The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

  It was a pleasant, homely club, and certainly there could be no question as to its eminent respectability, for the aspect of the members—mostly middle-aged and many of them elderly—bordered on the frumpish. The room in which we selected our table was a large, oblong apartment, quietly furnished and decorated and provided with a glazed museum case, which occupied the centre; while a sort of dais at one end was devoted to the display of pieces of furniture exhibited by the members. I noticed, too, that the walls were occupied by pictures, each of which bore a written descriptive label.

  “Are you interested in ancient ivories?” Mr. Davenant asked, as we looked into the glass case, in which a collection of very brown and cracked specimens were exhibited by a Mr. Udimore-Jones. “For my part, I find it difficult to develop great enthusiasm over the dental arrangements of superannuated elephants, carved into funny shapes by piously-facetious middle-agers. Look out! Here comes my client. Let us sneak off to our table. Aha! Too late! She’s seen us.”

  “Which is your client?” I asked, looking round furtively.

  “The elderly damsel with the smile—a Miss Tallboy Smith. There! She has caught my eye now. Did you ever see such a set of teeth? She had better be careful or Udimore-Jones will have her.”

  We were edging away towards our table, with a feeble hope of escape, when she caught us.

  “Now, I don’t believe you’ve seen my cup,” she exclaimed, with an engaging smile. “You must see it. It is not only genuine Nantgarw, but the roses on it are unquestionable Billingsleys.”

  “Observe,” said Mr. Davenant, “the pride of the inveterate collector. You’d think she had painted those roses herself.”

  “Indeed, you wouldn’t,” retorted Miss Tallboy-Smith; “not if you had seen them and knew anything about ceramic painting. And as to pride, isn’t it something to be proud of? Nantgarw porcelain is rare, and roses painted by Billingsley are rare; and when you have them both in a single piece, why then, you see, you—”

  “Then,” said Mr. Davenant, “you multiply the rarity of the one by the rarity of the other, and the product of the multiplication is the rarity of the piece as a whole.”

  “Isn’t he absurd?” she simpered, treating me to a complete private view of the “ancient ivories.” “Perfectly incorrigible. Don’t you agree with me, Miss—Mrs—”

  “Otway,” said I.

  “Oh, really! Now I wonder—my brother knew a Mr. Otway—oh, but he was a money-lender. That wouldn’t be—but won’t you come and look at my cup?”

  We returned to the glass case, of which Miss Tallboy Smith opened a door and lifted from its shelf a dainty porcelain teacup.

  “Just feel how thin and light it is,” she said, holding it out to me.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Mr. Davenant. ‘This Nantgarw stuff crumbles like a baked egg-shell; and it’s hideously valuable.”

  “Don’t take any notice of him,” said Miss Tallboy Smith. “Just feel it—it’s positively delicious to touch; and look at the lovely roses; no one but William Billingsley could have painted those roses. And, if there could be any doubt, you have only to turn the piece up and look at the bottom. There is Billingsley’s personal mark—the number 7. That’s infallible.”

  I took from her hand the delicate, translucent cup, and was admiring the freedom and softness of the flower painting when she drew nearer and said in a warning whisper: “Here comes Major Dewham-Brown. If he tries to sell you anything, don’t buy it. He only brings his bad bargains here.”

  She had barely uttered her warning when a brassy voice behind me exclaimed: “How d’you do, Miss Tallboy Smith? and how are you, Davenant?” and a tall, smart, rather stupid-looking man with a large nose—which seemed to have been produced at the expense of his eyes and chin—sailed into my field of vision.

  “Ha!” said he. “Pretty cup, that. Worth a pot of money, too, I expect, though I don’t know much about ’em. And that reminds me that I’ve got rather an interesting thing that I picked up the other day; bit of old church plate; seventeenth century, if not earlier. Like to see it?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he fished out of a “poacher’s” pocket a flat object wrapped in a silk handkerchief.

