“That was a lucky break.” Annette accepted the flute of champagne from him and smiled. “It should be nice in Barcelona this weekend. You’ll be able to get a bit of sun.”
Walking over to Laurie, he handed her the glass, then sat down in the chair next to her. “I doubt it,” he murmured, addressing Annette. “I really do need to spend some time with the director of the Picasso Museum, and I want to do a good long walk-through, to refresh my memory.”
“How’s the book coming along?” Laurie asked, referring to the one Marius was writing about the painter.
“Rather better than I expected. It’s odd, Laurie, it just started to take off in the last six months or so. I’ve done more work in that time than I did the whole of the previous year. I think Picasso really comes alive on the page at last. And by the way, ladies, I’ve decided to dedicate this book to the two of you . . . my very special muses.”
“How lovely,” Laurie cried, and raising her glass she said, “Here’s to your new book, Marius, and thank you for the dedication to us.”
Annette said, “That’s nice of you, darling, yes, thank you, thank you very much.”
A small silence fell among them; the three of them sat back, sipping their champagne, relaxing, enjoying being together in this beautiful room in front of the blazing fire on this cold day.
It was Marius who broke the silence when he asked, “Are you still planning to drive down to Kent tomorrow? To review Christopher’s paintings?”
“Yes. I must make some decisions. In fact, he must, too. I’ve got to start making my plans for the next auction.”
“You’ve never actually said what else there is in his late uncle’s collection.” Marius gave her a very direct, penetrating look. “Either there’s something really special or absolutely nothing at all. Come on, sweetheart, spill the beans.”
Annette shook her head. “No, no, I’m not keeping secrets from you, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” she instantly shot back, a frown knotting her brow. “And actually, I did tell you there were a couple of Impressionists, and also an important piece of sculpture. As for paintings, there’s a Cassatt and a Degas, and I did tell you.”
Catching the nuance of irritation in her voice, he said, in a placating tone, “Come to think of it, that you did, I’d just forgotten. In fact, didn’t you say there was a Giacometti sculpture in the collection also?”
“I did, and I know it’s valuable. Oh, and there’s a Cézanne. I admire his work, you know. For some reason it’s really dirty, and therefore it must be cleaned. I can’t imagine what that uncle of Christopher’s was like. A careless man, I suppose, at least when it came to taking care of his art collection. Imagine neglecting a Rembrandt and a Cézanne. He didn’t even have the collection catalogued, at least as far as I know. And Christopher doesn’t know very much more than I do. Apparently he wasn’t close to his uncle, hardly knew him, but since there was no other heir, he inherited the collection.”
“Everything else as well,” Laurie murmured. “I read about it in the papers. There was some sort of really sad incident in his life, and he became a recluse, as well as being something of an eccentric anyway, the uncle I mean.”
Marius, thoughtful, said slowly, “I believe it was a broken engagement, or a divorce. There was a woman involved, some tragedy, if I remember correctly. I think you and I read the same newspaper stories, Laurie.” He glanced at his wife. “Don’t you know any of the family background?”
“Not much. Christopher has never told me anything. He’s rather shy, reticent.”
“Ho, ho, that’s what you think, is it! Well, he’s certainly not too shy to ogle you. He’s got big eyes for you, Annette.” Marius laughed. It sounded a little hollow.
“That’s not true. And he’s only twenty-three, for heaven’s sake!”
“What’s age got to do with anything? Age is merely a number, that’s all. And he does have eyes for you. I saw it myself at the party on Tuesday night. Come on, admit it.”
“Oh pooh,” Annette exclaimed in a dismissive voice, not wishing to acknowledge the truth in what Marius was saying. That would only give him ammunition to tease her, or taunt her, as he was sometimes prone to do. It was another way to control her.
Laurie sat back, watching them, not daring to enter into this conversation. She knew it was wise to remain silent. She was only too well aware that Marius had always been extremely possessive of Annette, and jealous. There were times when Laurie had seen him watching her sister like a hawk, his face a mask of anger, if there was another man showing interest. Whenever she had mentioned his dreadful possessiveness, which seemed pathological to her, Annette had dismissed it vehemently. Nonetheless, there was a certain problem there, whatever Annette believed.
