Playing the Game

  Malcolm, who had done most of the listening, said to Annette softly, “Why did you change your name?”

  “Because I didn’t like it. I always wanted to be called Marie Antoinette. . . . Marius said it was too long, a mouthful, so I chose to be Annette . . . Watson. Laurie and I used our mother’s maiden name.” She shrugged lightly. “That’s all there was to it. Nothing very complicated.”

  The three of them went on talking, mulling things over, unable to do much but wait things out until Marius recovered. It was Annette who finally stood up and said she wanted to leave, to go home and rest before visiting the hospital later.

  Jack wanted to take her home, but she shook her head. “Malcolm has the car downstairs. I’ll go with him. But thank you, Jack.”

  When she got home she told the housekeeper what had happened, and then retreated to her bedroom. After phoning Esther and filling her in about Marius, she stripped off her clothes and got in the shower. As the water ran down her she leaned against the tiled wall and wept. She cried until there were no tears left in her, and then she wrapped herself in a toweling robe and lay down on the bed.

  The tears came once again, and the sorrow and the anger. She asked herself over and over again how Marius could have led her to believe for all these years that she had killed Nigel Clayton. He had been cruel, unconscionable.

  She had always believed he was her savior, and that his protection of her was a form of love. Perhaps it was in his eyes, but she had been his captive and he had ruled her life. It was only because of her own willpower and strength of purpose that she had been able to break free. Partially. Quite suddenly, unexpectedly, she realized that for the first time in almost twenty-two years she was free. Because she knew the truth. Marius no longer had any hold on her.

  Later that day Annette went to St. Thomas’s Hospital with Malcolm and Laurie. They went straight up to the cardiovascular floor, and Dr. Chambers came out to see them.

  Annette knew from the doctor’s face that something was not right, and she asked swiftly, “Is my husband any better?”

  “A little, but not as much as I expected, Mrs. Remmington.” There was a slight pause, then he said, “His blood pressure has been rising dramatically and falling dramatically all day. But I think we finally have him stabilized.”

  “Can we see him?”

  “Yes. He’s suffering from confusion, disorientation, but that’s not unusual with aortic dissection.”

  The doctor allowed Laurie to come with them in her wheelchair, but she remained in the doorway when Annette and Malcolm went in to see him.

  Marius lay very still and his pallor was extreme. He opened his eyes, but when he saw them there was not a flicker of recognition, and he said nothing.

  Annette bent over him, spoke to him, but he was totally mute, did not respond in any way. Malcolm followed suit, and again there was no reaction. They might not have been there.

  They left the IC unit within minutes, and Dr. Chambers told them that Marius was behaving in much the same way with the nursing staff, although he had partially responded to some questions.

  When they left the hospital Annette knew the prognosis was bad, and so did Malcolm and Laurie. They did not need a doctor to tell them that.

  Several hours later Marius Remmington died. It was May 1 . . . May Day, as it was called.

  Forty-three

  That night, and for many nights after, Annette stayed with Laurie at her flat in Chesham Place. Quite simply, she did not want to be alone in her own flat in Eaton Square. There were too many memories there, and she felt Marius’s presence most acutely even though he was dead.

  One night, a few weeks after the funeral, Annette and Laurie talked long into the night, sifting through everything that had happened, analyzing things constantly, as they were prone to do. At one moment Annette exclaimed, “I just can’t understand how he could be so cruel. To allow me to think I’d killed Nigel was reprehensible, unforgivable.” She sounded angry again.

  “Yes, it was. I agree with everything you say. But you can’t dwell on it anymore, Annette. You must now let the past go. . . . You must live in the present, pick up the pieces, and start a new life. You must look to the future.”

  Annette stared at her sister. “I don’t think I can let the past go. . . . There’s so much pain inside me, and hurt and anger, so many emotions and feelings. A lot of damage has been done to me.”

  “You can let it go, and you will,” Laurie insisted. “You’re a survivor, Annette, and I know that extremely well. Remember, I know what you survived as a child.”

