Rembrandt's Ghost Read Online Free Page 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.
     
     
     

Chapter

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.