  “Curious piece, this: interested me very much. The repoussé-work on it is remarkably fine.” He unfolded the handkerchief as he spoke, and at length extracted, with a sort of conjuror’s flourish, a small, circular, silver platter—apparently a paten, to judge by its size. This he handed to Miss Tallboy-Smith, who grinned at it indulgently and passed it to Mr. Davenant, who, having looked it over without enthusiasm, handed it to me. A very brief inspection, with the piece in my hand, was enough to make Miss Tallboy-Smith’s warning unnecessary; for, apart from the unsuitability of the ornament—if it was really meant for a paten—it was an obvious electrotype, which had, however, been pickled, polished and sulphured with intent to deceive. Having noted this fact, I returned the piece to its owner with a few words of polite and colourless commendation of the design; and the Major, chilled by the lack of enthusiasm, invested his treasure once more in its silken wrapping and went off in search of a more appreciative audience. Under cover of his parting courtesies to Miss Tallboy-Smith, Mr. Davenant and I retreated to our table.

  “That antique of the Major’s looked to me rather like fake,” said my companion, when we had. ordered our lunch. “It was so very venerable.”

  “It is an electrotype, sulphured to give an appearance of age,” said I.

  “Is it, by Jove? Now, how did you spot it as an electrotype?”

  “It was the disagreement between the back and the face that first attracted my attention. The face was repoussé—pretty coarse too—but there was not a vestige of a toolmark on the back, where, of course, most of the punch-marks would be; nothing but the smooth surface of the deposited metal.”

  Mr. Davenant chuckled. “I seem to have imported an expert Magpie. Oh! But I remember now that you and your father used to do all sorts of wonderful works in metal. Ha, ha! Poor old Dewham-Brown! He little suspected that he was dealing with a practical artificer.”

  Here the advent of food put a temporary stop to conversation, for we were both pretty sharp-set; but during the progress of the meal I looked about me and was vastly entertained by the proceedings of the Magpies. The glass case was the centre of interest, around which a small crowd of enthusiasts gathered, eagerly discussing the exhibits, which the proud owners expounded, with their noses flattened against the glass, or tenderly lifted out for closer inspection. And now and again a new exhibitor would arrive with a bag or attaché case, from which fresh treasures were disgorged into the glazed sanctuary.

  “I suppose,” said I, “your members will have nothing to do with any but antique works?”

  “Not as a rule,” Mr. Davenant replied. “The collector is usually a lover of old things. But there are exceptions. A good many of the pictures shown here are modern; some, I suspect, are shown by the artists themselves. Then we have one member who collects modern pottery exclusively—not commercial stuff, of course, but the work of modern artist-potters, like De Morgan, the Martin Brothers and other individual workers. Fine stuff it is, too. I have a few pieces myself. And, talk of the old gentleman—there he is. I’ll fetch him over and make him show us what he has got in that bag.”

  He rose from the table, and crossed the room, and I saw him accost a very tall, pleasant-looking young man who was bearing down on the glass case with a good-sized hand-bag, but readily allowed himself to be led over our table.

  “Now, Hawkesley,” said Mr. Davenant, “my guest wants to see what really high-class modern pottery is like. What have you got?”

  “I have only three pieces with me,” replied Mr. Hawkesley, “and they are all of the same type; what I call ‘mystery-ware.’”

  “What is the mystery about it? Mr. Davenant asked.

  “The mystery is, who makes it? As far as I know, there is only one dealer who has it, and he absolutely refuses to say w
here he gets it. I have never seen any of it exhibited—excepting here—and nobody can tell me the name of the potter or anything about it beyond the fact that it seems to be the exclusive monopoly of this one dealer, and that he has very little of it, and charges accordingly. But it is wonderful stuff.” He lifted out of his bag a couple of jars and a bowl—handling them with that curious delicacy that one often notices in persons with large, strong, supple hands—and placed them carefully on the table.

  “You see,” he continued, “there are two methods of treatment, which are sometimes combined, as on this jar; and these two styles are based on two very different types of old work—the old English slip-ware, such as the Wrotham and Staffordshire and Toftware, and the old French Henri Deux, or Oiron ware. In the one, the ornament is produced by laying on pipes or threads of coloured slip—that is, clay in the semi-liquid state; in the other by inlaying coloured paste or enamel in cavities in the body, which seems to be made with tools like those used by book binders. This covered jar—which looks almost like a piece of fine Japanese cloisonné—and this bowl show the inlay method, and this other jar is an example of the slip decoration, but with one or two spots of enamel inlay.”

