by Tim Symonds
We ascended the thinnest of stairs and emerged into the mill-attic through an open trap-door. The room was heavily shadowed in the corners but in the late-afternoon sun the centre of the attic was well-lit, a shaft blazing through a small, south-westerly-facing window. At one time the epicentre of the Mill’s activity, the arrival of the turbine-generator left the room empty and aloof from every-day work. Just visible, scattered around the uneven floor, were the accoutrements of the artist - stool, sketch-pad, palette and palette knife, a Victorian parasol, a half-empty bottle of turpentine or linseed oil, a scattering of cotton rags and jars and discarded tubes of paint. In the middle stood an easel supporting a canvas depicting a cart and horses in a wagon pond attended by the figure of a wagoner. A further human figure in a wide-brimmed purple-crimson hat surveyed them from the near verge. An immaculate, dainty man stood at the easel’s side. He wore the darkest of blue artist’s smocks. We were introduced to Pevensey. Away from the easel, almost hidden in the shadows, a second canvas of rather smaller dimensions lay against a wall as though discarded.
Unlike a predecessor at the Academy, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Pevensey seemed of a nervous and excitable temperament, flustered by our intrusion. A half-extended hand, broad and fat like the flipper of a seal, grasped mine coldly. He was not a man whose personality invited confidences from strangers. In my anticipation I had expected him to look the image of Auguste Bréal, bright eyes, pointed black beard, beret, and bubbling with vivacity. Nevertheless, he was a painter of very considerable fame. Great-grandson of a sculptor, son of a successful architect, he had studied in Paris under a disciple of Ingres. His early reputation was founded on large, detailed, academic, rather oriental biblical scenes which, though quietly mocked behind his back in England, had made him a great deal of money in America. Of extreme ambition, it was said Pevensey had advanced well beyond his artistic talents to the point he was parodied as ‘the industrious apprentice’ in a novel published in 1894, whose protagonist hoped to become ‘the duly knighted or baroneted Lord Mayor of all the plastic arts’. Others spoke of him as forever ‘busy with his labours among Princes ignorant of art’. With a certitude of opinion, he had endeavoured to become adviser to an assortment of the nobility, among which he included the Earl of Carlisle. The baronetcy duly arrived in 1902. Then to wide surprise he harvested the Presidency of the Royal Academy.
Pulling his hand from my would-be warm embrace, he turned away. Ignoring Holmes, he exclaimed to Siviter, ‘It is finished,’ adding aspersively, as though blaming his patron, ‘I have run out of ordinary linseed oil.’
A silence followed this remark. I broke in awkwardly. ‘And how have you enjoyed this extraordinary studio?’
In the compressed space of the mill-attic I retreated to put my back against the wall, head forced forward by the sharp slope of the ceiling. Holmes, less diffident, crossed to the easel and gave the canvas a close inspection.
As though anticipating my attempt at polite chatter, Pevensey replied with a quote from a famed landscape painter. ‘The sound of water escaping from mill dams, willows, old rotten planks, slimy posts and brickwork, I love such things.’
To my relief Holmes took on the burden of engaging the artist in conversation, expressing deep interest in his craft. Although it was a social occasion, Holmes reminded me of a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound dashing back and forward through a covert until it comes across the lost scent.
‘Have you painted mostly here indoors from sketches, or out-of-doors?’ Holmes asked.
Pevensey replied firmly, ‘Almost solely at Scotney Castle. Working out of doors in oils entails cumbersome equipment but assures vitality.’
Feeling a coldness in the air, I was ready to bid the artist a quick farewell and God-speed but Holmes appeared less willing to let him go. I glanced across at our host. For all Siviter’s customary cordiality, a touch of reserve had settled on him in Pevensey’s presence, as though some friction had broken into their relationship. For an instant, he seemed withdrawn.
‘This is a privilege,’ Holmes went on, extending his rare attempt at light conversation. ‘I have always wondered how the artist commences. Tell me, is it true you first construct a grid?’
‘Yes - most artists do,’ Pevensey replied. His answer seemed defensive, as though Holmes was challenging him by such a question.
‘And then?’ Holmes pursued. ‘You sketch out the major elements - the cottage and that wagon?’
