Playing the Game

  He had rather liked the Degas ballet dancer, and was absolutely gobsmacked when she told him it was wrong. It certainly looked right to him. But then what did he know? Not too much about art, certainly. But the Degas style he was familiar with, especially the ballet dancer paintings. Many were made into popular prints, were seen everywhere.

  Now they were on their way to meet with Carlton Fraser in Hampstead. When Annette had phoned him just before lunch at Knowle Court and told him what had happened, Carlton had insisted they bring the paintings when they got back to London that afternoon or early evening. He had told Annette he would reward them with a wonderful cocktail or a coupe de champagne.

  Jack wondered how he could ensnare her for dinner tonight. He knew her husband had gone to Barcelona early that morning. She was alone for the coming week. He wanted to be with her, didn’t want her out of his sight. Not ever.

  He sighed under his breath. Being with her filled him with total joy. It was also a special kind of torture. He longed to kiss her, touch her, wrap his arms around her, make love to her passionately. He wanted to possess this woman, become one with her. He wanted her for himself for the rest of his life. But was that possible? She was married. Until now he had stayed away from women with husbands.

  There were moments when he was near her that he felt a rush of sexual feelings and erotic emotions, and knew he was about to get an erection. Somehow he managed to control himself. But, nevertheless, he felt at times like an adolescent boy when he was around her. Utter torture to be so near her and yet not near at all. For the moment.

  He put her out of his mind, focused on the road ahead. He drove on steadily, thinking how curious life was. Some people thought things happened for a reason, were meant to be, were even preordained somehow. Others actually believed completely in the randomness of life. . . . You threw a pebble in a pool and the ripples spread out . . . growing wider and wider and ever wider.

  Look how all this had actually begun.

  A young man sits next to a beautiful blond art historian at a dinner party. . . . Some months later he becomes heir to a well-known art collection, seeks out the art historian, and asks her to sell a Rembrandt for him, a lost Rembrandt that hadn’t been seen in public for years. And she does so. And in the process becomes famous and a star in her world, and the press laps it up. Her husband selects a young journalist to interview her. And the journalist falls in love with her and she with him. A coup de foudre, as the French so aptly called it . . . struck by lightning, love at first sight.

  Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Annette sat up and said, “Gosh, I fell asleep! Where are we, Jack?”

  Startled, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Then he immediately focused on the road again, and said, “About an hour away from Hampstead, not doing so bad, are we?”

  “No, you’re not.” She turned to look at him and continued, “So tell me something, Jack. What did you think of Knowle Court?”

  “It’s awful. You called it creepy, forbidding, but I think it’s worse than that. There’s something about it that’s . . .” He shook his head. “I actually think it’s malevolent.”

  “What a strange thing to say.” Annette frowned.

  “I know it is, but that’s what I feel. I’ve always thought houses have an atmosphere about them, are filled with the past lives that lived there. I know whenever I go to Carlton’s house I have a sense of spirituality, of purity, and I believe that comes from Marguerite and Carlton, who are truly good people. I sensed it was a great place to be when I was much younger, just a kid. Other houses have less peaceful feelings, are filled with remnants of unhappy lives, while some are downright cold, eerie, unwelcoming. I’ve often thought that rotten things which happened there and strange people who lived there have somehow left their imprint on a house. Left their violence behind.”

  “You mean wickedness has seeped into the walls? Is that it?”

  “Good way of putting it, that’s exactly what I do mean. Brutal doings. Bad deeds. Evils acts. Rows, quarrels, and fistfights, goodness knows what else.”

  “Malevolent is not such a strange word for you to use, when I think about it. I know a house that had the same kind of dreadful atmosphere. It was malevolent and oppressive, and frightening, in fact.”

  “Really. What house was that?”

  “Where we grew up. Or at least we lived there for a few years when we were little. In Ilkley. And—” Annette suddenly stopped, very abruptly, and compressed her mouth. It was as if she regretted her words.

  “Tell me what you were going to say,” Jack pressed.

