Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 7

by R. Austin Freeman

  "But does anyone take these works seriously?"

  "Seriously!" exclaimed Tom. "My dear Polton, you should read the art critics’ notices of them and then see the mugs, who want to be thought ‘highbrow,’ crowding into the galleries and staring, open-mouthed, at what they believe to be the last word in progressive art. But, to do them justice, they don’t often buy any of the stuff."

  "And the painters, sir, who produce them; are they impostors or only cranky?"

  "It is difficult to say," replied Tom. "The early modernists were, I think, quite sincere cranks. Some of them were admittedly insane. But nowadays it is impossible to judge. For the mischief is, you see, Polton, that if once you accept incompetent, childish, barbaric productions as genuine works of art, you have thrown the door wide open to impostors."

  "And what about Mrs. Schiller, sir?"

  "Well, Polton, you have seen her. She certainly isn’t mad, and she certainly can’t paint; and my impression is that she knows it as well as you and I do. But what her motive may be for keeping up the pretence is known only to herself."

  Polton pondered awhile on this answer; then he raised another question.

  "I am rather puzzled, sir, as to her relations with Mr. Vanderpuye. She is, I understand, a married woman, so those relations are not very proper in any case. But there seems to me something rather unreal about them. From their behaviour you would take these two persons for very devoted friends, if not actually lovers, and that, I feel sure, is genuinely the case with Mr. Vanderpuye. But I have my doubts about the lady; and if she is an impostor in one thing, she can be in another. But I am like you; I can’t imagine a motive for imposture. Of course, Mr. Vanderpuye is a rich man, but I don’t, somehow, suspect her of trying to get money out of him. And yet I can’t think of any other motive. In fact, I can’t make it out at all."

  "Is there any need to make it out?" asked Tom. "It isn’t our affair, you know."

  "Excepting that Mr. Vanderpuye is my friend, and a very worthy, lovable gentleman. I shouldn’t like him to get involved in any unpleasantness."

  "Quite right, Polton," Tom agreed, "but I don’t see what you can do beyond keeping your weather eyelid lifting; and that you seem to have been doing."

  Which observation having closed the discussion, the two parties to it transferred their attention to the sketches and the consideration of the technical details connected with the goldsmith’s art.

  VI. THE FOREST OF ESSEX

  On a certain evening early in November Tom Pedley, having put down his canvas-carrier to free one hand, inserted his latch-key and pushed the gate open. Then, according to his invariable custom, he withdrew the key and pocketed it before entering; and as he did so, happening to glance up the street, he perceived Lotta Schiller and her friend Billy just turning the corner and approaching. He had not seen either of them for more than a fortnight; not, in fact, since the frame-maker had carted away the portrait and the two lockets had been delivered to their respective owners. So he thought it proper to pause at the open gate to exchange greetings, especially as they had already seen him and notified the fact.

  "Where have you been all this time, Tom?" exclaimed Lotta as they met on the doorstep. "I haven’t seen you for ages."

  "Well, I haven’t been in the same place all the time," Tom replied. "To-day I have been in Epping Forest. Doing a bit of landscape painting for a change after the portrait."

  "Epping Forest," repeated Lotta. "How delightful. I’ve never been to Epping Forest. May we come in and have a look at what you’ve been painting?"

  "Do, by all means," Tom replied heartily. "The picture isn’t finished, but it will give you an idea of the place."

  They entered together, and Tom, having unstrapped the carrier, placed the canvas on the easel at an angle to the great window.

  "The light isn’t very good," said he, "but you can see what the forest is like."

  "Yes, indeed," she exclaimed enthusiastically, "and it is perfectly lovely. It looks like a real forest."

  "It is a real forest," said Tom. "It is a surviving remnant of the primeval forest of Britain; and there is quite a lot of it, still."

  "But how thrilling! A primeval forest! Have you ever seen a primeval forest, Bill?"