  Suddenly Annette sat up in the chair, a look of understanding settling on her face. Her voice was stronger, more positive, when she said, “If I could survive abuse and rape, poverty and deprivation, and so many losses over the years, then, yes, I can survive. I can put the past behind me. And let go of all of my bad thoughts about Marius! I can release all my anger. All I have to do is just let it go.”

  For the first time in weeks she smiled at Laurie. “I can start my life all over again. Because I am a survivor. . . . I’ve proved that already. If I can survive my terrible childhood, I can survive anything.”

  “Yes, you can!” Laurie agreed, filling with relief to see her sister’s fighting spirit coming back.

  “I will be reborn,” Annette said. “I shall begin again.”

  And that is what she did.

  The next few months were hard, but Annette persevered, managing to do her business and cope with her riotous emotions. Many feelings of anger, despair, hurt, and anguish invaded her, took over at times. Nonetheless, she had come through the storm, a little scathed yet still upright, facing the world with strength and confidence, standing tall.

  She was well aware she had a number of people in her life she could not do without, and was grateful for; her sister and her friends who were loyal, supportive, and went beyond the call of duty every day. Laurie, Malcolm, and Jack were her rocks, her loving support system, and Esther was part of the team. There was Carlton Fraser and Marguerite, Jack’s aunt Helen, and his brother, Kyle. They were her family now . . . the family she and Laurie never had. And she loved them all, and relied on them.

  It was Malcolm and Jack who helped her to find out the truth about Marius’s business. His assistant of thirty-five years, Agnes Dunne, was the only source of information. But she was willing to help them unravel everything because she needed them on her side. It was obvious to Annette that she knew so much about Marius’s business that she was at risk, and did not want to be accused of helping him to sell fakes. Which, as it turned out, he had done, although mostly in the past. Apparently not so many had been put on the market in the last few years. His sources, several talented painters, had dried up.

  Agnes led them to a couple in Gloucestershire who lived in two huge barns near Cirencester. Madeleine Tellier, the owner of the property, was married to a gifted artist, Raymond Tellier, originally from Grasse, in the south of France. It was he who had been supplying Marius for many, many years, along with Clarissa Normandy, and for a while, her sister, Elizabeth Lang.

  According to Madeleine Tellier, her husband’s paintings had been bought by museums, as well as by wealthy collectors, and everyone had been fooled by the fakes. He was that good, she had told them. Madeleine Tellier explained that Clarissa had specialized in Cézannes and Manets, and Elizabeth had proved masterful when painting in the style of Matisse, Braque, and Modigliani. But Elizabeth was no longer available and Clarissa, as they all knew, was dead.

  On the day in late May when they visited Cirencester, Annette asked to meet Raymond Tellier. His wife took them into the barn where they lived, and introduced them to her husband. They all knew at once he would never paint again. He had been felled by a stroke eight years ago, and was now almost incapable of moving. He spent his life in a wheelchair. On that day Annette asked to see the forgeries which were left, but according to Madeleine there were none. They had all been sold, she said, and was adamant about this. r />
  Since Agnes Dunne confirmed her story, Annette, Malcolm, and Jack had to accept it. The three of them hoped that somebody who had bought a Cézanne, a Manet, or a Picasso from Marius didn’t suddenly discover that they had paid millions for a fake.

  As for Christopher Delaware, Annette forced him to destroy the forgeries, which were still part of the Delaware collection. He finally agreed that she herself could do so when she threatened to resign as his art representative. James Pollard had made him agree to her proposal, she was convinced of that. She went down to Knowle Court with Malcolm and took a box cutter to the fake canvases, slashing them to pieces.

  That same day, Annette also questioned Mrs. Joules, who admitted being the aunt of the two Lang girls, but denied she knew about any wrongdoing. Annette did not really believe her and told her that her nieces had painted forgeries for Marius Remmington.

  Glenda Joules protested at first, but soon caved in under pressure.