  “I think I prefer the pure inlay,” said Mr. Davenant.

  “So do I,” said Mr. Hawkesley, “and so, I think, does the artist. All his finest work is done by the inlay method, though he uses the slip decoration with such skill and taste that it is virtually a new method. The old Wrotham and Toftware looks very primitive by the side of this scholarly, refined work.”

  I turned the three pieces of pottery over in my hands and warmly commended the judgment of the collector. No modern work that I had ever seen approached it for perfection of finish or grace of design; while the colour-scheme combined richness, delicacy and restraint in a truly marvellous manner. It seemed to unite the brilliancy of enamel to the sober beauty of old tapestry. And even the little blue bird, inlaid on the bottom of each piece to form the potter’s mark, was finished with care and taste.

  “May one inquire as to the local habitation and name of the dealer?” Mr. Davenant asked.

  “You may,” was the reply. “His name is Maurice Goldstein, and he is to be found at Number 56, Hand Court, Holborn. And I should like to wring his neck.”

  We both laughed at the vindictive tone in which this benevolent wish was uttered, and at the sudden ferocity of aspect that swept over the usually good-humoured, kindly face.

  “Why this homicidal craving?” Mr. Davenant asked.

  “Don’t you see,” the other demanded, indignantly, “that this infernal Goldswine—I beg your pardon—”

  “You needn’t,” said I.

  “That this miserable huckster is grinding the face of some poor artist; that he is not only devouring the earnings of this industrious, painstaking worker, but—for his own paltry profit—he is robbing that artist of the credit—of the fame—to which his genius and his enthusiasm entitle him. Look at this lovely jar! I gave that mean worm ten guineas for it. How much do you suppose he gave the potter?”

  “Ten shillings, perhaps,” suggested Mr. Davenant.

  “Probably not much more, though there is getting on for a week’s work in it.”

  “Still,” I said, with a mischievous desire to stir up his indignation afresh, “the potter probably enjoys making these beautiful things. The work is its own reward.”

  “I can’t agree to that,” Mr. Hawkesley rejoined, warmly. “He doesn’t enjoy being hard up and having to work for a pittance. Besides, it isn’t just. This man makes a jar that is going to give me a life-long pleasure. I want to pay him for that pleasure. I want to know who he is, to shake his hand and thank him and tell him that he is the salt of the earth. And this Shylock hides him away and just feeds on him like the beastly parasite that he is.”

  He gathered up the treasured masterpieces, and having wished us adieu, with a sudden return to his customary geniality, crossed to the glass case to find a vacant niche for his samples of “mystery ware.”

  “I like Jack Hawkesley,” said my companion; as we watched him.

  “So do I,” I agreed warmly. “He takes a human interest in the artist. I wish more collectors were like him.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Davenant. “He is a good type of rich man. Would that there were more Hawkesleys.” He poured out the coffee which the waitress had just brought and then asked: “What do you think of this club—as a feeding and resting place, I mean?”

  “It seems a comfortable, homely place, and the members and their exhibits are quite interesting.”

  “I find it so. You wouldn’t care to join, I suppose? It is cheap, as clubs go: five guineas a year and no entrance fee. I should think you would find it a great convenience, living so far from the centre of town.”

  “It would be a great convenience. But should I be eligible? I am not a collector, you know.”

  “No, but you are something of an expert. At any rate, Hawkesley and I would manage the formalities. Think it over, and if you decide to honour us, drop me a line. This is my address—56, Clifford’s Inn.”

  He handed me his card, and when he had made a note of my address, I prepared to depart.

  “I have wasted a fearful amount of your time, Mr. Davenant,” said I; “but it has been a very pleasant interlude for me.”

  “Has it really? I hope it has. For my part, I have enjoyed myself just as I did in the old days when you used to let me wag a philosophic chin at you, and I am reluctant to let you go so soon. Mayn’t I see you to the station, or wherever you are going?

  “I thought of walking back to get myself acquainted with London.”

  “Then let me put you on the right road and show you some of the short cuts.”

  “But what about your work?”

