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

by R. Austin Freeman

  I looked at the Titmouse with a sort of motherly pride (though she was about my own age). The word picturesque described her admirably with her warm colour, her graceful hair, and the trim, petite figure that was so well set off by the simple, artistic dress—in which I seemed to trace the hand of Lilith. She was my importation to the Magpies, and I felt that she was doing me credit.

  “I have often wondered,” Mr. Davenant said, after a reflective pause, “what made you choose such an unlikely locality as Wellclose Square for a residence, and, indeed, how you came to know of its existence. Very few middle-class people do. I hope Miss Vardon will not consider me unduly inquisitive.”

  “Mrs. Otway will not,” said I.

  “Mrs. Otway is a myth—a legal fiction. I refuse to recognise her existence. She is a mere creature of documents, of church registers. The real person is Miss Helen Vardon.”

  “That sounds rather like nonsense,” said I, “but, of course, it can’t be, because the speaker is Mr. Davenant. Perhaps there is some hidden meaning in these cryptic observations.”

  “There isn’t,” he rejoined; “or, at any rate, it shan’t remain hidden. I mean that I refuse to recognise your connection with this man, Otway, or to associate you with his beastly name.”

  “But it is my beastly name, too, according to law and custom.”

  “I don’t care for law and custom,” said he. “The name Otway is abhorrent to me, and it doesn’t properly belong to you. I shall call you Miss Vardon, unless you let me call you Helen; and I don’t see why you shouldn’t, considering that we are old and intimate friends.”

  “It would undoubtedly have the support of a well-established precedent. There was a certain bishop who was called Peter because that was his name. That precedent would apply to Helen, but it certainly would not to Miss Vardon.”

  “Then,” he rejoined, “let us follow this excellent precedent. Let it be Helen. Is that agreed?

  “I don’t seem to have much choice; for if ‘Mrs. Otway’ is a legal fiction, ‘Miss Vardon’ is an illegal one.”

  “Well, don’t let us have any fictions at all. Let us adhere to the actual baptismal facts.”

  “Very well, Mr. Davenant.”

  “But why ‘Mr. Davenant’? My baptismal designation is Jasper.’

  “And a very pretty name, too,” said I. “But the precedent does not apply in your case. You have not married Mr. Otway.”

  “No, thank Heaven! If I had, there would be a case of petty treason. But neither have you, for that matter. You have only gone through a ridiculous ceremony which means nothing and signed a document which sets forth what is not true.”

  “It seems to me,” I said, “that we are not adhering to our agreement to avoid fictions. My marriage, unfortunately, is perfectly real and valid in the eyes of the law.”

  “The law!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Who cares for the law? Have we not the pronouncement of that illustrious legal luminary, Bumble C.J., that the law is a ass and a idiot? And, mark you, he was specially referring to matrimonial law. Now, who would base his actions and beliefs on the opinions of an ass and a idiot?

  “And to think,” said I, “that you have abandoned the law for mere architecture! With your gift for casuistry, you ought to have been a Chancery lawyer or else a Jesuit. But here is Miss Tallboy-Smith. She thinks we are neglecting her treasures.”

  But our hostess had not come to utter reproaches. On the contrary, she was brimming over with pleasure and gratitude.

  “My dear Mrs. Otway,” she exclaimed, beaming on me and grasping my hands affectionately, “I can’t thank you enough for bringing that dear young lady, Miss Finch, to see my porcelain. She is a sweet girl, and she simply knows everything about china. It is perfectly wonderful. She might be a potter herself. And her love of the beautiful things and her enjoyment in looking at them has given me, I can’t tell you how much, pleasure. You must really bring her to see my whole collection. Will you? I shall love showing it to her.”

  I agreed joyfully, for this would mean another nail in the coffin of Mr. Goldstein; and as Peggy and Mr. Hawkesley joined us at this moment, I was able to complete the arrangement and fix a date.

  As Miss Tallboy-Smith bustled away, Mr. Hawkesley put in his claim.

  “I don’t see,” said he, “why I should be left out in the cold. I’ve got a collection, too; and I think it would really interest Miss Finch, for she tells me she has seen very little modern pottery. Won’t you bring her to see it, Mrs. Otway?”