Marius stood up, went to fetch the bottle of champagne, refilled their glasses, and then took it back to the silver bucket. He stood there for a moment, his hand on the bottle, looking from his wife to his sister-in-law. Finally he said, “Listen, the two of you, I’ve just had an inspired idea. I think you should both go down to Kent tomorrow to that house of Christopher’s, his uncle’s huge pile. You’d enjoy the outing, Laurie, wouldn’t you? And Laurie would be company for you, Annette. I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to Paddy on my way to the airport. I know he’ll be happy to drive you to Kent, wait, and bring you back. Now what do you say about that, the two of you?”
Laurie was absolutely silent, frightened to speak.
Annette looked across at her sister and smiled. She said, in the most loving of voices, “Marius has just had a brilliant idea, Laurie, I’d love it if you would come with me. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“Oh, honestly, I don’t know,” Laurie answered quickly, staring at Annette. “Look, I don’t want to be in the way, you’re going there to work.” She bit her lip. “I’ll just be a nuisance, under your feet.”
“No, you won’t, you’d be lovely company for me on the drive there and back, just as Marius said. Please say you’ll come.” Annette sat back on the sofa, smiling at her sister, genuinely wanting her to make the trip. She had felt badly about canceling their usual Saturday rendezvous, and it had never occurred to her to ask Laurie to drive to Kent with her. Now that Marius had suggested it, she thought it was a great idea. She laughed inwardly. Two can play this game. You think you pull the wool over my eyes, but you don’t. I’ve been married to you for twenty-one years and I know you well. Better than anybody.
Laurie said softly, “If you really want me to drive down with you, I’ll come. Of course I will.” A smile touched her generous, pretty mouth. “For me it would be a great treat. . . .”
“Then it’s settled!” Marius declared. He glanced over his shoulder when their housekeeper appeared in the doorway. “There you are, Elaine. I suppose lunch is ready?”
“It is. A cheese soufflé. You’ve got to come. Before it drops.”
“I’ve got my orders,” he murmured.
And seemingly so have I. Annette took a deep breath, and then experienced a little frisson of annoyance. He could be so manipulative.
Four
The house was called Knowle Court and it was located not far from Aldington in Kent. A long gravel drive led up to the house, skirted on either side by lines of tall, stately poplars, and it was the trees which gave the property a sense of dignity. They reminded Annette of France, where there was many a driveway just like this, standing sentinel in front of some grand château.
As if picking up on this thought, Laurie turned to her and said, “Have we crossed the Channel without me noticing and entered France? That’s what the trees are telling me.”
“I know what you mean, but no, we’re still here in hop-growing country, and not very far from Noël Coward’s old home. Though I’m afraid Knowle Court doesn’t have the charm of Goldenhurst. Unfortunately.”
“What a pity. I like that lovely Elizabethan house. So, what exactly did Christopher inherit from his uncle?”
“A Jacobean pile of stone, tu
rreted and moated, no less. More like a small castle, actually. Not my kind of place. I came here several times last summer and even then, on a sunny day, it seemed a bit . . . daunting. Oh, look, Laurie, there it is!”
Leaning forward, she said to Paddy, “There’s a circular drive up ahead, and Mr. Delaware told me you should park near the drawbridge that leads to a big door.”
“Righto, Mrs. Remmington.”
“He also explained that you’re welcome to relax in the back parlor, to read or watch television. And that the housekeeper will give you lunch later. It’s up to you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. R. I think I’ll drive around the area a bit, take a dekko, and come back later for a spot of lunch. Mr. R. said you’d be working here all day.”
“That’s right. I hope we can leave about four or five, not later than that. So, you can please yourself, do what you want. Oh, and Mr. Delaware said you’re to make yourself at home if you do decide to relax in the back parlor.”