  "Yes," said Vanderpuye. "I have seen the great forest that covers Ashanti, and it is something like this painting. The African forest trees are probably a good deal more lofty than these, but it is difficult to judge from a picture."

  "It is almost impossible," said Tom, "without figures or animals to give a scale. I think of putting in one or two deer."

  "But there aren’t really any deer there, are there?" asked Lotta.

  "Bless you, yes," he replied. "Deer, foxes, badgers, and all sorts of wild beasts. It is a genuine forest, not a mere park. And there are two ancient British camps. I pass one of them on the way to my pitch."

  "It sounds like a most heavenly place!" said Lotta. "And to think that I have never seen it, though it is so near London. It would be delightful to spend a day there. Don’t you think so, Bill?"

  Bill agreed with enthusiasm, as he usually did to Lotta’s suggestions.

  "Then that is settled. We will have a day rambling and picnicking in the forest, and Tom shall show us the way. Oh, you needn’t look like that. We shan’t hang about and hinder you."

  "I wasn’t looking like that," Tom protested. "I shall be very pleased to show you the way there and start you on your ramble. My picture will be ready to go on with in three or four days; say next Thursday. How will that suit you?"

  "It will suit me perfectly," she replied; and Bill having concurred, she added: "I suppose we shall have to take some food with us. How do you manage, Tom?"

  "I take my lunch with me, but you needn’t. There is an excellent inn near High Beach called the King’s Oak, where you can get refreshment for man and beast."

  "I don’t quite like that expression," said Lotta, "as only one of us is a man. But never mind. Now let us settle our arrangements. I think we had better meet and start from here, as I am here already and Bill isn’t a Londoner. Give us a time, and then we will go and leave you in peace."

  Tom suggested nine o’clock on Thursday morning, and, this having been agreed to, his visitors departed; whereupon, having cleaned his palette and washed his brushes and himself, he proceeded to lay the table—including in its furnishings Polton’s incomparable tankard—opened the haybox, and settled himself with deep satisfaction to the disposal of his evening meal.

  Punctually, on Thursday morning, the two ramblers made their appearance at the rendezvous, and a few minutes later the party set forth for Fenchurch Street, Vanderpuye carrying the strapped stool and easel. An empty first-class compartment being easily obtainable at this time in the day, they took possession of one, and, having deposited Tom’s impedimenta on the hat rack, lit pipes and cigarettes and prepared to enjoy the journey. And a very pleasant journey it was (excepting the stop at Stratford, when mephitic fumes from some chemical works poured into the compartment and caused them hastily to pull up the window-glasses). Lotta was in buoyant spirits and rattled away gaily between the puffs of her cigarette, while the two men smoked their pipes and allowed themselves to be entertained.

  "For a painter, Tom," she remarked, as the train drew out of Woodford Station, "I consider you extraordinarily unobservant. You actually haven’t noticed my beautiful new locket."

  As a matter of fact he had, and thought it slightly unsuitable to the occasion.

  "You are quite wrong, Lotta," said he. "My eyes have been glued to it ever since we started, and I have been thinking what a remarkable genius the fellow must have been who designed it."

  "Now listen to that, Bill," said she, selecting a fresh cigarette from her case. "Isn’t he a conceited fellow? Brazenly fishing for a compliment; and he won’t get one."

  "I knew that," retorted Tom, "so I supplied the compliment myself. But it really does look rather fine, thanks to the brilliant way in which Polton carried
it out."

  Lotta laughed scornfully. "Now he’s pretending to be modest. But it’s no use, Tom. We know you. Still, I agree that the little man did his part beautifully, and I am grateful to both of you, to say nothing of the generous giver."

  Here she bestowed an affectionate smile on the gratified Vanderpuye, who smiled in return as a man can afford to smile who has such a magnificent set of teeth. There followed a brief interlude in Lotta’s babblings while she lit and smoked the fresh cigarette. A few minutes later the train slowed down, and Tom, reaching down his property from the rack and slipping the strap of the satchel over his shoulder, announced:

  "This is our station," and prepared to open the door.

