The Sweated Artist
I had told Mr. Otway that I had to go; but I did not tell him why.
If I had, he would probably have been considerably startled. For the
fact is that while we were talking I had formed a resolution which had
rapidly matured--the resolution to go to Dr. Thorndyke and make a
clean breast of the whole affair. He had invited me to call on him and
report from time to time, especially if I should be in need of advice
or help, and I had been intending to write and propose a visit. Now,
however, I decided to call on the chance of his being disengaged, and
if he should be unable to see me, to make an appointment.
From the Tower Wharf I made my way quickly to Mark Lane, noting as I
entered the station that it was a quarter to six; and as the train
rumbled westward I turned over the situation and decided on what I
should say. That some trouble was brewing I had little doubt, and
though I did not share Mr. Otway’s alarm, I was more than a little
uneasy. For, at the best, the re-opening of the inquiry into my
father’s death must entail a scandal and exhibit my conduct in a
decidedly questionable light; and such a scandal would be a disaster.
As a discredited witness, how could I face my comrades at Wellclose
Square? And how should I stand with Jasper Davenant? These were
unpleasant questions to reflect on. And underneath these reflections
was the uneasy feeling that perhaps there was something more in Mr.
Otway’s fear than was known to me; something of which I had hardly
dared to think.
From the Temple Station I found my way without difficulty to Dr.
Thorndyke’s chambers at Number 5A, King’s Bench Walk, and was relieved
to find the outer oak door open and a small brass knocker on the inner
one tacitly accepting the possibility of visitors. I plied it
modestly, and was immediately confronted by Mr. Polton, whose
countenance, at the sight of me, became covered with a network of
benevolent and amicable wrinkles.
“The doctor is up in the laboratory looking over his apparatus, but I
expect he has nearly finished. I’ll go and tell him you are here. Have
you had tea?”
I had not and admitted the fact, whereupon Mr. Polton nodded
meaningly, and having offered me an arm-chair, took his departure. In
a minute or two Dr. Thorndyke entered the room and greeted me with a
cordiality that put me at my ease instantly.
“I have been wondering when you were coming to see me; in fact, I have
seriously considered calling at Wellclose Square to see how you were
getting on. Polton will bring you some tea in a moment, and then you
must tell me all your news. I hope you are comfortable in your new
home.”
“I am very happy, indeed, Dr. Thorndyke, and very grateful to you for
finding me such a congenial home. And I have made quite a promising
start in my new profession, too. But I have really come to ask your
advice--and to make a confession.”
“A confession,” said Dr. Thorndyke, looking at me gravely. “Is it
necessary? and have you given it due consideration?”
“Yes, I think so. There is only one point. I should have told you this
secret before, but as another person is involved in it, I felt that it
would be a breach of confidence. But I now feel that my legal adviser
should be told everything.”
“That is so. Advice can only be based on known facts. And I may say
that anything that you may tell me in my professional capacity is a
privileged communication. A lawyer cannot be compelled to reveal
anything that his client has told him, and is, in fact, forbidden to
do so. You are, therefore, committing no breach of confidence in
giving me any necessary information.”
“I am glad to know that, because, when I last spoke to you about my
affairs, I held back something that you may consider important.”
“Something relating to the inquest?” he asked.
“Yes. Did you suspect that I had?”
“I suspected that Mr. Otway was holding something back when he gave
his evidence--but here is your tea, with all the little lady-like
extras, just to show you what an old bachelor can do in the way of
domestic miracles. I am ashamed of you, Polton. I call that
embroidered tea-cloth sheer ostentation.”
Mr. Polton laid out the dainty service, beaming with satisfaction at
the doctor’s recognition of his efforts to maintain the credit of the
establishment, and as he went out I heard him close the outer door.
“Polton evidently smells a conference,” commented Dr. Thorndyke. “The
infallible way in which he always does the right thing without a word
of instruction almost makes me believe in telepathy--which might be
awkward if he were not as secret as an oyster. Now don’t hurry, but
tell me quietly what you want me to know.”
Thus encouraged, I gave him the suppressed facts relating to the
loaded stick that I had seen in Mr. Otway’s hand, and then told him
about the mysterious letters. He listened very attentively, and seemed
deeply interested, for he questioned me at some length about Mr.
