BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

Playing the Game

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010 I

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2010

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HB ISBN: 9780007304103

TPB ISBN: 9780007304110

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication

For Bob,

with my love

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE: London, March 2007

PART ONE: A Remarkable Woman

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

PART TWO: The Hotshot Journalist

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

PART THREE: A Dangerous Encounter

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

PART FOUR: An Accidental Informant

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

EPILOGUE: London, December 2007

Bibliography

Author’s Note

About the Author

Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
London March 2007

Annette Remmington sat at her desk staring across the room at the painting, or rather at the photographic blow-up of the painting. It was propped up on the credenza, leaning against the wall, and the ceiling light, carefully angled, brought it into focus.

Her marvellous painting. Her masterpiece. Her Rembrandt. Well, not exactly hers any more, for it now belonged to someone else, the anonymous buyer who had bid for it over the phone, won it for the staggering price of twenty million pounds. The highest price ever paid for a work by the famous Dutch artist.

What would he feel if he were alive? Would he have experienced the same thrill she had at the auction, as the price had risen and risen to that final staggering amount? Rembrandt had become something of a recluse after finishing the painting in 1657, yet it had been in this period that he had created some of his greatest masterpieces; he had been unfashionable then. She smiled inwardly. He was hardly unfashionable now.

It was gone, hanging on somebody else’s wall, and all she had was the photographic blow-up. Anyway, it had never actually been hers. She had merely been custodian of it for a while. On the other hand, she had brought it back to life – by having it cleaned and restored. And by singing about it; singing its praises to the world. That’s what she thought she had done, anyway. Others said, rather mean-spiritedly, that she had hyped it to death.

Annette laughed out loud at the thought. No, not death. She had given it a new life. The Rembrandt had not been seen in public for over fifty years, hidden away in the dusty art collection of a man who perhaps no longer appreciated it. And she had put it on view and then sold it for an incredible amount of money and at a time when art prices had dropped.

Rising, she walked across the room, stood gazing at the photographic blow-up for several minutes, and admiringly so. The portrait was so lifelike, Annette felt that if she reached out to touch the woman’s hand her fingers would alight not on canvas but on real flesh. That was part of Rembrandt’s genius.

Back at her desk, Annette remembered what her sister had said the other day. Laurie called the Rembrandt the painting that had changed her life, and there was a certain truth in this statement, in that she had suddenly become the new star in the art world. At least for the moment.

There had been so much publicity about her auction of the Rembrandt it had been extraordinary. Even her husband Marius had been taken aback at the fuss, the attention given to her. He, a seasoned hand in the business, regarded as one of the great art experts and dealers, had been startled by the acclaim she had received.

Marius had a fine reputation, as did so many other dealers. Yet it was to her that Christopher Delaware had come, seeking her out because he remembered her from a social occasion over a year ago now, when they had discussed art. That long chat had centred on her areas of expertise – Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings and, at the other end of the art spectrum, Old Masters. He had been keen to listen to her, learn from her that evening.

And so he had arrived at this office one day, many months ago, asking for her help. He had told her about his ancient uncle, a bachelor, who had recently died and left him everything, including an art collection with a Rembrandt in it. Could she, would she, take him on as a client? She had, and the rest was history. The auction had taken place a few nights ago and the art world had collectively gasped when the hammer had come down on the final bid of twenty million pounds. The audience was stunned. So was she.

Her sister had a favourite saying, which was ‘God protects you', and of course Laurie could not resist saying this when she heard about Christopher Delaware’s first visit to her Bond Street office.

Recalling that now, Annette smiled faintly. In her mind, it was Marius who protected her. No, perhaps ‘guided her’ was a better phrase to use. The faint smile flickered again. There were those who might say he controlled her, because that was what they believed.

Annette opened the folder on her desk, and looked at the seating plans for the party tonight. It was her husband’s sixtieth birthday and she had been planning the event for months; it had taken her weeks to seat their guests appropriately, with those she thought they would want to be with, and at the right table. Marius had called it a work of art the other day, when he had gone over it with her for the final check and a few last-minute changes.

The party was very meaningful to him, and she had done everything she could to make sure it would be special. He had taught her never to leave anything to chance, whatever it was she was planning. She had always listened to him, and learned; and she had left nothing to chance in this instance either. It was being held in the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane, and anybody who was anybody had been invited, whether they were from the art world, society or show business. It was an international crowd.

Because her Rembrandt auction had been such a stupendous success, Marius had insisted that they turn the party into what he called ‘a double-headed event'. It would no longer celebrate only his birthday but the success of her auction as well. It didn’t change anything. The overall plan for the party remained exactly the same, much to Annette’s relief. Except that now he would get up and toast her and tell the world how clever she was.

Her sudden jump from relative obscurity in the art world to the big league was nothing short of miraculous, and no one was more surprised than she. Marius had taken it in his stride, and when she had said how startled she was by her success, after the auction was over, he had been swift to answer her, exclaiming, ‘But not I. I knew you would do something spectacular one day.’ And then he had suggested they give the party a new twist …

Her private line rang, and she reached out, picked up the red phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Annette, it’s Malcolm. Do you have a minute?’

‘Of course I do. Is everything all right?’

‘Absolutely. I just wondered if I could go over the birthday toast I’ll be making to Marius tonight? If you could listen now it would be helpful.’

‘I can, and I’m sure anything you’ve prepared will be right on the mark.’ She laughed. ‘After all, you’re one of Marius’s favourite protégés, and you own his beloved Remmington Gallery. No one knows him better than you.’

‘Except for you,’ Malcolm Stevens shot back, chuckling, then swiftly went on, ‘So here goes.’ He began to read the words he had written about a man he admired, even revered. He had kept the accolades to a minimum, knowing Marius would squirm at an extravagance of hyperbole, but had included some hilarious stories and a few little digs which were amusing and made Annette laugh out loud.

When he finished he said, ‘And that’s about it, unless I can come up with a few appropriate ad-libs at the last minute.’

‘You’ve done a great job, Malcolm! He’s going to chuckle, be amused by some of it. You know he’s got a fantastic sense of humour.’

‘If you approve, then that’s it. I’m going to put it in my pocket until tonight. Listen, just one other thing. I had a rather strange phone call earlier today.’ Malcolm cleared his throat. ‘From a private detective looking for a woman called Hilda Crump, who he said used to work at the Remmington Gallery. About twenty years ago. He asked if we had an address for her. Apparently he has a client who wants to get in touch with her. Did you ever know someone called Hilda Crump?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Annette responded, clutching the phone tighter. ‘But if I recall correctly, you did work for Marius … When he first opened the Remmington Gallery, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s true. But I didn’t know anyone called Hilda Crump. Anyway, when Marius sold the gallery to you ten years ago I’m quite certain he put all of the files on the computer.’

‘Yes, he did, and there’s no mention of a Hilda Crump anywhere. But this chap was so … well, so insistent, I just had to ask you.’

‘Sorry, Malcolm, I can’t be of help.’

‘So be it then. No problem. Thanks for listening to the toast, and I’ll see you this evening. With bells on. And I know we’ll have the most marvellous time.’

‘That we will, Malcolm,’ she answered and hung up. For a moment Annette Remmington sat with her hand resting on the red phone, frowning. She was puzzled. Who was looking for Hilda? And why? What did they want? She had no answers for herself, but she did know one thing. She would never betray Hilda. Years ago she had promised not to divulge her whereabouts, and she never broke the promises she made.

Annette leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, sinking down into the past, thinking of those early years, all of the terrible things she had buried deep because she did not want to remember them. She shivered, and goose flesh sprung up on her arms. She felt a trickle of fear run through her. So many secrets, so much to hide …

PART ONE
A Remarkable Woman

‘There was that law of life so cruel and so just that one must grow or else pay more for remaining the same.’

Norman Mailer, The Deer Park

ONE

Much later that same day, Annette Remmington stood in front of the long mirrored door in her dressing room, staring at her reflection but not seeing herself. She was not focused on her image at this moment but on the small knot of anxiety that had settled in her stomach since she had returned home. She could visualize it quite easily … it was the size of a pea but as heavy as a lead pellet.

Unexpectedly, she felt slightly dizzy and reached out a hand, steadied herself against the dressing table. After taking several deep breaths she managed to get her suddenly swimming senses under control. Now she looked at her full image objectively, nodded approvingly at what she saw, chided herself for being so ridiculous.

The mention of Hilda Crump had unsettled her earlier in the day, and the call from Malcolm had been nagging at her all afternoon. But her troubles with Hilda Crump had happened long ago, and Hilda had moved on, and out of her life. The past was the past and she mustn’t let it come back to haunt her in this silly way.

I must put her out of my mind. And the past. It’s gone. I must focus on now. The present. And the future. I’ve always pigeonholed things and I have to do that again. Immediately. Hilda must go back into her pigeonhole and remain there. She is no longer part of my life and therefore unimportant. She can’t hurt me. No one can hurt me. And I can’t afford to waste time like this, reflecting on the past, a past I cannot change.

I’ve started a new phase of my life with the success of the auction. I pulled it off and I can pull it off again. Christopher Delaware doesn’t have another Rembrandt but he does have some fine paintings and I can auction them off the same way. Marius told me the sky’s the limit, and he’s right, but will he let me go to the limit? He always wants to be in control of everything. And me. I know how to handle him now after all these years. So I’ll manage. I always have. I think I’ll do my next auction in New York. It would be profitable. I’ve got good clients there—

‘Are you ready, darling?’

She swung around. ‘Yes, I am,’ she answered at once, forcing a smile for her husband, who was walking across the dressing room. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the clock on the dressing table. It was just five thirty. And of course he was ready on time, punctual as always.

‘You’re upset,’ he said, drawing to a standstill next to her, peering into her face.

‘No, I’m not, not at all,’ she answered, and immediately wished she hadn’t sounded so defensive.

‘Yes, you are, Annette,’ he insisted in his usual firm manner. ‘Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re only wearing one earring.’

Startled, she immediately swung to the mirror. Surprise flickered. God, he was right! As usual. Where was the other one? She spotted it on the dressing table, snatched it up, quickly put it on. ‘I went to get my wedding ring from the bedside table, where I’d left it. I just became distracted, that’s all really.’ She felt flustered all of a sudden. He stood staring at her intently and she found his penetrating stare unnerving. Damn, she thought, he’s going to pick on me all night, but she took hold of herself firmly, not wanting to be rattled.

Annette now offered him a warm smile. ‘You look very handsome tonight, Marius, and the new dinner jacket is fabulous.’ Stepping closer to him, she stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek. ‘Happy birthday again, darling, and I do hope you’re going to enjoy your party.’

Relaxing his rigid stance, smiling in return, he said in a lighter tone, ‘I know I will, and let us not forget it’s your party too, my darling. We’re celebrating your amazing success.’ His black eyes sparkled in approval as they rested on her.

Annette laughed.

Taking hold of her arm possessively, he brought her closer to him, wrapped his arms around her. ‘I love you very much, you know, darling,’ he said before releasing her. Holding her at arm’s length, he added, as his eyes swept over her, ‘You look very beautiful, you really do.’

‘Well, thank you, but I think I’ve looked better,’ she murmured, meaning this.

Shaking his head, half smiling, he led her out into the corridor, wondering why she constantly found it hard to accept a compliment gracefully. He said, ‘We’d better go, I don’t want any of our guests to arrive before we do. We can’t be late.’

Stay calm, she told herself. And keep cool.

‘Wow!’ Malcolm Stevens exclaimed, literally gaping at Annette, astonishment mingled with admiration flashing across his face. ‘Oh, wow!’ he said again, more emphatically, in genuine awe. ‘You look fantastic, absolutely bloody marvellous.’ It was quite apparent he meant every word.

Her blue eyes sparkling, filling with laughter, Annette looked both pleased and amused by Malcolm’s reaction to her appearance.

She stood with Marius in the long reception room that adjoined the Dorchester ballroom, and she leaned forward, kissed Malcolm on the cheek, thanked him.

As she stepped back, his glance swept over her once more, taking in the stunning ice-blue strapless gown, worn with a matching satin stole lined with scarlet silk. That was the surprising touch, the brilliant red against the cool blue, plus the huge cabochon ruby earrings hanging from her ears, echoing the vibrant colour of the silk.

Annette Remmington was elegance personified, her blonde hair, usually worn loose, was swept back from her face, wound up into a chignon at the back of her head. It suddenly struck him that her eyes looked bluer than ever tonight; perhaps it was the evening gown that heightened their colour.

Gripping Marius’s outstretched hand, Malcolm went on, ‘And you don’t look half bad yourself! In fact, the two of you are so glamorous you’ll put all your guests to shame.’

Marius chuckled. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until the show-business crowd arrive, they’re much more glamorous than we are. But thanks for the compliments, Malcolm. And welcome. We’re very glad you’re here.’

Now, turning to his wife, Marius shook his head, chided lightly, ‘I told you how beautiful you looked, but you didn’t believe me. Now that you’ve just witnessed Malcolm’s stunned reaction, you must know I’m right.’

‘I did believe you,’ she protested, slipping her arm through his, leaning against him. ‘You’re always right.’

Clearing his throat, Malcolm interjected, ‘It’s great to be here, and thanks for having me, but now I think I’d better move on, so you can greet your other guests. See you later.’

Marius nodded, immediately turned around, stretched out his hand to welcome some of the new arrivals streaming through the door.

Malcolm slipped away.

Moving down the room, he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and walked around, mingling with the crowd. He spoke to a few people he knew, then positioned himself near a pillar, leaned against it, watching the show unfold.

And quite a show it was. He spotted two beautiful American movie stars with their husbands, done up to the nines and dripping diamonds from every pore, a famous, recently knighted writer of literary fiction, a controversial politician with his busty wife, a duchess renowned for her young lovers, and quite a few old friends and acquaintances, as well as a number of other art dealers.

The world and his wife, he thought. Everyone’s here. And why not? When Marius gives a party on this scale, he usually pulls out all the stops. That is why everybody wants to be invited.

Actually it was Annette’s party this evening. She had long planned it for Marius’s sixtieth, and she had put a lot of time and effort into it. Just the way Marius had taught her. That was his way. He tended to be a teacher by nature.

Certainly he had been Malcolm‘s teacher, mentor, friend and colleague as well. Their association had lasted a long time, and yet Marius didn’t seem a day older than when they had met fifteen years ago. He stared down the length of the room, focused on him, thinking that he looked especially well this evening. Tall, slender, as immaculately dressed as ever, wearing an impeccably tailored dinner jacket, no doubt from his favourite Savile Row tailor. His mane of silver hair gleamed above his lightly tanned face; Marius was forever popping off somewhere to catch the sun, and the tan gave him a youthful look. But it was his hair that Malcolm envied, and it was his hair, of course, that had inspired his nickname: The Silver Fox. Although he and a few others knew that it also referred to Marius’s nature. He was considered to be decidedly foxy by some.

Malcolm had gone to work for Marius fifteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven, had been thrilled to be one of the team at the Remmington Gallery in St James’s. When Marius decided to sell the gallery ten years ago, he had borrowed the money from his father in order to buy it. He had kept up its fine reputation, garnered many new clients, and Marius said he was proud of him, was forever praising him for upholding the great tradition of the Remmington.

Wanting a less hectic life, Marius took offices in Mayfair, became an art consultant and private dealer with only a handful of steady and very rich clients. They had remained close and Malcolm was an admirer of the older man.

Not everyone felt the same way he did. There were those who bad-mouthed Marius Remmington. They said he was arrogant, mercurial, temperamental, driven, and something of a manipulator. But there were lots of people in this world who loved to carp. Malcolm knew that only too well.

