“I understand,” Laurie replied. “But you don’t think the Degas is right, do you? You feel it’s wrong. Why is that, Annette?”
Her sister shook her head. “I don’t want to set you up, influence you in any way. I want you to go and look at it cold, without any input from me. I trust your judgment, Laurie darling, but Carlton will have the last say. Remember, we can’t argue with paint and canvas, no one can. That’s the true test.”
“It’s unbelievable, the tricks forgers get up to,” Malcolm volunteered, taking a sip of the white wine he had ordered for their Sunday lunch in the dining room at the lovely old hotel overlooking Green Park. “Rubbing dirt into canvases, or soaking them in coffee and strong tea, buying old nondescript Victorian and Edwardian paintings and cleaning the canvases, then using them on which to paint forgeries of great art.”
“And reusing old frames from nondescript paintings,” Laurie pointed out. “It’s amazing the effects that can be created, how simple it is to make a fake. It was a bit foolish, though, for someone to copy a Cézanne auctioned in the last two years, and a Manet that’s hanging in a museum.”
“But perhaps the forger didn’t know this, didn’t have that information,” Annette suggested. “Also, these forgeries Christopher just found in the collection might be old, could date back twenty years or even longer. Carlton did say he thought the other Cézanne with the soot on it had been painted about eighteen years ago.”
“That’s true, he did,” Laurie murmured, and cut into a piece of roast lamb.
“I still wonder if that particular Cézanne was done by John Myatt.” Malcolm gave Annette a hard stare. “And these others might have been painted by him as well. He was, and is, a brilliant painter.”
“That’s possible.”
Malcolm chuckled, breaking the serious mood of the lunch. “Just imagine, Myatt’s still painting, but now marks his paintings Genuine Fakes with an indelible inscription. I remember going to his first show. I think it was in 2000, after he’d served four months of his year’s sentence in jail, and was out for good behavior. That show was an extraordinary success. He sold about fifty-five paintings, something like that, anyway. He was suddenly famous rather than infamous as a forger of great art.”
“He and John Drewe were incredible together,” Laurie said. “Don’t you remember, when we read about it we marveled at the way they had fooled so many art dealers and their clients.”
“Drewe was the brilliant schemer, and he also managed to forge provenances,” Malcolm pointed out. “And he even conned the Tate Gallery. What a success they had whilst they lasted. A gallery owner once told me that now when a customer asks Myatt not to put the Genuine Fakes inscription on a painting he won’t agree. He explains he’s now legitimate.”
“Whatever happened to John Drewe?” Laurie asked, looking across the table at Malcolm, a brow lifting.
“He’s around, I suppose, but not often seen. He did serve about four years of his six-year sentence, as I recall. One thing I do know, forgeries are on the rise. I just recently read that the British market loses about two hundred million pounds a year because of fakes.”
“Oh, my God, that’s a lot of money!” Laurie cried, aghast.
“I remember reading about Drewe and Myatt,” Annette said. “The press called their scam the greatest art fraud of the twentieth century. But there was also Elmyr de Hory, a Hungarian, who was also known as the greatest art forger of the twentieth century. He must have forged hundreds and hundreds of canvases in the fifties and sixties. He was another extremely talented painter who copied and was as brilliant as Myatt. Elmyr de Hory specialized in Picassos and Renoirs, as well as Matisses, Vlamincks, and Dufys. He had a career that lasted a very long time. Apparently, it was hard to tell the fake from the real thing. Even art experts were totally fooled.”
“Sir Alec Delaware was fooled,” Malcolm said. “He bought a number of forgeries, without realizing what they were, of course. I feel certain of that.”
“A lot of art collectors do get fooled.” Annette gave Malcolm a knowing look. “That’s why it’s so important for collectors to use an expert art historian. But not all do, and there are a lot of fakes hanging on walls in the homes of the rich, who have been cleverly conned into buying forgeries.” She sighed. “Christopher Delaware is more upset about the fakes than happy about the real paintings. I pointed out to him that he is now the owner of a Cézanne, a Pissarro, and a Manet which are genuine, and which he didn’t know he had, and that he should be happy, joyful, about it.”
