Читать книгу Playing the Game - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 11

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.’