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.’
‘If I’m correct, and I’m fairly certain I am, this is The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer by Degas,’ Annette said, turning around. She noticed that Christopher looked stunned and understood why. The thought of another art windfall in the millions must have dazzled him. In fact, she herself was somewhat stunned by his find, unexpected as it was.
‘A Degas! I can’t believe it. I thought it wasn’t very important. Uncle Alec discarded it, put it away in an old cardboard box, shoved it in the attic. I wonder why? Because it’s so grubby-looking? Do you think that’s the reason?’ Christopher asked.
‘I’ve no idea. However, this little bronze dancer is not something anyone discards. Rather, it is to be treasured. Just because the net tutu is torn, also worn and dirty, is of no consequence. It’s a Degas. And I believe this is one from a special unnumbered edition of about twenty-five examples that were cast in the 1920s. I’m very excited about this, Christopher.’
‘You said it was sold for eleven million dollars about ten years ago. Was it my uncle who bought it? Is this that statue?’ ‘No, no, you misunderstood me. I told you that a sculpture similar to this, another Degas ballet dancer, was auctioned around 1997. By Sotheby’s in New York.’ ‘Why would a copy be so valuable?’
‘It is not a copy, not in the way you mean it,’ Annette said. ‘Let me try and explain this to you. A posthumous second-generation cast of the original wax sculpture by Degas was made at the Hébrard foundry by perhaps one of the greatest casters ever, Albino Palazzolo, and it was supervised by the sculptor Albert Bartholomé, who was an intimate friend of Degas'. I don’t think I’m wrong in believing this is one of those that were cast in the 1920s from that original wax sculpture by Degas.’ Annette now added, ‘Laurie is an expert on Degas, and I frequently use her for research. She’s very knowledgeable. Would you ask her to come and look at this, Christopher?’
‘Right away!’ he exclaimed, and hurried out of the room.
Once she was alone, Annette turned, looked at the bronze dancer again. She was absolutely convinced that this really was a Degas, and another rare find at Knowle Court, just as the painting by Rembrandt had been.
Stepping closer to the little dancer, she reached out, touched her head, caressed it lovingly, and then touched the torn and dirty tutu, very old now. Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears, so moved was she. This little dancer had always been a favourite of hers, and she often went to see the one on display at the Louvre when she was in Paris.
Imagine. Who would ever have thought that I might be auctioning this. It will be mine. For a short while. I will be its custodian. How thrilling that is. Her thoughts suddenly swung to Alec Delaware, and she wondered why he had discarded the Degas sculpture? She would never know … no one would. And when had he bought the little dancer, and where? I need the provenance. Oh, my God, where is the provenance? Her chest tightened and sudden anxiety took hold of her. There