There had always been gossip about the Remmingtons for as long as he could remember. In his opinion it was because they attracted attention, caused resentment and jealousy. Talented, socially acceptable, upwardly mobile and highly successful, they were quite a remarkable couple. Reasons enough for tongues to wag. And wag they did.

Then there was the difference in their ages. Marius was twenty years older than Annette … sixty to her thirty-nine. But she would be forty in June, and the twenty-year gap between them didn’t seem so startling now. But once it had, when she was eighteen and he was thirty-eight, and something of a man about town, considered to be a bit of a roué. Cradle-snatcher he had been called, and worse.

There was mystery surrounding Annette’s background. No one really knew where she had sprung from. Except, of course, for the Marius Mafia, who bragged that they knew. His mafia, so called, was a cadre of young men who constantly surrounded him, whom he called his protégés, which is exactly what they were. Young men who’d been singled out for their talent; who had worked for Marius at some time, or still did; who were loyal, devoted and forever at his beck and call. They enjoyed being around him because something was always happening. It seemed to Malcolm that there was a constant show going on … famous people, people in the know, and in the news, gravitated to Marius. That was an essential part of his success as an art dealer, that charisma of his, the gregariousness, the bucketsful of charm and the clever way he had of pulling everyone into his orbit.

Malcolm was one of Marius’s favourites and he had received special treatment from the very beginning. The Marius Mafia had told him about Annette.

Seemingly she had come to London from some Northern city, he wasn’t sure which, to study art. But there was not enough talent to lift her up into the stratosphere of genius that equalled eventual fame. Good looking. But the looks were obscured by her hesitant manner, according to some of the Marius Mafia; it was a sort of diffidence, they said. Blonde, blue eyed, slender as a reed, and exceedingly bright. But ordinary. That was the way they had described her to him. He himself had not known her then.

Not so ordinary now, though, Malcolm thought, his eyes settling on her. It was an elegant creature who stood there. Not the most beautiful woman in the world, but good looking, well put-together, whatever the occasion, and the current golden girl in the art world. Her auction of the Rembrandt had assured her a place in the front row, had given her art consultancy business a big boost …

‘What are you doing here all alone, Malcolm?’ a familiar voice exclaimed.

Swinging around, Malcolm grinned. ‘Watching the show and having a bit of the old bubbly. How about you, David? And where’s Meg?’

His old friend David Oldfield shook his head. ‘Still in New York. On business. I’m solo tonight.’ Reaching into his pocket, David pulled out a small envelope, looked inside, and said, ‘I’m at table ten. What about you?’

‘The same. I have a feeling it’s Marius’s table. Come on, let’s try and get to the bar. I’d like a vodka.’

‘Good idea,’ David responded, and together they struggled through the throng. Once they had secured their Grey Goose on the rocks, they went off into a quiet corner. Clinking glasses, they both said cheers in unison, and David asked, ‘Is it true that Christopher Delaware inherited a lot of really great art from that uncle of his? And that Annette’s going to be representing him?’

Malcolm said in an even tone, ‘I haven’t heard about any great art. But I know he’s Annette’s client. Oh, look, there’s Johnny Davenport. He’s bound to know. Let’s go and talk to him.’

‘Malcolm! Malcolm!’ He heard a woman’s voice calling his name. Trying to be heard above the clamour. Swinging his head, he spotted her at once. An old friend. It was Margaret Mellor, the editor of the best art magazine in Europe called, very simply, ART. She was waving to him.

Catching hold of David’s arm, he said, ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? Margaret Mellor’s beckoning to me. Go ahead, chat to Johnny. I’ll join you both shortly.’

‘No problem.’ David pushed ahead, moving adroitly between people, edging his way forward.

Malcolm went in the opposite direction towards his friend. When he finally reached her, he grinned. ‘I almost didn’t hear you above the din.’

‘It’s bedlam. I was just with Annette, she wants us to go and see the ballroom before it fills up with guests. She says it’s charming.’

‘Then let’s go now, before we get trapped in this corner. The place is suddenly milling with old friends and colleagues. Plus loads of photographers, I notice.’ He frowned.

‘Don’t tell me. The press are swarming all over the place!’

Malcolm sighed. ‘That’s Marius, he never does things by half and he does love the media. As far as he’s concerned, the more the merrier.’

‘He’s a glutton for punishment.’ She sounded sarcastic.

Malcolm laughed. That was Margaret. Spot on with her comments. He put an arm around her shoulders, guided her through the crush. Behind them, flashbulbs were already popping; it seemed to him that the crowd was swelling, getting bigger by the second. How many people had they invited? The whole world, he decided, and hoped the huge crowd wouldn’t ultimately spoil the event. Why do I worry? She knows what she’s doing, even if he doesn’t, sometimes. Marius. Such an enigma.

Finally, Malcolm was pushing open the door into the ballroom. Instantly, a waiter confronted them. ‘I’m very sorry, but you can’t come in. Mrs Remmington doesn’t want anyone in here for another half-hour. She was very precise.’ Polite but determined.

‘Yes, we know. Mrs Remmington sent us to see the ballroom before it fills up. I’m Margaret Mellor of ART magazine, and this is Mr Stevens, a colleague and friend of Mrs Remmington’s.’

The waiter inclined his head but didn’t budge, blocking their way. Still determined – to do his duty and keep them out.

‘My chief photographer Josh Brady was here earlier,’ Margaret added. ‘Taking pictures for the magazine. You must be Frank Lancel. Mrs Remmington told me to speak to you.’ Charm, a warm smile. Her tools.

‘Yes, I’m Frank,’ the waiter answered, relaxing, but only slightly. ‘And I did help Mr Brady a while ago, when he was taking his shots. So please, come in, look around. I have to stay here at the door. Stand guard. Mrs Remmington’s instructions.’ He sounded droll.

‘She explained that,’ Margaret answered. Taking hold of Malcolm’s hand, she led him forward. The two of them finally stood at the edge of the ballroom floor near the orchestra stand, their eyes sweeping around the room with interest and anticipation.

They were both taken aback by the unique beauty of the magical scene that Annette had designed. The room was a sea of pale green – that peculiar pale green with a hint of grey, so often found in the interiors of French châteaux, which seems to create a misty look. This pale green silk rippled down the walls from the ceiling to the floor, and was repeated for the tablecloths, napkins and chair seats.

But what was so unusual and wonderful about the setting were the green dendrobium orchids with pink centres. These were massed in banks in front of mirrored, folding screens, and also stood on mirrored consoles, Venetian style, placed against the green walls. There were literally hundreds of orchid plants in pale celadon green pots, and those banked in front of the mirrored screens instantly appeared to be twice the quantity because of their reflections. Centrepieces on the tables were crystal bowls filled with stems of green orchids, surrounded by lots of votive lights. Tall crystal candlesticks holding tall white tapers were on either side of the bowls of orchids. Everything glistened and sparkled in the candlelight: the crystal wine goblets and silverware, the silver service plates.

The two of them stood there for a few minutes longer, endeavouring to take everything in. Then Margaret said slowly, ‘It’s almost ethereal, dreamlike. What an effect Annette has created … it’s a garden … a garden of orchids. How clever.’

Malcolm turned to her, exclaimed, ‘Yes, it is. And you can be sure of one thing. It’s going to knock everybody’s socks off.’

TWO

Marius was happy. Annette could tell from the expression on his face. He was beaming, relaxed, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table positioned directly opposite hers. They faced each other, were in each other’s line of vision, could communicate, at least visually, whenever they wanted.

The party was a success. She knew that even though it was only halfway through. There had been a feeling of excitement right from the beginning of the evening. During the cocktail period, a trio played low music in the background, champagne and wine flowed, there was an open bar for other drinks, and an array of delicious canapés was passed around, nonstop, by the busy waiters.

Now, in the ballroom, she was feeling an enormous surge of energy and vitality amongst the guests. They were getting up to dance to the popular music, and she glanced around, noted the hilarity, heard the laughter and the high-voltage babble of conversation. It seemed to her that they were all enjoying themselves, having a great time.

Marius caught her eye and got up, walked over to her table. A moment later he was escorting her out on to the dance floor.

Taking her in his arms, he looked down at her and smiled, his black eyes warm, loving. ‘You’ve pulled it off again,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a fabulous party, everyone’s enjoying it immensely. Are you?’

They began to move around the edge of the dance floor. She cocked her head, looked up at him, an amused smile in her eyes. ‘You’ve always told me that a hostess who enjoys her own party isn’t being a good hostess.’

Marius burst out laughing. ‘Touché, Mrs Remmington. But in that instance, I was actually referring to parties given at one’s home. Not in a public place. So are you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am. I was a bit uptight at first, when we came into the ballroom, but then I noticed that everyone quickly found their seats, looked happy where they were sitting; also they’d enjoyed themselves during cocktails so they were in the right frame of mind.’

‘Very true. Well oiled. I didn’t see one glum face. But I must admit I did see a lot of astonished faces when they began to realize they were in the middle of an orchid garden.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘The setting is a triumph, darling, you were inspired.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ was all she said, and drew closer to him, following him as he moved smoothly away from the edge, across the floor to the middle of the room. He was a good dancer, easy to follow, and she found herself relaxing even more, enjoying dancing with him. Eventually she became aware all eyes were on them and she smiled inwardly. She was proud of Marius, proud to be married to him, and also, deep down inside, proud of herself, proud of her hugely successful auction. The Rembrandt had changed her life. And she was glad of that.

She didn’t stop dancing for the next half-hour. When she was back at her table, Malcolm came and claimed her, then David Oldfield, followed by Johnny Davenport, all pals of long standing who had worked for Marius, were part of the Marius Mafia. And then, unexpectedly, Christopher Delaware was tapping Johnny on the shoulder, cutting in. This surprised her. Christopher was rather shy, reticent, and certainly not given to bold moves.

They glided around the floor in silence for a moment or two, and then he said, ‘The room looks stunning, it reminds me of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, or rather, I should say, a scene from the play. It’s all this greyish green, I suppose, the misty feeling it creates, and the orchids … a forest of orchids … it’s magical, you created something truly unique. Oh, and what about the tall mirrored screens? Brilliant. How did you think of those?’

‘The Hall of Mirrors at Versailles sprang to mind, and thank you for your compliments. But tell me, if this is the play, where are Oberon and Titania, king and queen of the fairies? And Puck and Bottom? If this really were A Midsummer Night’s Dream, they would definitely be here, you know.’

He laughed. ‘They’re around somewhere, although I haven’t actually seen them yet. However, Lysander, Hermia and Demetrius are here and—’ Abruptly he stopped, cut himself off.

Annette stared at him, frowning, and then looked over his shoulder into the distance, wondering what he meant, although she believed she had a good idea.

Changing the subject swiftly, with a certain adroitness, Christopher said, ‘You are coming to Kent on Saturday, aren’t you? To make the final selections for the next auction?’

‘Of course I am, I would have told you otherwise. I think we’ll have the auction in New York, by the way. I’m certain a number of important collectors will be interested in some of the Impressionists – several museums as well. Possibly the Metropolitan.’

‘I’ve never been to New York!’ he exclaimed. He was suddenly excited. ‘I hope you’ll show me around when we’re there. When are you planning to do this? Have the auction, I mean? When would we go?’

‘That depends on you to a certain extent, Christopher. I think we must analyse everything on Saturday. First, you have to tell me which paintings you would be willing to put up for auction, then we have to study their condition, to ascertain whether they need cleaning or not, restoring, and new frames, that sort of thing, and I have to really focus on what’s happening in New York … other art auctions, gallery shows coming up, that kind of thing. I want this to be big. Bigger than the Rembrandt auction, actually.’

‘Oh, my God, that sounds fantastic.’ A pause. Then, ‘Will Marius be coming with us to New York?’

She stared at him again. Intently. She said, noncommittally, ‘I don’t know. He has his own art business, as you’re well aware, and I have mine. We’re quite separate entities. However, he might be there because of his own work.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t say whether he’ll be in New York or not. Why?’

‘I just wondered,’ Christopher muttered, and held her a little more tightly, brought her closer, although she wasn’t too surprised by this. Vaguely, she had sensed he had a crush on her for some time now. She wasn’t troubled by it because she rarely saw him, and could handle it anyway. He was young, only twenty-three. But to bring up the love triangle between Lysander, Hermia and Demetrius, characters in a Shakespearean comedy, was somewhat pointed. Still, it amused her. ‘We’ll just play that by ear. If Marius does happen to be there, he’ll be helpful.’

‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ he said quickly, having picked up on something, she wasn’t exactly sure what. Her tone, perhaps?

Now it was her turn to change the subject. ‘What time do you want me to get there on Saturday?’

‘That’s up to you, Annette. Ten? Eleven? Whatever time you want to arrive is all right by me. I was hoping you would be able to stay to lunch.’ A blond brow lifted.

She smiled at him. ‘Lunch would be lovely, especially since I’m planning to be there all day. We’ve a lot of work to do.’

His face instantly brightened. He gazed at her. ‘Oh good, very good, and I’ll try and be as helpful as possible with the collection, decisive.’

She merely smiled at him again, made no further comment.

Annette had just returned to her seat at the table when Marius caught her eye. He glanced in the direction of the podium and nodded.

She understood what he meant immediately. He was going to go up there within a few minutes, say nice things about her and congratulate her. Once he was finished, she would thank him and invite Malcolm to join them, to come up and make the birthday toast.

After this, the birthday cake would be wheeled in, the orchestra would play ‘Happy Birthday', and Marius would cut the cake. The plan had been made yesterday and it was all very straightforward.

But she was taken aback when Marius rose almost immediately and headed in the direction of the band. A moment later, Malcolm was at her side, along with David Oldfield, and the three of them followed Marius, stood with him to one side of the band.

When the last song finished, there was a loud drum roll and everyone left the dance floor, went back to their tables. Another drum roll echoed as David walked over to the podium and picked up the mike. ‘Good evening, everyone, and welcome. Now, please don’t get worried. This is not going to be an hour of speeches. No, not at all. Neither Annette nor Marius wanted that. However, there will be a few words from Marius before he cuts his birthday cake.’

There was a round of applause when Marius stepped forward. He went to join David at the podium, who handed him the mike.

‘I want to thank you all for coming,’ Marius began. ‘I’m thrilled and flattered to see you all here tonight at my sixtieth … so many good friends and colleagues. But this is not simply a birthday party for me, but a celebration of Annette as well. The other day I decided it must be a double-headed event; I felt my wife should share it with me. Because I believe she deserves to be honoured … for conducting one of the greatest art auctions ever held. Her sale of the lost Rembrandt was extraordinary, and she is extraordinary. In every way … a wonderfully talented painter, an art consultant of enormous expertise, a dealer par excellence, and for a number of years my right hand when I still owned the Remmington Gallery. Altogether a unique woman.’

Marius paused, looked across at Annette, and said, ‘Come and join me, darling.’

She did so. Putting an arm around her, he said, ‘Congratulations, Annette, you really pulled off a big one, and have now entered the big league of art dealers.’ He laughed. ‘I suppose I could say you’re now one of my competitors. But why not? I love it, and I love you.’

A waiter brought glasses of champagne. ‘Here’s to you, Mrs Remmington,’ Marius toasted.

There was a burst of applause and Annette kissed him on his cheek, and then just stood there holding her glass, smiling, enjoying for a moment being in the limelight. And then unexpectedly she felt that small knot inside her stomach, and the lead pellet of anxiety lodged there once again. She managed to keep the smile on her face as she thanked the guests, thanked Marius once more for his lovely words, and then she introduced Malcolm Stevens.

Taking hold of Marius’s hand, she led him to one side so that Malcolm could take over. He was witty, clever, insightful, serious and cheeky by turn. He had everyone laughing within seconds as he drew a verbal portrait of a man he obviously admired and cared about, and whom he truly understood, and who would not be troubled by his irreverence.

