Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “Are you upset about something?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “You’ve got an odd look on your face.”

  “Have I?” Another shrug of her shoulders. “I was thinking about your uncle, and how eloquently he described the Cézanne, at least the way he saw it . . . all those dark greens that Cézanne favored. Most appropriate.”

  “He was an interesting man. Here’s something else he wrote.” Christopher flipped the pages again, and went on. “Just a few words, which baffled me at first. So listen to this. . . . ‘My poor little girl, gone from me. The beautiful girl, beautiful no more. I must bury her.’ That’s all there is. But I found her.”

  “Oh, my God! Is he referring to a child?” Her hand came up to her mouth and she shook her head. “Did he bury a child?” She shuddered involuntarily, aghast.

  “No, no. Don’t look so alarmed. It’s not a human child. What I found was a rather disreputable-looking statue. Do you want to see it?”

  “Immediately.” She stood up. Her face was white.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he apologized, lightly touching her arm.

  No, not you, she thought. There’s something about this house that chills me to the bone, and for a reason I don’t understand. Taking a deep breath, Annette said, “I’m fine, I was just startled. The way you presented it to me was . . . well, I thought he’d buried a dead child.”

  Annette followed Christopher across the enormous hall, with its high-flung vaulted ceiling, polished oak floor, and huge chandelier. She glanced around, shivered. There was something creepy about this place. Why had she not noticed it last year? It had been summer. Warm weather and sunshine, of course. On this cold March day it had acquired bleak aspects.

  She was glad she had worn a gray flannel trouser suit and cashmere sweater, and that she had told Laurie to do the same. Even though Knowle Court was centrally heated and fires burned in almost every room, a damp coldness seemed to permeate the whole place.

  As they walked toward the sitting room where he was storing pieces of art, Annette asked, “How did you manage to find the statue?”

  “There are quite a lot of trunks and boxes stored in the attics, and I went through them all. It was fortunate that my uncle had scrawled my beautiful girl on one side of a large cardboard box, and when I opened it I discovered the sculpture.”

  “That was lucky. The box is in the room where the Cézanne is stored?”

  He nodded. “I’ve put some other artworks in there, since you said you might want to have more than one piece in the next auction.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Here we are.” Christopher opened a door, ushered Annette inside. “Do you want to look at the Cézanne first? It’s over there on the trestle table.”

  She hurried across the floor, anxious to view the painting again, apprehension trickling through her as she thought of the damage the soot could have caused to the canvas.

  Christopher, moving ahead, whipped the cotton sheet off the trestle table and stood waiting for her, the painting revealed.

  When she looked down at the Cézanne, she saw immediately that the painting looked a bit darker in parts than it had last August, when she had first seen it. But that day was sunny. Perhaps it was something to do with the dreary light today. Soot didn’t run or spread. It was composed of carbon deposits from burning coal, and she was certain it was difficult to remove from anything.

  Oh, God, she thought, leaning closer, peering at the canvas. However will Carlton bring this back to life? He was most probably the only man who could, if that was at all possible.

  Christopher, hovering next to her, was suddenly nervous. “You seem worried.”

  “I am,” Annette responded. “However, Carlton Fraser is a genius, and I’m not going to give in to anticipatory despair. The painting is full of those wonderful dark, dark greens Cézanne loved to use, and so perhaps it looks worse than it really is. Now, where’s the statue?”

  “It’s here.” As he spoke, Christopher pulled a large cardboard box across the floor and opened the top flaps.

  Annette looked inside. What she saw gave her quite a start; instantly, she pulled back, the breath knocked out of her, then knelt down, opening the flaps wider for a better view. She stared for a long time at the object lying on the bottom of the box, hardly able to accept what she genuinely believed she was seeing. A little surge of excitement ran through her, and she prayed she was correct about the statue. Putting her hand in the box, she touched it tentatively and closed her eyes.

  After a moment she stared at Christopher. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You have had it out of the box, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have, but I wasn’t very impressed with it, so I put it back.”

  “Would you lift it out, so that I can look at it properly, please, Chris?”

  “Of course I will.” He did as she asked. “Where do you want me to put it?”

  “I think over there, on the round table near the window, please.” To think she could have seen this two weeks ago if only he had had the sense to phone her. She was beginning to have her doubts about him.

  Once it was on the table, Annette walked in a circle, viewing the piece from every angle. Her heart was pounding. She could hardly contain herself, her excitement growing. Suddenly she experienced that wonderful surge of joyousness that came over her when she looked at a great Impressionist painting, most especially a Renoir. It was a kind of momentary ecstasy, and thrilling.

  He said, “It looks so grubby. Surely it’s not anything of any importance. Why are you so interested in it?”

  For a moment Annette could not bear to answer him, and she certainly couldn’t look at him. She was afraid he would see the irritation on her face.

  Finally, she said, “The last time I saw something very similar to this at auction, the hammer came down on it for eleven million dollars. And that was ten years ago.”

  Five

  “If I’m correct, and I’m fairly certain I am, this is The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer by Degas,” Annette said, turning around. She noticed that Christopher looked stunned and understood why. The thought of another art windfall in the millions must have dazzled him. In fact, she herself was somewhat stunned by his find, unexpected as it was.

