The Rembrandt Secret by Alex Connor

his brother. He would find him , he told an astonished Owen the first time he lost control. Luther was still alive. He had to return to Poland, he had to go home … And then the doctor was called, and Nicolai was medicated. Slowly, he became calm, but with the sedation came a helter-skelter fall into depression. His mania gone, Nicolai sat with his muzzled brain, his head in his hands, staring at the London panorama. He saw goblins in the chimney pots, and heard the rain cursing as it flushed out the drainpipes. Clouds slid against his window and made faces at him; a watery opal sun grinning like a demon. In amongst roof tiles and car horns, his brother came calling. Up the stairs and around the cellar corners, he told Nicolai his history and begged to be found.
    When the despair lifted, Luther was gone, and Nicolai was left feeling foolish and embarrassed. For a number of days he would apologise, and blush behind his heavy glasses, making clicking sounds with his tongue as though he disapproved of his own thoughts and wanted to disown them. Kindly, Owen would shrug off the event, realising early on that any invitation to talk could send Nicolai back into his waxy confusion. And so Nicolai Kapinski would put aside his mania, his anger, his confusion – even his brother – and return to his tiny, gentle self.
    That gentle self who was now regarding Owen steadily.
    ‘Is this all of it? Nothing else you’re hiding from me?’ Nicolai asked again, his Polish accent evident in the vowels. ‘Mr Zeigler, is this all?’
    Owen nodded. ‘That’s it.’
    ‘Why did you hide it from me for so long?’
    ‘I thought …’ Owen sighed. ‘I was wrong, I should have asked for your help a while back, but I thought I could manage. I couldn’t, of course.’
    ‘You’re ruined.’
    ‘I know.’
    Upset, Nicolai gazed at his employer, then looked back to the ledgers, making an indecipherable doodle on the corner of his notepad.
    In silence, Owen watched him, then touched his shoulder. ‘It’s all right—’
    ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think this is all right at all.’
    ‘It is,’ Owen insisted, passing Nicolai his coat and briefcase. ‘Go home now.’
    Nicolai stood up, hardly reaching Owen’s shoulder, desperate to offer comfort and yet lacking the words.
    ‘We … we …’
    ‘You’ll be all right,’ Owen said quietly. ‘I have an idea, something that might work.’
    ‘You have?’ His tone was pathetically hopeful.
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Something I should have done a while back.’ Owen looked round the neat room under the eaves. ‘If you need anything, ask Teddy Jack. I may have to go away for a while—’
    ‘ What? ’
    ‘Hear me out. The salaries are accounted for, in the safe. I’ve put a little extra aside for you, Nicolai, for your loyalty. You have the keys to the safe, pay everyone. If I do go away, reassure the staff, the porters and the receptionist. I should be able to keep this place going for another two months, maybe three. If you need help, ask Teddy.’ He smiled, almost light-hearted. ‘I like it up here. In fact, it’s the nicest part of the gallery, I’ve always thought so. It’s inviting. When we were living here as a family, I used to think I’d make this into a den.’ He glanced round, taking in the blackened fire grate, the treacle- coloured rafters and the window frames, bellied with age. ‘But it’s too late now … I’ve been here too long, Nicolai. There are too many memories. Too many ghosts.’
    Nicolai nodded. ‘We all have those.’
    A moment of understanding passed between them. ‘But your ghost is real.’
    ‘Every man’s ghost is real to him.’
    Smiling, Nicolai moved towards the narrow stairs, pulling on his coat and then turning.
    ‘If I can help you in any way …’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘You’ve been a good employer, Mr Zeigler,’ he said gently, putting out his hand and taking Owen’s. ‘And a valued friend.’
    Twenty minutes