The audience loved Malcolm and his words, and there was much laughter and applause, at times a few whistles, hoots and catcalls. Hilarity prevailed, as Malcolm had intended.

Marius loved Malcolm’s speech as much as everyone else, and he came over with Annette to stand with him when a waiter rolled in a table. Standing in the middle was a giant-sized birthday cake, and sixty candle flames fluttered on top of it as the waiter pushed the table across the ballroom.

Stepping forward, Marius picked up the cake knife, stared out at their guests, his face creased with laughter. He blew out all the candles and plunged the knife into the cake.

At this moment the orchestra began to play; every one of the occupants of the ballroom began to sing ‘Happy Birthday'. And all raised their glasses to him.

Annette joined in, but she suddenly felt her throat constricting. Thoughts of that phone call about Hilda Crump intruded. What was that about? That name from her youth was linked to trouble in Annette’s mind, and she shivered as her past loomed large. You never escaped your past, did you? Inevitably, it came back to haunt you. The past was immutable.

THREE

Annette went to see her sister on Friday morning. She usually spent part of Saturday with her, but this week she was going to Kent to make decisions about Christopher Delaware’s paintings and the auction of them.

Laurie was waiting for her, full of smiles and eagerness, happy to see her. As she usually was. There wasn’t a day when Laurie hadn’t welcomed her with a loving, wide-open heart and open arms, her pleasure at being with her reflected on her face. Laurie. The real beauty in the family with her green eyes and golden-red hair. Laurie, who had wanted to be an actress when she was a child and had been cheated of the chance.

The two of them sat together in front of the fire, in Laurie’s den in her flat in Chesham Place, just around the corner from their home in Eaton Square. It pleased Laurie that she and Marius lived nearby because it gave her a sense of security; Annette felt the same. If ever Laurie needed her urgently or in any kind of emergency, she could be there within minutes on foot.

Almost immediately she told her sister about the phone call from Malcolm Stevens earlier that week, and how he had brought up the name of Hilda Crump.

Laurie listened, her face calm, the expression in her intelligent eyes changing ever so slightly by the time Annette finished.

There was a small silence, and Annette realized Laurie was running everything through her mind in that analytical way she had. Finally Laurie said softly, ‘I hope you’re not worrying about this.’

‘I have been. Well, a little bit. It was such a jolt, hearing that name out of the blue, and I couldn’t help wondering who could possibly be looking for Hilda Crump.’

‘Yes. Who? Yes, indeed who? And also why? But listen, it doesn’t really matter. Hilda went away years ago, she’ll never be found, not unless you break the promise you made. You’re not going to do that, are you?’

‘No, I’m not. Obviously.’

‘We’ll never know who’s looking for her anyway, not unless the private detective informs Malcolm, and he then tells us. But whoever it is doesn’t matter. Hilda’s not available and we can’t give anybody any information.’

‘But we were so involved with her, we were privy to so much.’

‘Only you and I know that, and it happened long ago. Over twenty years, Annette. Believe me, it doesn’t matter.’

Annette leaned back in the chair, staring at her younger sister. ‘If that’s the case, all right.’

‘There’s no question in my mind. Just please stop worrying, because if you don’t I’ll start worrying about you.’ Laurie laughed. ‘Now, please tell me more about the party. On the phone you’ve been awfully sketchy. I’m longing to hear everything.’ Her eagerness was reflected in her eyes.

Annette said, ‘I wish you’d been there, enjoyed it with us, Laurie. I can’t understand why you were so adamant about not coming, and neither can Marius. He wanted you to be with us as much as I did.’

‘In this? In this wheelchair? Don’t be silly, I’d have been a useless encumbrance. An inconvenience.’

‘Don’t say that! You’re none of those things. We really did hope you’d change your mind, that you would join us, and you know I never lie to you.’

‘I’m sorry, don’t get upset. And I do know how sincere you were about my coming. But I see things differently to you at times, Annette. I didn’t want to be a burden. And look, I didn’t want you to have questions to answer later. About me. People asking you why I was in a wheelchair, et cetera, et cetera. All that nonsense. I’ve told you before, you don’t need a cripple hanging on to your apron strings—’

‘Don’t say that, you know how I hate you to say that!’ Annette exclaimed, her voice rising.

‘But I am a cripple, no two ways about it. I was in a bad car crash and now I’m a paraplegic.’

‘You’ve lost the use of your legs, yes, but you survived. The others died, and you’re still a beautiful woman. Intelligent, charming, and clever, and you are not an embarrassment to me. Nor to Marius. Besides, you’ve been with us on many occasions with friends and—’

‘Very close friends,’ Laurie interjected.

Annette continued, ‘And there’s never been any problem.’

‘That’s quite true. The birthday party was different, though, you’d invited two hundred people, and they’d all accepted. I knew it would be a heavy-duty evening for you.’

‘I would have put you at my table, or with Marius, and you know so many of our close friends, like Malcolm and David, Johnny Davenport. You’d have been perfectly fine.’

Laurie smiled. ‘I know. Don’t go on about it. Please. Look, I preferred not to come.’ Laurie made a face. ‘It would have been quite an effort for me, actually.’

‘Are you all right? You’re not feeling ill, are you?’

‘No, I’m not ill. Listen, it would have been a bit tough for me, that’s all, the crowds, lots of people I don’t know.’ She gave her sister another loving smile, her eyes reassuring. Laurie had not gone because she had not wanted to be a reminder of the bad days, not on this particularly special night in Annette’s life. But then a name from the past had done that. Unfortunately. Taking a deep breath, Laurie said, ‘Please tell me about the party. And don’t you dare miss out one detail.’

There were not many people about as Annette walked next to Laurie in the motorized wheelchair, crossing Eaton Square, making for their flat on the far corner. But then it was cold, breezy, a typical early March day, with a hint of rain in the air. People stayed home on days like this.

They were moving along at a fairly quick pace, both wanting to get inside, into the warmth. She glanced up at one moment and was startled to see that the sky had changed in the last hour she had been at her sister’s flat. It had become a deeper, brighter blue.

‘We’ve suddenly got a Renoir sky,’ she exclaimed, glancing at her sister. ‘It was pale, almost grey, earlier.’

Laurie lifted her eyes, and nodded. ‘Yes, it is that lovely blue he used for his own skies and bodies of water, and frequently for the dresses he painted on his incomparable women.’ Swivelling her head, she looked up at Annette, and smiled. ‘Only you would call it a Renoir sky.’

‘I know. But then he is my favourite Impressionist.’

‘And mine. And of course Rembrandt’s a favourite now! Let’s face it, he’s a painter who has been lucky for you. Does Christopher Delaware have any more tucked away in his house?’

‘If only.’ Annette laughed.

‘He might find some other treasure put away, you know,’ Laurie ventured. ‘Collectors like his peculiar uncle often bought paintings and simply stashed them away, hid them. Because they didn’t want anyone else to look at them.’

‘That sometimes did happen, and it still does. However, I imagine that by now Christopher has scoured that house from top to bottom.’

‘You bet he has.’ Laurie suddenly shivered, turned up the collar of her coat, brought her scarf to her chin, fumbling with the scarf through her cashmere gloves.

Annette, who missed nothing when it came to her sister’s wellbeing, asked swiftly, ‘Are you feeling the cold?’

‘No, not too much. And I’m glad to be out and about with you. Thank you for taking the day off to spend it with me.’

‘I’m happy to be with you. A whole day with you is one of my real luxuries.’

Her sister smiled at this comment, snuggled into her coat, and let her gaze wander around Eaton Square. ‘The trees are sad today – bereft, lifeless. Twigs in the wind. This is such a beautiful square, but I must admit I like it best in the summer when the gardens are filled with leafy branches. They make such a lovely cool green tent over our heads when we picnic there.’ Laurie let out a long sigh. ‘I’ll be glad when spring comes; it’s been a dreary, weary winter.’

‘We’ll go somewhere warm soon. In the spring. We’ll make plans,’ Annette assured her, love echoing in her voice for her only relative. Well, there was their brother, Anthony, but he was long gone from their lives. Who knew where he was, and their parents were dead. They only had each other. She’s enough, Annette thought. She has such a big heart and so much to give. She’s strong and determined and filled with compassion for others; then there’s her bravery and courage, and her selflessness. Yes, she’s enough. She might be petite and delicate but she packs a wallop. Also, Laurie was her good right hand, a brilliant researcher and an integral part of her art business.

‘Here we are,’ Annette exclaimed a moment or two later.

Annette now came to a stop in front of a dark green front door, turned the wheelchair around, backed up the two steps, pulling the wheelchair after her. Once she was on the top step, she rang the intercom bell which had the brass nameplate engraved with the name Remmington next to it.

‘It’s us,’ she answered when Marius’s disembodied voice echoed down to them.

There was a loud buzz and a click; Annette pushed the door open, and Laurie took control of her chair again once they were in the hall of the building. She headed straight for the lift. A few seconds later they were on the landing, where Marius was standing at the open door of the flat.

Beaming at Laurie, he leaned over her, kissed her cheek. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said warmly. ‘Let’s get you in front of the fire. Your face looks pinched.’

‘It’s lovely to see you, Marius,’ Laurie responded, removing her gloves and scarf, shrugging herself out of her coat. After pulling the coat out from under her sister, Annette went to hang it up.

Marius said, ‘We’ll go into the living room, darling.’

‘Good idea. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Laurie loved this large, beautifully proportioned room, overlooking Eaton Square, with its tall windows and a white marble fireplace at one end. The colour scheme was a mixture of yellows, which gave it a sunny feeling whatever the weather outside, and the accent colours were blue and white. A fire was burning brightly in the hearth and the scent of flowers was fragrant on the air. There were bowls filled with blooms scattered about, but Laurie knew Annette always used Ken Turner’s scented candles throughout the flat to get the proper effect she wanted.

Once she had positioned herself near the fire, Marius went to the drinks table nearby, took a bottle of Dom Perignon out of the silver ice bucket. As he popped the cork, he looked at Laurie, said, ‘You’re a naughty girl, not coming to my sixtieth, you know. I was very disappointed.’

Before she could answer, Annette came hurrying in with a plate of canapés. ‘Marius, don’t chastise her! I’ve done that already!’

‘Well, of course you have,’ he remarked with a cheerful laugh, then asked, ‘So, who wants a glass of bubbly? Both of you, I hope. Certainly I’m going to have one.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Laurie answered, beginning to thaw out in front of the blazing fire. She was filled with happiness to be with them; she adored Annette and loved Marius, who had never been anything but very kind to her.

‘I’ll have one too,’ Annette said, and went and sat on the sofa. As Marius poured the champagne, she asked, ‘What time’s your plane this afternoon?’

He glanced across at her, still pouring the wine. ‘I had a bit of luck a short while ago. Jimmy Musgrave has offered me a lift on his private jet.’

‘Who’s Jimmy Musgrave?’ Annette asked, a brow lifting. ‘Do I know him?’

‘No, you haven’t met him yet because he’s been in Los Angeles. He’s a new client of mine, came to me through one of my Hollywood contacts. He called to tell me he was flying to Barcelona later today and couldn’t see me next week. I said, what a coincidence, so am I. And he was quick to invite me to fly with him. He said he’d like my company, that we could “talk art", was the way he put it. To answer your question, I have to be at the airport at five.’

‘That was a lucky break.’ Annette accepted the flute of champagne from him and smiled. ‘It should be nice in Barcelona this weekend; you’ll be able to get a bit of sun.’

Walking over to Laurie, he handed her the glass, then sat down in the chair next to her. ‘I doubt it,’ he murmured, addressing Annette. ‘I really do need to spend some time with the director of the Picasso Museum, and I want to do a good long walk through, to refresh my memory.’

‘How’s the book coming along?’ Laurie asked, referring to the one Marius was writing about the painter.

‘Rather better than I expected. It’s odd, Laurie, it just started to take off in the last six months or so. I’ve done more work in that time than I did the whole of the previous year. I think Picasso really comes alive on the pages at last. And by the way, ladies, I’ve decided to dedicate this book to the two of you – my very special muses.’

‘How lovely,’ Laurie cried, and raising her glass she said, ‘Here’s to your new book, Marius, and thank you for the dedication to us.’

Annette said, ‘That’s nice of you, darling; yes, thank you, thank you very much.’

A small silence fell between them; the three of them sat back, sipping their champagne, relaxing, enjoying being together in this beautiful room in front of the blazing fire on this cold day.

It was Marius who broke the silence when he asked, ‘Are you still planning to drive down to Kent tomorrow? To review Christopher’s paintings?’

‘Yes. I must make some decisions. In fact, he must, too. I’ve got to start making my plans for the next auction.’

‘You’ve never actually said what else there is in his late uncle’s collection.’ Marius gave her a very direct, penetrating look. ‘Either there’s something really special or absolutely nothing at all. Come on, sweetheart, spill the beans.’

Annette shook her head. ‘No, no, I’m not keeping secrets from you, if that’s what you’re suggesting,’ she instantly shot back, a frown knotting her brow. ‘And actually, I did tell you there were a couple of Impressionists, and also an important piece of sculpture. As for paintings, there’s a Cassatt and a Degas, and I did tell you.’

Catching the nuance of irritation in her voice, he said, in a placating tone, ‘Come to think of it, that you did, I’d just forgotten. In fact, didn’t you say there was a Giacometti sculpture in the collection also?’

‘I did, and I know it’s valuable. Oh, and there’s a Cézanne. I admire his work, you know. For some reason it’s really dirty, therefore it must be cleaned. I can’t imagine what that uncle of Christopher’s was like. A careless man, I suppose, at least when it came to taking care of his art collection. Imagine neglecting a Rembrandt and a Cézanne. He didn’t even have the collection catalogued, at least as far as I know. And Christopher doesn’t know very much more than I do. Apparently he wasn’t close to his uncle, hardly knew him, but since there was no other heir, he inherited the collection.’

‘Everything else as well,’ Laurie murmured. ‘I read about it in the papers. There was some sort of really sad incident in his life, and he became a recluse, as well as being something of an eccentric anyway – the uncle I mean.’

Marius, thoughtful, said slowly, ‘I believe it was a broken engagement, or a divorce; there was a woman involved, some tragedy, if I remember correctly. I think you and I read the same newspaper stories, Laurie.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Don’t you know any of the family background?’

‘Not much. Christopher has never told me anything. He’s rather shy, reticent.’

‘Ho, ho, that’s what you think, is it! Well, he’s certainly not too shy to ogle you. He’s got big eyes for you, Annette.’ Marius laughed. It sounded a little hollow.

‘That’s not true. And he’s only twenty-three, for heaven’s sake!’

‘What’s age got to do with anything? Age is merely a number, that’s all. And he does have eyes for you. I saw it myself at the party on Tuesday night. Come on, admit it.’

‘Oh pooh,’ Annette exclaimed in a dismissive voice, not wishing to acknowledge the truth in what Marius was saying. That would only give him ammunition to tease her, or taunt her, as he was sometimes prone to do. It was another way to control her.

Laurie sat back, watching them, not daring to enter into this conversation. She knew it was wise to remain silent. She was only too well aware that Marius had always been extremely possessive of Annette, and jealous. There were times when Laurie had seen him watching her sister like a hawk, his face a mask of anger, if there was another man showing interest. Whenever she had mentioned his dreadful possessiveness, which seemed pathological to her, Annette had dismissed it vehemently. Nonetheless, there was a certain problem there, whatever Annette believed.

Marius stood up, went to fetch the bottle of champagne, and refilled their glasses, then took it back to the silver bucket. He stood there for a moment, his hand on the bottle, looking from his wife to his sister-in-law. Finally he said, ‘Listen, the two of you, I’ve just had an inspired idea. I think you should both go down to Kent tomorrow to that house of Christopher’s, his uncle’s huge pile. You’d enjoy the outing, Laurie, wouldn’t you? And Laurie would be company for you, Annette. I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to Paddy on my way to the airport. I know he’ll be happy to drive you to Kent, wait and bring you back. Now what do you say about that, the two of you?’