  As the train came to rest, Vanderpuye once more relieved Tom of the folded easel and the three emerged on to the platform. Passing out of the station, they walked up the rather dull village street until they came to a large pond on the border of the forest. Here Tom turned off into a path which skirted the pond and presently entered a broad green ride. A short distance along this he entered a narrow green ride that led off to the left up a gentle incline and then down across the end of a little valley, the marshy bottom of which was covered with beds of rushes.

  "This hollow," Tom announced, "is called Debden Slade. May as well remember the name in case you have to ask the way. This path—what they call in the forest a green ride—leads, as you see, up the hill and directly to the corner of the ancient British fortification, called Loughton Camp, and passes round two sides of it."

  "But you are going to show us the way to it," Lotta stipulated.

  "Yes, I am coming with you as far as the camp, and, when you have seen it, I will set you on your road before we separate."

  "I suppose," said Vanderpuye, "you know your way about the forest quite well?"

  "Yes," Tom replied. "I have done a lot of sketching and painting here in the last few years. It is quite easy to find your way about the forest after a little experience, but at first I always used to bring a large-scale map and a compass. This is the camp that we are approaching; the south side. We shall pass round it to the north-west side, and there our roads diverge."

  "But I don’t see any camp," said Lotta, looking vaguely into the dense wood which seemed to close the green path that they had been ascending. "I can only see a high bank covered with a mass of funny little trees that look as if they wanted their hair cut."

  "It isn’t very distinct," Tom admitted, "except on the map. But you must bear in mind that it was built two or three thousand years ago or more, and that it has probably not been occupied since the Roman invasion. In all those centuries the forest has grown over it and more or less covered it up. But you can make it out quite well if you climb up the bank through the trees and let yourself down into the enclosure. Then you can see that there is a roughly four-sided space enclosed by high earth walls or ramparts. But as it is all covered by a dense mass of those small trees, you can only see it a bit at a time."

  "But why are the trees so small?" Lotta asked. "There doesn’t seem to be a single full-grown tree among them, though, from what you say, they have had plenty of time to grow."

  "They are not young trees," said Tom. "They are old dwarfs. The people of this manor used to have lopping rights. Consequently all the trees, as they grew up, were pollarded, and, every year the new branches that sprouted from the crown were lopped off for firewood, with the result that the trees are gnarled and stunted. They are rather uncanny in appearance, but not very beautiful."

  "No," agreed Lotta, "uncanny is the word. They look like little witches with their hair standing on end. But the whole place is rather weird and solemn, especially when one thinks of the dead and gone Britons and the centuries that the camp has been lying desolate and forgotten. Those holes in the bank, I suppose, have been made by animals of some kind."

  "Yes. The small holes are usually rabbit burrows; the larger ones are fox earths."

  As they had been talking they had walked slowly along the green path in the deep shade cast by the pollard beeches that crowded the high bank of the old rampart. Presently they turned the corner of the camp and passed along the north-western side, until they reached a more open space where the green ride grew broader and turned sharply to the left while a narrower path led on straight ahead. At the point where the two paths separated Tom halted and held out his hand for the easel which Vanderpuye was still carrying.

  "This is where we part company," said he. "My way is by the little green path to Great Monk Wood, about three-quarters of a mile farther on. Yours is by the green ride along the crest of the hill; a pleasant walk with a delightful view all the way."

  "Yes," said Lotta, looking across the open forest that stretched away from the foot of the hill, "it is a lovely view; and it seems a relief to be out in the open, away from that gloomy old camp and those unearthly, weird little trees. And yet, somehow, I find a curious fascination in that ancient fortress. I should like to get inside the walls and see what a British camp was really like. Wouldn’t you like to explore it, Bill?"

  The amiable and accommodating Bill expressed the strongest desire to explore the camp and the profoundest interest in the Ancient Britons and their works.

