Both men turned around at once, and Jim exclaimed, “Ah, there you both are! So, what do you think about the discoveries, Annette? They’re major, aren’t they?”
Before she could answer him, Christopher announced, angrily, “Fakes! We’ve got some bloody forgeries.”
His words dropped like a bomb into the middle of the room.
There was a deathly silence. No one uttered a word.
Jack, totally focused on Annette from the moment she stepped into the library, now witnessed her shocked reaction, saw the ice enter those beautiful blue eyes. He wanted to go to her but didn’t dare. She remained perfectly still. At that moment she was caught in a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the window; it highlighted her blondness, her beauty. And her terrible pallor. Her face had gone white, looked oddly drained.
Finally, she spoke. She said quietly, in a voice of steel, “You spoke incorrectly, Christopher.”
Without looking at him, she moved forward into the room, and came over to the fireplace. Focusing on Jim, she said in a cool, precise voice, “The paintings which were found yesterday are worth millions. . . . A Manet, a Cézanne, and a Pissarro are totally genuine. Three others have a question mark hanging over them. For the moment. And the Graham Sutherland paintings are another wonderful find. So yes, Jim, the discovery is indeed major.”
“What wonderful news!” Jim responded, smiling at her, endeavoring to hide his irritation with Christopher.
“Yes, it is,” Annette said. “And as I told Chris, he owes you a big thank-you for banging on the paneling in the den. If you hadn’t been inspired to do that, the Graham Sutherland paintings would still be hidden away in that concealed cupboard.”
“I don’t know why I was suddenly prompted to do such a thing,” Jim answered, shaking his head. “It was sort of idiotic in a way, don’t you think? But I had heard of hidden rooms, concealed cupboards behind paneled walls and bookshelves.”
“Not so idiotic,” Christopher ventured, hoping to ease the tension in the room, realizing he had made a terrible faux pas. And that he had upset Annette. Clearing his throat, he continued, “And Annette is right, I do owe you a very big thank-you, Jim. Now, how about a glass of the old champers to celebrate?”
“That would be great,” Jack said, moving closer to Annette. Looking at her anxiously, he asked, “Would you like a glass of champagne?”
“Thanks, Jack, I think I will have one.”
Jim and Christopher both walked across to the drinks table, where Jim began to open the bottle of champagne. Christopher stood watching him, obviously still self-conscious and ill at ease.
Jack took hold of Annette’s arm, and in a low voice he said, “Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, is he?”
“Correct,” Annette murmured. “He doesn’t mean any harm. I’ll explain later. In the meantime, he is now in possession of some genuine masterpieces worth millions of pounds. So he shouldn’t focus on those that might be wrong. Did Jim say anything? About how they were unexpectedly found?”
“No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t, would he? He seems like a first-class guy. I like him. Anyway, he didn’t tell me one solitary thing, nor did I ask him any questions. I know you’ll tell me about this discovery if you want me to know.”
“I will, and I know you won’t write anything about it until I say that you can.”
“You mean I can write about it? Later?” He squeezed her arm. “Maybe for the New York piece I’ll be doing?”
“I think so. I should have all my ducks in a row by the end of next week.”
“What do you mean?”
“I must talk to Carlton Fraser on Monday, and ask him to clean the paintings I’m certain about. I also need him to examine the others. Here comes Chris with two glasses of champagne.”
As he approached her almost tentatively, Annette thought that Christopher looked chagrined for once, and a trifle pale.
He handed her the glass of champagne, and apologized. “I’m so very sorry, Annette. Please forgive me for speaking out of turn.” He then handed the other flute to Jack, who murmured his thanks.
Annette said, “You’re forgiven, Chris, and please try to remember I prefer to speak about business privately. It doesn’t matter who we’re with. I don’t want to discuss it in front of them. I must always speak to you alone. Do try to remember.”
“I will,” he said, and went to get a glass of the champagne for himself.
