Berry Scene (16 page)

I was just in time to receive the Judge on his entry and take my place in the little procession formed.

One minute later we were upon the Bench.

The Grand Jury was in its box, some twelve feet above the floor. The Judge bowed to them, as usual, before he took his seat. Then the Clerk of Assize called their names. When he had done, I rose and looked at the Foreman. He looked at me, too nervous to find his voice.

I raised my own.

“I think, sir, you have a request you would like to make.”

“Er, yes. We – that is, the Grand Jury would be glad if they could be sworn in the old-fashioned way.”

(It was at my instance that this request was made. The old-fashioned way was more simple and took less time.)

I glanced at the Judge.

“Certainly, gentlemen.”

I raised my eyes to the box and began to administer the oath.

“You, sir, as Foreman of this Grand Inquest—”

And there I stopped dead.

To the left and the rear of the Foreman was standing my blind man.
I had no shadow of doubt. His face was square and grim and was faintly suggesting a skull. He had no eyebrows. If proof were needed, the fellow was staring at me, as though my head were that of Medusa herself.

The Judge was speaking under his breath.

“What is it, Pleydell? What is it?”

“It’s Y,” I breathed. “He’s standing there, looking at me.”

“Leave the Bench and see Lake. He’ll know what to do. And then come back.”

As I turned, I heard him speaking.

“I must apologize for this delay, gentlemen. The Marshal will swear you in a minute or two. Until you are sworn, no one will leave the box.”

As I entered the Judge’s room, the Chief Constable rose to his feet.

“Y,” I cried. “He’s sitting on the Grand Jury. He’s wearing a black tie, with a pearl pin – the only one, I think. And a red button-hole.”

“Name?”

“I don’t know. But he can’t escape, if you put a man on the door.”

“Certain, Boy?”

“Certain. And I saw him recognize me.”

Lake ran out of the room and I returned to the Bench.

“All right?” said the Judge.

“All right, sir.”

“Then carry on.”

I raised my eyes to the box.

“You, sir, as Foreman of this Grand Inquest…”

Four minutes later I swore a German spy.

It was while we were sitting at lunch in the Judge’s room that the Chief Constable opened the door and put in his head.

“All over,” he said. “He took poison ten minutes ago. He knew the game was up, when we gave them each a paper to read and sign. Finger-prints. Details later, sir, I’ve got to get in touch with the Yard.”

Two days later we had the truth in our hands.

Dear Judge,

Y was — Esq., of Ploughboys, some twenty-two miles from Brooch. His true name was Veishner and he was German by birth. He was naturalized in 1902. His role of a respectable country gentleman, with a leaning to botany, was very well played. He was actually elected to the Travellers’ in 1908.

Papers of the utmost value have been found at his house. These show that he has been in constant touch with the German Embassy for the last ten years and that, in the event of war, he was to be in charge of a system of espionage which I can only describe as formidable.

Please convey my warmest congratulations to Pleydell on his recognition of this enemy. The Assistant Commissioner is writing to him, himself.

Yours very truly,

Jasper Lake.

The bouquets belonged to Berry. It was Berry that linked the letter-box with the blind man.

In Which I Make Daphne a Present,

and Berry Favours the Bold

Ten years had gone by.

The war was over and gone: Cousin Jill was married, and so was I: and many another change had taken place. No longer sure of the future, people laid hold upon the present with all their might: an Epicurean outlook was gaining ground.

My sister, Berry and I were still in Town: Jill was in Italy: Adèle was in Boston: Jonah was ‘somewhere abroad’.

My sister closed her engagement-book and picked up her cigarette.

“It’s been great fun,” she said, “but I shall be very glad to sleep at White Ladies again.”

“So,” said her husband, “shall I. Pomps and vanities are exacting things. To bed at three, and I’ve got to see Forsyth this morning – the Raby Trust. Moses’ bush isn’t in it.”

“Moses’ bush?” said Daphne. “What ever d’you mean?”

