Playing the Game

‘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 Hilda Crump and the awful things that had happened. What if someone found out? If those early years caught up with her, then her world would be shattered. And therefore, so would Laurie’s. This last thought struck terror in her. Who would look after her sister if she was in jail?

The lunch progressed at a smooth pace. After the soup, Mrs Joules brought in lamb chops, new potatoes and baby carrots, and afterwards dessert, which was peach pie. When she presented this, the housekeeper told them that coffee was awaiting them in the library whenever they were ready.

Relieved that lunch was finally over and out of the way, Annette got straight to the point when they were settled in the library sipping their coffee.

Within minutes she brought a card out of her handbag and addressed Christopher. ‘I know you wish to sell the Giacometti sculpture, you already told me that, so what about The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer? Do you want to keep the Degas or have me put it up for auction?’

‘I want you to sell it, and also the Degas painting of horses … I’d like to get rid of the Mary Cassatt of the mother and the child, and the Cézanne, if it can be restored.’

‘Let’s hope Carlton can work a miracle,’ she responded noncommittally. ‘So, that makes three paintings, and two sculptures.’ Annette leaned forward and handed him the card. ‘As you can see, those are the pieces I thought you would sell. Not the Degas bronze, because I didn’t know you had such a thing.’

A huge smile spread across his face. ‘You second-guessed me very well.’

‘I’m glad we brought the statue back with us,’ Laurie said, staring across at Annette. ‘It’s safe here, and perhaps Carlton Fraser will agree to come over and look at it.’

‘I know he will,’ Annette responded, leaning back on the sofa in the yellow drawing room of her flat. ‘Aside from anything else, his curiosity will get the better of him. Who wouldn’t want to come and see the most famous of Degas’ sculptures?’ Leaning forward slightly, her eyes were now focused on the dancer, and in particular on the tutu. ‘The net is awfully dirty and worn, isn’t it?’ She glanced at Laurie, and made a face. ‘But then perhaps that’s part of its great appeal.’

‘You weren’t thinking of asking Carlton to do anything with it, were you?’ Laurie asked, her voice suddenly an octave higher.

Annette shook her head. ‘No, no, of course not. For one thing, the tutu might disintegrate, and secondly, its age and griminess add to its value.’

‘The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer was the only one of his sculptures that he exhibited, if you remember my research. Degas actually showed it at the 1881 Impressionist Exhibition in Paris. This statue isn’t that one, though, but one of those cast in the 1920s.’

‘Almost a hundred years ago.’ Annette shook her head. ‘Unbelievable.’

Laurie gave her sister a careful look and, changing the subject, said, ‘You don’t really like Christopher Delaware any more, do you?’

‘No, no, that’s not true, I do still like him, Laurie. But I have to admit I did become irritated with him yesterday at Knowle Court. He is so offhand about the art he now owns, and I know he’s itching for the money, can’t wait to sell it.’

‘Only too true,’ Laurie agreed, and then laughed. ‘I don’t suppose we should complain about that, since you will be the one to auction it. And you will reap the benefits, in more ways than one: you’ll make money, and enhance your reputation. When will you have the auction?’

‘I’m not sure. I need to know what Carlton thinks about the cleaning and restoring of the Cézanne.’

‘Oh, Annette, honestly, that’s going to be a big job, don’t you think?’

‘I do. And I might have to auction off just the two sculptures and the two other paintings, put the Cézanne on the block at a later date, have another auction in six months to a year.’ Annette rose, crossed the sitting room, went and dropped another log on to the fire, continued, ‘Going back to Chris, I do like him, Laurie, but you must remember I don’t know him very well. And anyway, I mustn’t be judgemental. After all, he hasn’t been immersed in art as we have, and his uncle’s collection does belong to him, he can do whatever he wants with it. And I’m glad he chose me to be his dealer.’

‘It’s just that he’s so … careless. Casual about it. Even Jim Pollard said something like that to me … By the way, he’s very bright.’

‘I like Jim,’ Annette answered, and returned to the sofa. ‘Are you hungry, Laurie? Shall I make some lunch?’

‘A bit later, I don’t think I could eat just yet …’ Laurie left her sentence unfinished, and her mouth began to twitch with laughter.

‘What’s so funny? What is it?’ Annette raised a brow, puzzled. ‘Chris does have a crush on you, you know. Marius was right about that.’

‘Don’t be so silly!’ Annette exclaimed, shaking her head. ‘You and Marius are far too imaginative, and—’ The ringing phone interrupted her and she got up, went to answer it, stood talking for a moment to Malcolm Stevens, who had called to invite them out to dinner that evening.

SIX (#ulink_52292c95-ba26-59ae-a806-e52e60d41d24)

In the interior recesses of her mind, in those small, well-hidden places, old memories lay dormant, lived in quietude. Until one of them unexpectedly crept out, became vividly alive, swamped her entire being.

And thus it was, on Sunday night. Annette lay wide awake in bed, endeavouring to sleep but without success. Then it suddenly happened … she was engulfed in a memory of long ago, a memory from the buried past. Clear, precise in every detail.

There it was, a replay. Accurate. Disturbing. Looming over her … that forbidding, frightening house, silent and dark, where evil lurked in shadows, and little girls, young, innocent and beautiful, roamed the solitary rooms, taking the only joy they ever knew from each other.

She heard singing … a child’s high, light voice … it washed over her, soothing her, and she strained to hear it better, needing to be close to her, close to that little girl with golden curls …