Otway’s establishment at Maidstone, his mode of life and such of his
antecedents as were known to me.
“Is the stick in your possession or has Mr. Otway got it?” he asked.
“I suppose he has it. At any rate, I have never seen it since that
day.”
“And you know nothing of any of his associates, other than the
housekeeper?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“Is Mrs. Gregg still with him?”
“I believe so, but I am not sure.”
“And you know nothing of his present mode of life excepting that he
lives in Lyon’s Inn Chambers?”
“No. I really know nothing about him.”
“It is very satisfactory for you,” Dr. Thorndyke observed. “You are
quite in the dark. These letters suggest an intention to extort money,
but they may come from a personal enemy or from someone who has some
design other than direct blackmail. And the question is, what cards
does that person hold? Is he acting on a mere guess or has he any
actual knowledge? The problem involves two questions: was there anyone
in the house, that morning, besides you, your father and Mr. Otway?
and did anything occur on that occasion beyond what Mr. Otway told
you? The answer seems to be in the negative in both cases; but we
cannot be certain on either point. Meanwhile, your position is very
unpleasant, and Mr. Otway’s still more so, for his apprehensions,
though perhaps exaggerated, are not entirely groundless. He has
behaved with consummate folly. Whether his account of the tragedy be
true or false, if he had had the courage to give it in full at the
inquest, it must have been accepted in the absence of contrary
evidence. But that is by no means the case now. If the inquiry were
re-opened, a jury would tend to regard his suppression of certain
facts as evidence of the importance of those facts.
“As to advice: there is nothing that you can do but try to forget
these menacing letters. I will make a few cautious enquiries--though
we have very little to go on; and you must let me know at once if
there are any fresh developments.”
This ended the conference, but not the conversation, for Dr. Thorndyke
insisted on a full account of my progress as a craftswoman, and even
called down Mr. Polton to give an expert opinion on Mr. Campbell’s
prices; which opinion was to the effect that they were as good as
could be expected.
“So,” said Dr. Thorndyke, as I rose to depart, “you have justified
your rather bold choice of a profession. You have already made it an
economic success, and with more experience on the commercial side, you
will probably earn a very satisfactory livelihood.”
This was encouraging enough, backed as it was by Mr. Polton’s
practical experience. But with the other results of this conference I
was much less satisfied. Indeed, my talk with Dr. Thorndyke, though it
had relieved me of the burden of concealment, so far from setting my
apprehensions at rest, had rather increased them. Not only was it
evident that he regarded these mysterious letters as indications of a
real danger, but he clearly entertained the possibility that Mr. Otway
might have something more than I knew to conceal; in fact, I was by no
means sure that he did not suspect Mr. Otway of having killed my
father.
Here, then, was abundant matter for reflection, and that none of the
most pleasant; and during the next few days my mind was very full of
these new complications, of this dark cloud which had arisen over my
brightening horizon. Again and again I recalled in detail the
incidents of that terrible morning when my dear father was snatched
from me, but no new light, either on the tragedy itself or on these
sinister echoes of it, came to me. I even tried Lilith’s
crystal--having first locked my door--but either my faith was weak or
I lacked those special psychical gifts with which its owner credited
me. I did, indeed, get as far as the cloud, or mist, of which Lilith
had spoken; which gathered before my eyes and blotted out the crystal.
But that was all. When the mist cleared away, no picture emerged from
it, but only the crystal ball with the diminutive image of my own head
reflected on its bright surface.
But anxieties sit lightly on the young and healthy. As the days
passed, the gloomy impressions faded and I became once more absorbed
in my work. The Zodiac spoons were progressing apace, and were going
to do me credit; and daily I became conscious of growing facility, of
increasing skill, which not only lessened my labour but was itself a
source of pleasure. To do a thing with ease is to do it with
enjoyment; and, incidentally, added skill means added speed and
greater earning power. Already I began to speculate on what Mr.
Campbell’s idea of “a good price” would turn out to be.