  "Well," said Tom, "you can’t explore it to-day, because you would want a map and a compass and you ought to have a copy of the plan that was made when the Essex Field Club surveyed the camp. I have one filed away somewhere, so, if you propose to make a serious exploration, I can lend it to you with a map of the forest and a compass. But now you had better stroll across to High Beach and learn to find your way about."

  "Yes," agreed Vanderpuye, "that will be best, especially as we have brought no refreshment, and you say that there is an inn at High Beach where we can get some lunch. But we shall want you to direct us."

  "It is perfectly plain sailing," replied Tom. "You see that clump of elms in the distance?"

  "I see a clump of trees, and I take your word for it that they are elms."

  "Well, they are at High Beach, so, if you keep your eye on them you can’t go wrong. You have to follow this green ride along, the crest of the hill. About half a mile from here you will cross the Epping Road and half a mile farther on you will come to a green ride at right angles to this. Turn to the left and go along it and you will come to the King’s Oak inn, where you can stoke up if you want to. High Beach is only a few minutes’ walk from the pub along the same ride. So now you know all about it."

  He put the easel and canvas-carrier down on the turf and shook hands with the two ramblers, wishing them adieu and a pleasant journey. Lotta smiled slyly as she shook his hand and remarked to her companion:

  "That means that he has had enough of our society, so we had better make ourselves scarce. Come along, Bill."

  The pair turned away to start on their walk, but Tom did not immediately resume his journey. His hands being free, he took the opportunity to fill his pipe in a leisurely fashion. But when it was full and ready for lighting, he still stood at the parting of the ways, following with a meditative eye the progress of the two adventurers as they stepped out briskly along the broad green ride. Once more Polton’s question recurred to him. What were the relations of these two persons? They had the manner of an engaged couple which they certainly were not; but were they lovers or only friends? In his own case, Lotta’s behaviour—apart from the verbal endearments—had been scrupulously correct. True, he had given her no opening for anything different, but still the fact remained that she had never made the slightest approach. Were her relations with Vanderpuye of the same platonic order? It seemed doubtful, for the conditions were not the same. Vanderpuye was no unwilling partner to this intimacy. From the first he had been Lotta’s ardent admirer; but from admiration to passion is but a short step; and passion, in his case and hers, could but lead straight to disaster.

  Thus Tom cogitated as he stood looking at the two receding figures. Many a time in the months that followed did that scene recur to him; the long, straig
ht, grassy ride with the figures of the man and woman stepping forward gaily and now growing small in the distance. And still his eyes followed them with an interest which he could not explain, until they reached a point where the ride described a curve; and here Lotta, glancing back and seeing him still standing there, waved her hand to him, and Vanderpuye executed a flourish with his hat. Tom returned their farewell greeting, and a few moments later they entered the curve and vanished behind the roadside bushes; where upon he lit his pipe, picked up his fardels, and set forth along the little green path for his pitch in Great Monk Wood.

  He had told himself, and Polton, that the nature of Lotta’s relations with her African friend was no affair of his. And it was not. Nevertheless, as he strode along the narrow track through the silent and lonely forest, the question still occupied his thoughts; especially the question as to what was to be the end of it. For neither of the pair—and certainly not for Lotta—had he any strong personal regard; but he was a kindly man and it irked him to think of these two, heading, as he feared, for trouble. Particularly was he concerned for Vanderpuye; who, as an African, probably passionate and impulsive, and inexperienced in European ways, was the more likely to get himself into difficulties and to bear the brunt of any unpleasant consequences. For he was a barrister with a position to maintain and a future to consider. It would be a grievous thing if he should be involved in a scandal at the very start of his career.

  At this point in his reflections he arrived at the forest opening which was the subject of his painting. He laid down his burdens, took off his satchel, and, having identified the holes in the ground made at his last sitting by the feet of his stool and easel, unpacked the latter and set them up in the old position. Then he fixed up the canvas, set his palette, made a careful and critical survey of his subject and compared it with the half-finished painting; and straightway Lotta Schiller and her African friend faded from his thoughts and left him to the untroubled consideration of his work.