  “A Degas! I can’t believe it. I thought it wasn’t very important. Uncle Alec discarded it, put it away in an old cardboard box, shoved it in the attic. I wonder why? Because it’s so grubby-looking? Do you think that’s the reason?” Christopher asked.

  “I’ve no idea. However, this little bronze dancer is not something anyone discards. Rather, it is to be treasured. Just because the net tutu is torn, also worn and dirty, is of no consequence. It’s a Degas. And I believe this is one from a special unnumbered edition of about twenty-five examples which were cast in the 1920s. I’m very excited about this, Christopher.”

  “You said it was sold for eleven million dollars about ten years ago. Was it my uncle who bought it? Is this that statue?”

  “No, no, you misunderstood me. I told you that a sculpture similar to this, another Degas ballet dancer, was auctioned around 1997. By Sotheby’s in New York.”

  “Why would a copy be so valuable?”

  “It is not a copy, not in the way you mean it,” Annette said. “Let me try and explain this to you. A posthumous second-generation cast of the original wax sculpture by Degas was made at the Hébrard Foundry by perhaps one of the greatest casters ever, Albino Palazzolo, and it was supervised by the sculptor Albert Bartholomé, who was an intimate friend of Degas. I don’t think I’m wrong in believing this is one of those which were cast in the 1920s from that original wax sculpture by Degas.” Annette added, “Laurie is an expert on Degas, and I frequently use her for research. She’s full of knowledge. Would you ask her to come and look at this, Christopher?”

  “Right away!” he exclaimed, and hurried out of the room.

&nb
sp; Once she was alone, Annette turned to look at the bronze dancer again. She was absolutely convinced that this really was a Degas, and another rare find at Knowle Court, just as the painting by Rembrandt had been.

  Stepping closer to the little dancer, she reached out, touched her head, caressed it lovingly, and then touched the torn and dirty tutu, very old now. Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears, so moved was she. This little dancer had always been a favorite of hers, and she often went to see the one on display at the Louvre when she was in Paris.

  Imagine. Who would have ever thought that I might be auctioning this. It will be mine. For a short while. I will be its custodian. How thrilling that is. Her thoughts suddenly swung to Alec Delaware, and she wondered, When had he bought the little dancer and where? I need the provenance. Oh, my God, where is the provenance? Her chest tightened and sudden anxiety took hold of her. There were not many papers here. How could a man like Alec Delaware, a highly successful businessman, have been so careless? Christopher didn’t seem to know too much about his uncle’s affairs, and there were only a few metal filing cabinets containing a handful of papers referring to some of the art. But not to all of it.

  At this moment Laurie came rolling into the room in the chair, her face lighting up when she saw the bronze dancer on the table.

  “Oh, Annette, how wonderful! It’s The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, the famous Degas bronze. Oh, God, I must touch it.” As she spoke, Laurie, stopping in front of the sculpture, stretched out her hand and stroked the statue. Turning her head, she focused on Christopher. “Aren’t you the luckiest man alive! This is a famous masterpiece. Any serious collector would kill for it.”

  “Are you sure it is what we both think?” Annette interjected.

  “Yes, I am,” Laurie answered, very positive.

  Annette’s voice was as serious as her face when she said to Christopher, “I need the provenance, proof of previous ownership. Is there such a thing?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Annette glanced over at the cardboard box. “Was there anything else in that box when you opened it? An envelope maybe?”

  “No, it was full of crumpled paper. What I mean is, my uncle had lined the box with balls of newspaper and tissue paper. That made a cushion for the statue, and there was a lot more paper on top, covering the bronze.”

  Annette stared at him. “So where is all this paper now?” She prayed he hadn’t thrown it away.

  “I put it in a plastic bag and left it in the attic. I know what you’re thinking, Annette . . . that the provenance might be in amongst the paper.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’ll go and get the plastic bag,” Christopher announced and left the room.

  Jim Pollard, his friend, watched him go, shaking his head. He then looked over at Annette. “I vaguely knew Sir Alec, though not through Christopher. It was my father who introduced us. He had dealings with Sir Alec in business. Apparently he was an eccentric, in some ways rather like the proverbial absentminded professor. And yet he was sharp, a superb businessman. Odd dichotomy there. Look, this is what I wanted to say. I don’t think he would be careless about documentation for his art. He was a serious collector, as you know, since you’re now well acquainted with the art collection here.”

  “Do you think there are some files somewhere in this house which refer to the art?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do. Hidden. You see, Sir Alec did undergo a change when his fiancée died. . . . He became weird, secretive, difficult to deal with. That’s also when he suddenly became a recluse.”

  “When was that?”

  “About fifteen years ago. I’m sure it was the shock, actually. Finding her like that.”

  “What do you mean?” Laurie asked, staring at him intently, detecting something odd in his voice.

  Jim looked from Laurie to Annette and said quietly, “Didn’t you know she committed suicide?”

  Both women shook their heads; Annette asked, “How did she . . .” She couldn’t finish the question and her voice trailed off on a slight waver.