Moreover, there were other distractions. Once or twice a week I looked
in at the club, and these visits had a pleasant way of developing into
impromptu jaunts--to picture galleries, exhibitions, museums, and even
on one or two occasions a concert or a matinée. Of the relations
which were growing up between Jasper Davenant and me I did not care to
think much. Perhaps the ostrich is a wiser bird than we are apt to
imagine, for it does, at least, avoid the pains of anticipation.
Sooner or later, no doubt, some understanding would have to be arrived
at; but meanwhile Mr. Davenant was a delightful companion--gay,
cheerful, buoyant, humorous, but withal a man of earnest purpose and a
serious outlook on life. In all our junkettings there was little, real
frivolity; the fun and gaiety were but the condiments to season the
more solid and serious interests. In so far as a friendship between a
young man and a young woman, which must necessarily stop at
friendship, can be, our friendship was unexceptionable. But, of
course, there was the qualification. However, as I have said, I let
the future take care of itself and drifted pleasantly with the stream.
About this time, I made quite a startling discovery. It happened that
in one of my journeys to town I had seen in a bookseller’s window a
book on studio pottery, and, thinking that it might be useful to Miss
Finch, I had bought it, but had forgotten to give it to her. In the
middle of my morning’s work I suddenly remembered the book, which I
had put in a cupboard in the workshop, and got up from my bench to
take it to her. Her “works” were at the bottom of the garden, in an
outhouse which had once been a shipsmith’s shop; but, close neighbours
as we were, and close friends, too, I had only once been in her
workshop, when, on an off day, she had shown me her wheel, her lathe
and her small glass kiln. About her work she was extraordinarily
secretive; but then, she was a reticent girl in general, so far as her
own affairs were concerned, though she showed a warm interest in her
friends, and was, indeed, very affectionate and lovable.
As I came round the clump of bushes that hid her premises from the
house, the silence and repose of the place gave me some qualms, and
for a moment I hesitated to interrupt her work. However, I pocketed my
scruples and rapped boldly on the door; whereupon the familiar voice
at its highest pitch--several ledger lines above the stave--demanded
who was there.
“It is I, Peggy; Helen Otway,” I replied apologetically. There was a
pause of nearly half a minute, and then she unlocked and opened the
door, looking rather embarrassed and very pink.
“I always lock myself in when I am at work,” she explained.
“Well, Peggy, don’t let me disturb you. I’ve only brought you a book
that I got for you in town.”
“Oh, come in, Sibyl,” said she. “Of course I don’t mind you.”
She took the volume from me, and quickly turning over the pages and
glancing at the illustrations, exclaimed, “What a ripping book! I
_shall_ enjoy reading it. And how sweet of you to think of getting it
for me!” She linked her arm affectionately in mine and conducted me
into her domain, passing through the outer room, which was devoted to
plaster work--the making of moulds and “bats”--to the clay room, where
the little gas engine and the mysterious wheel stood idle and a
general tidying up appeared to have taken place. Here we stood
chatting rather disjointedly, she still turning over the pages of the
book with approving comments, and I looking about me with a
craftsman’s curiosity respecting the materials and appliances of an
unfamiliar craft. And here I got my first surprise; for, on a side
bench I noticed a collection of what were evidently bookbinder’s
tools. Was it possible that the secretive Titmouse was a bookbinder as
well as a potter? I determined to inquire into this, but meanwhile my
attention was attracted by the bench at which she had evidently been
working, as suggested by the displaced stool. On this bench stood an
object of some size--about twelve inches high--enveloped in a damp
cloth. By its side were a spray-diffuser, a number of little spatulas
and tiny bon modelling-tools, and several little covered pots of a
creamy, white earthenware delicately ornamented with floral decoration
in a warm blue. Venturing to lift the cover of one, I found it to be
filled with little rolls of brightly-tinted clay that looked like
coloured crayons.
“You are mighty fastidious about your apparatus,” I remarked, picking
up the dainty little pot and wiping some smears of clay from its
surface.
“And why not?” demanded Peggy. “Why shouldn’t one have pretty things
to work with? The old craftsmen did. I’ve seen some old planes and
chisel-handles beautifully carved, and I am sure they did better work
for having beautiful tools to work with. I would have pretty tools
myself if I could make them.”
“You shall, Peggy,” said I. “You shall show me what you want and I
will make them for you.”