  “Oh, it’s not important, I prefer not to discuss it.”

  “I see.” Jack slowed the car, came to a standstill. He pulled on the brake and turned in his seat. “Why did you stop talking about the house in Ilkley?”

  She shook her head, shrugged, did not answer.

  Jack said, “I think you were going to confide something about your childhood, and then changed your mind. Because you don’t trust me. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not that, Jack. Honestly.” Her voice quavered.

  He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and took out his recorder, handed it to her. “I want you to keep this in your bag, and then you will certainly know I’m not taping everything you say.”

  “Please, Jack, don’t be silly. I don’t think that. And I do trust you.” She wouldn’t take the recorder.

  “Okay, I believe you, but I want you to have this in your possession anyway.” He dropped the small recorder into her lap. “Keep it safe for me till the end of the evening.”

  Turning on the ignition and releasing the brake, he drove the Aston Martin out onto the road, his eyes focused ahead, his jaw set in a stern line.

  She didn’t speak for a while, knowing that she had offended him. And she regretted this. He had proved to her that he was sincere, that he was not out to write a bad piece about her, and that he was trustworthy. But she had so much to hide, so many terrible secrets, she was afraid of blurting something out unintentionally.

  After a moment, she put the recorder in her bag and swiveled slightly in her seat. “It was a frightening house because it was so large, dark. The rooms were big and empty of furniture. We lived there with our grandfather, after our grandmother died, and Laurie was always scared. Actually, so was I.”

  “Where was your mother?”

  “Oh, she was there, but sometimes she went out with friends, or was doing the shopping, always busy with her life, acting, that sort of thing.”

  “And when she died you went to live with your aunt.”

  “That’s right, yes, first in Twickenham, later we moved to St. John’s Wood. We loved that house. It was smaller but cozy, comfortable. Welcoming, that’s the right word.”

  “Knowle Court must date back to the Tudor or Stuart periods, doesn’t it?” Jack asked.

  “Stuart, according to Christopher. The Delawares have lived there for centuries, and the house is entailed, can’t be sold. Has to be passed on to the next in line.”

  “So Sir Alec Delaware had no alternative. He had to leave the house to his nephew. Mind you, it’s more like a castle, in my opinion.” He shook his head. “My mother had a funny expression. She would often make the remark, ‘If only walls could talk.’ And she was right. What stories walls could tell. Murder most foul and all that stuff. By the way, Jim made a comment about Sir Alec’s tragedy to me. What did he mean?”

  “Oh, God, I wonder why he’d bring that up? It was a terrible act, just awful. Sir Alec’s fiancée, Clarissa Normandy, committed suicide a few days before their wedding. She hanged herself in the master bedroom. Wearing her wedding gown.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Jack exclaimed, sounding horrified. “I chose the right word, didn’t I, when I called the house malevolent!”

  “Yes, you did, and who knows what went on in it before? Hundreds of years ago.”

  “And perhaps more recently. I suppose it was after the suicide that Alec D
elaware became a recluse?”

  “I think so, from what Christopher says. Mind you, he doesn’t really know much about the family history. Certainly he didn’t know about the priest hole.”

  “So I gather. I wonder, though, if Mrs. Joules did?”

  “I wondered that, too. But surely she would have told Christopher when he inherited the estate if she’d been aware of it.”

  “Who knows. She’s certainly well embedded there, and she rules the roost in my opinion. When did the suicide occur?”

  “About fifteen years ago, I think.”

  “And Mrs. Joules was looking after Sir Alec, tending to his needs . . . perhaps all his needs? Many a housekeeper has turned out to be a keeper of the house and the owner, don’t you know?” He started to laugh. “There I go, writing Victorian fiction in my head again.”

  “Are you implying that Mrs. Joules and Sir Alec might have been lovers?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  “It’s not unlikely. Housekeepers have always had a knack of worming their way in, and after he got over the shock of his fiancée’s suicide he might have needed a bit of tender loving care and comfort. And after all, it was right there on his doorstep. Or rather, in his kitchen. Perhaps I should say his bedroom.”