Laurie was absolutely silent, frightened to speak.

Annette looked across at her sister and smiled. She said, in the most loving of voices, ‘Marius has just had a brilliant idea, Laurie. I’d love it if you would come with me. I wish I’d thought of it myself.’

‘Oh, honestly, I don’t know,’ Laurie answered quickly, staring at Annette. ‘Look, I don’t want to be in the way, you’re going there to work.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ll just be a nuisance, under your feet.’

‘No, you won’t, you’d be lovely company for me on the drive there and back, just as Marius said. Please say you’ll come.’ Annette sat back on the sofa, smiling at her sister, genuinely wanting her to make the trip. She had felt badly about cancelling their usual Saturday rendezvous, and it had never occurred

to her to ask Laurie to come to Kent with her. Now that Marius had suggested it, she thought it was a great idea. She laughed inwardly. Two can play this game. You think you pull the wool over my eyes, but you don’t. I’ve been married to you for nearly twenty-one years and I know you well. Better than anybody.

Laurie said softly, ‘If you really want me along, I’ll come. Of course I will.’ A smile touched her generous, pretty mouth. ‘For me it would be a great treat …’

‘Then it’s settled!’ Marius declared. He glanced over his shoulder when their housekeeper appeared in the doorway. ‘There you are, Elaine. I suppose lunch is ready?’

‘It is. A cheese soufflé. You’ve got to come. Before it drops.’

‘I’ve got my orders,’ he murmured.

And seemingly so have I. Annette took a deep breath, and then experienced a little frisson of annoyance. He could be so manipulative.

FOUR

The house was called Knowle Court and it was located not far from Aldington in Kent. A long gravel drive led up to the house, skirted on either side by lines of tall, stately poplars, and it was the trees that gave the property a sense of dignity. They reminded Annette of France, where there was many a driveway just like this, trees standing sentinel in front of some grand château.

As if picking up on this thought, Laurie turned to her and said, ‘Have we crossed the Channel without me noticing and entered France? That’s what the trees are telling me.’

‘I know what you mean, but no, we’re still here in hop-growing country, and not very far from Noël Coward’s old home. Though I’m afraid Knowle Court doesn’t have the charm of Goldenhurst. Unfortunately.’

‘What a pity, I like that lovely Elizabethan house. So, what exactly did Christopher inherit from his uncle?’

‘A Jacobean pile of stone, turreted and moated, no less. More like a small castle, actually. Not my kind of place. I came here several times last summer and even then, on a sunny day, it seemed a bit … daunting. Oh, look, Laurie, there it is!’

Leaning forward, she said to Paddy, ‘There’s a circular drive up ahead, and Mr Delaware told me you should park near the drawbridge that leads to a big door.’

‘Right-o, Mrs Remmington.’

‘He also explained that you’re welcome to relax in the back parlour, read or watch television. And that the housekeeper will give you lunch later. It’s up to you.’

‘Thanks, Mrs R. I think I’ll drive around the area a bit, take a dekko, and come back later for a spot of lunch. Mr R. said you’d be working here all day.’

‘That’s right. I hope we can leave about four or five, not later than that. So, you can please yourself, do what you want. Oh, and Mr Delaware said you’re to make yourself at home if you do decide to relax in the back parlour.’

Paddy nodded. ‘That’s very kind of him.’ As he brought the car to a standstill, pulled on the brake, he added, ‘And here we are, ladies.’ Opening the door he jumped out, then poked his head back inside. ‘I’ll get the wheelchair, Miss Laurie, and then I’ll lift you out. Won’t be a tick.’

At this moment the huge iron-studded oak door opened, and Christopher appeared on the drawbridge with a young man Annette recognized as his friend James Pollard. Before she could open the car door, Christopher was hurrying forward, doing it for her and saying hello to Paddy at the same time.

Helping her to get out, he grinned and exclaimed, ‘You’ve made it in good time! Welcome to the old homestead.’ He then muttered, ‘If one can call it that. It’s more like a stronghold.’

Once Annette was out of the car, he glanced inside again. ‘Hi, Laurie, I asked my friend Jim to come down for the weekend. He’ll keep you company while we work. I’m sure you remember him from the auction.’

‘Yes, I do, and that was thoughtful of you, Christopher.’ She gave him a wide smile, and then turned to Paddy who had appeared at her side of the car.

The driver had worked for Marius for eighteen years and knew her well, and it was with great care that he lifted her out of the car and carried her to the wheelchair. And as usual he thought the same thing he always thought as he held her gently, like a baby, in his arms: What a gorgeous girl, what a shame. In his own way he loved her, but then everybody loved her. You couldn’t help yourself. She had the sweetest nature and he had never heard her complain once. A shame. A bloody shame.

‘Thank you, Paddy,’ Laurie said, looking up at the big, warmhearted man, with mischievous obsidian-black eyes and shock of dark wavy hair. If anyone was a genuine black Irishman it was Paddy. It was obvious he was descended from the Spanish sailors who’d been shipwrecked on the Irish coast when the Spanish Armada had foundered.

‘My pleasure,’ he murmured. He put her into the chair and she went across the drawbridge.

‘I’ve never seen anything quite like this place ever before, have you, Miss Laurie?’ he asked, walking next to her.

This was said in such a droll way, she couldn’t help laughing. ‘No, I haven’t.’ As she spoke she glanced up at the imposing house and took a deep breath. An involuntary shiver ran through her. Annette had used the wrong word. It wasn’t merely daunting, it was forbidding. And she shivered again as a strange sense of foreboding took hold of her and she shrank inside.

A moment later, Jim Pollard was hurrying alongside her, greeting her. ‘It’s so nice to see you again, Laurie. I was delighted when Chris asked me to spend the weekend, and especially chuffed when I knew that you were coming for lunch today. We can keep each other company and laugh like we did at the auction. I haven’t had as much fun since then.’

‘Me neither,’ she answered, and realized how glad she was that Jim was here. She would have hated to sit alone waiting for Annette in this gloomy place. It was so dark and unwelcoming.

There was lots of bustle as Christopher led everyone into the house. He insisted on showing Paddy to the back parlour, where he introduced him to Mrs Joules, his housekeeper, as she came hurrying out of the adjoining kitchen. Immediately, she took charge of Paddy. Christopher then asked Jim to escort Laurie to the blue sitting room. Linking his arm through Annette’s, he led her down a corridor, across the vaulted hall and into the library.

She remembered this room very well. It was gargantuan in size, panelled in light oak, had a huge fireplace at one end, and soaring mullioned windows at the other. Filled though it was with books, there was some free wall space where two exceptional horse paintings by George Stubbs were hanging on either side of the fireplace. She was quite certain they had been painted about 1769, around that time. She loved the formality of the composition, the glossy coats of the horses, their elegant stance, the traditional landscaped park in the background, which was so very English. They were incomparable. And at least they were in excellent condition. Sir Alec Delaware, Christopher’s uncle, had looked after these two beauties very well indeed. This pleased her. If Christopher wanted to sell them, she could get a fabulous price for the pair.

‘You looked at those horse paintings last summer, and long and hard, just as you’re doing today,’ Christopher remarked, coming to a standstill next to her. ‘You said they were valuable.’

‘They are. Paintings by George Stubbs are hard to come by. I haven’t seen any on the market in a long time. But of course they wouldn’t sell anywhere in the same range as your Rembrandt did, although they would bring an excellent price if you were to put them up for auction.’

‘I’m going to keep them. They looked very handsome and fit this room extremely well. They genuinely belong in here, and they enhance it.’

‘Your uncle most probably purchased them specially for this library.’

‘No, actually he didn’t, Annette. My mother told me that the horse paintings were inherited from my grandfather, Percy Delaware, and that he’d inherited them from his father. They’ve been in the family for many years.’

‘How long has this house been in your family, Christopher?’

‘Hundreds of years, since the Stuart period, the 1660s, and it’s entailed, you know, it can’t be sold. It must always pass to a direct descendant.’

Annette nodded. ‘The family is not titled, though, is it?’

‘No. Uncle Alec was knighted for services to British industry, but the knighthood ended when he died. That’s how he made his money, through big business, I mean.’

‘Yes, I know. I did a bit of research.’

He gave her a faint smile, and walked over to the coffee table in front of a leather Chesterfield. ‘How about a cup of coffee before we get to work?’

‘Thanks, Christopher, I’d like that.’ She sat down on the sofa and accepted the cup when he handed it to her. She needed this after the long drive from London. Yet she was anxious to get to work. I must make this coffee break quick, she decided.

Christopher remained standing in front of the fireplace, his back to it, sipping his coffee. After a moment, he remarked, ‘I’ve really searched the house, almost ransacked it, you could say, and I’ve found a few interesting things.’

Her head came up alertly. ‘That sounds promising. What did you find?’

‘A notebook of my uncle’s. It was in an old briefcase, and I must tell you this. His father did buy the Rembrandt in the 1930s. There’s mention of it in the notebook. So the bill of sale is incorrect because his mother’s name is on it.’

‘That’s interesting, but it doesn’t matter. It came into this family at that time, so provenance is valid. But may I see it?’

‘At once.’ Christopher went to the desk, brought out a black notebook and took it over to her.

Annette saw that it was shabby, worn at the edges and had obviously been much handled. ‘What’s in it? Not a catalogue?’ A blonde brow lifted hopefully; she stared up at him. ‘Oh, that would be just wonderful!’

‘Not quite a catalogue, but references to some of the paintings and a list.’

She flipped through the pages, glancing at them, finding the small, precise writing difficult, and handed the notebook back to him. ‘You know where the interesting bits are, so please find them. It will be much faster; I would be searching blindly.’

He took the book from her, and found one of the pages he wanted. ‘Let me read this to you … In your arms was still delight, quiet as a street at night; and thoughts of you, I do remember, were green leaves in a darkened chamber, were dark clouds in a moonless sky.’ He paused, then murmured, ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is. It’s part of a Rupert Brooke poem called “Retrospect". But it doesn’t refer to a painting.’

‘It does, actually. Below those lines he wrote this … Oh my poor Cézanne. Lost to me. My lovely darkened chamber. Ruined. Gone forever. Damn that bloody soot. I should have had the chimneys cleaned … Could it be soot on the Cézanne, Annette?’

‘Most probably.’ She sat up straighter. ‘You know, I thought it was years of grime on it, but it is soot.’ She grimaced. ‘I hope it can be cleaned off …’ Her voice trailed away; worry clouded her light blue eyes.

‘So do I. We can go and look at it. I have it in one of the sitting rooms I emptied of furniture. I turned it into a storage room.’

‘When did you find the notebook, Chris?’

‘About a week or two ago. Why?’

He should have told her before. Careless not to. Didn’t the art matter to him?

Clearing her throat, she said, with a shrug, ‘I just wondered. That’s all. I’d like to see the Cézanne again, and I want you to bring it up to London early next week. I’ll ring you on Monday and give you the address of the restorer to whom you must take it. I hope he’s available: he’s the most brilliant in the business. His name is Carlton Fraser.’

‘I’ll do that. Annette?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you upset about something?’

‘No, why do you ask?’

‘You’ve got an odd look on your face.’

‘Have I?’ Another shrug of her shoulders. ‘I was thinking about your uncle, and how eloquently he described the Cézanne, at least the way he saw it … all those dark greens that the artist favoured. Most appropriate.’

‘He was an interesting man. Here’s something else he wrote.’ Christopher flipped the pages again, and went on, ‘Just a few words, which baffled me at first. So listen to this. My poor little girl, gone from me. The beautiful girl, beautiful no more. I must bury her … That’s all there is. But I found her.’

‘Oh, my God! Is he referring to a child?’ Her hand came up to her mouth and she shook her head. ‘Did he bury a child?’ She shuddered involuntarily, aghast.

‘No, no. Don’t look so alarmed. It’s not a human child. What I found was a rather disreputable-looking statue. Do you want to see it?’

‘Immediately.’ She stood up. Her face was white. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you,’ he apologized, lightly touching her arm.

No, not you, she thought. There’s something about this house that chills me to the bone, and for a reason I don’t understand. Taking a deep breath, Annette said, ‘I’m fine, I was just startled. The way you presented it to me was … well, I thought he’d buried a dead child.’

Annette followed Christopher across the enormous hall, with its high-flung vaulted ceiling, polished oak floor and huge chandelier. She glanced around, shivered. There was something creepy about this place. Why had she not noticed it last year? It had been summer. Warm weather and sunshine, of course. On this cold March day it had acquired bleak aspects.

She was glad she had worn a grey flannel trouser suit and cashmere sweater, and that she had told Laurie to do the same. Even though Knowle Court was centrally heated and fires burned in almost every room, a damp coldness seemed to permeate the whole place.

As they walked towards the sitting room where he was storing pieces of art, Annette asked, ‘How did you manage to find the statue?’

‘There are quite a lot of trunks and boxes stored in the attics, and I went through them all. It was fortunate that my uncle had scrawled my beautiful girl on one side of a large cardboard box, and when I opened it I discovered the sculpture.’

‘That was lucky. The box is in the room where the Cézanne is stored?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve put some other artworks in there, since you said you might want to have more than one piece in the next auction.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

‘Here we are.’ Christopher opened a door, ushered Annette inside. ‘Do you want to look at the Cézanne first? It’s over there on the trestle table.’

She hurried across the floor, anxious to view the painting again, apprehension trickling through her as she thought of the damage the soot could have caused to the canvas.

Christopher, moving ahead, whipped the cotton sheet off the trestle table, and stood waiting for her, the painting revealed.

When she looked down at the Cézanne, she saw immediately that the painting looked a bit darker in parts than it had last August when she had first seen it. But that day was sunny. Perhaps it was something to do with the dreary light today. Soot didn’t run or spread. It was composed of carbon deposits from burning coal, and she was certain it was difficult to remove from anything.

Oh, God, she thought, leaning closer, peering at the canvas. However will Carlton bring this back to life? He was most probably the only man who could, if that was at all possible.

Christopher, hovering next to her, was suddenly nervous. ‘You seem worried.’

‘I am,’ Annette responded. ‘However, Carlton Fraser is a genius, and I’m not going to give in to anticipatory despair. The painting is full of those wonderful dark, dark greens Cézanne loved to use, and so perhaps it looks worse than it really is. Now, where’s the statue?’

‘It’s here.’ As he spoke, Christopher pulled a large cardboard box across the floor and opened the top flaps.

Annette looked inside. What she saw gave her quite a start; instantly, she pulled back, the breath knocked out of her, then she knelt down, opened the flaps wider for a better view. She stared for a long time at the object lying on the bottom of the box, hardly able to accept what she was seeing. A little surge of excitement ran through her, and she prayed she was correct about the statue. Putting her hand in the box, she touched it tentatively and closed her eyes.

After a moment she stared at Christopher. ‘Do you know what this is?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You have had it out of the box, haven’t you?’ ‘Yes, I have, but I wasn’t very impressed with it, so I put it back.’

‘Would you lift it out, so that I can look at it properly please, Chris?’

‘Of course I will.’ He did as she asked. ‘Where do you want me to put it?’

‘I think over there, on the round table near the window, please.’ To think she could have seen this two weeks ago if only he had had the sense to phone her. She was beginning to have her doubts about him.

Once it was on the table, Annette walked in a circle, viewing the piece from every angle. Her heart was pounding. She could hardly contain herself, her excitement growing. Suddenly she experienced that wonderful surge of joyousness that came over her when she looked at a great Impressionist painting, most especially a Renoir. It was a kind of momentary ecstasy, and thrilling.