  “Come on, Mrs. Joules, I know you’re lying,” Annette exclaimed, her voice sharp. “If you don’t tell me everything you know, I will go after Elizabeth Lang. I know where she lives in Barcelona, and everything about her, thanks to the excellent security and investigative firm I use in my art business. I’m also aware she was my husband’s mistress, as indeed was Clarissa Normandy before her, and before he and I were married.”

  Recognizing that there was no point in lying any further, Glenda Joules said: “It’s true, they did paint some of his fakes. But it was years ago, and it had nothing to do with me. I had no influence with them. I was angry about it.”

  “Tell me about Clarissa Normandy.”

  “She was beautiful, and a talented painter. I was furious that she wasted her talent and time painting those fakes for Marius. She wouldn’t listen to me. She was besotted with him, and under his influence.”

  “Who was her husband?” Annette asked.

  “She was never married.”

  “Where did the name Normandy come from?”

  “She liked it. Chose to use it, that’s all. Instead of Lang.”

  “Did she paint the Cézanne which was covered in soot? The one I’ve just destroyed?” Annette demanded.

  “Yes. And when Sir Alec found out it was a fake, he threw the soot on it. He wanted to damage it so it could never be sold. After that things between them deteriorated, and he broke off his engagement to her.” Glenda Joules shook her head, looked sorrowful when she added, “That’s why Clarissa committed suicide, at least I think that’s the reason. It was because Sir Alec dumped her, just as Marius had several years before.”

  Annette sighed, then asked, “Did she paint other Cézannes for Marius, which he then sold to Sir Alec?”

  “Yes, that’s true. She was clever, I told you that.”

  “Why didn’t Sir Alec do anything about those fakes? Accuse Marius Remmington? Sue him to get his money back?”

  “I don’t know, but Sir Alec was already an eccentric, strange in so many ways. He was reclusive even when Clarissa was still alive. However, I believe he thought those new Cézannes were the real thing. Marius could be very convincing, and you know that.”

  “Did you know about the priest hole?” Annette gave her a hard stare. “Surely you did. You’ve worked here for years.”

  “I swear I didn’t, Mrs. Remmington. But I did know Sir Alec took some paintings down from the gallery walls, stored them somewhere. I just wasn’t sure where they were.”

  “You say that Sir Alec was odd before Clarissa’s death. Did he really get worse, or is that part an invention?”

  “It’s the truth. He did become much worse, more reclusive than ever, extremely weird, and even a little demented. I thought Clarissa’s suicide had really driven him round the bend. I looked after him as best I could.”

  Annette nodded, knowing that Glenda Joules had told her the truth. “I think this conversation should remain confidential, Mrs. Joules,” Annette now said quietly. “I am not going to say anything to Mr. Delaware about Marius Remmington and the fakes. I shall let that remain a mystery. Nor shall I tell him that your nieces painted fakes for Marius. How does that sound to you?”

  A look of relief settled on her face, and she exclaimed, “Thank you, Mrs. Remmington! I’m very grateful for your consideration. I wouldn’t want to leave Knowle Court, I’ve lived here most of my life, and I like young Mr. Delaware. But what will you say about the Cézanne covered in soot? And won’t he ask questions about our conversation?”

  “I shall tell the truth about the soot-covered Cézanne, and say that Clarissa sold it to Sir Alec. And later, when he discovered it was a forgery, he ruined it himself. However, I am not going to say anything about the other fakes. What does it all matter now? Sir Alec is dead, as is Clarissa. And, as you no doubt know, Mr. Remmington died in hospital recently. And actually there’s no proof that he sold paintings to Sir Alec. It’s all finished, as far as I’m concerned. Remember, by not going into any more details you are out of the picture, exonerated, Mrs. Joules. Not that you did anything wrong—you just didn’t tell Mr. Delaware what you know.”

  “I see the sense in everything you’re saying, Mrs. Remmington. And I thank you. This conversation is between us. I shall never repeat it.”