“Now don’t thwart me,” said her husband. “I’m not too good. Moses’ bush burned, but was not consumed. That’s why it isn’t in it. I’m burned up at both ends.”

“How d’you feel really?”

Berry regarded his wristwatch.

“Ask me about five o’clock,” he said. “I may or may not know then. Weather forecast, laousy – with an a. Is there any coffee left?”

As she refilled his cup—

“The Raby Trust,” said Daphne. “How long will that go on?”

“It’ll see me out,” said Berry. “The child’s at school.”

My sister expired.

“You must not consent,” she said, “to act any more.”

“I won’t, my darling, I won’t. I’ve given my word to Forsyth. Why people pick upon me, I cannot conceive.”

Others could. An exceptionally scrupulous Trustee, who charges nothing at all, is worth having.

“Lunch?” said Daphne.

Berry shook his head.

“I must lunch at the Club. I promised to see Jo Carey. See you at Christie’s later.”

“Perhaps,” said Daphne.

My sister did not remind him that we had been sworn to attend a private view. In fact, her one idea was that Berry should not be there. We all disliked ‘modernist painting’; but Berry’s comments upon it were most embarrassing.

To fortify our souls for the visit, we lunched at the Berkeley Grill.

As we entered the gallery—

“We needn’t stay long,” said Daphne. “Just once round. Oh, my God, there he is – with Lady Morayne. He would choose her.” Lady Morayne was at once outspoken and deaf. “Quick, Boy. Before he sees us.”

But Berry’s eye was not dim.

“Ah, there’s my wife and her brother. Lady Morayne and I were waiting for you. We want to share this repast – this luscious collation, conceived and served by the master squirts of Montmartre – telegraphic address,
Slop-pail
.”

Lady Morayne let out a high-pitched laugh. Then she took Daphne’s arm.

“My dear,” she said, “no one will look at the pictures as long as you’re here. And what possessed you to visit this outcrop of minds diseased? Kindness of heart, for a monkey.”

“And you, Lady Morayne?”

“I’ve come because I like getting angry. Before I’m through, I shall probably foam at the mouth. Never mind – we’ll go round together. What’s the name of this insult, Berry?”

“Number Seven,” said Berry, opening his catalogue. “Here we are. Seven –
Beyond the Mules
.”

“Beyond the what?”

“Mules,” said Berry. “You know. Large, obstructive mammals. We used to have them in the war.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said the lady. “What’s the title mean?”

The inquiry was justified. The canvas was covered with dirty yellow paint, upon which a few unrecognizable objects were casting impossible shadows of great intensity. Between two square cocoanuts was lying a boomerang: what might have been the neck of a vulture was indicated by a pointing finger, such as one sometimes sees upon notice-boards: in the bottom left-hand corner was a crude representation of something which it would be charity to describe as garbage.

Berry fingered his chin.

“
Beyond the Mules
,” he murmured. “Well, I suppose we’ve outpaced them. We’re, so to speak, ahead. The mules will arrive later. That’s right. This is what the mules are going to find when they get here.”

“Well, I hope they like it better than I do,” shrilled Lady Morayne. “So much rotten balderdash – that’s what it is.”

“You must admit,” said Berry, “that the housework – I mean, the brush-work is very fine.”

“Brush-work!” spat Lady Morayne. “The impudent felon that did it can’t even paint. And what’s that mess in the corner?”

“That,” said Berry, “I associate with the mules.”

“But you said they hadn’t got here.”

“Nor they have,” said Berry. “They are going to have a surprise, aren’t they? I mean, talk about a home from home…”

In desperation, Daphne urged Lady Morayne towards a dark green canvas, covered with yellow blobs.

“And what,” said that lady, “is the name of this masterpiece?”

“Number Ten,” said Berry. “
Sugar
.”

“Did you say
Sugar
?”

“I did. That’s what it says here.”

“You know,” shouted Lady Morayne, “this is one long series of obscene libels. We all know what sugar looks like. What resemblance does anything there bear to that useful commodity?”

“The green,” said Berry, “is a lawn – a b-beautiful sward.