As I was speaking I absently turned the little pot upside down and
glanced at the bottom. And then I really did get a shock. There was
only a single spot of ornament on the base, but that spot was a
revelation: for it was a little blue bird.
I smothered the exclamation that rose to my lips and put the pot down
on the bench. What could be the meaning of this? Had Peggy, like Mr.
Hawkesley, been attracted by Mr. Goldstein’s wares? Or was it
possible----
“Won’t you show me what you were doing, Peggy?” I asked.
She turned scarlet at the question, and looked so distressed that I
felt it a cruelty to press her. But cruel or not, I meant to get to
the bottom of the mystery.
“I’d rather not, Sibyl, if you don’t mind,” she said, shyly.
“But why? What an extraordinary little person you are.”
“Well,” she said, doggedly, “if you must know, I am not allowed to
show my work to anyone.”
“Not allowed by whom?”
“By the dealer who takes all my work. For some reason, best known to
himself, he makes a secret of it; won’t allow anyone to know who makes
it.”
“But apart from the dealer, Peggy, you wouldn’t mind my seeing your
work?”
“Of course I shouldn’t. I should like you to see it. But a promise is
a promise, you know.”
“Of course,” I agreed; and then I stepped quickly up to the bench and
very carefully picking up the damp cloth, lifted it clear of the
object which it covered; which turned out to be a jar standing on a
small turn-table. Peggy sprang forward with a gasp of consternation;
but she was too late. The deed was done; moreover, the murder was out;
for in the moment when my first glance fell on the jar, Mr.
Hawkesley’s “mystery ware” had ceased to be a mystery so far as I was
concerned.
The appearance of the jar was rather curious, but perfectly
unmistakable. The clay, in its “green” state--unbaked and still
somewhat plastic--was of a cool, grey colour, and the surface of the
squat, octagonal body and the short neck and rim was covered with rich
and intricate floral ornament, very minute, sharp and delicate. In the
completed part this ornament was of dull blue and finished flush with
the surface; in the unfinished part it was simply indented and had the
appearance of what bookbinders call “blind tooling,” but was somewhat
deeper.
From the work, my eyes turned with a sort of respectful wonder to the
creator, who stood by my side with an air partly embarrassed, partly
defiant. To me there was something very impressive in the thought that
this unassuming, little lady was actually a master craftsman (I am
compelled to use the masculine form, there being no feminine
equivalent); the creator of masterpieces which would live in the great
collections of the future for the admiration of generations yet
unborn. And in the first shock of surprised admiration and pride in my
friend’s achievement I had nearly blurted out all that I knew. But
reflection suggested a better plan.
“My dear Peggy!” I exclaimed. “I never dreamed that you did work of
this quality.”
“There’s nothing very wonderful about it,” she replied, regarding the
jar with a kind of affectionate disparagement. “It is only a poor
imitation of the beautiful Oiron ware. That pottery has always
interested me; partly because it is so lovely, and partly because,
according to tradition, it was made by a woman--Helene de
Hangest-Genlis. But my work isn’t a patch of hers, and it isn’t even
as good as I could do.”
“How is that?”
“Well, you see, it ought to have more modelled ornament than I put on.
It ought to be more important. Her pieces were most elaborately
modelled--many of them had figures in the full round. But I can’t
afford to carry my work as far as that. It would take too long.
Besides, I have to work to order, to some extent, and my orders are to
keep to moderately, simple pieces.”
“Your orders! From the dealer, I suppose? Tell me about him, Peggy,
and how it is that you are such a slave.”
“I’m not a slave,” she retorted doggedly. “But I have a contract with
a dealer. He takes the whole of my work, and he makes it a condition
that I shan’t sell anything to any one else or let anybody know what
kind of work I do. I oughtn’t to have let you in, but I know that I
can trust you not to breathe a word to anyone of what you have seen
here.”
Mr. Hawkesley was right, then; and I recalled with sympathetic
vindictiveness his desire to wring the dealer’s neck.
“Concerning this contract, Peggy,” said I. “You say the dealer has the
right to the whole of your work. Did he pay you anything for this
privilege?”
“Yes. He paid five pounds when the agreement was signed; but he
deducted it from the payment for the first lot of pieces.”