  He regarded me with that quaint, humorous smile that I had always found so attractive. “My work is, at present, of a somewhat intermittent type. This is one of the intermissions. Let us fare forth and study the architectural beauties of the Metropolis.”

  And we fared forth accordingly.

  The short cuts discovered by my companion did not in the least conform to Euclid’s definition of a straight line; and their brevity was relieved by sundry excursions into alleys and by-streets and incursions into churches and other ancient buildings. They led us by way of the Temple and its old round church, Mitre Court, Fetter Lane, Nevill’s Court, Gough Square, and so to St. Paul’s Churchyard and into the Cathedral; thence by Paul’s Alley, Paternoster Row, Cheapside and Lombard Street, dropping into one or two churches on our way, until we came out on Great Tower Hill, and drifted slowly down Royal Mint Street. And all the while we gossiped pleasantly of this wonderful city and its wonderful, inexhaustible past; and my guide expounded, with all his old gaiety and brightness—and with astonishing knowledge of his subject—until I had almost forgotten Wellclose Square and the sinister shadow that hung over my life, and seemed to be back in the untroubled days of my girlhood.

  But not quite. For, even as I talked—or more often listened—with the liveliest interest and pleasure, a project was maturing in my mind. I had, in fact, conceived a brilliant idea. Mr. Davenant’s suggestion that I should join the club had started a train of thought that ran as an under-current—in the subconscious mind, perhaps, as Lilith would have said. It had begun vaguely when I saw the modern pictures on the walls, and the modern works in the glass case and the Major hawking round his little platter. Here was a place in which the work of the unknown artist could be shown and perhaps sold; my own work, Lilith’s work, the Titmouse’s, Philibar’s, even Miss Polton’s. For five guineas a year I could open this emporium, not only to myself, but to my fellow-workers; could slip past the dealer and secure his profits for us all. I say it was a brilliant idea—at least, it appeared so to me; and throughout that long peregrination, made delightful by the sympathetic companionship of my newly-recovered friend it germinated and grew until, as we halted to say good-bye at the corner of Cable Street, it ha
d grown to full maturity.

  “I have been thinking,” said I, “of your suggestion—about joining the club, you know. It would be nice to have a place to go to for a rest or a meal, in the centre of town. And I shall often want such a place.”

  His face brightened perceptibly—perhaps at the implied assurance that I could afford to spend five guineas.

  “Then, may I put your name up for election?”

  “Will you be so kind?”

  “Won’t I? It will be jolly, and we shan’t lose sight of one another again; though that was my fault for not writing. I was often on the point of sending you a letter, and then I felt a silly diffidence—thought that you might consider I was presuming on a mere acquaintanceship. However, I will propose you for membership at once, and in about a week’s time you will be a full-blown Magpie. Then I will send you a line, though, of course, you will get the official notification.”

  He handed me my bag, and with a hearty hand-shake, we said “Good-bye,” and went our respective ways.

  It was but a few minutes’ walk to Wellclose Square, and I took it slowly; for now that my companion was gone and I was bereft of his buoyancy and vitality, I was suddenly aware of intense bodily fatigue. Moreover, I felt a certain reluctance to bring to a definite close what had been an interval of quiet but perfect happiness. And so, in spite of my fatigue, I sauntered on, loitering awhile in St. George’s churchyard and stopping to look up at the quaint stone name-tablet at the corner of Chigwell Lane, until weariness and growing hunger drove me homewards. And even then, it was not without regret that I pulled the brass bell-knob and, as it were, wrote “Finis” to this pleasant and eventful chapter.

  CHAPTER XV

  The Magic Pendulum

  The weighty question whether my handicraft would yield me a livelihood was answered on the following morning by the arrival of a letter from Mr. Campbell; and it was answered, though not very emphatically, in the affirmative. The prices that he offered, provisionally—and advised me not to accept—were appallingly low; very little above those of mere commercial goods. But even so, it would be possible, by hard work and spare living, to eke out a bare subsistence. And it was fair to assume that Mr. Campbell’s offer was, as indeed he explicitly stated, a minimum, on which an advance might be expected. Accordingly, I declined the offer and decided to await the results of actual sales to his customers.