiting. Finished your coffee?’’

  Finn nodded and stood up. They headed down the sidewalk to the narrow doorway leading to the offices above the bookstore at number 47.

  ‘‘What are these peculiar circumstances you mentioned?’’ asked Finn as they climbed the dark stairs.

  ‘‘I’m not entirely sure. Tulkinghorn was a little evasive on the telephone.’’

  They reached the second floor and went down a short corridor. Tulkinghorn’s was the first door on the right. Billy opened it and ushered Finn into the room. If the lawyer’s letter had been out of Dickens, the man’s office was positively Edwardian.

  There were three rooms in all, a boardroom to the right, a small, book-lined library to the left, and the actual office in the center of the suite. There was no room for a secretary. A large oak desk with an inlaid, dark red leather center stood between the two large windows that overlooked Great Russell Street. The walls on either side of the windows were decorated with dour hand-tinted foxhunting prints.

  There was a thin, worn rug on the wide-planked polished floor and a brick fireplace on the left. An electric fire brooded coldly in the hearth. Everything was paneled in dark-framed squares of exotic woods like lime, black walnut, and Brazilian cherry. The old-fashioned office chair behind the desk was upholstered in the same deep morocco leather as the desk inlay. There was an old-fashioned inkstand on the desk, complete with an onyx base, and an ebony straight pen with a bright gold nib. There was a green-shaded desk lamp on the left and a pipe rack and a tobacco jar on the right. The tobacco jar was blue Delft with a brass lid and the painted figure of an Indian in a headdress. There was a crest on the side facing Finn showing three letters, VOC, intertwined.

  The man seated in the chair was dressed in a dark suit and a shirt with a high collar. He looked like something out of a Merchant Ivory film; an Edwardian face to match the furniture: dark gray eyes above sagging pouches of seamed skin, long cheeks, thin, bloodless lips, and thinning iron gray hair swept back from a broad, heavily lined forehead that at the moment served as a resting place for a pair of very heavy-looking horn-rimmed reading glasses.

  ‘‘Sir James,’’ said Billy.

  The man creaked up out of the chair and bowed slightly. ‘‘Your Grace,’’ he replied. He held out his hand and Billy shook it. Tulkinghorn was in his seventies at least, the hand skeletal and gnarled with arthritis. Finn noticed how gently Billy took it in his.

  ‘‘This is Miss Fiona Ryan,’’ said Billy, introducing her.

  ‘‘Finn.’’ She smiled, and took the old man’s hand lightly. Tulkinghorn lowered himself into his chair and gestured toward the leather armchairs set in front of his desk. There was no small talk. The gray-haired man looked down at a pile of papers on his desk, adjusted the reading glasses, and pursed his thin, unhappy-looking lips. This, Finn thought, was not a man who smiled very much and probably never laughed.

  ‘‘This present matter is in regard to your cousin on your mother’s side, Your Grace, a Mr. Pieter Boegart, residing at, among other places’’—
here he glanced down at his desk and rustled through the papers—‘‘flat nine, 51 South Street, Mayfair, W1.’’

  ‘‘He disappeared as I recall,’’ said Billy.

  Tulkinghorn nodded. ‘‘Quite so. Precisely twelve months ago. Somewhere in the Far East as I recall, Sarawak or Brunei or some such.’’ Tulkinghorn slid open a drawer in his desk and took out a three-by-five color photograph. It looked like an enlarged copy of a passport picture. It showed a middle-aged man with a narrow face, thinning red hair, and a full beard. He looked like a Viking.

  ‘‘A bit of an adventurer,’’ Billy said.

  ‘‘That is certainly one way of describing the man,’’ murmured the lawyer, clearly insinuating that he had some other word for him. ‘‘At any rate Mr. Boegart left instructions for me in the event that he had not returned to London within a year or had not somehow contacted me to change those instructions. These instructions were also to apply in the event of his death by violence rather than natural causes. The year was up Wednesday week.’’

  ‘‘How old was . . . is this Boegart person?’’ Finn asked.

  ‘‘Mr. Boegart is fifty-eight, or he was as of the third of this month.’’

  ‘‘And what does he have to do with me?’’

  The old man neatened the pile of papers in front of him. His lips thinned a little more and his frown deepened. He reached out to the pipe rack, chose a curved briar, and filled it from the jar. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he removed a plain kitchen match and lit it on a sulfur yellow thumbnail. He puffed, filling the air with aromatic smoke.

  He took the pipe out of his mouth and coughed briefly. Then he spoke. ‘‘As I understand it, Mr. Boegart was your mother’s lover for a number of years, her paramour, so to speak.’’ Tulkinghorn cleared his throat again, looking uncomfortable. ‘‘Mr. Boegart was of the opinion that there was some chance that he was in fact your father.’’ He sat back in his chair.

  ‘‘What?’’ Finn exclaimed.

  ‘‘Good Lord,’’ said Billy.

  ‘‘Um,’’ murmured the old lawyer around the stem of his pipe.