Jack said, “Very gracious, Annette. You’ve made him feel better.”
“I don’t want an atmosphere over lunch, and I know him well enough now to understand that he just says what comes into his head at times, and without thinking. Besides, it’s marvelous that these paintings have come to light at last, and certainly they are worth celebrating.”
“I know I shouldn’t ask, because I’m sure you don’t want to discuss them, but what happened? How were the paintings found?” Jack gave her a puzzled look.
“Let me explain,” Annette said, and sat down on the sofa near the fireplace.
Jack joined her and listened most attentively as she told him about the priest hole, and what had been discovered there yesterday, and how that had happened in the first place.
“What a story!” Jack exclaimed when she had finished. “Remarkable, actually. How fortunate that Chris decided to renovate his uncle’s den. If he hadn’t, the paintings could have gone undiscovered for years.”
She touched her glass to his. “Here’s to you, Jack.”
“And to you,” he said, then asked in a low voice, “Any chance of my seeing the paintings? I’d be thrilled if I could.”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll show them to you before we leave after lunch.”
Twenty-seven
Annette had no real reason to be suspicious of Mrs. Joules, and yet, much to her astonishment, she realized she was. The housekeeper had a certain air about her, appeared to be possessive about the house and also about Christopher Delaware, and this grated on Annette.
Throughout lunch in the octagonal dining room, Annette had continued to wonder why this rather stern-looking woman behaved in such a manner, acted as if she owned this ancient pile and everything in it. She wasn’t exactly arrogant, but almost, Annette thought.
Christopher broke into her thoughts when he said, “So you do want to take the paintings back to London with you after all, Annette?”
Turning, glancing at him, she said, “I do, yes, Chris, I want to get them to Carlton as quickly as possible. I’d like his opinion, and also I want him to clean those paintings which need it.”
“Well, if you don’t mind doing that, it would certainly be a help, since it saves me a trip to London on Monday. I’d made a date with my contractor, and I really do want to keep it if I can.”
“Jack says he can get all of the paintings in the Aston Martin, and with ease. Carlton—” She broke off when the kitchen door swung open yet again, and Mrs. Joules once more sallied forth, this time with dessert. She was accompanied by her satellite, the young maid Brenda.
Looking at the housekeeper, smiling, Christopher asked, “So, what’s the surprise, Mrs. Joules? You did say the pudding was really going to please me.”
“It’s your favorite, Mr. Delaware.”
“I’ve got a few favorites,” he murmured, continuing to smile at her.
“It’s your first favorite. An English trifle.”
“Oh, goody goody! You’re a wonder, Mrs. Joules, that you most certainly are. And very spoiling.”
“Thank you. Now Brenda, come along, put the bowl of trifle over there on the sideboard and I will serve it.”
As the housekeeper spooned trifle onto the plate and Brenda passed the plates around, Jack began to tell a story about how he had taught a friend in France to make an English trifle, and a friend who was a well-known chef at that. He was a marvelous raconteur and told the tale with a great deal of gusto, humor, and self-deprecation. Instantly he had them all laughing at his hilarious yarn.
&n
bsp; Annette couldn’t help thinking what a lot of charm Jack had; and it was a natural kind of charm that put everyone else at ease. He was undoubtedly one of the most relaxed people she had ever met in her life; she imagined he must be very popular with his family and friends, Mr. Congeniality.
When they had been served, Christopher said, “Thank you, Mrs. Joules. I know we’re all going to enjoy it.”
Mrs. Joules merely smiled, nodded, and hurried out of the dining room, bustling Brenda along in front of her.
He caters to her, Annette decided as she picked up her spoon and dipped it into the trifle. And she’s a peculiar mixture. Overbearing, yet somehow obsequious as well. And extremely self-satisfied. Very sure of herself. Certain she’ll never be fired. I wonder why? Because she knows too much?
