Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Annette nodded. “Cézanne was working in the mid to late eighteen-hundreds. . . . When I first saw this, I thought it had been painted around 1879, or thereabouts, when he was prolific.”

  “At first glance, yes, you would think that. But I believe it was done only about eighteen years ago.” Carlton pursed his lips, shook his head. “I didn’t want to say anything to you until I was certain, so I brought in Ted Underwood, with whom I’ve frequently collaborated in the past. He’s a bloody good restorer, as you well know, and extremely knowledgeable. He agreed with me about the paint, and, in fact, he tested it himself and within short order he got the same results. So we decided to remove a few nails to look at the canvas yesterday. As you can see, the painting is out of the frame, which I’d removed when you first sent it to me, so it was a relatively easy task to pull the canvas away from the stretcher. Ted and I knew at once the canvas was not old, even though it looked it, by the way.”

  “The canvas was doctored?”

  Carlton nodded.

  “Forgers have their special tricks, tricks of the trade,” Annette asserted. “Soaking new canvases in tea to stain them, to give them an aged look, using rusty old nails, and buying old pictures, cleaning them, and then painting over the old canvas. There was a very famous forger called Elmyr de Hory, a Hungarian, who was extremely successful in the late fifties and early sixties. Actually, there was a book written about him by Clifford Irving. Apparently the world had not seen anything like de Hory. He fooled hundreds.”

  “Well, they certainly heard of a couple of similar chaps ten years ago!” Carlton exclaimed.

  “Oh, God, yes! The art world will never be the same again in certain ways,” Annette said. “You’re talking about John Myatt, that forger who had such a long run, and his puppet master, John Drewe, aren’t you?”

  “I am indeed. John Drewe was a manipulator of the first order and a brilliant con artist. A villain, actually, who used everyone to suit his own ends. Myatt, struggling artist though he was, happened to be a brilliant painter, and fell into his clutches. Drewe got away with it for years. What a scam.”

  “Are you suggesting that this painting might be a forgery by Myatt?” Annette asked, staring at Carlton intently.

  “I don’t think so. Although I wouldn’t swear to it, of course. Looking back, remembering the trial as best I can—it ended in 1999 if you recall—Myatt did not paint any Cézannes.”

  “So who forged this one?” she asked, pointing at the canvas on the easel.

  “God only knows, and He won’t split,” Carlton muttered, using an old saying. “But somebody did attempt to destroy it. I suspected that the soot had been rubbed into the canvas the first time I saw the painting and told you so. Now we know why. But not who.”

  “I think I know who rubbed the soot into it,” Annette said. “Sir Alec Delaware. I bet he discovered it was a forgery and decided to ruin it, so that it couldn’t be sold later as the real thing, by an heir, for example.”

  Carlton gave her a swift glance, nodding his head. “You have a point there. It might have indeed been Sir Alec. I can’t imagine who else could have done it. But why didn’t he just destroy the painting?”

  “I have no idea. And here’s another thing. There’s no provenance for this, you know, and that has always presented a problem to me, Carlton.”

  “What about the other art in the collection?”

  “The Degas, Cassatt, and Morisot paintings all have pristine provenances, and so does the Giacometti sculpture. And, thank God, The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, the Degas masterpiece, has a perfect lineage. There are some modern paintings by Nicholson and Sutherland, and they each have provenance. But there’s a lot of unimportant paintings by not very well-known artists hanging at Knowle Court. I wasn’t interested, so I didn’t ask about those.”

  “Mmmmm, so why did I think the collection was much larger?” Carlton asked, frowning at her.

  “I don’t know, but I do have some thoughts about Sir Alec Delaware.”

  “What kind of thoughts?” he asked, peering at her intently.

  “I think there are other paintings somewhere at Knowle Court, probably hidden away. It’s not unusual for people to buy paintings and store them; some of my clients do that all the time. They put them in attics or warehouses and bring them out later. They change paintings around. Or they buy them as an investment, and store them, until prices rise.”

