Playing the Game

  “No, nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I want to establish something with you. The other day you told me that when the recorder is off everything is off the record. That will be the same rule today, won’t it?”

  “Naturally. As far as I’m concerned, this is a social visit. I’ve finished the interview with you. Actually, I have a couple of other questions, not very important, and you can answer them on the way back.” He paused for a moment, his eyes intently searching her face. Finally he said, “Put the recorder in your bag. . . . That’ll make you feel secure, won’t it?”

  “Oh, Jack, don’t look at me like that. I do trust you, don’t be offended. It’s just that I’m about to embark on some important business with a client—”

  “I know, and I don’t want to write about that,” he cut in. “I promise you. As I told you, I’m not one of those sneaky journalists out to get somebody,” he finished in a cold tone.

  She looked slightly hurt; he leaned forward and took hold of her hand, wanting to please her. “I would never do anything to upset you, Annette.” He stared into her blue eyes, and before he could stop himself, he leaned even closer and kissed her on the mouth. She returned the kiss, as passionate as he was, and then quickly pulled back, a stricken expression on her face.

  “Oh, Jack . . . ,” she began, and stopped, shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’ve wanted to do that since the first day I met you. You wanted it, too.”

  “Jack, I didn’t! Honestly, we can’t do—”

  “Yes, you did want it! And I know we can’t do anything about how we feel. But we can be good friends, can’t we? And we can trust each other, and we must.”

  She nodded, handed him the recorder. “This is yours.” Suddenly she smiled at him. “I just want you to know I’m very glad you came with me, drove me down here. It’s lovely being with you.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel. But we’d better get going if we’re going to arrive in time for lunch.” Turning on the ignition, he drove on down the main road, wondering how he was going to cope with this problematical situation. She was under his skin, and he wanted her. For himself. And he aimed to get her, no matter what. Inexplicably, he knew there was something amiss in her marriage.

  Annette settled back against the seat and closed her eyes, thinking of Jack. She was playing with fire, she was fully aware of that. There was no question that this situation could become volatile. She must handle herself carefully, and with much more caution, not permit herself to become involved with Jack Chalmers. If she did, she would be ruined. Marius would see to that.

  “My God, don’t tell me there’s a moat!” Jack exclaimed, an astonished look flickering across his face as he drove up to Knowle Court. “And a drawbridge. Well, there would be, wouldn’t there?” As he braked and turned off the ignition, he glanced at her. “I see what you mean about it being a creepy-looking place.”

  “It’s worse when the weather’s bad. Today it’s lovely and sunny, and therefore appears less forbidding.”

  “Here comes Christopher, and another fellow.”

  “That’s a friend, James Pollard. He’s really rather nice, you’ll like him. Come on, let’s brave it, shall we?”

  Jack nodded, opened the door, and jumped out. He went around to help her alight. As he took hold of her arm, he bent toward her swiftly, kissed her cheek, and smiled inwardly as she slipped out of his grip and hurried over to greet her client.

  He followed slowly, giving her time to embrace the two men, thinking how lovely she looked in a casual loose cream jacket and shirt, worn with brown slacks. He noticed she was wearing penny loafers, like his. He smiled to himself, and then increased his pace as she turned, beckoning to him to hurry.

  After shaking Christopher’s hand, he was introduced to James Pollard, and then they all moved into the house. He understood why Annette didn’t like it as they went into the gargantuan entrance hall. There was a sinister feeling about it; it was oddly oppressive, and very gloomy.

  Christopher hesitated in the hall, seemed fit to burst with excitement, looking at Annette pointedly.

  Immediately, she seized the moment, instantly took charge. Glancing at Jack, she said, “Jim is going to give you the grand tour before lunch, while I do my business with Chris. All right?”

  “Perfectly,” he answered.

  Jim said, “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea, Jack? There’re various refreshments in the library.”

  “Thanks, Jim, I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee, actually.”

  “Come on then, let’s go.” Jim took his arm and ushered him across the hall and down a corridor, murmuring, “I’d like coffee myself.”

  Once they were alone, Annette said, “Where are the paintings, Chris? In the room where you’re storing the others?”

  “Exactly. I’m so chuffed about this I can hardly contain myself, and obviously I can’t wait for you to see them.” Taking hold of her hand, he exclaimed, “It’s amazing, isn’t it, when you think about it . . . the way the paintings unexpectedly came to light. You always believed there were some hidden away here. How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t really know, Chris,” she answered, hurrying toward the storage room. “I just assumed. I felt there must be some concealed in a safe place. You see, it was quite a well-known fact in the art world that your uncle had a sizable collection, and that it was valuable. So, when you first showed me the gallery here, I was surprised there weren’t more paintings hanging on the walls. However, it’s not unusual for collectors to hide their favorite paintings, put them away. Some do it to view the art privately, others just to hoard certain paintings until the prices rise.”

  “I understand. And certainly I shall be eternally grateful to that chap yesterday who leaned on a particular wall in the den, and made the find of the century.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  She followed him into the room where he had been storing the other paintings, along with the ruined Cézanne. She was relieved to see that it was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he had destroyed it.