Upon this were playing some children, all of whom were sucking b-barley-sugar. Suddenly the school b-bell rings. Each child at once, er, parks its sugar against its return. They were still in school, when the artist—”

“Fudge,” said Lady Morayne. “The thing’s a filthy outrage, and you know it as well as I. What’s that over there?”

We advanced upon a large canvas, entitled
Slender Thought
.

Upon a fantastic sunset were superimposed three bottles, tied together with tape. Beneath this, a kiosk was being approached by a naked, human leg. The remains of a kaleidoscope, a backdoor, a pair of trousers and an enormous eyebrow completed the work of art.

“
Slender Thought
,” said Lady Morayne grimly. “And some damned fool is going to purchase that beastly drivel and hang it up on his wall. It’s only fit to floor a fowl-house with.”

“That would be dangerous,” said Berry. “The chickens would be born with hare-beaks. Now if it was called
Roofing Felt
, we should know where we were.”

“But that would be honest. You don’t expect honesty here. The whole thing is based upon fraud. Half a salmon on a pavement is honest – and usually very well done. But this is a ramp. This filth is produced by failures and foisted on fools. I’d rather have half a salmon on a flag-stone and hang it up m my hail than the whole of this gallery. There’s Adela Churt. Adela, isn’t this bestial?”

The Dowager Countess of Churt was understood to concur.

“It’s the war, my dear. Before the war it wouldn’t have been allowed. Well, Daphne, and why are you here? None of this will go with White Ladies.”

“We’re not purchasers, Lady Churt. We’ve come to keep abreast of the times.”

“There’s a winner here,” said Berry. “Oh, how d’you do, Lady Chart. Come and look at
Dry Rot
. I can’t think how they think of the names.”

A moment later we were confronting a canvas, some four feet square. Yellow paint had been daubed upon this in elliptical whirls. The only objects were a tent-peg, entire, and the head and shoulders of a hot-water bottle.

“You see,” said my brother-in-law, “it’s all disappeared. The artist has painted the absence of what was there. Most artists paint the presence. You see what I mean. If this fellow painted your portrait, he’d wait till you’d gone. Then he’d paint the void which your presence fills. Once you’ve got it, it’s very simple.”

“But where’s the dry rot?”

“Gone,” said Berry. “I’m sorry. If we’d been here two years ago… But now we’re too late. The woodwork has disappeared. All that remains is a tent-peg, too hard for the worms to digest.”

“And why the hot-water bottle?”

“That’s very subtle,” said Berry. “One of the best worms, whose name was Sobstuff, was a martyr to sciatica. Reluctant to lose his services, the other worms—”

“When I,” said Lady Morayne, “was of tender years, I used to play ‘Shops’. I used to take my doll’s tea service and fill the platters with berries and pebbles and pips. I remember it perfectly. And my mother used to come by and ask the price of the goods. That was a game – for a child of tender years. But this is no game. Adults are offering adults rubbish tricked out as art. Frames such as these have been set about old masters. Famous works have been hung in this gallery. And now these antics, which would offend a maniac – these contemptible scrawls which no pavement-artist would dare to perpetrate are displayed with honour and actually offered for sale. And not in vain. Because they are here, people are going to buy them. If they were offered horse-dung, they would refuse. But I’d rather have a shovel of horse-dung than ten of these.”

“Lady Morayne,” said a voice, “is among the prophets.”

Lady Morayne looked round and inclined her head.

“I should have been less downright, had I known that Your Excellency was there.”

“But I agree with you, Madame. But who are we, when the powers that be have determined that this is to be the vogue? Believe me, it is easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle than for a rich fool to withstand the vogue. All these, er, productions will be sold. Prices that Velasquez never dreamed of will be paid for these meaningless daubs. Museums will compete for the honour of hanging them on their walls.”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Berry. “After all, sir—”

The Ambassador set a hand upon his shoulder.

“Before,” he said, “you are as old as I am now, you will see this putrid trash hanging under the same roof as Rembrandt, Watteau, Reynolds and the rest.”

