Barbara Taylor Bradford - Playing the Game

‘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 were not many papers here. How could a man like Alec Delaware, a highly successful businessman, have been so careless? Christopher didn’t seem to know too much about his uncle’s affairs, and there were only a few metal filing cabinets containing a handful of papers referring to some of the art. But not to all of it.

At this moment Laurie wheeled herself into the room, followed by Jim Pollard. Her face lit up when she saw the bronze dancer on the table.

‘Oh, Annette, how wonderful! It’s The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, the famous Degas bronze. Oh God, I must touch it.’ As she spoke, Laurie, stopping in front of the sculpture, stretched out her hand and stroked the statue. Turning her head, she focused on Christopher. ‘Aren’t you the luckiest man alive! This is a famous masterpiece. Any serious collector would kill for it.’

‘Are you sure it is what we both think?’ Annette interjected.

‘Yes, I am,’ Laurie answered, very positive.

Annette’s voice was as serious as her face when she said to Christopher, ‘I need the provenance, proof of previous ownership. Is there such a thing?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Annette glanced over at the cardboard box. ‘Was there anything else in that box when you opened it? An envelope maybe?’

‘No, it was full of crumpled paper. What I mean is, my uncle had lined the box with balls of newspaper and tissue paper. That made a cushion for the statue, and there was a lot more paper on top, covering the bronze.’

Annette stared at him. ‘So where is all this paper now?’ She prayed he hadn’t thrown it away.

‘I put it in a plastic bag and left it in the attic. I know what you’re thinking, Annette … that the provenance might be in amongst the paper.’

‘You’re right.’

‘I’ll go and get the bag,’ Christopher announced and left the room.

Jim Pollard watched him go, shaking his head. He then looked over at Annette. ‘I vaguely knew Sir Alec, though not through Christopher. It was my father who introduced us. He had dealings with Sir Alec in business. Apparently he was an eccentric, in some ways rather like the proverbial absent-minded professor. And yet he was sharp, a superb businessman. Odd dichotomy there. Look, I don’t think he would be careless about documentation for his art. He was a serious collector, as you know, since you’re now well acquainted with the art collection here.’

‘Do you think there are some files somewhere in this house that refer to the art?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I do. Hidden. You see, Sir Alec did undergo a change when his fiancée died … he became weird, secretive, difficult to deal with. That’s also when he suddenly became a recluse.’

‘When was that?’

‘About fifteen years ago. I’m sure it was the shock, actually. Finding her like that.’

‘What do you mean?’ Laurie asked, staring at him intently, detecting something odd in his voice.

Jim looked from Laurie to Annette, and said quietly, ‘Didn’t you know she committed suicide?’

Both women shook their heads; Annette asked, ‘How did she …?’ She couldn’t finish the question and her voice trailed off on a slight waver.

‘She hung herself,’ Jim murmured, ‘in their bedroom. Here. A few days before the marriage.’ He hesitated, then muttered, ‘She was wearing her wedding gown.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Laurie looked at Jim aghast.

Annette, speechless, shook her head several times, as if denying this. ‘That must have been a terrible shock for him. What a horrible thing to have to live with.’

Jim said, ‘My father thought her suicide sent him raving mad, and perhaps Dad was right. I think Sir Alec did go off his rocker after Clarissa killed herself.’

‘That was her name?’ Laurie asked.

‘Yes, Clarissa Normandy. She was an artist.’

‘I knew her work, but not much about her,’ Annette remarked, recalling an art show she had been to some twenty years ago.

Christopher came in with the plastic bag, and immediately started pulling out pieces of newspaper. Jim went to help him, and after a few seconds it was Jim who cried, ‘Eureka!’ and waved a crumpled envelope in the air. He strode over and gave it to Annette, a smile on his face.

‘It is the provenance, thank God,’ she exclaimed a second later as she took several pieces of paper out of the envelope and glanced at them. ‘We’re lucky to have found this envelope,’ she added, sounding relieved.

It was referred to as the morning room, and as far as Annette was concerned it was the warmest and most welcoming spot in this vast mausoleum. Octagonal in shape, it was of medium size, with three arched windows which looked out on to the park at the back of Knowle Court. The ceiling was coffered, and there was a fireplace with a carved oak mantelpiece.