‘Yes. I block in the main features.’
‘In broad masses of strong, bright colours, I see,’ Holmes pursued.
The length of my comrade’s enquiry was causing me considerable surprise, given its frosty reception. Under the circumstances, his interest seemed to me to border upon affectation.
‘That is correct,’ came Pevensey’s reply.
‘Please continue,’ Holmes requested. ‘This is most interesting.’
With seeming reluctance, Pevensey added, ‘When that is done I turn to detailed treatment of the landscape, with firm contours and naturalistic colouring.’
‘And then, you return to ...?’
‘...the centrepiece of the commission. The foreground must be lively, sensitive to many reflections. It is above all there that the viewer’s attention must be centred.’
‘As with that figure?’ Holmes pursued, pointing at the figure of the man standing at the wagon pond edge.
‘Precisely as with that figure.’
With some puzzlement I observed Holmes’ quick glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of Pevensey’s face, habitually a sign of more than ordinary interest.
‘And you completed this when?’ Holmes asked, eyebrows raised disarmingly.
‘Not long past three this afternoon, I believe,’ Siviter broke in unexpectedly, as though Holmes’ polite and casual query required an exactness of time. ‘As, no doubt, Holmes, you will deduce from the shadow cast by that figure!’
A silence followed. Siviter spoke again, as though Pevensey was not there.
‘Pevensey was at Scotney Castle from lunch until after three o’ clock today,’ he repeated, ‘when we sent Dudeney to retrieve him for tea.’ With a short laugh he added, ‘I have always sensed he feels safer in a studio.’
Holmes absorbed this without comment. He pointed again at the painting.
‘And the sheen on that figure and his flamboyant hat? Was that achieved by scumbling?’
‘No, not by scumbling,’ Pevensey responded abruptly, as though affronted.
‘Then?’ Holmes pursued in the sweetest of voices.
Pevensey appeared reluctant to reply. Finally, under the sustained press of Holmes’ questing look, he responded ‘With boiled linseed oil’
‘Hum,’ said Holmes, ‘That explains it. Scumbling is best for half-lights and half-distance.’
My companion gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I confess that while techniques with brush and paint are of great interest, it is the chemistry that excites me most. Why did you use boiled linseed for that figure, may I ask?’
‘Why, that’s simple, Holmes,’ Siviter interrupted. ‘Pevensey has already informed us he ran out of his supply of linseed oil. Presumably he called for the next best thing, the boiled linseed we use around the property as a wood-finish.’
A fit of disquiet appeared to overtake the President of the Royal Academy. The atmosphere had grown more unwelcoming. We - or Holmes’ questions - were, I presumed, an intrusion on so self-regarding a painter. The artist turned half-left to face the darkling figure of Siviter.
‘Siviter, you will excuse me, I must prepare to return to London.’
Turning back to us, Pevensey repeated, ‘You will excuse me. I need to gather up my paints and brushes to go to London or I would offer you further instruction in my art. Perhaps,’ he added, with a cold smile, ‘in return for some slight instruction in yours. Siv
iter, I believe I have completed your commission. The canvases are yours. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I anticipate boarding an earlier train than yours lest weighted down with my paints and brushes I run into throngs of hop-pickers and counter-jumpers.’
Pevensey’s manner was now cold in the extreme. I smiled politely, more at his excess of snobbery than from a warmth I did not feel, for he would in any case, like us, be in a Pullman car where hop-pickers and ‘counter-jumpers’ with their trinkets and appurtenances would fear to tread.
Disregarding both my and Holmes’ out-thrust hands he turned away. At the opening to the narrow staircase, he threw a final glance at Holmes. Had the thought not been absurd, I would have wagered he was in the grip of fear, certainly someone on extreme guard. He switched his look to Siviter, giving a peculiar nod. With a quick turn and again maintaining a grim stare in Holmes’ direction, he descended the steep stairs, his head disappearing downwards like a hanging in slow motion. Holmes looked at me with a glance of comic resignation and gave a shrug.
On Pevensey’s departure, Holmes and I left our positions and moved across to look at the second canvas. It portrayed a ruined castle surrounded by a moat, the water as blue as the Blauer See.