Under cover of the discussion, Daphne and I made a belated escape.

Christie’s was not over-crowded. Though the furniture was fine, there was nothing sensational. Good prices were being paid.

“Lot two hundred and three. The picture-clock.”

The bidding began at five pounds, and I bought it for twenty-one.

I gave my name and address to the auctioneer’s clerk.

“ If I may, I’ll take it with me.”

“Certainly, sir.”

He nodded to one of the men, and the latter picked up my purchase and made his way to the stairs.

As I rejoined my sister—

“To be cleaned,” I said. “I don’t believe it’s been touched for fifty years. If we drive to Rodsham’s they can take the clock out, and—”

“Tomorrow,” said Daphne. “Let’s take it home and have a look at it first.”

“As you please, my darling.”

Ten minutes later, we were regarding our spoil.

The canvas was very dirty, but the painting had been well done. It was an English scene – the skirt of a little hamlet, whose decent inn was commanding a pleasant green: cows stood knee-deep in a horse-pond, with rising woods beyond: comfortable clouds rode in a pale-blue heaven, and, peering between the trees was the tower of the village church. And in the tower was a dial – a little silver dial the size of a two-shilling piece.

Behind the canvas was the clock-case; and, when you lifted the frame, the face of the clock left the picture to stay with the works, for a hole had been cut in the painting, to fit the dial.

The picture was not dated; nor was it signed. The clock was dated 1754. This had three gongs – two for the chimes, and one for the stroke of the hour. There was no key to wind it, but, when I let fall the hammers, the notes were sweet.

“What fun,” said Daphne. “You know, I love conceits – the conceits of yesterday. They are so elegant. Of course, they got awful later. Remember that clock that played hymns – at six and nine?”

“I do, indeed. Ormolu. A fearful thing. But it sold for ninety pounds.”

“I know. The vogue, again. I’d rather have ninety pence. Never mind. I love my present.” She took my face in her hands. “You’re very good to your sister. Not all men are.”

“
Tout passe
,” I quoted: “
l’amitié reste
.”

Daphne kissed my nose.

“I’d rather you’d said that, Boy, than anything else.”

When Berry returned, we exhibited our acquisition.

After a thorough inspection—

“Lovely,” he said. “Dear old Bughaven. They’ll fairly swarm in that casing. We’d better hang it in the garage.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Daphne. “If there aren’t any now—”

“How d’you know there aren’t any now? They only come out by night. There they are in those cracks, listening to all we’re saying—”

“Rot,” said Daphne. “According to that, every old cupboard or picture—”

“No, no. It’s the chimes,” said Berry. “Bugs are mad about music. Look at the barrel-organ. Always crammed with bugs. Hence its name.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Daphne. “And why – hence its name?”

“Barrel-organ’s a corruption,” said Berry. “It was originally the bushel-organ. And bushel is itself a corruption of bug-shell. My sweet, it’s well known. All the great composers had to be regularly deloused. Why, when I was Beethoven’s
fiancée
—”

“Later, darling,” said Daphne. “The Willoughbys specially asked us not to be late.”

“What, Madge’s birthday? Tonight? Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Berry. “I felt like death today until after lunch.”

“Only three more days,” said I.

“Thank God for that,” said Berry. “What do we do it for?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” I said. “I suppose because it’s the vogue.”

“Hush,” said Berry. He stooped, to set an ear to the picture-clock. “‘Down in the
crevice
something
jeered
.’”

After four hours’ sleep the next morning, I found a letter from Christie’s lying beside my plate.

July, 1924.

Sir,

When yesterday’s sale was over, we were approached by a Mr Coker Falk, at present of 210 Mortimer Street, regarding the picture-clock, for which we enclose our account. This gentleman had intended to bid for this lot, but only reached our rooms after it had been sold. He desired us to give him your name and address. This, according to our practice, we declined to do; but he was so insistent that we ventured to undertake to give you his name and address, so that you could communicate with him, should you feel so disposed.