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.
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
