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  “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’s sculptures?” Leaning forward slightly, she focused her eyes 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 all of his sculptures that he exhibited, if you remember all of 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 anymore, 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 in his possession, which 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, and put the Cézanne on the block at a later date, in six months to a year.” Annette rose, crossed the sitting room, dropped another log onto the fire, and 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 judgmental. After all, he hasn’t been immersed in art as we have, and his uncle’s collection does belong to him, so 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, and by the way, he’s very bright.”

  “I like Jim,” Annette answered, and returned to the sofa. She asked, “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 to answer it, then 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, endeavoring to sleep without success and 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 favorite 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 wildflowers, 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, and 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, to not 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 dialed Carlton Fraser’s studio in Hampstead.

  His phone rang and rang, and the voice mail 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 was acquainted with many years ago, when she was still a student 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 through 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 who 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 stood up, 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 his 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 and 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 closet 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, indicating the folder, and then handing it to her. “Requests fo
r 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 and finished, “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 with 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 apartment.

  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. Amongst them would be the one that would make a perfect blow-up, she was quite certain of that.