He said, ‘It looks so grubby, surely it’s not anything of importance? Why are you so interested in it?’

For a moment Annette could not bear to answer him, and she certainly couldn’t look at him. She was afraid he would see the irritation on her face.

Finally, she said, ‘The last time I saw something very similar to this at auction, the hammer came down on it for eleven million dollars. And that was ten years ago.’

FIVE

‘If I’m correct, and I’m fairly certain I am, this is The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer by Degas,’ Annette said, turning around. She noticed that Christopher looked stunned and understood why. The thought of another art windfall in the millions must have dazzled him. In fact, she herself was somewhat stunned by his find, unexpected as it was.

‘A Degas! I can’t believe it. I thought it wasn’t very important. Uncle Alec discarded it, put it away in an old cardboard box, shoved it in the attic. I wonder why? Because it’s so grubby-looking? Do you think that’s the reason?’ Christopher asked.

‘I’ve no idea. However, this little bronze dancer is not something anyone discards. Rather, it is to be treasured. Just because the net tutu is torn, also worn and dirty, is of no consequence. It’s a Degas. And I believe this is one from a special unnumbered edition of about twenty-five examples that were cast in the 1920s. I’m very excited about this, Christopher.’

‘You said it was sold for eleven million dollars about ten years ago. Was it my uncle who bought it? Is this that statue?’ ‘No, no, you misunderstood me. I told you that a sculpture similar to this, another Degas ballet dancer, was auctioned around 1997. By Sotheby’s in New York.’ ‘Why would a copy be so valuable?’

‘It is not a copy, not in the way you mean it,’ Annette said. ‘Let me try and explain this to you. A posthumous second-generation cast of the original wax sculpture by Degas was made at the Hébrard foundry by perhaps one of the greatest casters ever, Albino Palazzolo, and it was supervised by the sculptor Albert Bartholomé, who was an intimate friend of Degas'. I don’t think I’m wrong in believing this is one of those that were cast in the 1920s from that original wax sculpture by Degas.’ Annette now added, ‘Laurie is an expert on Degas, and I frequently use her for research. She’s very knowledgeable. Would you ask her to come and look at this, Christopher?’

‘Right away!’ he exclaimed, and hurried out of the room.

Once she was alone, Annette turned, looked at the bronze dancer again. She was absolutely convinced that this really was a Degas, and another rare find at Knowle Court, just as the painting by Rembrandt had been.

Stepping closer to the little dancer, she reached out, touched her head, caressed it lovingly, and then touched the torn and dirty tutu, very old now. Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears, so moved was she. This little dancer had always been a favourite of hers, and she often went to see the one on display at the Louvre when she was in Paris.

Imagine. Who would ever have thought that I might be auctioning this. It will be mine. For a short while. I will be its custodian. How thrilling that is. Her thoughts suddenly swung to Alec Delaware, and she wondered why he had discarded the Degas sculpture? She would never know … no one would. And when had he bought the little dancer, and where? I need the provenance. Oh, my God, where is the provenance? Her chest tightened and sudden anxiety took hold of her. There were not many papers here. How could a man like Alec Delaware, a highly successful businessman, have been so careless? Christopher didn’t seem to know too much about his uncle’s affairs, and there were 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 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

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 …

‘My name is Marie Antoinette, and I’m the Queen of France. Please won’t you come and join me in my dance? I’m the Queen of France. Come and waltz around the room, around and around we’ll go, playing your favourite tune. Look at my beautiful golden gown; it comes from the very best shop in town. Isn’t it grand, and here I stand. My name is Marie Antoinette and I’m the Queen of France.’

The girls held hands and danced around the room, laughing, and happy to be with each other, their eyes sparkling brightly, the tapping of their little shoes echoing on the bare wood floor.

Now another voice, lilting and sweet, came floating on the air. ‘I am Josephine, Empress of France. Come and dance. My husband’s name is Bonaparte, and he’s definitely stolen my heart. He’s a general, strong and bold, and we’re a legend, so I’m told. I have a crown, it shines very bright, and I wear it every night. I’m married to Napoleon. He’s my man so come to see us as fast as you can. And we’ll dance the whole night through, until the dawn breaks softly blue. My name is Josephine, an empress new and true. Come and dance and dance and dance, with an empress of La belle France.’

There was the sound of feet running up the stairs and a loving voice calling, ‘Girls, girls, come on, let’s go out to play, let’s have some fun.’ And she was there then, the tall, sweet cousin they loved with devotion, who looked after them, protected them. They ran to her and they left together, racing outside into the golden sunlight of this summer day.

They ran through meadows filled with wild flowers, the tall grass undulating under the light breeze blowing down from the hills. Their long hair flew out behind them and their summer frocks billowed around their legs. It was a clear bright afternoon and they ran together holding hands and laughing … golden girls on a golden day …

The memory stopped as abruptly as it had started. Annette sat up, got out of bed and went into the bathroom. Turning on the light, she saw that her face was damp with tears, and she was filled with a terrible longing, a yearning really, for that tall, willowy girl who had loved them so much, and whom they had loved in return. Will the yearning for her never go away? she wondered, and then she splashed her face with cold water, patted it dry. A few minutes later, back in bed, her thoughts were jumbled, sorrowful; as she struggled to sort them out, she fell into a deep sleep that was dreamless.

Although Marius had phoned twice over the weekend, Annette had not told him about the extraordinary find at Knowle Court. It had proved difficult for her to hold back, not to share with him her delight about the discovery of the bronze, but her desire to surprise him had won out in the end. She wanted to witness the expression on his face when he saw the famous Degas sculpture standing on the glass coffee table in the sitting room of their flat in Eaton Square.

As she sat at her desk in her Bond Street office on Monday morning, she began to make plans for her next big auction, which she fully intended to hold in New York. She was setting her sights high, but that was the way she was.

Because of her extensive knowledge of art, she knew that the Cézanne could not be cleaned as quickly as she would like. She also knew the job had to be done by a great restorer. And the only really great one was Carlton Fraser. He had been abroad and not available to clean the Rembrandt for her, but hopefully he would be able to take on the job of restoring the Cézanne.

Having always been a pragmatist, quick to make decisions, and expedient by nature, Annette was not one to waste time now. She picked up the phone and dialled Carlton Fraser’s studio in Hampstead.

His phone rang and rang, and the voicemail did not come on. Growing impatient, she was about to hang up when he finally answered with a faint, ‘Hello?', sounding far away.

‘Carlton, it’s Annette Remmington. How are you?’

‘Hello, darling!’ he exclaimed, his voice instantly stronger, convivial. ‘Lovely to hear you. And I’m grand. So sorry to have missed your gorgeous big bash. I hear it was spectacular, and look, I couldn’t come because I was in Rome. But you knew that.’

‘Doing some work for the Vatican, I suspect.’ He chuckled. ‘No flies on you, are there, my dear? And yes, I am.’

‘Congratulations. Listen, Carlton, I have a job for you, a painting to clean and restore, and I do hope you’re free to do it, at least to start it. You see, in my opinion, you’re the only one who can bring it back to life.’

‘Thank you for the compliment. I can only say I do the best I can, and I am free. The new Vatican job is planned for the autumn; I’ll be in Rome for a month. Cleaning some ancient frescoes. So, what’s the painting you want me to work on?’

‘It’s a Cézanne, and I’m fairly certain it was covered in soot which fell from a chimney, and also that somebody did attempt to clean it, or, let’s say, dust it.’

‘Good God, no!’ He let out a long groan, and cursed.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Annette responded quietly, alarmed by the intensity of the groan, his expletives. He had just underscored the feeling she had had about the painting right from the beginning. It was a mess, and it would need meticulous work.

There was a silence, and then Carlton muttered, ‘It could take me months. Soot’s the worst.’

‘I know. But can you take it on? Now? Or are you fulfilling other commitments?’

‘I’m working on an Old Master for a client, but I’ve just about finished it. I can start on yours this weekend, if that’s all right.’

‘It’s not all right, it’s fantastic! What a relief. I wouldn’t trust anyone but you with this job. I’ll have the owner deliver it to you tomorrow, if you can accept it then?’

‘I can, but in any case, Marguerite is always here. And who’s the owner?’

‘Christopher Delaware, my Rembrandt client. His uncle left him quite a collection, some really good paintings and a couple of fantastic sculptures. A Giacometti and a Degas. A bronze. A little dancer.’

‘Lucky blighter! And if I remember correctly from the massive publicity you so shrewdly engineered, his uncle was Sir Alec Delaware.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Did you know him?’

‘No, but I vaguely remember he was engaged to a painter I had been slightly acquainted with, very many years ago. I knew her in her student days, when she was still at the Royal College of Art … wait a minute … now what was her name? Oh, yes, I recall it now. It was Clarissa Normandy. I think there was something rather strange about that engagement, though. Or was it the marriage?’

‘Not the latter.’ Annette cleared her throat and plunged in. ‘She killed herself. I think it was only a few days before the wedding. Actually she was wearing her wedding dress. Just imagine that. It was something quite awful, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, God, yes! I heard about it on the grapevine. But actually, Annette, there was a weird aspect to their relationship, a scandal of some kind. Unfortunately, it just slips my mind right now. Not unusual. Getting old, I suppose.’

‘The only thing I found out the other day was about the suicide,’ Annette remarked. ‘I don’t know anything else.’

‘Mmmm. However, there was another element. Something not quite right or, as my darling wife would say, not quite kosher. I think it was about stolen paintings … paintings going missing. And I do believe it was Marguerite who told me that at the time. Clarissa’s not quite kosher, she said to me. And there was the suggestion of some impending scandal.’

Always quick on the draw, Annette exclaimed, ‘Are you suggesting that by killing herself, Clarissa Normandy averted a scandal?’

‘I think “avoided” might be a better word.’

‘I see. Well, I didn’t know her, nor does any of that matter now. But I admit I am riddled with curiosity and I’d love to know more, just out of interest, if Marguerite can shed any light on it.’

‘So would I.’ There was a pause, before he added, ‘As I recall, Clarissa was controversial, and prone to drag trouble in her wake.’

Annette sat at her desk for a few minutes, after hanging up the phone. She was thinking about Clarissa Normandy. She had heard about her some years ago … about her being a painter of promise, one of those young artists everyone predicted would become famous but never did. Nothing much had happened to Clarissa’s career, and she had fallen by the wayside eventually. And yet now, after the conversation with Carlton, she, too, recalled gossip about a scandal. What kind of scandal it was she couldn’t remember. A flicker of a thought hovered at the back of her mind and was instantly gone. And she realized that the discussion had made her forget to invite Carlton to come over to see the dancer.

Sighing under her breath, and moving on in her head, Annette walked over to the cardboard blow-up of the Rembrandt, lifted it down.

Tonight she would take a picture of the Degas bronze, have a blow-up made, and within days her new piece of art would be propped up against the far wall.

A big, brilliant campaign, she said under her breath, and her eyes sparkled. She was about to start promoting The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, and within days the whole world would know about the Degas sculpture again.

She glanced at her watch. It was only ten o’clock; too early to call her New York office, but she would be in touch with them later this morning, would share her thoughts with them about the impending auction.

Bigger and better. I must make it bigger and better. And there was no doubt in her mind that she would succeed. She sat staring into space, her mind racing, and after a while she began to make notes, jotting down the ideas that had begun to flow so freely. The thought of the auction, of holding it in New York, excited her, made the adrenaline rush through her. Quite aside from the Degas bronze, and the Degas horse painting, there was the Giacometti, and the Mary Cassatt painting of a mother and child. It was beautiful, but she had known from the start that Christopher would surely put this up for auction. It did not appeal to him, nor did he understand about Mary Cassatt and what an important Impressionist painter she had been, one of the original group working in Paris in the 1800s, a close friend of Degas, as well as his colleague, rival and benefactor.

After an hour, Annette stood up, walked across her office, stretching. Her eyes fell on the blow-up of the Rembrandt, and she went over to it, picked it up, carried it to the back of her office, and put it in the large cupboard where she kept such things. Closing the door, she turned around, her eyes sweeping over the room, liking what she saw: a huge space with two large windows, cream walls, a dark blue carpet and a paucity of furniture. The only pieces were her desk, an antique French bureau plat, resembling a large table with drawers, two chairs, one on each side of it, and the credenza along the end wall facing the desk.

She smiled to herself as she sat down at the desk, thinking of the clients who took one look around when they first came here, and asked where the art was. Her answer was always the same, ‘I’m waiting for it,’ she would say. ‘The art you are going to sell. Or buy.’

There was a knock on the door, and her assistant, Esther Oliver, came in, carrying a folder. ‘You asked for this the other day, Annette,’ she said, handing it to her. ‘Requests for interviews from every newspaper and magazine you can think of.’ She grinned at Annette as she took the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘You’ll be busy for months if you decide to do them all.’

‘Marius said he would go through them with me when he gets back from Barcelona later this week. I think he intends to pick out only a couple. We know I can’t do them all.’

‘There are quite a few top-notch journalists asking to meet you,’ Esther pointed out.

‘Marius will make the decision,’ Annette murmured.

Doesn’t he always?, Esther thought, but said, ‘In the meantime, you haven’t forgotten your appointment at noon with Mrs Clarke-Collingwood, have you? About her two Landseers.’

‘Oh, bother, I had.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But I’m all right, she won’t be here for half an hour.’ Shaking her head, Annette explained, ‘I just got carried away with thoughts of the new auction I’m planning.’

‘It’s going to be exciting. You can certainly generate a great deal of publicity in the next few months. Where will you hold it? Sotheby’s or Christie’s?’

‘Sotheby’s. In New York.’ Esther stared at her, for a moment lost for words. ‘Fantastic,’ she responded finally, and wondered what the controlling Marius Remmington would have to say about that.

SEVEN

The Degas bronze was standing exactly where she had left it that morning … in the middle of the glass coffee table in the living room of their Eaton Square flat. Annette stood gazing at it, admiring it, almost gloating over it before she went to the storage room and got out two spotlights and various cameras.

Carrying the equipment back to the other room, she quickly set up, and was soon shooting the statue from various angles. She was an excellent photographer, especially when it came to inanimate objects, and after two hours she was satisfied she had a series of great photographs. Among them would be the one that would make a perfect blow-up.

Leaving everything where it was, in case she decided to take a series of pictures the following morning in daylight, Annette went into the kitchen. She found a note from Elaine telling her there was a cottage pie in the fridge that only needed heating up. Not feeling hungry, she poured herself a glass of sparkling water, and carried it to her small office at the back of the apartment, sat down on the sofa and dialled her sister.

‘It’s me, darling,’ she said when the phone was picked up.

‘Hi!’ Laurie exclaimed. ‘How did it go today?’

‘Really very well,’ Annette answered, and went on to explain, ‘I had several conversations with my New York office, and Penelope and Bryan were instantly geared up. Within minutes.’

‘I can well imagine. It’s your enthusiasm. It ignites everyone else’s.’

Annette laughed. ‘I hope so. Anyway, they’re one thousand per cent behind me and my plan to hold the auction in New York. They were bubbling over with ideas, quickly pulled up lists of their clients who would be potential buyers, were suggesting various dates, and even focusing on the design of the invitation.’

‘When do they want you to have the auction?’

‘September. After Labor Day weekend, obviously, and we finally did settle on a tentative date in the middle of the month. Tuesday the eighteenth of September. Or the next day, Wednesday, but not any later that week. I think I will settle on the Tuesday, since they seemed to think this was best. But they will have to check that out with Sotheby’s, to be certain that the date is still available.’

‘What thoughts did they have about the invitation?’ Laurie now asked, very curious, because she herself had been working on ideas for the invitation and a theme for the auction all day.

‘To be honest, they didn’t actually have anything special, or specific. I was a bit startled that they would even try to come up with something. They only just heard about the new art to be auctioned. Still, I didn’t want to discourage them.’