‘Where is this?’ Holmes asked our host. ‘I don’t recall seeing...’
’No, not here at Crick’s End. That is also at Scotney Castle, the ruin itself, a slight departure from the wagon pond. It seemed convenient while we had Pevensey with us to commission him to make it a pair.’
Siviter turned away. His pointing finger redirected our attention to the tiny aperture through which the sunlight flooded.
‘Duck Window,’ he remarked immediately. ‘Until to-day’s uncertain weather Pevensey has been hanging his canvases out of this window to dry in the evening sun.’
He pointed through it. ‘Look at the view! For two centuries along that river you would hear the ironmasters’ hammer resounding loud and clear.’
Siviter stepped back, beckoning us to look out. Over our shoulders I heard him say, ‘Down there is Rye Green where Jack Cade, leader of the Kentish Rebellion, was killed in 1450.’
The mill-pond lay immediately below us. The water level was too low to register on the marker at the sluice. Sticks and plant material jutted from the mud, darkening the little water that remained.
With Pevensey no longer in the attic, Holmes stepped within arms-length of the easel. He withdrew a large round magnifying glass from his voluminous coat and placed it over the painting. As if offering a compliment to the departed painter, Holmes remarked, ‘One brush is made from the ashy-grey upper half of the Ratel, a carnivorous animal of the Badger family, found only in Southern India and Southern Africa, though overall I see he is a sable man.’
I caught Siviter’s rueful eye in the gloom and gave him a barely-suppressed smile in return. ‘Well done, Holmes,’ I applauded loyally. ‘You surprise me still. I had no idea of your expertise in artists’ brushes.’
Holmes scowled. ‘My dear Watson, In addition to the fact my grandmother was sister to the French painter Horace Vernet, I took instruction from Roy Perry, Head of Conservation at the Tate.’
He stepped back to allow me to take a closer look.
‘I hesitated to mention this before,’ I remarked, looking across at our host, ‘but this painting is remarkably like...’
‘The Hay-Wain by the great John Constable, yes,’ Siviter interjected. ‘Who else portrays L’Angleterre Profonde so well, though,’ he added self-deprecatingly,’ hardly one of his six-footers. The owners of the Scotney Estate are to be the recipients of this work. Lady Fusey adores Constable’s paintings - she was born and bred up by the Stour. She had her labourers dig an exact copy of the wagon pond ready for Pevensey’s arrival,’ adding, almost regretfully, ‘she eschews all modern schools of ‘-ism’ - Impressionism and Post-Impressionism, or I might have commissioned Cezanne or Vlaminck.
‘But in the Constable,’ I persisted, pointing, ‘this figure....’
‘...wasn’t there...’ Siviter responded. ‘Quite right. Instead there was a dog - well remembered. Like the palimpsest there is a dog there still, but I’m afraid I obliged Pevensey to over-paint it.’ With a laugh he confided, ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t feel he is at his best painting our canine friends.’
With the exit of Pevensey our host had returned to his former convivial self. He gave us a disarming smile. ‘Gentlemen, though I should not hurry you, an informal meal is being served before your departure.’
Once outside we walked in crocodile formation across the small bridge and reassembled in the Wild Garden. Siviter took up again, ‘I have ordered the cook to prepare a special treat. Sir Julius’ mother, now some time dead, was a member of the Sephardim, brought up in Constantinople. She taught her son a special dish called Imam bayildi which I believe translates as ‘The Imam swooned’, presumably with pleasure rather than indigestion. Sir Julius has made me learn the ingredients by heart.’
Cued by his words, I asked, ‘And what would they be?’
Crossing back to the sundial and terraced lawns Siviter recited, ‘Take an aubergine and split its belly, stuff it with chopped and sautéed tomato, onion and aubergine, seasoned with bay leaves, marjoram, garlic, basil, cumin, and cardamom, add nuts, lemon juice, fruit, wine, rice and cheese, and bake in olive oil in an oven for at least one hour ...’
Companionably he fell back to walk by my side. ‘And Dr. Watson, time permitting, in celebration of your years on the North-West Frontier you and I shall retire to the gun-room and wash it down with two bottles each of Burton India Pale Ale - produced at...?’
‘Meux’s Brewery?’
‘Where else!’