Mrs. Joules reminded her of someone. Who? She racked her brains for a moment and suddenly it hit her. Mrs. Danvers. As played by Judith Anderson in the film of Rebecca. It was one of her favorite old movies, starring two actors she had always loved: George Sanders and Laurence Olivier, who played Maxim de Winter in the film of Daphne du Maurier’s book. Yes, Mrs. Danvers indeed . . . that was Mrs. Joules to a T. Very proprietary, self-important, and a terrible snob. Thinks she’s better than all of us.
Annette swallowed a knowing smile, glanced across the table at Jack, and immediately saw that he was gazing at her intently. She smiled at him.
He smiled back, and seemed as if he was about to burst into laughter. But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “What a delicious lunch, Christopher. My compliments to the chef.”
“That would be Mrs. Joules,” Christopher answered. “She does everything around here. I don’t know what I’d do without her, actually. She runs a very tight ship and runs it brilliantly. I rely on her completely.”
Jack nodded. “She’s a splendid cook. Makes the best trifle. Now, since everyone’s finished, I wonder if Annette and I can be excused, Chris? She did say she would show me the paintings before we left for London.”
“But of course. Jim and I will go into the library. Mrs. Joules always serves coffee and tea there. We’ll wait for you.”
They all pushed back their chairs, rose, left the dining room, and walked across the main hall.
Annette stepped closer to Jack, explaining, “The paintings are in one of the sitting rooms, along that corridor there. Come on, let’s go.” To Chris she called, “See you in a minute or two. We won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” Christopher answered, following Jim into the library.
“Thank goodness you spoke up when you did,” Annette said to Jack once they were alone. “The lunch seemed to be interminable.”
“It did. But I must admit I was fascinated.” Lowering his voice, Jack went on, “I was fascinated by the dynamics at play. Between employee and employer.”
“Don’t tell me! I was, too. I just can’t make out what that relationship is all about.”
Leaning even closer, Jack murmured sotto voce, “Mrs. Joules acts as if she owns the place. And owns him.”
“That’s true. But she’s also somewhat obsequious, don’t you think?”
“Uriah Heep. Well, Mrs. Uriah Heep. A bit unctuous, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. But then Dickens always did create unique characters, didn’t he? Anyway, to me she’s a replica of Mrs. Danvers. If you know who she was.”
“Of course I know. Rebecca is one of my favorites. And so is good old George Sanders, who was in it. I loved him in All About Eve.”
“I enjoy him, too.” She eyed Jack with curiosity and asked, “So you like old movies, do you?”
“I have a mountainous collection.” He grinned at her and teased, “You must come up and see my old movies sometime.”
“I will,” she replied, sounding suddenly distracted. “Here’s the sitting room where Chris stores the paintings at the moment.”
Jack’s eyes roamed around the room as he followed Annette in; she was heading toward the bay window at the far end. He noted the Aubusson carpet on the floor, several antiques, plus a comfortable sofa and chairs in front of the fireplace. There was a mirror on one wall, but no paintings were hanging in here.
Coming to a stop in front of a pair of chairs, Annette said, “I want you to look at these two paintings. One is by Cézanne and the other by Pissarro, and they are genuine. The real thing, Jack. And both have the proper provenance.”
He went and stood next to her, stared at the paintings. Each one was balanced in an armchair, where they were shown off to advantage in the best natural light from the window. After studying them for a moment, he said, “But haven’t they each painted the same scene?” He sounded puzzled.
“Yes, they have.”
“But why?”
“Cézanne and Pissarro were friends and associates, and they worked together. You see, they wanted to learn from each other. . . . They painted together side by side for about ten years.” Annette indicated first the Pissarro then the Cézanne, and said, “You can see they each have very distinctive styles. And, you know, they really admired each other’s work, enjoyed collaborating in this way, and they endeavored to help each other when they could.”
“I can see the difference,” Jack told her. “The Pissarro rendition of the scene is paler, everything is much lighter. The Cézanne is somewhat darker, the brushstrokes stronger. How very interesting. And how much are they worth?” Jack swung his head, stared at her, a blond brow raised questioningly.