‘I have several thoughts,’ Laurie volunteered, ‘but only one idea works.’

‘And what’s that?’ Annette asked eagerly, knowing full well that her sister was immersed in Degas, and had a superior knowledge of Mary Cassatt’s work and her life in Paris. If anyone could come up with a theme for these two artists, it was Laurie. ‘So come on, tell me. You’re not saying anything.’

‘I went back to my research on Degas, just to refresh my memory, and I re-checked Cassatt again. As you know, they were great friends but not romantically involved. They fought. He was a difficult man, had a bad habit of slapping people down, mostly artists like himself. She stood up to him, stood her ground. She’d learned to do that with her difficult father – good practice, I suppose. Also, she was extremely independent. Anyway, to get to the point, you have two pieces of art by Degas, the great painting of the horses and carriage at the races, and the bronze dancer. But only one Cassatt. I wish you had another. Then we could build a theme on Degas and Cassatt – friends, rivals and admirers of each other’s work. Or master and pupil, since Cassatt learned so much from him.’

‘It had occurred to me that we could link them, but you’re correct, we do need another Cassatt. Incidentally where does that leave the Giacometti? He was a Modernist, and the sculpture we have was executed in the 1960s.’

‘I realize you wouldn’t want to keep that back for another auction at another time, but it might be the wisest thing to do.’

‘Oh,’ Annette said, and fell silent, thinking.

Laurie waited for a moment before asking, ‘Are you there, Annette? I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, you have, and in a way it’s not exactly my decision, is it? There’s Christopher Delaware to consider.’

‘That’s true,’ her sister agreed. ‘But he will take your advice. I mean, after all, that’s what you’re there for. To advise him.’ When Annette did not answer, Laurie decided to press on, and said in a quiet tone, ‘Listen, whatever you think, he does have a crush on you, and he’ll want to please you. God knows he doesn’t need money any more. He doesn’t have to sell the Giacometti now, not after the twenty million quid you got him with the sale of the Rembrandt.’

‘Yes, you’re right on all points.’

‘So you do know he has a crush on you?’

Annette sighed. ‘It’s not such a big crush, and I have been very cool with him, not risen to the bait, or even addressed it. I’ve ignored it, and actually I think the crush is beginning to subside, if that’s the right word to use. I know how to be indifferent, show a total lack of interest without hurting feelings.’ ‘I know that. But does Marius?’

‘Laurie, don’t be so silly!’ Annette was both startled and shocked by this comment, and added in a firm voice, ‘Marius was only teasing me the other day – surely you of all people know that? Perhaps Christopher had ogled me a little at the party, but he’s very young, and I’m absolutely sure he’s getting the message.’

‘If you say so,’ Laurie murmured, and continued swiftly, ‘Why don’t you pick another Impressionist painting from his collection? I did notice a Morisot. Perhaps Christopher would agree to sell that.’

‘But Berthe Morisot was influenced by Manet, and later Renoir, not Degas.’

‘I know, but don’t forget she and Mary Cassatt were friends, used to paint together. And here’s another point: they were the two most important women to be involved in the Impressionist movement in the 1800s.’

‘My God, you’re right! How could I have forgotten that?’ Annette’s mind began to race, as she went on, ‘That would do it, don’t you think? If we could link the three of them, rather than Degas and Cassatt only. I shall phone him tomorrow.’

‘I know he’ll agree.’ Laurie sounded confident. She was, because James Pollard had let something slip, inadvertently, on Saturday at Knowle Court. Christopher Delaware did not intend to keep any of the art that had been left to him by his uncle. For a very simple reason. He wasn’t interested in art. But he had to go slowly because of taxes. Taking a deep breath, Laurie confided this to Annette, as well as other comments Jim had made to her.

‘Very enlightening,’ Annette responded before they both hung up. Sleep was elusive. Annette would begin to doze off and then something would awaken her with a start. The ticking of the clock, the patter of rain against the window, the rustle of the bedroom curtains as a gust of wind blew in. She had always been a light sleeper and tonight she seemed unable to settle down. Turning on her side, she shut her eyes and endeavoured to visualize the Morisot painting at Knowle Court. It was one of the artist’s earlier works, and not her greatest. On the other hand, Morisot had acquired something of a following in recent years. The painting hanging in the gallery at Knowle Court was of a woman sitting at a mirror doing her hair. Annette had liked it when she first saw it, and now, given the idea Laurie had presented to her, perhaps it would work if shown with the Cassatt. It was worth a try, and so it was worth a call to Christopher, to ask him to put it in the auction. She would phone him tomorrow.

Throwing back the bedclothes, Annette got up, went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk, then hurried down the corridor to her small office. Turning on the light, she sat down at her desk, began making notes to herself regarding the auction. Marius had teased her for years, calling her a workaholic, and she was, but she couldn’t help that. It was the way she was made. Her nature. She enjoyed work, was well-organized and adept at what she did, and she had a lot of stamina, could sit at a desk for hours.

After half an hour she put down her pen and sat back in her chair, thinking about her younger sister Laurie, who was now thirty-six.

Because of the horrific car crash, she had never been able to fulfil her desire to become an actress. Or perhaps she had lost the desire and the drive. But encouraged by Marius and herself, she had studied to be an art expert, focusing on certain Impressionist painters, mainly Degas and Cassatt. Laurie had worked for them for a number of years now, as a research assistant, and was brilliant at it. Once Marius had agreed that Annette could start her own business, Annette Remmington Fine Art, she had made Laurie the only other director of her company, and her sole heir, wanting to protect her sister’s future, give her security.

It pleased Annette that Laurie was as interested in art as she was, and that she had a job she loved, and which gave her a life. Also, she was proud of her little sister, who had made a career for herself with courage and determination. I’ll take her to New York, she decided all of a sudden. I’ll take her to the auction. We’ll go by ship: that would be a nice way to travel for a change, a little holiday. When they went to Europe they used a private plane, so flying was easy, but she was not sure Marius would let her charter a plane to take Laurie to the States. Seven and a half hours was a long flight for her sister. Yes, a sea voyage would do her good.

This decision to include Laurie brought a smile, a sudden feeling of happiness, and Annette finally left her desk, went back to bed, knowing she would soon fall asleep. But she did not … the past intruded; another memory slid out from one of its dark hiding places, and she heard them again, those innocent little girls, heard their voices in her head and floating all around her …

‘My name is Marie Antoinette and I am Queen of France. Come and dance.’ Another lilting voice echoed in the air. ‘I am Empress Josephine, favourite of the French, and there’s my husband Napoleon sitting on the bench. Emperor of France. Come and dance …’

Their voices fell away in receding echoes, and the light changed in the cold and silent house where evil lurked in the shadows … and as night came down, the girls lay trembling in their beds, always afraid now that he had come back. The monster, they called him.

‘He’s coming,’ Josephine whispered, her voice trembling. ‘I can hear him outside the room.’

‘Stay quiet, stay still,’ Marie Antoinette whispered back. ‘Slide down, pull the blankets over your head. Don’t make a sound.’

The door opened. He came creeping in, knelt down next to Marie Antoinette’s bed. He slid his hand under the bedclothes, touching her legs, lifting her nightgown, pushing his fingers into her, harder and harder, pushing them higher, hurting her. Pain shot through her. His head came down on her mouth; she tasted stale beer, averted her face and began to shake all over. ‘Please, please don’t do this,’ she begged. But he did not stop, pushed harder. She cried out again in pain. His head came down next to hers on the pillow. He harshly snarled, ‘If you make another sound, I’ll kill her. Understand?’ Terrified, she took a deep breath, pleaded with him: ‘Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her. ‘ He did not answer. His response was to pull off the bedclothes, drop his trousers and climb on top of her. He was more intoxicated than usual and could not do it tonight. He fell against her, breathing hard, his weight heavy on her. She tried to push him off, tried to slither out from under him, found she could not. Suddenly, in a rush, the door was flung open and bright light from the hall flooded the room. Alison was flying in, shouting angrily. Their cousin pulled her drunken brother off Marie Antoinette, dragged him out of the room. He was like a limp rag at first. Unexpectedly he came to life. He jumped up, pushing Alison away, but she grabbed him, struggled with him, fought him. She was tall, strong and sober. Even though she was more terrified than ever, Marie Antoinette peeped around the door again. Her grandfather appeared, hurrying out of his room, shouting at Gregory. He was fighting Alison, beating her. They had moved across the landing, were struggling hard, were too close to the top of the stairs. It happened in a flash. Marie Antoinette brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream as they both fell down the stairs. They landed in a heap in the hallway at the bottom. They lay still. Neither moved.

A cacophony of sounds. Grandfather shouting. Gregory shouting back. Not a sound from Alison. She went back to Josephine, crept into bed with her, put her arms around her and held her close … protectively, lovingly. The six-year-old girl was sobbing; she endeavoured to comfort her, stroking her red-gold hair, holding her close, promising to look after her always. And she did.

They had been sent away from that dangerous house after that … those sweet innocent girls … sent to live with their mother, and things got worse …

The scene was so vivid, so real, Annette wept into her pillow, filled with hurt for those tender little girls. She wept herself to sleep. And the memories of that fateful night of long ago stayed with her for days.

‘And I had this fantastic idea. I’m going to take you to New York with me in September. We’ll sail on the Queen Elizabeth and you’ll be at the auction and we’ll have fun. You would come, wouldn’t you?’

Laurie could hardly believe it. Annette was inviting her to go with her to New York, where she’d never been, for the auction! Excitement rushed through her. ‘Of course I’d come. I’d love it, being there with you.’

‘Then it’s a done deal, darling.’

‘Wonderful! I’m thrilled.’ There was a moment of hesitation before Laurie said, now haltingly, ‘But what about Marius? Will it be all right with him?’

‘It really doesn’t have anything to do with him, does it?’ Annette answered swiftly, almost sharply. ‘Anyway, he’ll be pleased, I’m sure. He likes you to participate in things. And, more than likely, he’ll be there himself.’

‘That’s great. I can’t wait until September.’ Laurie had a huge smile on her face as she said goodbye to her sister, and put the phone down.

As she sat at her desk in her flat, her happiness knew no bounds. The trip was going to be a fantastic experience, and her head was reeling. Slowly she settled down, peering into her computer, but within minutes her mind was far away from her work; she pushed her wheelchair back, rolled out of the office, across the foyer and into the kitchen. Angie, her carer and live-in companion, was talking to Mrs Groome, the housekeeper who came every day to clean and cook.

They both glanced around, as she paused in the kitchen doorway, and saw Laurie. Her face was flushed, her expression reflecting her enormous happiness.

‘Annette’s going to take me to New York in September!’ she exclaimed. ‘When she has the next auction.’

‘Isn’t that wonderful!’ Angie cried, beaming at her.

Mrs Groome looked surprised, but sounded pleased when she interjected, ‘It’ll be a really special trip, going there with your sister. And isn’t she the one, a proper darling, she is, always thinking about you, caring about you. She’s an angel.’

‘That’s true and there’s nobody quite like her in this whole world,’ Laurie agreed. ‘But I’d better get back to work, I just wanted you both to hear my exciting news.’ The two women smiled at her as Laurie headed back to her office.

It took Laurie a few minutes to settle down, to calm herself; then she finally returned to her desk and her computer, to tackle the last three pages she had to write. She was completing an in-depth study on Manet for Malcolm Stevens, and he was coming to collect it later in the day. In the past six months she had done a great deal of research for him, and they worked well together. Malcolm was a lovely man, and part of the business ‘family’, in a certain sense. Laurie knew he was one of her sister’s admirers, in a platonic way, and a good friend, forever reminding them all that he watched Annette’s back at all times.

An unexpected cold shiver trickled through Laurie, and she sat back in her chair, stared blindly out of the window in front of her desk. Her thoughts went to the phone call Annette had received from Malcolm, who had told her sister that someone was looking for Hilda Crump, was asking questions about her. This had alarmed Annette and she understood why. They did not need someone delving into their past. Their past spelled trouble for them.

Laurie closed her eyes, focusing on her sister. She had been everything to her. Mother, father, protector, saviour, guardian angel. And also chief carer after the car crash. Her sister had given her a full life through her devotion and unconditional love, and by imbuing in her a sense of security. And finally she had helped her to create a career in the art world, a career she loved.

Suddenly, a shiver ran through Laurie again, and goose flesh speckled the back of her neck. ’I want you to have a career in art.’ That sentence often replayed itself in her head, the words uttered in Aunt Sylvia’s voice. She had always promised, ‘And ‘I am going to get it for you.’

It was Sylvia, their mother’s older sister, who had taken them in at the time of their trouble, after they had left that dark and silent house, left the little town of Ilkley forever. They had been sent to live with their mother, who was residing in London with an actor called Timothy Findas, the two of them holed up in his ramshackle flat in Islington.

Findas was a failure, not a very good actor, and a drunk and a drug addict; and by this time their mother wasn’t much better. An actor herself, she had led a rackety life after their father died. Their life with their mother and Findas had been one of deprivation, suffering and pain. He beat their mother and he beat them, especially Annette. There was never any food or love or

kindness. And no communication between them and their mother, who was always high on drugs, or out cold. It was Annette who had taken her hand, and her mother’s bit of jewellery hidden under the floorboards in their room, and led her out of that awful flat. Together they had run away, gone to Aunt Sylvia’s home in Twickenham. A good woman, she had taken them in, and with loving kindness. A widow, with some private means, she had been able to support them financially.

Thank God Annette kept me safe; thank God Aunt Sylvia took us in without a second thought and sent my sister to art school, where she belonged. Laurie swallowed, fighting back the incipient and unexpected tears.

They had never gone back to their grandfather’s house in Ilkley, nor did they ever see that ineffectual man again. He died alone in that silent house of gloom.

Laurie sat bolt upright in her wheelchair, recalling Knowle Court and their trip there last Saturday. She had taken a dislike to the place at once, and now she knew why. It reminded her of Craggs End, where their grandparents had lived all of their married life, where their mother had dumped them after their father’s death.

Architecturally, they were totally different – Craggs End was much smaller, not like a castle at all. Yet curiously the atmosphere in both places was the same. An icy coldness and a sense of evil pervaded them.

Dragging her thoughts away from that dark and silent house in the north of England, she focused on the paintings of Manet, one of the founders of the Impressionist Movement. And she was able to lose herself in his genius, the enormous beauty of his art.

EIGHT

It had been worth waiting for, this astonished look on Marius’s face, which instantly changed to total disbelief and then unadulterated pleasure. He stood staring down at The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, and it was quite obvious to Annette that he had been taken by surprise … by the statue … by her. The latter was something of a novelty in itself, since he could usually second-guess her.

When he finally looked up, stared at her, a silver brow lifting, and asked, ‘Where on earth did this little beauty spring from?', she simply smiled enigmatically.

Walking over to stand opposite him, the glass coffee table and the Degas bronze between them, she said, ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

He seemed puzzled, pondered for a moment, then responded in a doubtful tone, ‘It couldn’t possibly have come from Sir Alec Delaware’s art collection, could it?’

‘Aren’t you the clever one! However did you guess, darling?’

‘Because I usually have my nose to the ground, sniffing out art, as you well know, and there have been no strange whispers about a Degas dancer on the float. And since you represent Christopher Delaware, I simply made a quick assumption. But why didn’t you know about it before?’

‘Even he didn’t know he had it, because it wasn’t on view in the house. However, he’d begun to poke around in boxes stacked in the attics several weeks ago, and came up with this, and thought it was nothing of importance. Actually, he didn’t tell me about it until last Saturday, when we went to Knowle Court for lunch. And even then he was awfully dismissive. He didn’t think it was worth anything, because it was old and dirty … that was the way he put it.’