“Yes, he should,” Laurie agreed. “I don’t know if you know this, Annette, but Degas asked his dealer Paul Durand-Ruel to bid on some of Manet’s works after his death. Degas bought the painting Berthe Morisot with a Veil, which was painted in 1872.”
“Good heavens, that’s the beginning of some provenance!” Malcolm exclaimed. “That’s something I didn’t know.”
“And it’s with the real painting in the Musée du Petit Palais in Geneva,” Annette was quick to point out in a pithy tone.
Malcolm and Laurie laughed.
Annette went on, “Enough of all this stuff about fakes and forgeries. Let’s get to your wedding. What about the different venues you were considering? Did the brochures tell you anything? Have you found a venue you like yet?”
“No, to all your questions,” Laurie answered. “And we might have everything in London, after all. The wedding and the reception.”
Malcolm nodded. “We haven’t picked a date as of this moment, but we’re thinking of July and—”
“Because I want to wear a beautiful wedding dress,” Laurie interjected. “I don’t want to look too pregnant.”
“I don’t blame you,” her sister said, giving her a warm smile, glad to see the genuine happiness on Laurie’s face.
“And neither do I,” Malcolm added, his eyes filled with total love and adoration for Laurie. “In fact, I insist on a fabulous gown.”
Laurie exclaimed, “Gosh, I forgot to tell you! What with all this talk of fakes it went out of my head, Annette. Jack Chalmers called me this morning. To ask a few questions.”
Annette stiffened in the chair and stared at her sister. “What did he ask you?”
“Fairly mundane questions, actually. What were your own paintings like? What were Daddy’s paintings like? Did I think our father’s paintings influenced you? And a few questions about our relationship, yours and mine. It was easy, and he was very nice, charming, and the whole thing lasted about twenty minutes.”
Annette merely nodded, and sat back in her chair, filled with relief that Jack had finally spoken to Laurie.
All of the interviews were now finished, and he had mentioned last night that he thought he had enough material for the New York piece. Even so, she knew he would want to continue seeing her. He was in her life, and she didn’t know how to get him out. And did she want to?
Picking up her glass, she sipped the white wine, and went on talking about the wedding, and their marriage plans in general, pushing thoughts of Jack to the back of her mind. He spelled trouble.
Later that afternoon, Annette stood looking down at the pieces of paper placed on the dining room table, filled with frustration. She had laid everything out that morning, before going to lunch at the Ritz, and had spent an hour going over them before leaving.
There was nothing. Nothing at all. Bills, yes, but not for paintings; letters from galleries with nothing definitive about paintings; no provenances, and certainly not much pertaining to the art collection.
The briefcase and the two filing cabinets had not produced one thing which was of value to her. She continued to marvel at the mess left behind by Sir Alec, the business tycoon. It seemed so out of character. Unexpectedly, she wondered if someone had rifled through the papers before her. Mrs. Joules? If so, why? And why was she so suspicious of the housekeeper? Annette had no idea. What motive could the housekeeper possibly have? None that Annette could think of, but suspicion of Mrs. Joules lingered. Th
e woman worried her.
Tired, she turned away from the table laden with paper, went into her dressing room, took off her trouser suit, and slipped into a robe. She then went to rest on the bed. Drowsiness soon overwhelmed her. It’s the wine, she thought, as she began to doze, thoughts of Jack Chalmers floating around in her head as she fell asleep.
“Where are you taking me to supper?” Annette asked, turning her head to observe him, thinking how handsome he looked in the black sweater and jeans and a red scarf around his neck. And young.
She buried the thought of their age difference, settled back in the car seat, emptying her head of all her troubling thoughts.
