Rembrandt's Ghost Read Online Free Page B

Tulkinghorn’s office was above an antiquarian bookstore named Jarndyce, which looked equally Dickensian with its small, dusty display window and its dim lighting. According to a plaque on the wall, the famous Victorian children’s book illustrator Randolph Caldecott had once lived there.
    She slid the letter back into its envelope and placed it in her shoulder bag beside her passport. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what she was doing here. She’d never heard of this man Tulkinghorn and she had no idea what particular advantage there could be in meeting with him. On the other hand, with the sudden passing of Mason-Godwin from her life she didn’t have much else on her plate right now, except for getting out of Dodge.
    Remarkably, the rain had moved on to some other unlucky part of Britain, at least for the time being. It was sunny and warm so she’d chosen one of the little café tables outdoors. She drank her Americano and nibbled on a biscotti as she looked around. On the far side of Great Russell Street a little farther down the crowds were gathering in the big open courtyard in front of the British Museum, standing like some enormous transplanted Greek temple in the middle of London.
    Outside the wrought-iron fence the huge polished black German tour buses with their dark-tinted windows gleamed like giant beetles, tourists spilling out of them onto the sidewalk like pale little maggots in Lederhosen. They chattered excitedly and scuttled across the sun-bright courtyard, vanishing into the gloomy depths behind the row of giant columns, intent on an afternoon of “kultur” peering at the famous Rosetta Stone, the famous Bog Man, and the infamous Elgin Marbles; this after all was one of the settings for
The Mummy
and its sequel. If it was good enough for Brendan Fraser it was good enough for a
hausfrau
from Stuttgart and her husband,
nicht whar
? Finn made a little snorting sound and took a sip of her coffee. She’d spent too long under Lady Ron’s thumb; she was getting as cynical as he was.
    “Hello.” It was a familiar voice. She looked up, shading her eyes in the bright, early afternoon sun. It was Billy Pilgrim or, more properly, His Grace the duke of whatever and all the rest of it. This time there was no Harvard sweatshirt. He wore a well-tailored suit, a nice oxford-cloth shirt in pale blue, and a tie to match. The shoes were shiny, the hair was brushed, and the cheeks and chin were clear of stubble.
    “You clean up well, my lord,” said Finn.
    “You know, then.”
    “I was told in no uncertain terms. In fact I was fired for not knowing your pedigree,” she said, unable to keep the chill out of her voice.
    “Oh dear!” The blond-haired man looked horrified. He dropped down into the chair across from her. “I can talk to them if you’d like, explain the circumstances… make them understand.” Finn caught the edge in the last words. The pedigree she’d mentioned had weight and he knew it.
    She shrugged off the suggestion. “No sweat. It had to happen sooner or later. I couldn’t take much more of that place.”
    “But still, I mean, really…”
    “It’s okay.” She paused, looking at him squarely. The silence went on. Across the street somebody yelled something in very loud German. It sounded like a drill sergeant giving an order instead of a mother calling to her children. Finally Finn spoke. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it, meeting like this?”
    Pilgrim blushed redly. On him it was cute. She remembered the name of his boat, the
Busted Flush
. With a “tell” like that he’d be a lousy poker player.
    “No, I’m afraid not,” Pilgrim answered.
    “You knew I’d be here?”
    “Not this particular spot, but I knew you were coming to Great Russell Street this afternoon, or at least I hoped you would be.”
    “How?” Then she made the connection. “Tulkinghorn.”
    Pilgrim nodded. “Sir James is my family’s solicitor. One of them at any rate.”
    “And