  Again I accepted gladly, with Peggy’s consent. My scheme was working rapidly towards a successful conclusion, and I felt that I could push it forward energetically; for that very morning I had received a letter from Dr. Thorndyke returning the agreement and denouncing it as legally worthless and utterly opposed to public policy.

  “As to fixing a date,” said Mr. Hawkesley, “I suggest that we all adjourn to my rooms now. Come and have a cup of tea with me and then we can look over the crockery. How will that do?

  It suited Peggy and me quite well, and we said so.

  “And you, Davenant?” asked Mr. Hawkesley.

  “Well, I had one or two cathedrals to finish,” was the reply; “but they must wait. Art is long—deuced long, in my case. Yes, let us adjourn and combine crockery and tea—which, as Pepys reminds us is a ‘China drink,’ and therefore appropriate to the occasion.”

  On this, we sallied forth and made our way to the Strand, where we chartered a couple of hansoms to convey us to Dover Street, Piccadilly, where Mr. Hawkesley had his abode in one of those fine, spacious, dignified houses that one finds in the hinterland of the West End of London. His rooms were on the first floor, and when we arrived there by way of a staircase which would have allowed us to walk up four abreast, we were received by a sedate and impassive gentleman, whose appearance and manner suggested a Foreign Office official of superior rank.

  “Would you let us have some tea, please, Taplow?” said Mr. Hawkesley, addressing the official deferentially. Mr. Taplow opened a door for us, and having signified a disposition to accede to the request, departed stealthily.

  As we entered the large, lofty room, well lighted by its range of tall windows, I looked about me curiously, for I was instantly struck by the absence of pottery among its ornaments. The available wall-spaces were occupied by important pictures—all modern; the mantelpiece and other suitable surfaces supported statuettes of marble or bronze—again all modern. But of ceramic ware there was not a trace, with the single exception of a small framed cameo relief. Rather did the apartment suggest the abode of a furniture collector, for one side of the room, opposite the windows, was occupied by a range of armoires, or standing cupboards, mostly old French or Flemish.

  “You don’t favour the glass case, I notice, Hawkesley,” said Mr. Davenant.

  “No,” was the reply. “They are well enough for public museums, but they are unlovely things. And one doesn’t want to look at one’s whole collection at once. I like to take the pieces out singly and enjoy them one at a time. You see, each piece is an individual work. It was the product of a separate creative effort, and ought to be enjoyed by a separate act of appreciation.”

  “You seem, Mr. Hawkesley,” said I, “to have a preference for modern work. Do you think it is as good as the old?”

  “I think,” he replied, “that the best modern work is as good as any that was ever done. Of course, I am not speaking of commercial stuff. That is negligible in an artistic sense. I mean individual work, done under the same conditions and by the same class of men as the old craft work. That is quite good. The pity is that there is so little of it. But I am afraid the supply is equal to the demand.”

  “Don’t you think,” said Mr. Davenant, “that that is partly the fault of the modern craftsman? Of his tendency to confine himself to fine and elaborate, and therefore costly, productions? Of course, the old work was not cheap in the modern factory sense of cheapness. The pottery and china that was made at the Etruria works
or those of Bow or Chelsea was by no means given away. But the prices were practicable for every day purposes, whereas modern studio pottery is impossible for domestic use. And the same is true of other craftwork, such as book-binding, fine printing, textiles, metal work, and so on. If the modern craftsman caters only for the collector and ignores the utilitarian consumer, he can’t complain at being ousted by commercial production.”

  Here the arrival of Mr. Taplow with the tea arrested what threatened to prove a too-interesting discussion. I should have liked to continue it—on another occasion; at present, my desire was rather to “cut the cackle and get to the hosses.” Accordingly, while the tea was being consumed, I rather studiously obstructed any revival of the debate by keeping up a conversation of a general and somewhat discursive character; and as soon as we appeared to have finished I introduced the subject of Ceramics.

  “Is that plaque on the wall a Wedgwood cameo?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Hawkesley replied. “That is an example of Solon’s wonderful pate-sur-pate work. It is done with white porcelain slip on a dark, coloured ground. Come and look at it.”