  Annette nodded, left the kitchen, and went back to the library, where Christopher, Jim Pollard, and Malcolm were waiting for her. She repeated Mrs. Joules’s story about the ruined Cézanne, and how Sir Alec had damaged it to prevent it from ever being sold. She then explained that he had been angry with Clarissa for bringing him a fake, and had broken off the engagement. And this was the reason she had killed herself. She did not mention that Clarissa was Mrs. Joules’s niece.

  They had accepted the story, and for once Christopher Delaware had very little to say.

  On the drive back to London, Annette suddenly exclaimed at one moment, “I just can’t believe that Marius, of all people, would deal in forgeries, Malcolm. He who so revered art and the great painters. It’s just unbelievable to me. What a terrible hypocrite he was.”

  Malcolm, who was driving, was silent for a while, and then he said, “I thought I knew Marius so well, and yet now I realize I never knew him at all. He has become the biggest mystery in the world to me. He taught me so much about art, and taught you, too, Annette, and he was brilliant, dedicated, and so knowledgeable. But he was a crook, wasn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Annette responded. “Among other things.”

  That evening, alone in the flat in Eaton Square, Annette sat for a long time thinking, her mind focused on Marius and his criminal activities, which is what they were. His behavior was incomprehensible to her; she just couldn’t get her mind around it.

  He had loved art, just as much as she did, and yet he had denigrated himself and the great painters he so admired by having others paint forgeries of their work. Why?

  Could it have been for the money? That was the only reason she could think of; lots of money would permit him to maintain a mistress. Or mistresses? Elizabeth Lang couldn’t have been the only one. There must have been others before her.

  It suddenly struck Annette that Marius had betrayed himself and everything he was, betrayed her, in the sense that he had instilled in her the importance of art and the great masters, and had then gone and sold fakes. Marius had no integrity, no ethics, and he had been a hypocrite, as she had told Malcolm earlier in the day. He had been a thief. He had stolen the talent of those great master painters, had shown them nothing but disdain.

  This thought chilled her to the bone, and she suddenly understood why she had been unable to mourn him. . . . She had lost respect for him, and whatever love she had had for him was gone. The terrible truth about him had shattered the image she had of him, and of who she believed him to be.

  She felt nothing but contempt for him now, and she knew this would never change.

  The following few weeks were busy for Annette as she and Malcolm endeavored to understand Marius’s art business, and close it down.
Fortunately, Marius had done legitimate business, and Annette was relieved to discover that it was in the black. However, there was not much money in the bank account of Remmington Art Ltd. Nor were there any papers about forged paintings. On the other hand, she had not expected to find any. Marius was too smart to leave incriminating evidence floating around.

  Agnes Dunne was as helpful as she could be, and Annette began to realize that this woman, who had devoted herself to Marius for over thirty years, did not have much understanding of what had really been going on. Marius, duplicitous as usual, had kept her in the dark most of the time, had only allowed her to know about things which were relatively innocuous. Seemingly, Agnes was aware that a few fakes had been sold in the past, but had no idea of the scale of it. And she did not know about the Pegasus Gallery in Paris.

  Both Annette and Malcolm were relieved that Agnes was not so well informed, since they did not want anything to leak out. Only a few people who were unlikely to talk knew about the forgeries which were sold by Marius . . . plus themselves, Laurie, and Jack. Not even Carlton Fraser, who was a close friend and colleague, had any idea about the real situation and Marius’s culpability.

  “It’s best to keep everything under wraps,” Malcolm said to her one afternoon, when they were having a meeting at Annette’s office. “All we need is someone going to the Art and Antiques Squad at Scotland Yard and chattering about Marius Remmington and fakes. Besides, we only know about the few Christopher Delaware had in his possession. The others are floating around in oblivion, according to Madeleine Tellier, and she’s not going to talk since her husband was the forger. Everyone else is dead. End of story.”

  “Yes, thank God,” Annette murmured, and then lowering her voice, she said, “I haven’t found the manuscript of the Picasso book, nor has Agnes. Since it’s not at the flat and not at his office, then where is it, Malcolm?”