  “Yes, I know that happens a lot. However, what brings you to the conclusion that there is art hidden in that old house? Did someone tell you?”

  “Not really, but I’ve picked up bits and pieces from Christopher Delaware, and a friend of his, James Pollard. Look, Sir Alec apparently became weird, secretive, difficult, reclusive, fifteen years ago. After his fiancée committed suicide—”

  “Clarissa Normandy,” Carlton cut in. “You told me about that, how she died. Awful business.”

  Annette nodded. “Sir Alec was a very well-known collector, rumored to have a lot more paintings than are showing up at this moment. Who knows where he put them, since he was behaving strangely. I think I’m going to ask Christopher to do a bit of investigating again, and I might even go down to Knowle Court to take a look around. But in the meantime, what do we do about that?” She gestured to the canvas on the easel.

  “Once you’ve told your client that it’s a fake, I think you ought to destroy it. Mind you, no one would ever try to sell it, not with all that soot on it and also because it has no provenance.”

  “That is the only thing to do, destroy it,” she immediately agreed. Walking over to Carlton, she took hold of his arm. “Come on, let’s go and have a cup of tea. I could certainly use it.”

  “I’m so glad you’re early,” Laurie exclaimed, her face filling with happiness when Annette walked into her office in her apartment in Chesham Place. “Would you like Angie to make you a cup of tea?”

  Annette kissed her sister on the cheek, and shook her head. “No, thanks. I drank endless cups of it with Carlton and Marguerite. I’ll float away if I have any more.”

  “How are they? And how’s the Cézanne coming along?”

  Sitting down in a chair next to Laurie’s desk, Annette said, “I’ve got some bad news about the Cézanne.”

  “Don’t tell me that Carlton can’t clean it, that it’s ruined?”

  “It is ruined. By the soot. But that’s not the point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Carlton says it’s wrong.”

  “A forgery?” Laurie cried, her voice rising an octave. “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know. In fact, as of this moment, I suppose nobody knows. And I don’t think we’ll ever find out. Carlton told me it’s a relatively new canvas, no more than eighteen years old, and where he originally started to clean off the soot two weeks ago, the paint has run. He brought in Ted Underwood, another fantastic restorer, as you know, and together they took out a few nails in order to examine the other side of the canvas. No doubt about it, the Cézanne is not right, therefore wrong, and very much a bloody fake.”

  “Oh, my God!” Laurie stared at her sister. “Have you told Christopher Delaware?”

  “No, not yet, I haven’t had a chance. I came straight here from Carlton’s house.”

  “He’ll be surprised when he hears that a painting from his illustrious uncle’s art collection is a forgery, and that it can’t go into the auction.”

  “I believe he’s become aware it can’t be sold, Laurie, since I’ve warned him the soot might never come off. I also pointed out several times that there’s no provenance, and without that we have a problem.”

  “Now we know why, don’t we? It’s hard to fake provenance.”

  “Too true.” Annette shook her head. “Carlton thought someone had attempted to damage the painting by rubbing soot in rather than cleaning it off, and he said that when he first saw it. I now believe he’s right.”

  “Who would do that?” Laurie stared at her sister, loo
king baffled.

  “How can I possibly know? But to hazard a guess, I’d say perhaps it was Sir Alec himself. He must have bought the painting in good faith, believing it to be a Cézanne, and when he found out otherwise he may have wanted to make it impossible for an heir to sell it at a later date.”

  “Why not simply destroy it?” Laurie’s eyes were questioning; she was puzzled.

  Annette shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ll phone Christopher tomorrow and explain everything. I am going to insist the painting be destroyed, Laurie.”

  “You should.” There was a pause. Laurie went on, “It’s a good thing the other paintings you’re planning to auction have the proper provenance.”

  “It is indeed.”

  Laurie began to roll her chair out of the room, saying as she did, “Let’s go into the sitting room, Annette, you’ll be more comfortable in there.”

