Helen Vardon's confession
I should have liked to set his mind at rest, but, in truth, I was none
too confident about my future. That depended largely on the nature of
Mr. Campbell’s offer; on my ability to earn a reasonable livelihood.
“Well,” Mr. Davenant said, at length, “I hope your confidence is
justified. But in any case, I suppose you have friends?”
“There’s no need for you to worry about me,” I replied, evasively--for
I had no near relatives from whom I could claim assistance. “I am in
quite comfortable circumstances at present. And now let us put away my
bothersome affairs and talk of something more pleasant.”
“Very well,” said he. “Let us choose an agreeable topic and discuss it
in all its bearings as we used to do.” He drew his watch from his
pocket, and, glancing at it, continued: “It is now nearly one o’clock.
What do you say to the question of lunch as an agreeable topic for our
debate?”
I admitted that the subject was not without its attractions.
“Then,” said he, “I will suggest that a club is an appropriate place
in which to consume it, and that a mixed club satisfies the most
extreme proprieties.”
“I should hardly have suspected you of a mixed club.”
“In strict confidence,” he replied, “between you and me and our friend
Theodore of insolvent memory, I have another--unmixed--for normal club
purposes. This one is my lunch club. It is quite near to my chambers,
and is quieter and more pleasant than a restaurant. And it has a
special character of its own, as is indicated by its name. It is
called the ‘Magpies’ Club.”
“That sounds rather ominous.”
“Doesn’t it? But it isn’t a burglars’ club. Its members are collectors
and connoisseurs--furniture and china maniacs and so forth; and the
main function of the club is to enable them to show their specimens to
one another and to exchange or sell duplicate pieces. May I take it
that you consent to honour the ‘Magpies’?”
I accepted the invitation gladly, for a month’s residence in the East
End had made me decidedly appreciative of the amenities of the more
civilized regions. We decided to walk to Essex Street, in which the
club had its premises, and to go by way of the side streets for
greater quiet and ease of conversation.
“You spoke just now of your chambers,” said I. “Does that mean that
you are in practice now?”
“Yes. But not in the law. I finished my legal studies and got called,
but then I decided to give up the Bench and the Woolsack, though they
shouted for me never so loudly, and return to an old love. I am now an
architect.”
“Is a barrister allowed to practice as an architect?”
“On that I am not quite clear; but it really doesn’t matter to me. It
is a question for the benchers or other authorities.”
“Have you been in practice long?”
“Exactly three weeks to-day. And when I tell you that I have already
received a commission to design and erect a greenhouse no less than
twelve feet by eight in plan, you will realize that I am mounting the
ladder of professional success, with the speed of an eagle with a
balloon attachment. My client, by the way, is a member of the club.”
Thus gossiping, we made our way by devious routes through the less
frequented streets, by Garrick Street, Covent Garden and Drury Lane,
until, by the Law Courts, we emerged into the Strand, crossed to Essex
Street, and presently arrived at the roomy, old-fashioned house in
which the Magpies had their meeting-place.
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 daïs 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. ----. 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 a 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 where 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