  Hurrying across the room, she stood in front of a series of paintings she had not seen before. They were propped up against one of the walls. What caught her eye first was the Degas painting. It was of a ballet dancer; shades of blues and grays predominated. She stood in front of it for a long time, drawing closer, moving back, eyeing it from various angles, her focus very concentrated.

  “Well, what do you think?” Christopher’s anticipation and excitement had him on edge. He could hardly stand still.

  “No comment, Chris, until I’ve viewed everything. Ah, here are the two Manets!”

  Once more, Annette studied the paintings, her scrutiny fixed, penetrating, and then she moved on to view the Pissarro, and after that positioned herself in front of the two Cézannes, which held her attention the longest.

  Christopher remained standing next to her, not daring to say a word. He was taut . . . expectant. And also afraid. Afraid of her verdict, her judgment.

  Annette took a step forward, startling Christopher as she did, and began to lift the Degas.

  “Here, let me do that.” He went to help her. “Where do you want me to put it?”

  “Over there on the table, near the window, where we had the Degas sculpture. The light is good.”

  She followed him across the room, asking, “Where are the papers you found? What authentication is there? How many of these paintings have provenance, Chris?”

  Placing the Degas ballet dancer on the table, he swung to face her. “I couldn’t find anything on this.” He indicated the Degas ballet dancer. “And only one of the Manets had provenance. The painting of the bunch of violets.”

  “What about the Pissarro and the Cézanne paintings . . . their own versions of the same scene?”

  “There is proper authentication, and very good provenance for both. No problems.”

  “And the other Cézanne? Anything?”

  He shook his head. “N
o, but that doesn’t mean much, because my uncle might have put papers elsewhere.”

  “Anything’s possible,” she muttered, wondering what else was hidden in this mysterious house.

  Lifting the Degas off the table, Annette took it to the window and placed it upright in a chair, gazing at it for a long time. “There’s something not quite right about it, Chris. It’s wrong. . . . I hate to tell you this, but I think it’s a forgery. And without provenance no one will buy it.”

  “But it looks so much like a Degas,” Chris ventured, sounding nervous.

  “I know, and whoever painted it has genuine brilliance. But I’m certain it’s wrong. Just as I know the Cézanne is wrong. . . . I’m referring to the one with the red roofs and melting snow. Its actual name is The Thaw in L’Estaque. Now it’s all coming back to me. It was in a private collection and then sold a few years ago at auction. To another collector. So there’s no question it’s a fake. It’s known in the art world as The Red Roofs, by the way.”

  “So we don’t have to bother looking for papers for that, do we?” he muttered.

  “No, we don’t. Nor do we have to bother looking for provenance for the Manet, because that is currently hanging in the Musée du Petit Palais in Geneva. I saw it recently, in fact.”

  “It’s odd, I thought that was a fake,” Chris told her. “But only because the face of the woman has smudges on it.”

  Annette gave him an odd look. “That real painting by Manet is entitled Berthe Morisot with a Veil. What you thought were smudges is actually the veil of her hat.”

  Christopher grimaced, gave her a hard stare. “So why did Uncle Alec put them in the hidden room, do you think?”

  “Who knows. Possibly to protect them. The real ones certainly, and perhaps he was also protecting the fakes. Because he knew they were fakes? Maybe he did. He had great knowledge of art. But three paintings out of six is not bad. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s a most wonderful discovery.”

  “Jim found two more paintings this morning.”

  “What!” Startled, she stared at him. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “I haven’t had a chance. It was only about an hour ago. We were up in the hidden room, well, actually, in the den itself, and Jim was walking around, banging on the paneling, and suddenly he hit the end wall near the window. One of the panels just flew open, as if on a spring, and it was a cupboard. In it were two Graham Sutherlands. And a briefcase with some papers, including the bills for the Sutherland paintings from a Mayfair gallery. And provenance as well. Everything is upstairs, and the paintings, too.”

  “How fantastic! Christopher, don’t look so down in the mouth. Several of these paintings are simply wonderful, special. And valuable.” That should please you, she thought. If nothing else does. It was always the money with him.

  “Will you put them in the September auction?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She walked across the room. “Take me upstairs to see the Sutherlands, please, Christopher. I’d also like to see the priest hole.”

  “Priest hole?”

  “Yes, that’s what it’s called . . . a place built for a priest to hide. During the Stuart period there was much religious strife, as I’m sure you know from your history lessons. Many aristocratic families were still Roman Catholics, and had their own family priests. But they had to hide their religion, be secretive, with Protestantism on the rise in England. The hidden rooms accommodated a priest when soldiers came to search the houses.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “It’s part of my business.” She gave him a long, thoughtful look, realizing that he continued to wear a sullen expression. It’s disappointment. What else can it be? Disgruntlement? Was he put out because she had told him three paintings were forgeries? Most probably, she decided.

  Annette remembered the small den the moment she walked into it. She had seen it the first time she had visited Knowle Court, when Christopher had given her a tour of the house many moons ago now. Today it was without its furniture; there were drop cloths on the floor and a tall stepladder in one corner, along with the painter’s tools.