‘Silly bugger, but, as my mother used to say, it takes all sorts to make a world.’ Marius strode around the table, stopped next to Annette, took hold of her and hugged her to him. Then, a split-second later, he held her away, as he so often did, his dark eyes roaming over her face. Gazing at her, his face suddenly filled with adoration, he murmured, ‘You look very beautiful tonight, my sweet. Stunning.’

‘You don’t look half bad yourself, either,’ she answered, gazing back at him. He had caught the sun in Barcelona, had acquired a deeper tan that showed up well against his silver hair. Also, he appeared to be slimmer. ‘Have you lost weight? You’re extremely trim,’ she announced in an approving tone.

‘A little bit, and you would’ve too, if you’d been scampering around the Picasso Museum, up and down stairs and through large exhibition halls.’ He released his grip on her shoulders and confided, ‘But I’m pleased I went, because it refreshed my memory about Picasso’s earlier works now lodged there permanently. I’ll tell you something else. I thought it was rather useful to meander through the city where he lived for so many years, and where his family remained after he went to Paris. I got a good sense of the place. It was truly a good trip, and totally necessary for the book.’

‘So it’s full speed ahead now, right?’

Marius nodded, his eyes still on her, his expression warm. ‘So, continue with your tale about Christopher’s find.’

‘You know everything. There’s not much else to tell. Except that I did ask for the provenance, which he didn’t have. Fortunately we found it in the cardboard box where the bronze had been stored.’

‘Good to have, obviously, but there wouldn’t be much doubt about its authenticity. This is too famous as a piece of sculpture. I’m assuming Laurie has examined it?’

‘She did, and she says it’s the genuine thing.’

‘So you’re going to put it on auction fairly soon, are you?’ he asked, his curiosity aroused.

Annette nodded, walked over to the drinks table, poured two glasses of champagne from the bottle she had opened a few moments ago. She carried them over, handed him one.

Marius said, touching his glass to hers, ‘Congratulations, my darling. Here’s to you.’

She smiled at him lovingly. ‘And to you, Marius – you who taught me everything I know.’

He laughed a little dismissively. ‘Well, not quite, let’s say almost everything.’ As he spoke he sat down on the sofa, and focused on the sculpture again. ‘What an amazing life this little dancer has had … let’s hope you can sell her to a collector who will keep her and keep her safe.’ There was a pause, then he asked, ‘When do you plan to hold the auction?’

‘I’ll tell you over dinner, Marius,’ Annette answered, and continued rather swiftly, ‘I’ve booked a table at Mark’s Club, because it’s quiet and we can talk. I know you prefer more jazzy places, but I’ve lots to tell you.’

‘I like Mark’s well enough, and it’s a good choice for this evening. By the way, I saw the folder of requests for interviews with you on my desk in the den. You’ve caused quite a sensation, haven’t you?’ He grinned at her, his delight in her sudden fame apparent, and shook his head. ‘Over one hundred and fifty requests. Talk about the new movie star in town …’ He chuckled.

‘I suppose some people would find it flattering. However, I don’t. It worries me. Even agreeing to do a few of them would take up too much of my valuable time. I’m very busy at the moment. And anyway, you know I don’t like talking about myself. I’m rather a boring person.’

‘Come, come, Annette, don’t be so modest!’ he exclaimed, eyeing her oddly. ‘You’re not boring … you’re a talented woman – gifted, in fact, and you can hold your own with anyone in business and socially, and in any conversation.’

‘As long as it’s about art,’ she countered quietly.

‘No, no, that’s not true. You can talk about a lot of things. Books, the theatre, music and politics, so don’t be so silly, and don’t put yourself down. There are too many people ready, willing and able to do that.’

‘I don’t want to talk about myself to the press, Marius, honestly I don’t; it frightens me.’

Leaning closer to her, fixing those mesmeric eyes of his on her, he said authoritatively, ‘There is no reason for you to be afraid. The past is the past, Annette, and nobody’s going to bring that up, or start digging. Who you are today, what you’ve become is all that matters.’

She stared into his face, trusting his judgement as she had for as long as she’d known him, yet thinking about the phone call someone had made to Malcolm Stevens about Hilda Crump. Marius didn’t know about that phone call, or the mention of Hilda’s name after all this time. Should she tell him? No, it didn’t matter. It didn’t. She had to believe that.

Slowly, she said, ‘I think it would be better if I turned everyone down. There was a lot of publicity when I sold the Rembrandt. So why does another interview matter now?’

‘Another doesn’t. However, a really important interview in a major national newspaper does. The Rembrandt auction wasn’t your last, in fact, you’ve got another one coming up, which has now become even more newsworthy because of the discovery of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. Let’s put it this way, darling, you’re doing the selling, not the buying. You’re always going to need a big splashy feature about yourself – every renowned art dealer does, whatever you think. I’ll tell you what, as I promised we’ll go over the requests tomorrow morning, and I’ll select a few journalists with you. I will then ask around about the ones we choose, get the dope on them. How’s that?’

‘All right,’ she agreed; nonetheless she sounded reluctant.

Changing the subject, Marius said, ‘You told me you’d had the Cézanne sent to Carlton Fraser. What did he have to say?’

‘It’s not great news. Carlton is troubled about it. He’s not sure he can get the soot off parts of the canvas.’ She paused, and sounded genuinely worried when she murmured, ‘He said something really peculiar—’ She cut herself off, shook her head, her expression dismayed all of a sudden.

‘What did he say?’ Marius asked. ‘Come on, tell me, Annette.’

‘That a fall of soot from a chimney would definitely float in the air and could easily fall on to a painting hanging in the room. Then he muttered something about deliberate damage; that it looked to him as if someone had deliberately rubbed the soot into some areas of the painting.’

‘Good God! Who on earth would do such a horrendous thing? It’s verging on the criminal! To destroy a painting by the great Cézanne, or any other artist for that matter, is wicked.’ Marius sounded angry, and there was a look of genuine pain in his eyes. He sat rigid on the sofa, staring at her.

Annette recognized his fury at once. He could not bear to see anything of great beauty desecrated, and neither could she. Wanting to soothe him, she said, ‘I’m not sure Carlton is right about the deliberate damage part. I myself thought that someone had attempted to clean one side of it, not an expert but an amateur, and that they made a mess. Accidentally.’

Marius sat back on the sofa and closed his eyes. After a moment he snapped them open, and exclaimed, ‘Whoever did that is an idiot. And that person should be stood up against a wall and shot!’

NINE

Mark’s Club on Charles Street in Mayfair was quiet tonight, but then it usually was on Friday, since many of its members had already gone off to their country homes for the weekend. Although his preference was for jazzier places to dine, Marius was suddenly glad Annette had booked a table for them here. He’d had a hectic week in Barcelona and Mark’s was always a haven of calm tranquillity.

They climbed the stairs to the bar, which years ago Mark Birley, the founder of the club, had decorated in the manner of an English country house parlour. A fire blazed in the hearth and, since the room was only partially occupied with fellow diners, they had a choice of comfortable chairs and sofas on which to sit.

‘I’m always a sucker for a fire, as you well know,’ Marius remarked as they entered the room, and he guided her to the sofa near the hearth. A moment later he was ordering two glasses of champagne as they settled back and made themselves comfortable.

After a small silence, Annette said, ‘Going back to Cézanne, and our conversation earlier; even if Carlton does manage to clean and restore the painting, it presents a problem because there’s no provenance.’

His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. ‘It beggars belief that a man like Alec Delaware, who made a huge fortune in business, didn’t protect his investment in art.’ Marius shook his head, and looked off into the distance, his mind turning rapidly. Bringing his intense gaze back to his wife, he asked in a low voice, ‘How good is the provenance on the Degas dancer?’

‘It’s perfect. The lineage is a straight line of ownership. It was one of those cast in bronze at Hébrard’s, and it was eventually sold by the Hébrard Gallery to a French art dealer, who then auctioned it off to a wealthy collector in Paris. The bronze passed through a few hands after that – several art dealers, private collectors in New York and Beverly Hills – and finally it was bought at auction in New York by Alec Delaware in 1989. It was not the one sold in New York by Sotheby’s in 1997, by the way. The papers are at home and you can look at them later, and you’ll see they establish provenance beyond any doubt.’

‘Sounds like it. Does the bronze itself have any identifying mark, by the way?’

‘Yes, Laurie thoroughly checked it, and the bronze is marked with a “G". The bronzes that were cast in the 1920s were marked with a letter from “A” to “T", and those were intended for sale to the public. Others were reserved for the Degas family, and for Hébrard. They were marked differently.’

He gave her the benefit of a wide, approving smile. ‘You two are the very best,’ he grinned, and asked, ‘What about the other art from the Delaware collection? Where do you stand with those pieces?’

‘There are documents which establish provenance, I’m relieved to tell you.’

‘So what’s going on the block, Annette? As well as the Degas dancer?’

‘A Degas painting. It’s a carriage with passengers, parked at the races. There’s a Mary Cassatt of a mother and child, and also a Morisot, of a woman facing a mirror. Laurie thought these three Impressionist paintings worked well together, and the artists were contemporaries, friends. It makes a theme.’

Marius nodded, sat back, looking thoughtful. After a moment he said, ‘Laurie could help establish provenance for the Cézanne, perhaps. It’s a tough job, but she has the talent and patience to trace its history through old books, old catalogues, archives, bills of sale, if there are any. What do you think?’

‘She can give it a try; perhaps she’ll enjoy the challenge,’ Annette answered, and wondered if her sister would. She also wondered if it was worth the effort. Carlton Fraser had sounded extremely glum about the outcome of his cleaning and restoration work. But she did not mention this to Marius. She had learned long ago to be careful, to edit what she said to him. He had a short fuse and easily became annoyed and upset. This was the reason she had not mentioned the phone call Malcolm Stevens had received about Hilda Crump. Better that he didn’t know. And Malcolm would never say anything either. He knew her husband almost as well as she did. Marius didn’t deal in trivia. It was the big picture that counted.

The dining room at Mark’s was a favourite of Annette’s because of the art hanging on the walls. All of the paintings were of dogs and had been painted in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Beautifully framed, they had been cleverly arranged and hung by Mark Birley himself many years before.

The two of them sat on a banquette facing the longest wall in the room, at the table Annette considered to be the best in the room. From where they were sitting they had a perfect view of the oil paintings, all of which were beautiful as well as charming, amusing and often poignant; they never failed to bring a smile to her face, or touch her heart.

‘Oh, good, they’ve got bangers and mash on the menu tonight,’ Marius exclaimed as he eyed the menu. ‘Yes, it’s nursery food for me: sausages and spuds. Takes me back to my childhood. What would you like, Annette?’

‘You know I always have the potted shrimp when we come here, they’re the best in London, and I think I’ll have the grilled sole.’

‘A bit of a fishy dinner, darling, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘But I’ll order a good Pouilly-Fuissé. How’s that?’

‘Lovely, Marius, and what are you going to have first?’

‘Like you, the potted shrimp.’ He indicated to the maître d’ standing near the doorway that they were ready to order, and he came over at once, smiling, his pad in hand.

Once they had ordered their dinner, Annette swivelled slightly on the banquette and put her hand on Marius’s arm. She said in a light voice, not wanting to be overly dramatic, ‘I really don’t want to do any interviews. Not even one. Can’t I just skip it?’

Turning to her, studying her for a moment, Marius took hold of her hand, held it in his. He said, finally, in a low voice, ‘No, you can’t skip it, Annette. And for a variety of reasons, which I’ll get to in a moment. I want to say something else first, and it’s this. I do interviews all the time, and the press these days are mostly interested in the art, and only the art. How much is the painting worth? What will you get for it? Who owned it before? Art is now equated with big money, huge money, and that’s what they love to write about. Money, provenance, who’s competing with each other to buy the latest and most important symbol of power and wealth. Please believe me, I’m right about this. And then there’s the sudden discovery of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. Your new prize piece. It’s vital to get tongues wagging about it, and what better way than in an important interview?’

A sigh escaped, and she said quietly, hesitantly, ‘I suppose so …’ She broke off, shrugged, looked directly at him. ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate the idea of doing even one interview, whoever the journalist might be,’ she added, her tone suddenly stronger.

‘I know that. But listen to me – you really do have to do one, at least. And it must be a big one. Art is a bit of a cutthroat business, you know that, and everyone is scrambling to be at the top. The competition is fierce; you’ve lived through it for years. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, you became a star overnight. Partially because Christopher Delaware remembered you were nice to him at a dinner, and he brought the Rembrandt to you. Luck. Sheer bloody luck, sweetheart! So you must keep your name up there. You can’t simply turn away and hope to go on making big deals without promoting yourself.’

He paused, took a sip of the wine the sommelier brought for him to taste, and nodded. ‘Very good. Nice and cold, too. Thank you.’

He gave the waiter a faint smile, and turned back to his wife. ‘You’ve done well with Annette Remmington Fine Art because of the route you went, setting yourself up as an art consultant and art expert, rather than opening your own gallery. You know only too well what that costs. But your overhead is in the medium range because you have a small office and a small staff. It all works in your favour. However you’ve got to keep making the big deals, the superlative deals, and publicity is mandatory. Your clients, the right clients for you, must be the wealthiest in the world. The tycoons, titans of industry, lawyers, bankers, the billionaire bunch who can afford those much-desired famous paintings and sculptures by the world’s greatest artists. Because expensive art is the status symbol today.’

Silent, she sipped her white wine, made no comment. She was taut inside.

In a much firmer voice he continued, ‘You’ve got to keep your eye on your ultimate goal. Okay? Focus. Determination. Drive. Ambition. Taste. Knowledge of art. Those are your special attributes and you must not lose sight of them. And there’s another thing. I won’t be here to protect you for the rest of your life. Let’s not forget, I’m much older than you. I want you to stay at the top; you must stay where you are today. A star in the art world. And you can do that. If you manage your career properly. That is an imperative.’

‘You’re right,’ she admitted, knowing that he was speaking the truth. ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ she agreed at last. ‘On one condition.’

‘And what’s that?’ he asked, a brow lifting, wondering what she was about to say now.

‘That you stop talking about being older than me, intimating that you won’t be around to protect me as you have in the past.’

‘I have, haven’t I? Because I love you. And I’ve protected Laurie as well,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes, that’s true, darling, and I’m grateful. Please don’t think I don’t know you have my best interests at heart, because I do.’ She forced a laugh. ‘I’m just being silly about the past, aren’t I?’

‘Absolutely. Nobody cares what you did when you were eighteen.’

I wish that were true, she thought. I wish the law didn’t have different ideas. She merely smiled, and said nothing. A still tongue and a wise head. She started to eat the potted shrimp, which had just been placed in front of her. After a few seconds had elapsed, she remarked casually, ‘I think I’d prefer to do an interview for one of the Sunday papers, and you can make the decision which one it should be.’

‘Good girl,’ he responded, and took a long swallow of the wine, pleased that she had come around, saw things his way. He believed he did know what was best, but he was aware she felt the need to fight him sometimes.

They talked about a number of other things during dinner, and it was when they had finished the main course that Marius suddenly said, ‘By the way, you haven’t told me when you plan to have the next auction. Have you given it any thought?’

‘Of course I have, Marius! I’ve planned everything,’ she exclaimed, a ring of excitement in her voice. ‘I’m going to have it in September. In New York. The office there have already sent me client lists and ideas, and Laurie has been working on it—’ She stopped abruptly when she noticed the look on her husband’s face. It was a combination of surprise and anger. She sat quite still, waiting for the explosion.

‘New York!’ His voice was low but vehement. ‘Why there, not here in London? And why have you gone ahead with everything without even discussing it with me?’

