Read Online The Rembrandt Secret by Alex Connor - Free Book Online

ledger thrown onto the floor, its white throat of pages gaping open. Surprised, he stepped over the mess, imagining how his father had been panicking, going through the books.
    ‘Dad?’ he called out again.
    Again, there was no response. But the mess was so unlike his father, it unsettled Marshall. Owen enjoyed order; reckless untidiness was uncharacteristic. He prided himself on keeping his papers meticulously. Surely, even in the state he was in, Owen wouldn’t behave so out of character? Moving to the stairs which led up to the flat, he walked upstairs to his parents’ old bedroom. There again, the place was in chaos, drawers pulled out and overturned, the contents scattered. By now seriously worried, Marshall moved out onto the landing and into his old room. That was untouched, as was the sitting room. Puzzled, he walked downstairs again, picking his way through the mess of papers as he headed for the back stairs which led down to the basement.
    The light was off, so his father couldn’t be down there, Marshall thought. But a moment later, he decided to go downstairs after all. He flicked on the light and went down the steep steps into the warren below. As he descended, he could feel the shift in temperature. The cellar wasn’t damp, but it was always a few degrees colder than the gallery above. Dipping his head to avoid a low beam at the bottom of the stairs, Marshall passed into the cellars. He hadn’t been there for a while, in fact not for some years. But when he was a child he had visited Gordon and Lester in the basement, watching as they mended the frames or packed up paintings to be shipped abroad. Sometimes he would sit on the steps and listen to their conversation about the old days, when they were Guardsmen, and hear them laugh and talk about some of the customers – many of whom they seemed to despise. They would talk about the dealers too, and Marshall would hear random titbits of gossip, which he knew they had gleaned from other porters and gallery assistants.
    Curious, Marshall moved further into the cellar, past the wooden shelves where the Dutch interiors were stored, and past the segregated selection of church interiors. His gaze trailed over the edges of gilded frames and corners of paintings only half seen. He could remember the winter when a pipe had burst in the cellar and they had all – himself included – joined together in a line, passing painting by painting along the row until Marshall’s mother lifted them to safety on the cellar steps. Afterwards she had made tea with whisky in it for the Guardsmen, and Owen had spent the rest of the night checking each painting for water damage.
    Slowly Marshall moved on, past the old bins and the worktables, towards the partitioned-off portion where Lester and Gordon had their meals and the odd smoke out in the yard. He was just about to reach the partition when he heard a sound overhead.
    He stopped and called out, ‘Dad?’
    Again there was no answer, and all Marshall could hear was the wind rap its knuckles on the back door. About to retreat, he decided he would check the lock before he left the basement. He moved forward to the partition and turned the corner, but in the place where Gordon or Lester would usually be sitting, was his father.
    Owen Zeigler was tied to a cold water pipe, his arms suspended above his head, his body naked apart from his boxer shorts. His back was facing Marshall, the skin ripped from a beating, a piece of bloodied electric flex lying on the floor next to his feet. The wounds were varied; some little more than a scratch, but others were lashes which had torn into the flesh repeatedly, some slicing through the muscle beneath. There was barely an inch of Owen Zeigler’s back that had not been lacerated. The blood had stopped flowing a while since.
    Marshall took a moment to react, immobilised by the horror of what he was looking at. At last he moved towards his father, walking through a pool of blood and urine. His