“It’s a surprise,” he answered, glancing at her quickly, a faint smile on his mouth. “And also a . . . celebration.”
“Oh. Of what?”
“I’ve finished the profile of you, and I think you’ll like it. Actually, I’m sure you will. I’ll be surprised if you don’t. So I want to celebrate.”
“Then we shall. When is the piece appearing?” Annette asked, although she didn’t want to read it. What if she didn’t like it? Then what?
“This coming Sunday,” he answered.
“So quickly! Gosh, I didn’t realize. And now I know why you were so anxious to get it finished.”
He merely smiled, then said, “By the way, I spoke to your sister earlier, but no doubt she told you that.”
“Yes, she did. Her fiancé took us to lunch at the Ritz, and she mentioned it in passing.”
“She’s going to see Carlton tomorrow, isn’t she? To look at the Degas ballet dancer,” Jack asserted.
“That’s right, and no matter what her opinion is, Carlton is going to test the canvas, because there is no provenance for the painting. Her opinion and mine, and his actually, really don’t count. It’s the age of the canvas and the paint that are important.”
“I understand. But I’ll tell you something, Annette, I never realized that a forged painting could be so good. I was really startled by that. I’ve been wondering if there might not be a good magazine piece on art and crime, fakes, that kind of thing.”
“Possibly. If you want to write about forgery, I can point you in the right direction, send you to see the people who could be of help, who know a lot more than I do.”
“What about Scotland Yard? Are there any special kinds of . . . well, police divisions that deal with crimes like that?”
“As a matter of fact, there is one division. It’s called the Art and Antiques Squad, and they investigate forged paintings, fakes, the people involved with the forgeries. They helped to bring down John Drewe, who was eventually prosecuted and sent to jail.”
“Tell me something about him, will you?” he asked as he drove on, heading in the direction of Hampstead and hoping she might not notice this if she was involved in a complicated conversation.
Annette began to tell him the story of John Drewe, an eccentric, even talented, man who had masterminded a scheme to have an artist forge paintings by great painters for him to sell to unsuspecting galleries. Jack listened attentively, letting her speak at length without stopping the flow of her words by asking her questions.
By the time Annette had finished telling him everything she knew about John Drewe, she realized they were heading away from the West End, and that they were, in fact, driving in the direction of Hampstead Heath.
Swiveling in the seat, staring at him, she exclaimed, “Are we going to check your father’s house before going to supper? Are we eating in that area, Jack?”
“As a matter of fact, we are,” he replied, his voice and manner genial. “But I must check on the boiler, see that all is okay before we have dinner.”
“But I thought you turned the boiler off,” she responded, a frown on her face.
“Yes, yes, I did. I have to check out things in general, you know,” he lied, hoping she bought this story but not really caring, since once they arrived and she went into the house she would be captivated.
He stifled a yawn, promptly sat up straighter at the wheel. He had been up most of the night, writing the profile about her. He had slept for several hours, then made a large fried-egg sandwich and also a bacon butty for breakfast. Replenished by food, he had gone shopping, then driven up to the house in Hampstead, made his preparations, and left.
Once back at his flat in Primrose Hill, Jack had slept again, later showered and shaved, then reread his story about her. He had finally dressed in a pair of jeans and sweater, thrown a scarf around his neck, and gone to fetch her a short while ago.
Sneaking a quick look at her, he said, “You were so strange when I spoke to you on the phone this afternoon. I thought you’d turn me down, get out of our date.”
“Strange? If I was, I didn’t mean to be. . . . I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,” Annette said, sounding puzzled.
“When I said, ‘I’m coming to get you,’ you caught your breath and didn’t answer. I had to repeat myself.”
“I was a little taken aback I guess. You said it so forcefully. . . . I’M COMING TO GET YOU. . . . It was like Genghis Khan telling me he was coming down from the hills, to capture me and take me back to his lair.”
Jack threw back his head and laughed gleefully. “Genghis Khan indeed!”