  Annette couldn’t help laughing. “You certainly know how to spin a good yarn, as I learned at lunch today. But you could be right. If she was involved with Sir Alec, and for years, it would give her a sense of entitlement. It might explain her cock of the roost attitude.”

  “How old do you think she is?”

  “I don’t know,” Annette replied. “Fiftyish? She started working there as a parlor maid at about fifteen, and was upwardly mobile. Eventually became the housekeeper. She’s been there over thirty years, I would think, perhaps longer.”

  “She seems older than fifty, but maybe it’s her overbearing manner, the pulled-back hairdo. But she’s not a bad-looking woman, Annette, and she does have beautiful eyes.”

  “You noticed a lot in a short time.”

  “Of course I did. It’s my job to be observant. And you’ll be forty soon, won’t you? In June?”

  This remark took her by surprise. She glanced at him surreptitiously. “My birthday’s on the third of June. And how old are you, Jack?” This last question just slipped out.

  “Twenty-nine,” he answered. “I’ll be thirty in May. On the nineteenth.”

  “I see.” She leaned back in the car seat, thinking, He’s ten years younger than me, and this suddenly troubled her. She fell silent.

  Jack said, “Listen, would you do me a really big favor, Annette?”

  “If I can.”

  “Would you rescue me tonight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once we’ve seen Carlton, and he’s looked at the paintings, told you what he thinks, I have to go home to an empty place, with no food. Therefore, you could come to my rescue and do a good deed at the same time. If you came to dinner with me.”

  “Well, I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be daft. Have dinner with a lonely old bachelor.”

  “Not so old, and I’m sure not so lonely either. But yes, I’ll take pity on you, and have dinner with you. After all, you will need all of your strength tomorrow. To write your piece about me?”

  “Only too true,” he responded, smiling to himself, enjoying their unexpected repartee.

  Twenty-nine

  “If this is a forgery, then whoever painted it is bloody clever!” Carlton exclaimed. He stood in front of the easel in his studio, staring at the painting of a ballet dancer, supposedly by Degas.

  All the strong lights blazed in the vast area. Two high-powered standing lamps were focused on the painting, so that every inch of it could be properly seen, and studied for any faults.

  “I agree with you,” Annette said. “Obviously a talented artist did this. Whoever it was. And look, perhaps I’m wrong about it being wrong. Nobody’s infallible, least of all me. The unfortunate thing is, there’s no provenance. Well, as of this moment there isn’t.”

  “You said you had two shopping bags full of papers from Knowle Court in the car. Might it not be amongst them?”

  “It might. Sir Alec was so careless, and Christopher’s not much better. On the other hand, he did find the papers for the Cézanne and the Pissarro, which the two of them painted at Louveciennes, and also for the Manet violets. At least he now knows how to isolate bills from dealers, letters and bills from galleries, and also reports from art experts. And he now recognizes what provenance is. At least he’s learning.”

  “Has he learned enough to destroy the soot-damaged Cézanne?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So where is it?” Carlton asked, suddenly looking worried, shaking his head in obvious dismay.

  “He told me it was locked in a cupboard. That’s all I know.”

  “I see.” Carlton shrugged, compressed his lips, and muttered, “It does belong to him, so I suppose he can do what he wants with it.” Glancing at Annette, he went on, “Take me through it. . . . Tell me what you don’t like about the Degas here.” He pointed to it. “You said it doesn’t look right to you, so it must be wrong.”

  “A few things seem rather pronounced to me, Carlton. I know that when you first look at it you see a Degas ballet dancer. But that’s at first glance. Look at it for longer and you’ll notice that the dancer’s stance is very ugly. I think it’s extremely awkward. Then the brushstrokes are not exactly right . . . almost, but not quite. I also find the woman’s body somehow too top-heavy, just wrong.” She gestured to the shoulders and added, “They’re not right to me either.”