  We all rose and gathered round the plaque while Mr. Hawkesley descanted on its beauties; which were, indeed, evident enough.

  “It is lovely work,” said he; “so free and spontaneous. The Wedgwood reliefs look quite stiff and hard compared with these of Solon’s. I have some of his vases with the same kind of decoration, and we may as well look at those first.”

  He wheeled a travelling turn-table towards a fine Flemish armoire of carved oak, and opening the latter, displayed a range of pieces of this beautiful work, at the sight of which Peggy’s eyes glistened. One after another they were carefully placed on the turn-table, viewed from all points, admired, discussed and replaced. The other contents of the armoire were less important works—mostly French—but all received respectful attention. The next receptacle, a French armoire of carved walnut, was devoted to modern stone-ware by the Martin Brothers, Wells and other individual workers, concerning which our host was specially enthusiastic.

  “There,” said he, placing on the turn-table a wonderful Toby jug of brown Martin ware, “Show me any old salt-glaze ware that is equal to that! Look at the modelling! Look at the beautiful surface and the quality of the actual potting! And then go and look at the stuff in the shop windows. Just good enough for the slavey to smash.”

  “Well,” Mr. Davenant remarked, “you can’t say that she doesn’t appreciate its qualities and do justice to them. If former generations had been as energetic smashers as the present, collectors of old stuff would have had to seek their treasures in ancient rubbish-heaps.”

  “Yes, that is a fact,” agreed Mr. Hawkesley, as we moved on to the next cupboard. “When domestic pottery was more valuable it got more respectful treatment. Now this cupboard is only partly filled. I keep it for the work of one artist whose name I don’t know. I’ve shown you some of the ware, Mrs. Otway, but it may be new to Miss Finch.

  As he unlocked the door my heart began to thump, and I cast an anxious eye on Peggy. For I knew what was coming, but I didn’t know how she would take it. At the moment she was looking at the closed door with pleased expectancy. Then the door swung open, and in a moment she turned pale as death. For one instant I thought she was going to faint, and so, apparently, did Mr. Davenant, for he made a quick movement towards her. But the deadly pallor passed, and was succeeded as rapidly by a crimson flush; but her quick breathing and the trembling of her hand showed how great the shock had been.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Hawkesley, all unconscious, was glancing over the row of vases, jars and bowls, and expatiating on the peculiar beauties of the “mystery ware.” The pieces were separated into two groups; the works in pure inlay and those combining the inlay with slip decoration and embossed ornament; and one of the latter he presently lifted from its shelf and placed on the turn-table.

  “Now, isn’t that a lovely jar, Miss Finch?” said he. “And doesn’t it remind you of the beautiful St. Porchaire, or Oiron ware?”

  Peggy gazed at the jar with an inscrutable expression as she slowly rotated the turn-table. “It is somewhat like,” she agreed; “at least, the method of work is similar.”

  “Oh, don’t give my favourites the cold shoulder, Miss Finch,” said Mr. Hawkesley. “I think I prize my pieces of this ware more than anything that I have. It is so very charming and so interesting. For, you see, it is real pottery; I mean that, beautiful and precious as it is, it is quite serviceable for domestic purposes, whereas much of the studio pottery is made for the gallery or the cabinet.”

  “You haven’t discovered yet where it is made, I suppose?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied. “Its origin is still a mystery and something of a romance—which may be one reason why I am so devoted to it. I often speculate about the potter, and invent all sorts of queer theories about him.”

  “As for instance?”

  “Well, sometimes I fancy that he may be in debt to this dealer—that he may have had advances or loans and be unable to pay them off and get free. It is quite possible, you know. Then, sometimes I have thought that he may be one of those poor creatures who drink or take drugs, and that the dealer may keep him slaving in some cellar for his bare maintenance and his miserable luxuries. But I’ve given that idea up. This work is too sane and reasonable and painstaking for a drunkard or drug-taker. But, who ever and whatever he is, I wish I could find him out, and thank him for all the pleasure that he has given me, and help him to get a proper reward for his labour, which I am sure he does not.”