“Each one is worth millions. However, if they are auctioned as a pair, I might be able to get much more at auction. Instead of selling them individually, I mean. This is something unique . . . having the two paintings available together.”
“Alec Delaware knew a lot about art?”
“I believe so,” Annette answered. “He bought some really good paintings, like these two Graham Sutherland paintings over there. And of course this Cézanne and this Pissarro are fabulous. They need cleaning, there’s grime on them, but otherwise they look as if they are in perfect condition.”
“And the Sutherlands?” Jack asked.
“They’re over here, prime examples of his work. Two of his religious watercolors, painted in the mid-nineteen-fifties. Incidentally, he designed the tapestry Christ in Glory for Coventry Cathedral in 1962. Anyway, his paintings are much sought after today. He died around 1980 and his prices have increased.” She took Jack over to look at them.
“And these were found in the priest hole?” he asked, after studying them for a few seconds.
“No, in the hidden cupboard that Jim accidentally discovered. The Cézanne and the Pissarro were in the priest hole, along with a Manet, over there.”
Annette now walked across the room, followed by Jack. She stood in front of another painting propped in an armchair. “That’s the Manet. . . . It’s very simple but I love it.”
“A bunch of violets,” Jack murmured. “And this is also genuine?”
“Oh yes, and one of the reasons I like it so much is because it refers to Berthe Morisot, the Impressionist painter who was a friend of Manet’s. If you look hard, you’ll see part of her name on the white sheet of paper propped against the red fan.”
Jack leaned closer, peered at the painting, and nodded. “Now I see the name. And is this also worth millions?”
“I can’t really put a price on it at the moment. It might go for much less. On the other hand, a collector of Manet might grab it.”
“And which are the fakes? I’d like to see them.”
“This Cézanne, known as The Red Roofs, is probably not real.” She drew him toward the painting propped against a wall.
“But how do you know that, Annette? How can you tell?”
“It doesn’t look right to me, therefore it’s wrong, and incidentally that’s the word always used by dealers and people in the art business to describe a forgery.”
“And which is the other fake?”
“There are two actually, Jack. A Manet, supposedly of Berthe Morisot, and a
Degas ballet dancer which really looks terribly wrong to me. Let’s go and look at them, and then I’ll take you to see the priest hole. After that I think we must leave for London.”
Twenty-eight
Jack was filled with a mixture of feelings as he drove back to London. In the next seat was a woman he had fallen heavily for. . . . He was enamored, full of admiration, and exceedingly impressed by her. And just a little in awe.
They had only gone a few yards down the main road when she told him she needed to think hard about the paintings they were taking to Carlton, and did he mind if she settled back in the seat, closed her eyes, and concentrated?
He said he didn’t, and for the last hour he had been driving along, preoccupied with his own thoughts . . . about himself, about her, and about the two of them together. He realized he was besotted with her.
What you saw when you met a woman for the first time, what she looked like, was what initially attracted you, drew you to her. And certainly he had felt the strong pull of her pale blond beauty, the shining hair, the crystal-blue eyes, and the peaches-and-cream skin. And the lovely figure, of course, and those ever-so-long legs. He found her sexually desirable, exceedingly exciting. He wanted her fiercely. But the physical pull aside, he was captivated by her reticent manner, her shyness, and her refinement that spelled class to him. She was a complex mixture. Fire and ice.
And then there was her brain. Her knowledge of art history, of artists and paintings, was so extraordinary it blew his mind, and she became articulate and even loquacious when she spoke about art, and those brilliant and talented people who created it.
Jack found it both fascinating and baffling that she could study a painting and think it didn’t look the way it should, didn’t look right, and then analyze why. And then deem it a probable forgery. Her skills and expertise were incredible, as was the computer in her brain. That prodigious memory of hers was astonishing.