  “That’s it over there, the priest hole, as you call it,” Christopher said, and indicated a small door, set in the paneled wall, which stood open.

  Turning around to face her, he continued, “And this is the cupboard which Jim discovered this morning. Here are the two Graham Sutherlands.” As he spoke, Christopher bent down, lifted out one of the medium-size paintings, and then another one. He leaned the two of them against the wall.

  Staring at her, he asked, “What do you think?”

  Annette peered at them for several minutes, eventually nodding and looking extremely pleased. “Wonderful! They’re great examples of his best work. Let’s take them downstairs with us, so I can examine them in a better light. Right now, I’d love to climb down into the priest hole. Just out of curiosity.”

  “Be my guest.” Christopher laughed. “There’s not much to see, and it’s very poky.”

  “They always are,” Annette murmured, hurrying across the room. She went down the three small steps without hesitation. She wrinkled her nose. It smelled musty, like an old church, and it was dark, but there were never any windows in priest holes. Just enough room for a man to stand, walk a few steps, and lie down.

  Shivering, she wondered how many priests afraid for their lives had hidden here centuries ago. A lot. No doubt in her mind about that. Religious persecution had been rampant at different times in England.

  Climbing up the three steps, she stepped into the den and said, “Please bring the paintings, Chris, would you, and I’ll carry the briefcase.”

  “No problem,” he answered, and handed it to her. He picked up the two Graham Sutherland paintings, and together they went downstairs.

  “Let’s go to the room where you’re storing the other paintings. The light is excellent in there,” Annette said. “Also, I’d appreciate it if you could give me the papers you found in the filing cabinet in the priest hole.”

  “There was quite a lot stored in it, and I had two of the workmen bring it downstairs yesterday. It’s in the room with the paintings.”

  “Incidentally, I didn’t notice the ruined Cézanne in there. Did you destroy it after all?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I’ve locked it in a cupboard.”

  This did not please her, but she made no comment; they walked along the corridor in silence, heading for the sitting room.

  The moment they were inside, Annette put the briefcase and her shoulder bag on a chair and took one of the Sutherlands from Christopher. She carried it over to the window, and again a smile flitted onto her face as she examined it in the good light. It was a great example of the artist’s work.

  Christopher hurried across to her with the other one, exclaiming, “I can tell you’re pleased, Annette, and look at this one. Jim thought it was also a beauty.”

  After a few more minutes studying both paintings together, Annette nodded. “These are a great discovery, Chris. You must thank Jim for having the foresight to bang on the walls. Why do you think he did it?”

  Christopher shrugged. “On a whim? No one was more surprised than he was when that cupboard door flew open.”

  “And nobody ever told you about the priest hole?”

  “There was no one to tell me. My father was dead, and anyway, I’m sure he didn’t know. Because if he had, he would have told my mother, and certainly she would have told me, especially when I was named the heir in my uncle’s will. And I wasn’t close to my uncle, as you know. I’d only met him a few times when I was a young boy, and he never got in touch with us.”

  “I understand, and I suppose a man who is a recluse doesn’t do that. But what about the staff, Chris? Didn’t they know anything?”

  “I’m sure not. Why would they know? If my uncle didn’t tell his only sibling, my father, or me later, then why would he confide in any of the staff here?”

  “But I t
hought some of them had worked here forever, or almost that.”

  “Yes, Harold, the handyman has been here since my father was a boy. My mother actually remembers him. And Mrs. Joules, of course. She started here as a parlor maid and worked herself up to being the housekeeper. I can ask my mother exactly how long she’s been working at Knowle Court, but it must be over thirty-odd years, maybe longer.”

  “How did she react when the workman found the priest hole yesterday?”

  “She was surprised. Why?” He raised a brow, then frowned, staring at her intently.

  “What exactly did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Well, I never, Mr. Delaware. Wonders never cease.’ Some cliché like that, but she was surprised, I can tell you that.” Christopher appeared puzzled at Annette’s reaction, and asked, “Why are you focusing on Mrs. Joules? What troubles you about her?”

  Annette lifted her shoulders, shook her head. “No reason really, except that it seems odd that someone who has worked here for years didn’t know about the priest hole, that’s all. The help often know a lot more about a place, and its secrets, than family members, you know.”

  Christopher grimaced. “You’ve hit the nail on the head there, Annette, but I don’t believe my uncle told anyone about the hidden room. He was very secretive, as I understand it, and weird, at the end of his life. Let’s not forget that he went a bit odd after the incident, as it’s known around here.”

  “Incident,” Annette repeated. “What a strange thing to call that dreadful suicide.” She shivered involuntarily. Taking hold of herself, she focused on business. “I’ll glance at the various provenances you found in the briefcase and the filing cabinet, Chris, and I do mean glance. I would prefer to study them, and all the other papers, at my office. So I’ll take all of the papers with me when I leave later. I’m sure that’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course,” he agreed.

  James Pollard and Jack Chalmers stood talking to each other in front of the fire in the library when Christopher and Annette walked in to join them for drinks before lunch.