  “She hanged herself,” Jim murmured. “In their bedroom. Here. A few days before the marriage.” He hesitated, then muttered, “She was wearing her wedding gown.”

  “Oh, my God!” Laurie looked at Jim aghast.

  Annette, speechless, shook her head several times, as if denying this. “That must have been a terrible shock for him. What a horrible thing to have to live with.”

  Jim said, “My father thought her suicide sent him raving mad, and perhaps Dad was right. I think Sir Alec did go off his rocker, after Clarissa killed herself.”

  “That was her name?” Laurie asked.

  “Yes, Clarissa Normandy. She was an artist.”

  “I knew her work, but not much about her,” Annette remarked, recalling an art show she had been to some twenty years ago.

  Christopher came in with the plastic bag and immediately started pulling out pieces of newspaper. Jim went to help him, and after a few seconds it was Jim who cried, “Eureka!” and waved a crumpled envelope in the air. He strode over and gave it to Annette, a smile on his face.

  “It is the provenance, thank God,” she exclaimed a second later as she took several pieces of paper out of the envelope and glanced at them. “We’re lucky to have found this envelope,” she added, sounding relieved. “Otherwise I would have had to have Laurie track this little darling’s travels over the years, in order to have some sort of provenance for it, to prove it is really what it actually is.”

  It was referred to as the morning room, and as far as Annette was concerned it was the warmest and most welcoming spot in this vast mausoleum. Octagonal in shape, it was of medium size, with three arched windows which looked out onto the park at the back of Knowle Court. The ceiling was coffered, and there was a fireplace with a carved oak mantelpiece.

  “We’ve made a space for you here,” Christopher said, indicating where Laurie’s chair would fit comfortably at the table.

  “Thank you,” she answered, and rolled herself into the empty space, thinking how cozy this room was with its pink silk lampshades and a fire blazing up the chimney.

  As she glanced around, taking everything in, Laurie suddenly realized there were no paintings hanging here. How odd. Settling herself comfortably, she had the sudden startling thought that Christopher didn’t care about art very much. Just its monetary worth. Was that why Annette had seemed irritated earlier? Undoubtedly she had realized that. Long ago perhaps?

  Jim pulled out a chair for Annette and sat down at the round table between her and Laurie; looking from one to the other, he said, “Mrs. Joules is a great cook. Lunch will be marvelous. We’re in for a culinary treat.”

  As if on cue, the door opened and Mrs. Joules came in carrying a tray laden with bowls of steaming soup. A young maid followed. After placing the tray on a sideboard, she and the maid passed a bowl to each of them. Mrs. Joules said, “I hope you enjoy it . . . my special pea soup with coconut.”

  They all thanked her, and when she and the maid disappeared, Christopher announced, “You’ll love it. I’ve never had soup quite as delicious.”

  Annette was pleasantly surprised when she tasted the soup. It had a hint of mint along with the coconut, and was indeed special.

  Her thoughts strayed away from the conversation Christopher and Jim were now having about a horse Jim had recently bought. Instead she was thinking about the art in this house, and what Christopher would put up for auction. Probably all of it in the end, but right now he was going slowly. Still, he had indicated he would sell five pieces, and he would make a decision about which ones to auction after lunch.

  There was no question in her mind that he was a nice young man, pleasant, a little shy, and reticent, although he had seemed more open, less diffident today. And yet she had been slightly turned off earlier; she knew the reason why. She had a reverence for art, and for artists, and she had been annoyed when he had been so offhand. He was not interested in the b
ronze dancer for its beauty, nor did it matter to him that it had been created by such a master as Degas. He didn’t care that it was a renowned piece. His only concern was how much she could get for it.

  Annette sighed under her breath. Perhaps that was only normal. He had told her he knew nothing about art right from the beginning, when he had first come to see her. And later on he had even said he relied on Jim Pollard for help when making decisions about the collection. That was probably the real reason Jim was here for the weekend, not to keep Laurie company today. But that didn’t matter; she found Jim compatible, and he seemed genuine, sincere. Not only that, he did have a knowledge of art, and at times today he himself had appeared impatient with Christopher.

  Annette settled back in her chair and joined in the conversation the others were having about a new play in the West End, not wishing to appear rude. But her interest kept straying.

  She started to think about Hilda Crump and the awful things that had happened. What if someone found out? If those early years caught up with her, then her world would be shattered. And therefore so would Laurie’s. This last thought struck terror in her. Who would look after her sister if she was in jail?

  The lunch progressed at a smooth pace. After the soup Mrs. Joules brought in lamb chops, new potatoes, and baby carrots, and afterward dessert, which was peach pie. When she presented this the housekeeper told them that coffee was awaiting them in the library whenever they were ready.

  Relieved that lunch was finally over and out of the way, Annette got straight to the point when they were settled in the library sipping their coffee.

  Within minutes she brought a card out of her handbag and addressed Christopher. “I know you wish to sell the Giacometti sculpture, you already told me that, so what about The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer? Do you want to keep the Degas or have me put it up for auction?”

  “I want you to sell it, and also the Degas painting of horses . . . I’d like to get rid of the Mary Cassatt of the mother and the child, and the Cézanne, if it can be restored.”