Though still remaining in ear-shot, Holmes fell away from the discussion at the mention of Imam Bayildi. He pays slight attention to nourishment with the exception of woodcock and Mrs. Hudson’s eggs for which his appetite is voracious. He prefers food which can be eaten at speed, cold beef or simple mutton, tins of corned beef or pilchards in tomato sauce, and a glass of beer. Only once to my recollection did he depart from this frugality, at the time of the extraordinary conclusion to our adventure chronicled as The Sign of Four.
As we arrived for our Ottoman culinary adventure Sir Julius remarked that in his opinion there were three great cuisines in the world, of which Turkish was one. In jest, I called to my comrade-in-arms, ‘Holmes, you may not be interested in the taste of Imam bayildi but, Gad, the chemistry!’
The Discovery Of A Corpse At Scotney Castle
Standing at the towering cast-iron gates (‘from the same forge that manufactured the railings of St. Paul’s Cathedral’) Siviter saw us off from Crick’s End with a cheery wave. The olfactory delight of the Imam Bayildi still swirled in my nostrils.
Once more Holmes and I were enveloped in soft leather in the Lanchester, Dudeney at the wheel wrapped in his pilot’s helmet. Invited into the vehicle for the short outing, Siviter’s Aberdeen terriers and the curly-coated retrievers yap-yapped and wriggled and slithered around us. A half-dozen tails wagged like furies in our faces, the owners excited beyond measure in anticipation of scents wafting to their small damp snouts at forty miles an hour.
I looked up to see a hand waving fleetingly from a window. It was the Peasant Madonna of the violet eyes who first greeted us at the porch. Would she eventually marry a young herdsman on the Estate? Would she have to compete with the poultry maid? In a fit of amour fou would she let one of the eminent men who passed through the bedrooms at Crick’s End take advantage of her lowly status?
Soon we were back at Etchingham. Just past the great church and fifty yards short of the Ambrose Tavern, we turned left into the small station yard. We said our thanks and goodbyes to Dudeney. I searched my pockets for our return tickets to Charing Cross and a pencil stub. I had earlier spotted an advertisement for Abdulla’s cigarettes on a station wall with a p
iece of doggerel too amusing to let go without noting it down to share with Eddie Marsh at a future date. Our tickets located, I opened my notebook and transcribed the ditty titled ‘Desert Drama, the Lady Sheik’.
‘When Percy won Third Beauty Prize for figure, face and hair,
He little recked his “Greek god” chin would prove a fatal snare;
He caravanned o’er Desert Sands, a traveller in Oil,
Till Fatma deftly kidnapped him - a coy reluctant spoil.
In vain, the melting Lady Sheik heaped treasures at his feet,
And fattened him on golden dates, and sherbet sickly sweet;
‘Twas not until Abdulla’s Best had proved too fierce a bribe,
He scuppered his career in Oil to rule her Heart and Tribe.’
As I transcribed the last stanza, a most unexpected intrusion burst upon this mild occupation. The piping voice of the young news-vendor caught my attention. He stood small and keen in front of Holmes, urging him to purchase a copy of the Evening London Standard, freshly-delivered off the London-to-Hastings train.
‘Late Extra! Dead Body at Scotney Castle,’ the boy sang, his face turned upwards, his apron displaying the bold headline black upon yellow on a poster.
‘Heavens, Holmes,’ I called over, amused. ‘Fame indeed. Scotney Castle has found its way into the Standard!’
On outward journeys by train or diligence Holmes cat-napped like Napoleon force-marching to Paris from Elba, but on the return he often fell into a much deeper sleep. I anticipated my companion would wave aside the small beseeching vendor. Had he declined to make the purchase, I would have followed suit while offering the boy a ha’penny in compensation. Thereby we may never been hurled into the astonishing matter of the dead Boer at Scotney Castle.
Rather than waving the boy away, my companion stared down at him and demanded ‘What did you say?’, one hand going swiftly to a pocket. ‘Dead Body at Scotney Castle,’ the news-vendor sang out once more, pushing a copy into my companion’s outstretched hand and taking three-halfpence in return. Holmes unfolded the newspaper and turned to an inside page as directed. He read for a moment and glanced up.