  Once they were settled in the other room, Annette said, “You told me you wanted to talk to me about something, when you phoned me this morning. Are you all right? There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  As she spoke Annette’s eyes searched her sister’s face, and she couldn’t help thinking she had just asked two rather stupid questions. Laurie looked as if she was in the best of health. In fact, she was blooming. She was more beautiful than ever, her abundant red-gold hair shimmering around her face, her peaches-and-cream complexion flawless, her eyes sparkling, full of life.

  Leaning forward a little, Laurie said, “I’m pregnant.”

  Thunderstruck by this announcement, Annette gaped at her, at a loss for words.

  Laurie began to laugh. “Don’t look so upset. Malcolm and I are having a baby and we’re both thrilled.”

  “I’m not upset, just . . . startled. You’ve taken my breath away.”

  “I thought I would, but I did think you might have guessed Malcolm and I were . . . involved.”

  “It had crossed my mind, yes, but you never confided in me, so I wasn’t exactly sure whether you two were just extremely friendly, great pals, or having an affair. When did you become so involved?”

  “Oh yes, it’s an affair all right, and we’re in love and, to answer your question, we’ve been serious for six months. And we’re planning to get married. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Annette was silent as she absorbed her sister’s words.

  “You are upset!” Laurie exclaimed, staring at Annette, her eyes clouding. Her expression changed; she suddenly looked apprehensive.

  “No, no, I’m not, honestly, darling. And if you’re happy then I’m happy, too, and I know Malcolm’s a decent man, very reliable. It’s just that—”

  “You’re afraid for me, aren’t you, Annette?” Laurie interjected. “About the baby, I mean. But I’m fine, really I am. And I will be fine.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe? I know how practical and sensible you are, but you have seen your gynecologist, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have, and she says everything’s going to be all right. Paraplegic women can come to full term, and deliver a healthy baby, you know. My doctor also pointed out that if it should be necessary the baby could be delivered by Caesarean section. You mustn’t worry. Please.”

  Annette stood up, went to her sister, and wrapped her arms around her, gave her a warm and loving embrace. “I suppose I will worry a bit, Laurie darling, but you look and sound so happy I’m thrilled for you. And there’s nobody like Malcolm, he’s very genuine, true-blue.”

  “That he is, and he loves me and I love him. We wanted you to be the first to know that we’re getting married and about the baby, of course.”

  “How many months are you along?”

  “Not months,” Laurie corrected. “Just weeks. Six weeks exactly.”

  Annette nodded, gave her a reassuring smile. “So, we have a wedding to plan, don’t we? Have you and Malcolm picked a date?”

  “Not exactly. I wanted to talk to you. Also, there’s another thing. . . .” Laurie paused, and a concerned expression settled on her face. “What do you think Marius will say about this?”

  “He’ll be very happy, I’m certain of that,” Annette responded, although she wasn’t sure that he would be. “Is Malcolm going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I should. What do you think?” Laurie bit her lip, sudden nervousness getting the better of her.

  “I think this. We’re going to have dinner next week, just the four of us, and you and Malcolm can tell him then,” Annette announced, her voice positive and very firm. She was determined that Laurie was going to have a happy life with Malcolm Stevens. Whatever she had to do to ensure this, she would do, and she would not allow Marius to interfere in any way. Laurie’s life must be her own; Laurie must be free.

  She walked home.

  She needed air; she needed to breathe; she needed to be alone, to steady herself. To take control of her being. Calm. Peace. Solitude. Privacy. She craved these things at this moment in time. This moment in time, she thought again. These few minutes, this now would never come back, never be hers again. That was the truth. Time fled, went on, running away and with speed. Tomorrow would come. And go. And never come back.

  Today had been a day of surprises.

  First, the arrival of Jack Chalmers and her overwhelming reaction to him. Second, Carlton’s news that the Cézanne was a fake. Third, Laurie’s announcement that she was pregnant. She wouldn’t forget today.

  Now, focusing on the events of earlier, Annette understood that Jack Chalmers had been the biggest surprise of all. She suddenly remembered something Penelope Sloane had said to her, when she had been with her at the New York office last year. Penny had described her feelings when she had first met the man who was about to become her husband that summer.

