‘Yes.’
‘Which row would you like to sit in?’
‘You’re joking?’
‘I don’t joke, detective constable. Which row?’
‘In the row behind Miles Faulkner. He’s—’
‘We all know who Mr Faulkner is. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘But how—’
‘Don’t ask. And if you don’t have any more requests, move on.’
William arrived at the Fitzmolean a few minutes early. He paused on the pavement of Prince Albert Crescent to admire the Palladian mansion that nestled behind Imperial College. He was well aware that, for security reasons, since the theft of the Rembrandt only fifty people could now visit the gallery at any one time. He had managed to get ticket number forty-seven for the evening lecture. Half an hour later and they would have b
een sold out.
He presented his ticket to the uniformed guard on the door and was directed to the second floor, where he joined a small gathering of chattering enthusiasts who were waiting impatiently for Dr Knox, the nation’s leading authority on the Renaissance period, to make his entrance.
William was looking forward to the lecture, and hoped the director might even have a theory about what had happened to the missing Rembrandt.
At one minute to seven, a young woman made her way to the front of the group and clapped her hands a couple of times, before saying, ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Beth Rainsford, and I am one of the gallery’s research assistants.’ She waited for complete silence before continuing. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Dr Knox is suffering from laryngitis and is barely able to speak. He sends his apologies.’
An audible groan went up, and one or two patrons began heading towards the exit.
‘However, the director is confident that he will be fully recovered in a few days, so if you are able to return next Thursday evening, he will deliver his lecture then. For those unable to come back next week, your entrance fee will be refunded. Should anyone wish to remain, I will be happy to show you around the collection. But don’t worry,’ she added, ‘your money will still be refunded even if you stay.’ This caused a ripple of laughter.
What had begun as a gathering of fifty was quickly reduced to a dozen, William among them. But then he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the director’s replacement. Her neatly cropped auburn hair framed an oval face that didn’t rely on make-up to make you look a second time. But it wasn’t that, or her slim figure, that he found so captivating. It was her infectious enthusiasm as she talked about the Dutch men who surrounded her, adorned in their black pantaloons and ruffled collars. William glanced at her left hand as she pointed to the first picture, delighted to see that there were no rings on that finger. Even so, he thought, this vision must surely have a boyfriend. But how could he find out?
‘The Fitzmolean,’ Beth was saying, her deep brown eyes sparkling as she spoke, ‘was the brainchild of Mrs van Haasen, the wife of the distinguished economist Jacob van Haasen. A remarkable woman, who after her husband’s death built up a Dutch and Flemish collection that is considered second only to those of the Rijksmuseum and the Hermitage. In her will, she bequeathed the entire collection to the nation in memory of her husband, to be displayed in the house they had shared during their forty-three years of married life.’ Beth turned and led her little band into the next gallery. She came to a halt in front of a portrait of a young man.
‘Frans Hals,’ she began, ‘was born in Antwerp around 1582. His most accomplished work is considered to be the Laughing Cavalier, which you can see in the Wallace Collection.’
William tried to concentrate on Hals, but decided he would have to come back the following Thursday, when he was sure Dr Knox wouldn’t have quite the same distracting effect on him. He continued to follow Beth until she stopped in front of a large empty gilded frame, with the legend ‘Rembrandt, 1606–1669’ painted on a small plaque below it.
‘This,’ she said reverently, ‘is where Rembrandt’s masterpiece The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild once hung, before it was stolen from the gallery seven years ago. Sadly, it has never been recovered.’
‘Did the gallery offer a reward for its return?’ asked a voice that sounded as if it hailed from Boston.
‘No. Unfortunately it had never crossed Mrs van Haasen’s mind that anyone would steal one of her masterpieces, possibly because she only paid six thousand dollars for the picture at the time.’
‘How much would it be worth today?’ asked a younger voice.
‘The painting is priceless,’ said Beth, ‘and irreplaceable. The more romantic among us believe it’s still out there somewhere, and that the Syndics will one day return to their rightful home.’
A smattering of applause followed this statement before Beth continued. ‘Rembrandt was an ambitious man, and at one time the most sought-after artist of the Dutch Golden Age. Sadly, he lived beyond his means and ended up having to auction off most of his possessions, including several major canvases, in order to clear his debts. He only just avoided bankruptcy and ending his days in prison. After his death in 1669 he was buried in a pauper’s grave, and his work fell out of fashion for over a century. But Mrs van Haasen was in no doubt about his genius, and did much to revive his reputation as the greatest of the Dutch masters. Art connoisseurs would travel from all over the world to view The Syndics, which is considered to be one of his greatest works, and Mrs van Haasen never made a secret of the fact that it was her favourite painting in the collection.’
Beth and her little troupe moved on to the next picture, and she continued to answer all their questions well beyond the appointed hour. She finally came to an end with Jan Steen’s The Marriage at Cana, describing him as ‘the storyteller of artists’. ‘Are there any more questions?’ she asked.
William decided not to ask his question until the rest of the group had departed. ‘What a fantastic talk,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Beth. ‘Did you have a question?’
‘Yes. Are you free for dinner?’
She didn’t respond immediately, but eventually managed, ‘I’m afraid not. I already have a date.’