“Then it was only payment on account, not payment for the exclusive
right to all your work. And with regard to the prices, how are they
fixed?”
“Oh, the dealer fixes the prices, of course. He knows more about it
than I do.”
“Evidently. But what sort of prices does he fix?”
“Oh, ordinary prices, I suppose. He will probably give me fifteen
shillings for this jar.”
“And how long will it take you to make it?”
“Let me see,” she said, reflectively. “There is the throwing and
turning; that doesn’t take very long. Then this one had to be shaped
after it was turned. Then there comes the decorating; of course that
is what takes the time. Including the cover, I should say there is
nearly a week’s work in that jar. And then it has to be fired and
glazed; but the firing and glazing are done in batches.”
“And all this for fifteen shillings a week!” I exclaimed.
“Say a pound,” said she. “That is about what I earn. It isn’t much, is
it? But I have a little money of my own, though I spent most of it on
fitting up the workshop.”
“And what period does this precious contract cover? When does it
expire?”
“Expire?” she repeated, a little sheepishly. “I don’t know that it
expires at all. No period is mentioned in it.”
“Peggy,” I said, solemnly; “you should alter your potter’s mark. Take
out the little, blue finch and put in a little, green goose. But,
seriously, we must see into this. I am a lawyer’s daughter--not that I
profess to have inherited a knowledge of law. But I am certain that
this agreement is not binding. Will you let me show it to a friend of
mine who is a lawyer? In strict confidence, of course.”
“Yes, if you like, Sibyl. But I don’t see that it matters. I like
doing the work and I do make a living by it. What more would you
have?”
“I thought you said you would like to do something more ambitious--the
very best work of which you are capable. Wouldn’t you?”
She was silent for a while, and a far-away, wistful look stole into
her face. Suddenly she said: “Sibyl, I’m going to show you something;
but you mustn’t tell anyone.” She led me to a large cupboard, the door
of which she unlocked and threw open. On the single shelf was a model
in red wax of a tall candlestick or lamp-holder of the most elaborate
design, the shaft and capital-like socket enriched--though
sparingly--with fine relief decoration, and the base occupied by a
spirited and graceful group of figures, beautifully modelled and full
of life and expression.
“That,” she said, “is to be my _chef d’œuvre_, though it doesn’t look
much in the wax. You must think of it in ivory-white, with a rich
coloured inlay and perhaps some under-glaze painting. It has taken me
months, doing a bit whenever I have had time, or when I couldn’t
resist the temptation to go on with it. Now it is finished, as far as
the modelling goes, and the next thing will be to mould it. But I
shan’t actually make the piece at present, because I don’t mean _him_
to have it--the dealer, you know. If I finished it now, it would be
his, of course.”
“Yes, by the contract it would. And it mustn’t. This piece ought to
give you a position in the front rank of artist potters. But I mustn’t
waste any more of your time. You will let me have that agreement,
won’t you?”
She promised that I should have it at lunch-time, and with this I went
back to my workshop to consider a plan that had come into my mind for
her enlightenment and emancipation. But it turned out that there was
no need for scheming on my part, for chance or Providence offered me
the opportunity ready-made. That very evening I received a short note
from Mr. Davenant informing me that Miss Tallboy-Smith had acquired a
collection of English and French soft porcelain, and that she proposed
to exhibit the whole of her new acquisition for a week at the club.
“She rather wants,” he said, “to make the opening day something of a
function, and has asked Hawkesley and me to be there to lunch. Can you
come, too? It would please her if you could--and you know how
delighted Hawkesley and I would be. Besides, I think it will really be
a very interesting show.”
Here was the very chance that I wanted. Forthwith, I swooped down on
the unsuspecting Titmouse and secured her agreement to bear me company
to a “pottery show,” without giving too many particulars. Then I wrote
to Mr. Davenant telling him that I was bringing a guest who was deeply
interested in pottery and porcelain, and suggesting that we might form
a party of four at a small table.
By the same post I sent off Peggy’s agreement to Dr. Thorndyke, with
the request that he would tell me whether it was or was not legally
binding. And, having thus laid the train, as I hoped, for the
discomfiture of Mr. Goldstein, I felt at liberty to return to my own
affairs.