The Rembrandt Affair

Liddell, age four years seven months, emerged from St. John’s parish preschool to find no one waiting to take her home. The body was discovered a short time later, and by early that evening Liddell’s death was officially declared a homicide. BBC Somerset’s initial bulletin included the victim’s name but made no mention of his occupation or any possible motive for the killing. Radio 4 chose to ignore the story, as did the so-called quality national papers. Only the Daily Mail carried an account of the murder, a small item buried among a litany of other sordid news from around the country.
    As a result, Christopher Liddell’s death might have gone unnoticed by London’s art world since few of its lofty citizens ever soiled their fingers with the Mail . But that was not true of tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a lecherous dealer from Bury Street who had never been shy about wearing his working-class roots on his well-tailored sleeve. Dimbleby read of the Glastonbury murder over his midmorning coffee and by that evening was blaring the news to anyone who would listen at the bar of Green’s Restaurant, a local watering hole in Duke Street where dealers gathered to celebrate their triumphs or lick their wounds.
    One of the people Dimbleby cornered was none other than Julian Isherwood, owner and sole proprietor of the sometimes solvent but never boring Isherwood Fine Arts, 7-8 Mason’s Yard, St. James’s, London. He was “Julie” to his friends, “Juicy Julie” to his partners in the occasional crime of drink. He was a man of contradictions. Shrewd but reckless. Brilliant but naïve. Secretive as a spy but trusting to a fault. Mostly, though, he was entertaining. Indeed, among the denizens of the London art world, Isherwood Fine Arts had always been regarded as rather good theater. It had enjoyed stunning highs and bottomless lows, and there was always a hint of conspiracy lurking somewhere beneath the shimmering surface. The roots of Isherwood’s constant turmoil lay in his simple and oft-stated operating creed: “Paintings first, business second,” or PFBS for short. Isherwood’s misplaced faith in PFBS had occasionally led him to the edge of ruin. In fact, his financial straits had become so harrowing a few years back that Dimbleby himself had made a boorish attempt to buy Isherwood out. It was one of many incidents the men preferred to pretend had never happened.
    But even Dimbleby was surprised by the shocked expression that came over Isherwood’s face the instant he learned about the death in Glastonbury. Isherwood quickly managed to compose himself. Then, after muttering something preposterous about having to visit a sick aunt, he threw back his gin and tonic and made for the door at flank speed.
    Isherwood immediately returned to his gallery and placed a frantic call to a trusted contact on the Art and Antiques Squad at Scotland Yard. Ninety minutes later, the contact called back. The news was even worse than Isherwood expected. The Art Squad pledged to do its utmost, but as Isherwood stared into the yawning chasm of his ledger books, he concluded he had no choice but to take matters into his own hands. Yes, there had been crises before, he thought gravely, but this was the real thing. He could lose it all, everything he had worked for, and innocent bystanders would pay a high price for his folly. It was no way to end a career—not after everything he had accomplished. And certainly not after everything his poor old father had done to ensure Julian’s very survival.
    It was this wholly unexpected memory of his father that caused Isherwood to once again reach for his phone. He started to dial a number but stopped. Better not to give him advance warning, he thought. Better to show up on his doorstep, cap in hand.
    He replaced the receiver and checked his calendar for the following day. Just three unpromising appointments, nothing that couldn’t be moved to another time. Isherwood drew a heavy line through each entry and at the top of the page scribbled a single biblical name. He stared at it for a moment, then, realizing his mistake, obliterated it with a few firm strokes of his pen. Pull yourself together, he thought. What were you thinking, Julie? What on earth were you thinking?

3
    THE LIZARD PENINSULA, CORNWALL
    T he stranger settled not in his old haunt along the Helford Passage but in a small cottage atop the cliffs on the western edge of the Lizard Peninsula. He had seen it for the first time