Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
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