Paddy nodded. “That’s very kind of him.” As he brought the car to a standstill and pulled on the brake, he added, “And here we are, ladies.” Opening the door, he jumped out, then poked his head back inside. “I’ll get the wheelchair, Miss Laurie, and then I’ll lift you out. Won’t be a tick.”
At this moment the huge iron-studded oak door opened, and Christopher appeared on the drawbridge with a young man Annette recognized as his friend James Pollard. Before she could open the car door, Christopher was hurrying forward, doing it for her and saying hello to Paddy at the same time.
Helping her to get out, he grinned and exclaimed, “You’ve made it in good time! Welcome to the old homestead.” He then muttered, “If one can call it that. It’s more like a stronghold.”
Once Annette was out of the car, he glanced inside again. “Hi, Laurie. I asked my friend Jim to come down for the weekend. He’ll keep you company while we work. I’m sure you remember him from the auction.”
“Yes, I do, and that was thoughtful of you, Christopher.” She gave him a wide smile, and then turned to Paddy, who had appeared at her side of the car.
The driver had worked for Marius for eighteen years and knew her well, and it was with great care that he lifted her out of the car and carried her to the wheelchair. And as usual he thought the same thing he always thought as he held her gently, like a baby, in his arms: What a gorgeous girl, what a shame. In his own way he loved her, but then everybody loved her. You couldn’t help yourself. She was of the sweetest nature and he’d never heard her complain once. A shame. A bloody shame.
“Thank you, Paddy,” Laurie said, looking up at the big warm-hearted man, with mischievous obsidian-black eyes and a shock of dark, wavy hair. If anyone was a genuine black Irishman, it was Paddy.
“My pleasure,” he murmured. He put her into the chair and she went across the drawbridge.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like this place ever before, have you, Miss Laurie?” he asked, walking next to her.
This was said in such a droll way she couldn’t help laughing. “No, I haven’t.” As she spoke she glanced up at the castle, which is what it really was, and took a deep breath. An involuntary shiver ran through her. Annette had used the wrong word. It wasn’t merely daunting, it was forbidding. And she shivered again as a strange sense of foreboding took hold of her and she shrank inside.
A moment later, Jim Pollard was hurrying alongside her, greeting her. “It’s so nice to see you again, Laurie. I was delighted when Chris asked me to spend the weekend, and especially chuffed when I knew that you were coming for lunch today. We can keep each other company and laugh like we did at the auction. I haven’t had as much fun since then.”
“Me neither,” she answered, and realized how glad she was that Jim was here. She would have hated to sit alone waiting for Annette in this gloomy place. It was so dark and unwelcoming.
There was a bit of fuss and lots of bustle as Christopher led everyone into the house. He insisted on showing Paddy to the back parlor, where he introduced him to Mrs. Joules, his housekeeper, as she came hurrying out of the adjoining kitchen. Immediately, she took charge of Paddy. Christopher then asked Jim to escort Laurie to the blue sitting room. Linking his arm through Annette’s, he led her down a corridor, across the vaulted hall, and into the library.
She remembered this room very well. It was gargantuan, paneled in light oak, and had a huge fireplace at one end and soaring mullioned windows at the other. Filled though it was with books, there was some free wall space where two exceptional horse paintings by George Stubbs were hanging on either side of the fireplace. She was quite certain they had been painted about 1769, or around that time. She loved the formality of the composition, the glossy coats of the horses, their elegant stance, the traditional landscaped park in the background, which was so very English. They were incomparable. And at least they were in excellent condition. Sir Alec Delaware, Christopher’s uncle, had looked after these two beauties very well indeed. This pleased her. If Christopher wanted to sell them, she could get a fabulous price for the pair.
“You looked at those horse paintings last summer, and long and hard, just as you’re doing today,” Christopher remarked, coming to a standstill next to her. “You said they were valuable.”
“They are. Paintings by George Stubbs are hard to come by. I haven’t seen any on the market in a long time. But of course they wouldn’t sell anywhere in the same range as your Rembrandt did, although they would bring an excellent price if you were to put them up for auction.”