  “I don’t know why you are so sure,” said Mr. Davenant. “This ware is pretty expensive, isn’t it?”

  “Not if you consider that each piece is an individual work on which a great deal of time and labour has been expended. The price that I paid Goldstein for this particular piece was seven guineas, which wouldn’t represent very high remuneration if the artist had the whole of it.”

  “Seven guineas, Mr. Hawkesley!” exclaimed Peggy, incredulously.

  “Yes, Miss Finch; and I should say very cheap at the price.”

  I glanced at Peggy with malicious satisfaction, for her cheeks were aflame with anger and the light of battle was in her eyes.

  “What a shame!” she protested. “How perfectly scandalous! The grasping, avaricious wretch! To charge seven guineas for a piece that he bought for fifteen shillings!”

  For a few seconds there was an awesome silence. Peggy’s exclamation had fallen like a thunderbolt, and the two men gazed at her in speechless astonishment; while she, poor Titmouse, stood, covered with blushes and confusion, looking as if she had been convicted of pocketing the spoons.

  “You actually know,” Mr. Hawkesley said, at length, “that Goldstein gave only fifteen shillings for that jar?”

  “Yes,” she stammered faintly, “I—I happen to have—to be aware—that—that was the amount paid—”

  She broke off with an appealing glance at me, and I proceeded to “put in my oar.”

  “It’s no use, Peggy. The cat is out of the bag—at least her head is, and we may as well let out the rest of her. The fact is, Mr. Hawkesley, that this ware is Miss Finch’s own work.”

  I now thought that Mr. Hawkesley was going to faint. Never have I seen a man look so astonished. He was thunderstruck.

  “Do you mean, Mrs. Otway,” he exclaimed, “that Miss Finch actually makes this ware herself?”

  “I do. It is her work from beginning to end. She does the potting, the decorating, the firing and the glazing. And she does it without any assistance whatever.”

  Mr. Hawkesley gazed at Peggy with such undissembled admiration and reverence that I was disposed to smile—though I liked him for his generous enthusiasm—and the unfortunate Titmouse was reduced to an agony of shyness.

  “This is a red letter day for me, Miss Finch,” said he. “It has been my dearest wish to meet the creator of that pottery that I admire so intensely; and now that wish is gratifi
ed, it is an extra pleasure to find the artist so much beyond—”

  He paused to avoid the inevitable compliment, and Mr. Davenant held up a warning finger.

  “Now, Hawkesley,” said he; “be careful.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Hawkesley. “It is difficult to steer clear of banal compliments and yet to say what one would like to say; but really the personality of the mysterious artist has furnished a very pleasant surprise.”

  “I can believe that,” said Mr. Davenant. “I can imagine, for instance, that you find Miss Finch a very agreeable substitute for the intoxicated gentleman in the cellar.”

  At this we all laughed, which cleared the air and put us at our ease.

  “But,” said Mr. Davenant, “proud as we are to have made the acquaintance of a distinguished potter, we are haunted by the spectre of that fifteen shillings. We get the impression that Miss Finch’s business arrangements want looking into.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. Hawkesley, “they do indeed. Why do you let this fellow have your work, at such ridiculous prices, too?”

  “It isn’t so ridiculous as it looks,” replied Peggy. “When I began, I couldn’t sell any of my work at all. It was frightfully discouraging. No one would have any thing to do with it. My first work was simple earthenware, and even the cheap china shops wouldn’t have it. Then I chanced upon Mr. Goldstein, and he bought one or two simple, red earthenware jars and bowls for a few pence each. It didn’t pay me, but still it was a start. Then I experimented on this pipe-clay body with slip decoration and coloured inlay and showed the pieces to Mr. Goldstein; and he advised me to go on and offered to take the whole of my work, if I signed an agreement. So I signed the agreement, and he has had all my work ever since.”

  “At his own prices?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know what the things were worth.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Davenant, “my law is a trifle rusty, but I should say that that agreement would not hold water.”

  “It won’t,” said I. “We have just had counsel’s opinion on it, and our adviser assures us that it is worthless, and that we can disregard it.”