She took a deep breath, answered as evenly as possible. ‘Because I usually make these decisions myself. I chose London for the Rembrandt sale because it felt right to hold it here. I had the same visceral feeling that the Degas ballet dancer and the Impressionist paintings would do better if auctioned in New York. At Sotheby’s.’

‘I certainly don’t think the auction would do better in the States! You’d be better off doing it at Sotheby’s here,’ he said.

She noticed that he was holding his temper in check, now spoke in a lighter voice, erasing the anger from it as best he could. She knew he didn’t want to quarrel with her in public, and also because he had been away for a week. She never knew what he did on those many trips he took alone, nor had she ever asked. But he was always slightly different when he came back: more considerate, less bossy, not as controlling.

But deep inside herself she knew he was going to manipulate her tonight, as he so frequently did. He had to have his own way. He had to win. She thought about mentioning her idea of taking Laurie to New York, and decided against it. What would be the point? He wouldn’t care about that. For his own reasons, he wanted the auction to be held in London, and what she thought didn’t matter. It never had. That was the way it had always been and always would be.

Annette sank down into herself, filled with disappointment, annoyance and a strange sadness. He had given her a degree of independence when he had agreed that she could open her own office, but he was still the boss. As far as he was concerned. Don’t argue with him; let it go, she told herself. And so she did.

The silence that fell between them was long and somewhat awkward. Annette was determined not to be the first one to speak, and she was strong willed when she wanted to be.

Eventually, Marius was forced to say something. ‘What would you like for dessert, sweetheart?’ he asked, his manner mild.

‘Nothing, thanks,’ she responded swiftly, then added, ‘Camomile tea will be enough.’

‘Not hungry?’ he asked, peering at her, taking hold of her hand, holding it in his. ‘You know you like the puddings here.’

‘Not tonight, Marius. Honestly, I’m not hungry any more.’

‘Don’t be angry with me, darling. I want what’s best for you. I know you must concentrate on doing important things in London at the moment. This is where you live, where you’re based, and where your career is. Where you had your first huge auction, your great success. I don’t think things would work in your favour in New York. Just as they wouldn’t if you chose to do it in Paris.’

‘Whatever you say. After all, you’ve been playing this game longer than I have. Anyway, I trust your judgement.’ A smile wavered on her mouth and was instantly gone. ‘London, Paris and New York, the biggest art cities in the world. So then, let’s pick London this time around, and why not? You’ve made some good points, Marius.’

A sense of relief rippled through him, and he felt himself relaxing against the banquette. He did not like to quarrel with her, and rarely did he have to, because she was usually acquiescent. But he had noticed of late that her inbred independent streak had grown stronger, and this rattled him occasionally. He needed her to be in step with him, not bucking his decisions. Thankfully she had fallen into line once more.

Looking at her, he said softly, ‘I promise you this will be the biggest auction London has ever seen in decades. And it will be far more important than your Rembrandt sale.’

‘And obviously bigger than it would be in New York? Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, if you put it that way. London is better in this instance.’

‘All right, I’ll cancel the plans I made, and concentrate on making everything work here.’

He couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was tonight. She was wearing a delphinium-blue silk suit and aquamarine earrings and the two blues emphasized the colour of her eyes. Her blonde hair was well cut and styled, shining in the candlelight, and she had the air of an accomplished, successful and sophisticated woman about her.

In a flash, in his mind’s eye, he saw that starveling girl he had first met when she was eighteen; so thin she was like a wafer, a look of poverty and deprivation clinging to her. She had come to him for a job at the Remmington Gallery in the early days, when it was first located in Cork Street, and he had taken her on to do weekend work out of pity.

She was neat and clean and nicely spoken, and she had tugged at his heart. And how clever she had been, so talented, a top student at the Royal Academy of Art. Her sense of colour, perspective and composition were extraordinary, and he was impressed with her paintings, which she had shown him so proudly. Yet, with his innate taste, his extraordinary understanding of art, his superior knowledge and experience, he had realized that although she was good, even brilliant in certain ways, she would never be a great artist. She would be one of many good painters, never a star.

He had given her a receptionist job at the gallery, taken her under his wing, looked after her. Within only a few days he had recognized the inherent beauty of her face: the high cheekbones, the delicate, perfect features, and those heart-stopping eyes; huge, bright blue, filled with intelligence. He had seen her potential as a woman, started to take an interest in her, instilling a sense of personal style in her, grooming her, teaching her about art, sharing his knowledge. And then one day she had let him down. It was only then that he understood about himself, his feelings for her. And he was shocked at his emotional entanglement. He had fallen in love with the starveling girl who had been stolen from him. Briefly.

She had come running back when serious trouble wrapped its tentacles around her. Frightened, panic-stricken, afraid of the police and what might happen to her, he had done the only thing he could do to make her feel safe, secure. He had married her. A few days after her nineteenth birthday, in early June. Twenty-one years ago this summer.

Slowly, painstakingly, with love and skill, he had created the woman he thought she could be and was today. She was entirely of his making. His creation. There were those vicious, jealous gossips who said she was Trilby to his Svengali. That wasn’t so, not in his opinion. He truly loved her; he had from the moment he had first seen her.

His best friend at the time had accused him of cradle-snatching, and he had laughed in his face. He had been thirty-eight, she a mere eighteen, so perhaps there was some truth in that, as he looked back now.

‘Marius, darling, what is it?’ Annette asked, touching his hand, staring at him. ‘Are you all right?’

She had roused him from his memories and, as he turned to her, he pulled himself together. ‘I’m fine. I was lost in my thoughts, that’s all.’ He cleared his throat, took a sip of wine.

‘What were you thinking about?’ she probed.

‘Something dragged me back into the past, to when I first met you, and I was thinking how beautiful you were.’

Annette stared at him, her brows puckering and she shook her head. ‘I was such a funny thin little thing,’ she countered. ‘Half starved, half demented, and hardly beautiful.’

‘Don’t say that … you were beautiful to me then, and you still are now.’

TEN

There is something quite splendid about Marius this morning, Annette decided, as she sat opposite him in the breakfast room, drinking her coffee. Showered, shaved, and with his mane of silver hair brushed back sleekly, he looked the epitome of good health and wellbeing. Dressed in a blue-and-white checked shirt, open at the neck, and grey trousers, he had a youthful look about him, due in no small measure to the tan he had acquired in Spain and his remarkably unlined face. He wears well, she thought; he looks so much younger than he is.

He was genial and affectionate with her as he ate his toast and marmalade and, between sips of coffee, chatted to her about the book he was writing on Picasso.

From experience, she knew he was in a good mood because he had won hands down last night. But then he always does win, doesn’t he? Whenever he manipulated her into doing what he wanted, he was like this. Warm and purring. And then, of course, she had assuaged his anxiety about her mood, because she had succumbed to his overtures in bed. As she always did, although sex was not a big part of her life. If she never had sex again, she wouldn’t miss it.

He had been a passionate yet tender lover since their first sexual encounter when she was eighteen. Nothing had changed: he still was. Marius knew how to arouse a woman, and she had learned long ago to accept his overtures gracefully. He could not tolerate any kind of rejection, in bed or out of it. Also, that addictive charm of his was in place most of the time, and it could be irresistible even to her.

‘Whatever’s wrong, darling?’ he asked, interrupting her thoughts, aware she wasn’t paying attention to him.

‘Nothing,’ she answered, sitting up straighter, offering him a warm smile. ‘Sorry.’

‘You look as if you have the troubles of the world on your shoulders.’ He gave her a penetrating look, and went on in a knowing voice, ‘You’re worrying about the Giacometti sculpture, aren’t you?’

She wasn’t, but she seized on this immediately, exclaimed, ‘Yes, I am, actually. I just don’t know whether to put it in the next auction or wait for my third. I’m not sure that it quite fits into the theme Laurie and I developed … you know, the three Impressionist painters being the link.’

‘I wonder if that really matters,’ Marius responded, engaged instantly and looking thoughtful. ‘Giacometti sculptures are going for high prices these days, so why hold it back? Perhaps there’s a way to change the theme, or expand it. Or not have a theme for the art at all.’

‘All are options,’ she agreed. ‘Christopher has a few modern paintings which would fit into a modernist theme, but he doesn’t want to put them on sale right now. Otherwise I suppose we could create a second theme.’

‘Which painters?’

‘Ben Nicholson and Lowry.’

‘Hats off to Sir Alec! My God, he certainly knew what he was doing when he chose his art, if not when it came to cataloguing it. And why doesn’t Christopher want to put those on the block? Did he tell you?’

She nodded. ‘He wants to go slowly because of taxes. As you know, his uncle left everything to him, so there has been a huge amount of inheritance tax.’ She noticed the sudden gleam flashing in his dark eyes, and said, ‘And if you’re thinking I can make him change his mind, you’re absolutely wrong.’

Marius was no fool, and he knew his wife extremely well, and so he said, ‘I believe you. Therefore, I suggest you start the auction with the Degas and the Giacometti sculptures first, and then bring on the three paintings. You might tag them great sculptures from two centuries and let them stand alone. Then you could tie the three paintings into the Impressionist theme. But don’t hold the Giacometti back; sell it while the going’s good.’

‘Not bad for quick thinking! And thank you, Marius, you’ve solved my problem.’

‘My pleasure. And how about solving another one? Together?’

‘You want to go through the requests for interviews, is that it?’

‘It is,’ he answered, and pushed back his chair. ‘Let’s go and sit in my den and scan them. It won’t take long.’

Annette was glad to escape the flat after several hours had been spent on deciding about the journalist who would do the interview with her. Marius had finally settled on the one he wanted, who he thought would draw the best portrait of her in words.

The man’s name was Jack Chalmers, and Marcus knew a little about him already. But in order to check him out properly, glean a few more facts, he had phoned Malcolm Stevens a short while ago – ‘just to get the lowdown', was the way he put it.

According to Malcolm, who was a fund of information about all sorts of people and things, Chalmers was a young hotshot reporter who had swiftly risen up through the ranks of British journalism to make a name for himself. He had also written two brilliant histories of World War II, and was highly respected by editors and colleagues alike. At the moment, Chalmers was under contract to the Sunday Times, and wrote profiles of people in the news for the paper.

Apparently he was considered to be a nice chap, never needed to go for the jugular, or felt it necessary to stick a knife into the heart of an interviewee. Yet he managed to write riveting copy that everybody lapped up. ‘Without resorting to invective or bitchiness,’ Malcolm had finished, adding, ‘That’s a formidable talent.’

After repeating the rest of Malcolm’s conversation to her, Marius had made the final decision, although he had also said, ‘If that’s all right with you, darling.’ He always said that, and had for years, but it meant nothing.

Of course it was all right with her. She had never had any choice, actually. About anything. Marius was the law.

As she walked down Eaton Square, heading for her sister’s flat in Chesham Place, Annette suddenly filled up with anger. It rose like bile in her throat, choking her. But it was not anger at Marius; rather it was anger with herself.

Why was she so weak-kneed? Why did she accept whatever he said as the gospel? She had done that last night, had allowed him to manipulate her out of having the auction in New York.

She had sat back this morning as Marius had chatted away to Malcolm, and again had nodded in agreement when he had settled on Jack Chalmers.

She was a fool, and she knew it. She could be, and had been, very strong about a lot of things in the last twenty-one years, and yet when it came to herself and what she wanted, she just gave in without a protest.

Oh, to hell with it, she thought, trying to push all these worrisome thoughts away. Who the hell cares about Jack Chalmers! Robin Hood or Tom Thumb can come and interview me for all I care. The interview was a nuisance anyway. She couldn’t wait to do it, get it over with and move on to more important things.

Her main concern at the moment was Laurie, and the disappointment her sister would experience when she found out they were not going to New York after all. Annette suffered when she could not follow up on something she had promised Laurie, even though this only occasionally happened. The car crash had ruined Laurie’s life; Annette forever endeavoured to give her sister joy and a little fun, and make living less boring for her.

She’ll guess straight away, Annette thought, as she stepped into the foyer of the flat and greeted Angie, Laurie’s carer. She’ll read my face, she decided as she shed her coat. In order to forestall this, Annette pushed a smile on to her face, and went into the living room, exclaiming, ‘Here I am! Sorry I’m late.’

‘That’s all right, Annette,’ Laurie answered, smiling. ‘I was busy talking to Malcolm, anyway – we had a few things to discuss. I just finished another pile of research for him and he’s going to take me to dinner tonight. As a special treat.’

‘That’s great; he’s always been so nice with you,’ Annette murmured, bent over and kissed her sister, sat down in the chair next to her. ‘Where do you want to go for lunch?’

Laurie shook her head. ‘We’re not going out. Mrs Groome is making lunch for us today, and so we’re going to have it here. I hope that’s all right?’

‘It’s fine, whatever you want.’ Annette reached out, touched her arm, and said, ‘Listen, before we get lost in our usual chitchat, I’ve something to tell you.’

Laurie stared at her, frowned. ‘You sound very serious all of a sudden. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong, not in the sense you mean. But I’m afraid we won’t be sailing off to New York on the Queen Elizabeth. I hate to disappoint you, but Marius thinks we should have the auction in London, not New York.’

Laurie’s face dropped, but in an instant a smile spread across her face. ‘Oh, don’t worry. Malcolm had wanted to come with us on the trip, so perhaps the three of us could still go – after the auction in London, I mean.’

‘Malcolm wanted to come with us?’ Annette sounded startled. ‘I didn’t know you were … so friendly.’

‘Oh, yes, we are. Very, very good friends. He often comes over for dinner, and he takes me out quite a lot.’

For a moment Annette didn’t quite know what to say, so surprised was she, but she finally found her voice. ‘Well, he’s always been one of my favourites and I know he’ll look after you properly when you’re out together.’

Laurie burst out laughing. ‘I can look after myself, you know that. And we’re good friends,’ she added again. ‘We enjoy each other’s company; we’ve a great deal in common.’

‘I know you do.’ Annette sat very still for a moment, staring into the fire, watching the flames shoot up the chimney. She wondered if Marius would approve of this growing friendship, and then pushed the thought away. One thing was certain. She would never permit him to interfere in Laurie’s life.

As if Laurie were seeing into her head, she said, ‘I know you’re angry with Marius. Inside, Annette. You’re not showing it, but I can feel it. You’re angry because he always manages to manipulate you, control you. And listen, why does he think London’s better for the auction?’

‘Because I had my first big auction here with the Rembrandt. My first big success. He wants me to repeat it … wants it to be bigger and better.’

‘But you could have done that in New York, couldn’t you? Made it bigger and better?’

‘I think so. But perhaps he knows something I don’t.’

‘I suppose it doesn’t matter really,’ Laurie murmured, giving her sister a hard stare. ‘When there’s a newly discovered Degas sculpture, and especially when it’s The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, you know the auction is going to be a smash hit wherever it’s held.’

Annette stared back. ‘How right you are,’ she responded, thinking how smart her sister was. She also realized that Marius had known exactly the same thing. They could easily have had the auction in New York, it would have worked just as well there as here, because of the fame and quality of the artworks. But for a reason she had no inkling of, he had been determined to make her have the auction in London.

Laurie swung her chair slightly, faced Annette, smiled at her sister. ‘Listen, I know it annoys you, this controlling of his, the manipulation that’s gone on for years. But you do get your own way in so many other things, because you’re very clever. And he has always looked after us, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, and I’ve always played the game, been loyal to him.’

There was a pause before Laurie said, ‘Whatever would we have done without him?’

‘I don’t know,’ Annette answered, thinking that she might have gone to jail and Laurie would have been dependent on the kindness of their aunt. Not very great prospects, to say the least. Taking a deep breath, she remarked in a very positive voice, ‘The main thing is to make the auction a big success. So I guess where it’s held doesn’t really matter. Now, on to something else. You’re an avid newspaper reader … have you ever heard of a journalist called Jack Chalmers?’

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