  “I do see now, yes. However, Degas did not always paint dancers who were elegant and beautiful. Sometimes they were, well, odd-looking, to be honest. Granted, he tended to paint groups of dancers, or pairs, and this dancer is standing alone at the barre.”

  He blew out air, shook his head. “There’s not even the shadow of another dancer in this painting here.” He walked away, turned around, and stared at the painting again from a distance. “Aha! It looks unfinished, Annette!”

  “You’re correct, that’s it. Now you’ve pinpointed it. And don’t you think it looks a bit . . . rough in some ways? However, I will search for the Degas papers in the two shopping bags. Also, if you don’t mind, I will have Laurie come up to see it on Monday. As you know, she’s truly the expert on Degas.”

  “I could take it to her if you want,” Carlton offered.

  “No, no. First of all, these lights are important for proper viewing, and you know she likes to be independent. So I know she’d prefer to come here. She hates to be treated like an invalid.”

  “I understand.” As he spoke he lifted the Degas off the easel and leaned it against the wall. He picked up the smaller painting of a woman in a veiled hat, which was attributed to Manet.

  After studying the picture for a few minutes, Carlton turned around, frowning, and asked Annette, “Why do you think this is a fake? Actually, it looks as if it’s covered in soot to me. Like the Cézanne was.”

  “That’s what Christopher said, but it’s not soot. Manet painted it that way, smudges and all. It’s called Berthe Morisot with a Veil, and was done in 1872. She was married to his brother Eugène, and she painted with Manet at different times.”

  “Yes, I did know that. So, no provenance to prove its authenticity, eh?”

  “No, and how could there be? The provenance is with the directors of the Musèe du Petit Palais in Geneva, where the real Manet actually hangs. I saw it with my own eyes quite recently.”

  “Then this is a copy, but it’s a bloody good one, Annette.”

  “Not just good, brilliant, Carlton. Another very talented artist painted this woman with a veil,” Annette agreed.

  Taking down the painting, Carlton now reached for the second Manet, a painting of a bunch of violets resting against a red fan. H
e placed this on the easel. “And this one?”

  “Oh, that’s real all right! There are loads of papers on it, and it has proper provenance. All is in order. It’s a small painting, I know, but it’ll probably go for a lot because it was once owned by Berthe Morisot. Manet gave it to her to show his appreciation to her for being his model from time to time.”

  “That’s an interesting detail,” Carlton exclaimed, then laughed. “You’ll know how to milk that in order to promote the painting, push up the price. Nobody’s been better at that than you, love, as far as I’m concerned. So, Annette, this painting of the violets by Manet, the Pissarro, and the Cézanne country scenes are genuine. And I believe they’re extremely valuable. The forgeries are the Manet of the woman with a veil, the Cézanne known in the business as The Red Roofs, and possibly the Degas ballet dancer?”

  “That’s right. I have just one question, Carlton. I know the genuine paintings do need cleaning. But do they require a lot of restoration?”

  “No. They look as if they’re in pretty good condition to me. There’s obviously grime on them, but that’s relatively easy to remove.”

  “And you do have the time to work on them for me?”

  “I certainly do, my darling girl. Would I ever turn you away?” He shook his head. “Never, ever, Annette.” He stared, giving her an intent look. “Why is Jack with you? Why did he drive you to Knowle Court?”

  “Because he was supposed to finish the last part of his interview with me today. When Chris called me early this morning, to tell me he’d found some paintings in a hidden room, he urged me to go down to Kent. Immediately. I felt I had no alternative. He is, after all, an important client. When I explained I had a prior engagement with Jack, Chris suggested I bring Jack with me. He thought Jack might like to see Knowle Court, that it could be useful background material for the piece he’s writing for the American paper.”

  “So you invited him to go with you, and no doubt he saw the paintings.”

  Aware of an odd note in Carlton’s voice, Annette answered swiftly, “You sound funny. Do you think he shouldn’t have seen them? Because of the forgeries? Don’t you trust him?”