“You sounded very macho, that’s all,” she murmured, and wondered what he had planned for the evening. Something special, she decided. A shiver ran through her, and she pushed the panic down inside her. It seemed to her there was no going back now. They were set on a course that somehow was inevitable . . . and dangerous.
Thirty-three
Annette stood on the top step of his father’s house, where Jack had instructed her to wait, and she couldn’t help wondering what this was all about. She turned the knob, but the door had automatically locked behind him when he had gone inside.
A split second later the front door suddenly opened and Jack came out. He took hold of her hand and led her into the house without saying a word. He walked her through the hall and into the living room, and after kissing her lightly on the cheek, he said, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and disappeared. She heard his footsteps retreating down the corridor in the direction of the kitchen.
Slowly she turned, her eyes roaming around the room; she found herself marveling at its transformation. Candlelight and flames from the fire mingled to create a rosy glow. Logs crackled in the hearth behind a firescreen, votives in small glass pots were lined up along the mantel shelf, and tall crystal candlesticks, holding long white tapers, stood on the antique chests supposedly from his mother’s junk shop. On each chest a vase of pink roses had been placed between the candlesticks, and there were pink roses in a bowl on the glass coffee table in front of a sofa. The latter, which had miraculously appeared from somewhere overnight, had been filled with plump cushions.
Annette looked across the room, where a small table and two chairs were standing near the French doors leading into the garden. She noticed that the table was covered in a white cloth, and had been set for dinner for two. Along with the table silverware there was a single pink rose in a bud vase, and also a candle in a silver stick as yet unlit. The living room, half empty and somewhat desolate-looking before, had been given new life and a special kind of beauty.
He had done all this at some point during his busy day of writing. And it was for her. She was so touched her eyes filled with tears; then she understood, at this precise moment, that he was in deadly earnest about her, and she was afraid.
She was already emotionally involved with him, even though nothing had yet happened between them, other than a kiss. To become further enmeshed would be dangerous, had to be avoided at all cost. Could she avoid it? Did she really want to walk away?
A cold chill swept over her as she realized how terrible the repercussions would be if Marius found out about them. She fully understood that her life would change drastically. It would be the end of everything for her. She must leave this house now. Whilst there was still time. S
he must flee at once.
She took a step forward, found her legs would hardly move; she was almost but not quite rooted to the spot. Turned to stone. Or a pillar of salt.
Taking a deep breath, Annette forced herself to walk toward the arched entrance leading into the hall, where Jack suddenly appeared before her. He was carrying a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes, that wide, endearing smile flashing on his face.
“Could you take these?” he asked, thrusting the glasses at her. She simply nodded, accepted them from him, and followed him back into the living room.
After placing the bottle of champagne on the coffee table, Jack said, “Can I have the flutes, Annette, please?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered, her voice suddenly husky.
After putting the glasses in front of him on the coffee table, she sat down on the sofa, not knowing what else to do, understanding that she was lost. And she couldn’t help wondering if one night with him was worth the inevitable chaos that was bound to erupt. . . .
“Why are you looking so troubled?” he asked as he poured the champagne into the crystal flutes.
“I didn’t know I was,” she answered swiftly, and took the glass of champagne he was offering her.
After pouring one for himself, he joined her on the sofa, touched his glass to hers, and said, “Welcome again to my family home. I do hope you can feel the love here. . . . It still lingers, at least so I believe. It seeps into the walls, you know. . . . There’s a loving atmosphere. It was always a happy house.”
She smiled at him, staring into those clear, very candid gray eyes, and finally accepted that she had fallen in love with him, just as he had with her. There was no going back, was there? She had to see this through, be with him here. She could not flee. . . . She knew she would regret it if she did. At least I can have tonight, she thought. This one night. And then it will have to end. It must end. Marius will never let me go. And if I leave him he will punish me. He will ruin my life, that is one thing I am certain of, know to be the absolute truth.
Playing the Game Page 28
