The Rembrandt Affair

THE LIZARD PENINSULA, CORNWALL

Hedgerows lined the narrow track leading north from Lizard Point, blocking all views of the surrounding countryside. Isherwood drove at a snail's pace, his long body hunched over the wheel, while Gabriel stared silently out the window.

'You knew him, didn't you?'

Gabriel nodded absently. 'We apprenticed together in Venice under Umberto Conti. Liddell never cared for me.'

'That's understandable. He must have been envious. Liddell was gifted, but he wasn't in your league. You were the star, and everyone knew it.'

It was true, thought Gabriel. By the time Christopher Liddell arrived in Venice he was already a skilled craftsman—more skilled, even, than Gabriel—but he had never been able to win Umberto's approval. Liddell's work was methodical and thorough but lacked the invisible fire Umberto saw each time Gabriel's brush touched a canvas. Umberto had a magic ring of keys that could open any door in Venice. Late at night he would drag Gabriel from his room to study the city's masterpieces. Liddell became angry when he learned of the nocturnal tutorials and asked for an invitation. Umberto refused. Liddell's instruction would be limited to daylight hours. The nights belonged to Gabriel.

'It's not every day an art restorer is brutally murdered in the United Kingdom,' Isherwood said. 'Given your circumstances, it must have come as something of a shock.'

'Let's just say I read the stories this morning with more than a passing interest. And none mentioned a missing Rembrandt, newly discovered or otherwise.'

'That's because on the advice of the Art and Antiques Squad at Scotland Yard, the local police have agreed to keep the theft a secret, at least for the time being. Undue publicity only makes recovery more difficult since it tends to invite contact from people who don't actually have possession of the painting. As far as the public is concerned, the motive for Liddell's murder remains a mystery.'

'As it should be,' said Gabriel. 'Besides, the last thing we need to advertise is that private restorers keep extremely valuable paintings under less than secure circumstances.'

It was one of the art world's many dirty secrets. Gabriel had always worked in isolation. But in New York and London, it was not unusual to enter the studio of an elite restorer to find tens of millions of dollars' worth of paintings. If the auction season was approaching, the value of the inventory could be stratospheric.

'Tell me more about the painting, Julian.'

Isherwood glanced at Gabriel expectantly. 'Does that mean you'll do it?'

'No, Julian. It just means I want to know more about the picture.'

'Where would you like me to begin?'

'The dimensions.'

'One hundred four by eighty-six centimeters.'

'Date?'

'Sixteen fifty-four.'

'Panel or canvas?'

'Canvas. The thread count is consistent with canvases Rembrandt was using at the time.'

'When was the last restoration?'

'Hard to say. A hundred years ago...maybe longer. The paint was quite worn in some places. Liddell believed it would require a substantial amount of inpainting to knock it into shape. He was worried about whether he would be able to finish it in time.'

Gabriel asked about the composition.

'Stylistically, it's similar to his other three-quarter-length portraits from the period. The model is a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Attractive. She's wearing a wrap of jeweled silk and little else. There's something intimate about it. She clearly managed to get under Rembrandt's skin. He worked with a heavily loaded brush and at considerable speed. In places, it appears he was painting alla prima, wet into wet.'

'Do we know who she is?'

'There's nothing to identify her specifically, but the Rembrandt Committee and I both concur it's Rembrandt's mistress.'

'Hendrickje Stoffels?'

Isherwood nodded. 'The date of the painting is significant because it was the same year Hendrickje gave birth to Rembrandt's child. The Dutch Church didn't look kindly on that, of course. She was put on trial and condemned for living with Rembrandt like a whore. Rembrandt, archcad that he was, never married her.'

Isherwood seemed genuinely disturbed by this. Gabriel smiled.

'If I didn't know better, Julian, I'd think you were jealous.'

'Wait until you see her.'

The two men lapsed into silence as Isherwood guided the car into Lizard village. In summer, it would be filled with tourists. Now, with its shuttered souvenir stands and darkened ice-cream parlors, it had the sadness of a fete in the rain.

'What's the provenance like?'

'Thin but clean.'

'Meaning?'

'There are gaps here and there. Rather like yours,' Isherwood added with a confiding glance. 'But there are no claims against it. I had the Art Loss Register run a quiet search just to be certain.'

'The London office?'

Isherwood nodded.

'So they know about the picture, too?'

'The Art Loss Register is dedicated to finding paintings, darling, not stealing them.'

'Go on, Julian.'

'It's believed the painting remained in Rembrandt's personal collection until his death, whereupon it was sold off by the bankruptcy court to help pay his debts. From there, it floated around The Hague for a century or so, made a brief foray to Italy, and returned to the Netherlands in the early nineteenth century. The current owner purchased it in 1964 from the Hoffmann Gallery of Lucerne. That beautiful young woman has been in hiding her entire life.'

They entered a tunnel of trees dripping with ivy and headed downward into a deep storybook hollow with an ancient stone church at its base.

'Who else knew the painting was in Glastonbury?'

Isherwood made a show of thought. 'The director of the National Gallery of Art in Washington and my shipping company.' He hesitated, then added, 'And I suppose it's possible I may have mentioned it to Van Berkel.'

'Did Liddell have any other paintings in his studio?'

'Four,' replied Isherwood. 'A Rubens he'd just finished for Christie's, something that may or may not have been a Titian, a landscape by Cezanne—quite a good one, actually—and some hideously expensive water lilies by Monet.'

'I assume those were stolen as well?'

Isherwood shook his head. 'Only my Rembrandt.'

'No other paintings? You're sure?'

'Trust me, darling. I'm sure.'

They emerged from the hollow into the open terrain. In the distance, a pair of massive Sea King helicopters floated like zeppelins over the naval air station. Gabriel's thoughts, however, were focused on a single question. Why would a thief in a hurry grab a large Rembrandt portrait rather than a smaller Cezanne or Monet?

'Do the police have a theory?'

'They suspect Liddell must have surprised the thieves in the middle of the robbery. When it went bad, they killed him and grabbed the closest painting, which happened to be mine. After this summer, Scotland Yard is quite pessimistic about the chances for recovery. And Liddell's death makes it more complicated. This is now first and