Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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only a few metal filing cabinets containing a handful of papers referring to some of the art. But not to all of it.
At this moment Laurie wheeled herself into the room, followed by Jim Pollard. Her face lit up when she saw the bronze dancer on the table.
‘Oh, Annette, how wonderful! It’s The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, the famous Degas bronze. Oh God, I must touch it.’ As she spoke, Laurie, stopping in front of the sculpture, stretched out her hand and stroked the statue. Turning her head, she focused on Christopher. ‘Aren’t you the luckiest man alive! This is a famous masterpiece. Any serious collector would kill for it.’
‘Are you sure it is what we both think?’ Annette interjected.
‘Yes, I am,’ Laurie answered, very positive.
Annette’s voice was as serious as her face when she said to Christopher, ‘I need the provenance, proof of previous ownership. Is there such a thing?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Annette glanced over at the cardboard box. ‘Was there anything else in that box when you opened it? An envelope maybe?’
‘No, it was full of crumpled paper. What I mean is, my uncle had lined the box with balls of newspaper and tissue paper. That made a cushion for the statue, and there was a lot more paper on top, covering the bronze.’
Annette stared at him. ‘So where is all this paper now?’ She prayed he hadn’t thrown it away.
‘I put it in a plastic bag and left it in the attic. I know what you’re thinking, Annette … that the provenance might be in amongst the paper.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I’ll go and get the bag,’ Christopher announced and left the room.
Jim Pollard watched him go, shaking his head. He then looked over at Annette. ‘I vaguely knew Sir Alec, though not through Christopher. It was my father who introduced us. He had dealings with Sir Alec in business. Apparently he was an eccentric, in some ways rather like the proverbial absent-minded professor. And yet he was sharp, a superb businessman. Odd dichotomy there. Look, I don’t think he would be careless about documentation for his art. He was a serious collector, as you know, since you’re now well acquainted with the art collection here.’
‘Do you think there are some files somewhere in this house that refer to the art?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I do. Hidden. You see, Sir Alec did undergo a change when his fiancée died … he became weird, secretive, difficult to deal with. That’s also when he suddenly became a recluse.’
‘When was that?’
‘About fifteen years ago. I’m sure it was the shock, actually. Finding her like that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Laurie asked, staring at him intently, detecting something odd in his voice.
Jim looked from Laurie to Annette, and said quietly, ‘Didn’t you know she committed suicide?’
Both women shook their heads; Annette asked, ‘How did she …?’ She couldn’t finish the question and her voice trailed off on a slight waver.
‘She hung herself,’ Jim murmured, ‘in their bedroom. Here. A few days before the marriage.’ He hesitated, then muttered, ‘She was wearing her wedding gown.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Laurie looked at Jim aghast.
Annette, speechless, shook her head several times, as if denying this. ‘That must have been a terrible shock for him. What a horrible thing to have to live with.’
Jim said, ‘My father thought her suicide sent him raving mad, and perhaps Dad was right. I think Sir Alec did go off his rocker after Clarissa killed herself.’
‘That was her name?’ Laurie asked.
‘Yes, Clarissa Normandy. She was an artist.’
‘I knew her work, but not much about her,’ Annette remarked, recalling an art show she had been to some twenty years ago.
Christopher came in with the plastic bag, and immediately started pulling out pieces of newspaper. Jim went to help him, and after a few seconds it was Jim who cried, ‘Eureka!’ and waved a crumpled envelope in the air. He strode over and gave it to Annette, a smile on his face.
‘It is the provenance, thank God,’ she exclaimed a second later as she took several pieces of paper out of the envelope and glanced at them. ‘We’re lucky to have found this envelope,’ she added, sounding relieved.
It was referred to as the morning room, and as far as Annette was concerned it was the warmest and most welcoming spot in this vast mausoleum. Octagonal in shape, it was of medium size, with three arched windows which looked out on to the park at the back of Knowle Court. The ceiling was coffered, and there was a fireplace with a carved oak mantelpiece.
‘We’ve made a space for you here,’ Christopher said, indicating where Laurie’s chair would fit comfortably at the table.
‘Thank you,’ she answered, and rolled herself into the empty space, thinking how cosy this room was with its pink silk lampshades and a fire blazing in the hearth.
As she glanced around, taking everything in, Laurie suddenly realized there were no paintings hanging here. How odd. Settling herself comfortably, she had the startling thought that he didn’t care about art very much. Just its monetary worth. Was that why Annette had seemed irritated earlier? Undoubtedly she understood that. Long ago perhaps?
Jim pulled out a chair for Annette, sat down at the round table between her and Laurie; looking from one to the other, he said, ‘Mrs Joules is a great cook. Lunch will be marvellous. We’re in for a culinary treat.’
As if on cue, the door opened and Mrs Joules came in carrying a tray laden with bowls of steaming soup, followed by a young maid. After placing the tray on a sideboard, she and the maid passed a bowl to each of them. Mrs Joules said, ‘I hope you enjoy it … my special pea soup with coconut.’
They all thanked her, and when she and the maid disappeared, Christopher announced, ‘You’ll love it. I’ve never had soup quite as delicious.’
Annette was pleasantly surprised when she tasted the soup. It had a hint of mint along with the coconut, and was indeed special.
Her thoughts strayed away from the conversation Christopher and Jim were now having about a horse Jim had recently bought. Instead she was thinking about the art in this house, and what Christopher would put up for auction. Probably all of it in the end, but right now he was going slowly. Still, he had indicated he would sell five pieces, and he would make a decision about which ones to auction after lunch.
There was no question in her mind that he was a nice young man, pleasant, a little shy and reticent, although he had seemed more open, less diffident today. And yet she had been slightly turned off earlier; she knew the reason why. She had a reverence for art, and for artists, and she had been annoyed when he had been so offhand. He was not interested in the bronze dancer for its beauty, nor did it matter to him that it had been created by a master like Degas. He didn’t care that it was a renowned piece. His only concern was how much she could get for it.
Annette sighed under her breath. Perhaps that was only normal. He had told her he knew nothing about art right from the beginning, when he had first come to see her. And later on he had even said he relied on Jim Pollard for help when making decisions about the collection. That was probably the real reason Jim was here for the weekend, and not to keep Laurie company today. But that didn’t matter; she found Jim compatible, and he seemed genuine, sincere. Not only that, he did have a knowledge of art, and at times today he himself had appeared impatient with Christopher.
Annette settled back in her chair, and joined in the conversation the others were having about a new play in the West End, not wishing to appear rude. But her interest kept straying.
She started to think about