  “I felt as if I’d been hit by a Mack truck,” Penny had confided. “Wham! I was a goner. I’ve never really recovered from the impact of Matt. He knocked me off my feet, knocked me for a loop, as they say.”

  She had understood what Penny meant. Because of that one experience long ago. She could draw on those memories, easily envision it again. She shivered, even though it was a warm night.

  Someone walked over my grave, she thought, recalling an old saying. No, it was not that. It was fear. He frightened her. She must be brave.

  Jack Chalmers, she thought. And pushed his name to the back of her mind.

  Laurie’s pregnancy frightened her. She could do nothing about it, only wait and see, and in the meantime pray all went well. What she could do, of course, was talk to her own gynecologist, seek proper information, which would undoubtedly help her to feel less uneasy. And there was Marius’s reaction to this new situation. What would it be? Later. I’ll think about these ramifications later.

  Suddenly she was at the far end of Eaton Square. Home. She took her time as she went into the building and up in the lift to the flat. Marius was having dinner with an American client; she would eat whatever dish Elaine had cooked and left in the kitchen for her. Food was never a priority, and she wasn’t hungry.

  In her dressing room she shed her blue wool coat, slipped off the matching suit jacket, and went down the corridor to her office. Within minutes she had Christopher Delaware on the phone and was explaining about the Cézanne.

  She finished the conversation by saying, “So, Chris, what I would like you to do is to meet me at Carlton Fraser’s tomorrow morning around ten, if that’s convenient. Carlton will explain exactly how and why he came to his conclusions.”

  “I’ll be there, Annette, and thank you for all the time and care you put into handling my art collection. I’m very appreciative. See you tomorrow. Good night.”

  “Good night,” she answered, and hung up. That had been relatively easy. The good thing about Christopher was that he was bright, usually got it, and went along with her advice.

  Her next call was to Margaret Mellor, who she knew would still be at ART magazine. She was, and she picked
up her direct line after only two rings.

  “It’s Annette. I wanted to say hello, and thank you for saying nice things about me to Jack Chalmers.”

  “Annette, hi! It was my pleasure, and my God, isn’t he dishy? I could eat him up with a lovely big spoon. Yummy.”

  Annette burst out laughing. “Margaret, you’re a hoot. I’ve never heard you wax poetic about a man, at least not like this.”

  “Wax poetic, eh? That’s a nice way of putting it. But I’ve got to tell you, I’ve always had a sort of yen for him. However, he wouldn’t be interested in a short, plumpish woman like me. More like a tall, blond, gorgeous babe . . . why, somebody just like you!”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous, Margaret. Anyway, you’re not short and plumpish at all. You’re very good-looking and chic.”

  “Thanks for that. I know I’m not his type, though.”

  “He did an interview with me this morning,” Annette went on in her fast, businesslike way. “He’s doing a piece, a profile of me actually, for The Sunday Times, and he mentioned he’d chatted to you. So again, my thanks for being kind.”

  “He asked a few innocuous questions, and I told him the truth.” Margaret chuckled. “Hearing his voice made my day, to be honest. He’s the sort of man who incites women to fight each other, commit adultery, or cry gallons of tears when he dumps them. He’s a real heartbreaker, in my opinion. Or has that potential, don’t you think?”

  Annette could hardly breathe; nor could she speak for a moment. But at last she managed to say, “He is good-looking and charming, I’ve got to agree with you there. But surely he’s married. I mean, a man like that . . .” Her voice petered out; she didn’t want Margaret to think she was on a fishing trip. Which she was.

  Margaret exclaimed, “Oh no, he’s not married, that I know for a fact! I’ll say this for him, he’s a workaholic. He’s almost remorseless with himself at times, and relentless. A real pro. One of the best journalists I’ve had the pleasure to work with, all joking apart. And by the way, he’ll do a good piece on you, I’m sure of that.”