The Rembrandt Secret Read Free Page B

genuine. When I asked him to buy it, he was told that it was by Ferdinand Bol. He had it looked at twice, thoroughly investigated.’
    ‘By whom?’
    ‘By specialists!’ Owen barked, hurrying on. ‘Tobar was so sorry. He said that he would give me as much as he could, but nothing like I would have got for a genuine Rembrandt … Jesus, I
trusted him
. I’ve known Tobar for years, I had no reason
not
to trust him.’
    Unbidden, images curled in front of Marshall. Imagesof Christmases, of private views, of visits to the gallery – and in every image was Tobar Manners. Always there. Sometimes alone, sometimes in a group. Manners and Samuel Hemmings, and other friends of his father’s, talking, laughing, swapping stories about dealers or customers. Gossip flirting from one glass to another; snippets of information traded over caviar and canapés; cankers of venom floating into greedy ears.
    ‘What did he do?’ Marshall asked finally.
    ‘He bought the painting off me.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I just heard,’ Owen said blindly, ‘I just heard about it. The sale in New York. Someone showed me the catalogue, and there is – was – my painting. The same one Tobar had bought from me as a Ferdinand Bol. Only it wasn’t. It was in the catalogue as a Rembrandt.
It had been sold as a Rembrandt.
’ His words were staccato, gunning his story out. ‘Tobar Manners gave me a fraction of its value! He cheated me!’
    Shaken, Marshall stared at his father. ‘Have you talked to him? Confronted him—’
    ‘He said it wasn’t his fault!’ Owen replied, his voice raised, anger making bright spots of colour on his cheeks.
    ‘He said he had sold it on to someone as a Ferdinand Bol, and they had cheated
him
!’
    ‘You don’t believe him, do you?’
    ‘Of
course
I don’t believe him!’ Owen hurled back, getting to his feet and walking over to the window.
    To his amazement, Marshall could see that his fatherwas shaking, his elegant body trembling, his hands clenching and unclenching obsessively.
    ‘It made a fortune at the auction,’ Owen went on. ‘Broke all records for an early Rembrandt.
My painting made a fortune.
A fortune I could have saved the business with. A fortune that was
mine
! Jesus Christ,’ he said desperately, ‘I’m finished.’
    Sensing his father’s despair, Marshall tried to calm him. ‘Look, you can sell your stock – everything you’ve got. There are thousands of pounds hanging on these walls, you can raise money that way.’
    ‘Not enough.’
    ‘It must be!’ his son replied, feeling a sinking dread. ‘Call your collectors, auction what you’ve got. Ring your contacts. There must be some way to get money—’
    ‘It won’t be
enough
!’ Owen snapped, control gone. ‘I have debts you don’t know about. Debts to many people, some of whom are pressuring me now. I can’t afford the upkeep on this gallery. I kept thinking that things would improve, and then times got tough for everyone. People still bought, but much less over these last months. I can’t shift the stock, Marshall, I can’t raise money. There was only the Rembrandt left. It was always in the background, like a safety net. I knew that would raise enough to pay off the debts and get me straight again. But Manners …’
    He stopped talking, his anger drying up, and an eerie calm came over him before he spoke again. ‘He won’t admit it, but he
did
cheat me. He lied to me, knowing I was in trouble, he lied to me … How many times did thatman come to my home? How many times over the years did I help him out? Lend him money to tide him over when he was struggling?’
    Owen was no longer talking to his son, just staring at the desk in front of him. ‘I’d only been here for a few weeks when Tobar Manners introduced himself. Your mother never really took to him, but I always thought that that was because he could be spiteful about people, and she never liked gossips. And when your mother died, Tobar was very kind …’
    He was a