“I’m going to keep them. They look very handsome and fit this room extremely well. They genuinely belong in here, and they enhance it.”
“Your uncle most probably purchased them specially for this library.”
“No, actually he didn’t, Annette. My mother told me that the horse paintings were inherited from my grandfather, Percy Delaware, and that he’d inherited them from his father. They’ve been in the family for many years.”
“How long has this house been in your family, Christopher?”
“Hundreds of years, since the Stuart period, the 1660s, and it’s entailed, you know, it can’t be sold. It must always pass to a direct descendant.”
Annette nodded. “The family is not titled, though, is it?”
“No. Uncle Alec was knighted for services to British industry, but the knighthood ended when he died. That’s how he made his money, through big business, I mean.”
“Yes, I know. I did a bit of research.”
He gave her a faint smile, and walked over to the coffee table in front of a leather chesterfield. “How about a cup of coffee before we get to work?”
“Thanks, Christopher, I’d like that.” She sat down on the sofa and accepted the cup when he handed it to her. She needed this after the long drive from London. Yet she was anxious to get to work. I must make this coffee break quick, she decided.
Christopher remained standing in front of the fireplace, his back to it, sipping his coffee. After a moment, he remarked, “I’ve really searched the house, almost ransacked it you could say, and I’ve found a few interesting things.”
Her head came up alertly. “That sounds promising. What did you find?”
“A notebook of my uncle’s. It was in an old briefcase, and I must tell you this. His father did buy the Rembrandt in the 1930s. There’s mention of it in the notebook. So the bill of sale is incorrect because his mother’s name is on it.”
“That’s interesting, but it doesn’t matter. It came into this family at that time, so the provenance is valid. But may I see it?”
“At once.” Christopher leaned forward, put his own cup down, and walked around the chesterfield to the desk which was backed up against it. He opened a drawer, brought out a black notebook, and took it over to her.
Annette saw that it was shabby, worn at the edges, and had been obviously much handled. “What’s in it? Not a catalogue?” A blond brow lifted hopefully; she stared up at him. “Oh, that would be just wonderful!”
“Not quite a catalogue, but references to some of the paintings and a list.”
She flipped through the pages, glancing at them, finding the small, precise writing difficult, and handed the notebook back to him. “You know where the interesting bits are, so please find them. It will be much faster. I would be searching blindly.”
He took the book from her, and found one of the pages he wanted. “Let me read this to you . . . ‘In your arms was still delight, quiet as a street at night; and thoughts of you, I do remember, were green leaves in a darkened chamber, were dark clouds in a moonless sky.’ ” He paused, then murmured, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, and it’s part of a Rupert Brooke poem called ‘Retrospect.’ But it doesn’t refer to a painting.”
“It does, actually. Below those lines he wrote this . . . ‘Oh my poor Cézanne. Lost to me. My lovely darkened chamber. Ruined. Gone forever. Damn that bloody soot. I should have had the chimneys cleaned.’ . . . Could it be soot on the Cézanne, Annette?”
“Most probably.” She sat up straighter. “You know, I thought it was years of grime on it, but it is soot.” She grimaced. “I hope it can be cleaned off . . .” Her voice trailed away; worry clouded her light-blue eyes.
“So do I. We can go and look at it. I have it in one of the sitting rooms I emptied of furniture. I turned it into a storage room.”
“When did you find the notebook, Chris?”
“About a week or two ago. Why?”
He should have told her before. Careless not to. Didn’t the art matter to him? Clearing her throat, she said, with a shrug, “I just wondered. That’s all. I’d like to see the Cézanne again, and I want you to bring it up to London early next week. I’ll ring you on Monday and give you the address of the restorer to whom you must take it. I hope he’s available. He’s the most brilliant restorer in the business. His name is Carlton Fraser.”
“I’ll do that. Annette?”
“Yes?”
Playing the Game Page 4