The Dark Clue (23 page)

He did not return to Harley Street, but instead turned back on to Carburton Street and continued east, walking with the same quick, darting gait. Wary of being taken unawares a second time, I decided to follow at a greater distance, so that if he stopped suddenly again I should be able to conceal myself; but I did not make sufficient allowance for the fog, which grew so thick, as the night came on, that I lost him altogether in Fitzroy Square. I ran to catch him up, and after half a minute or so made out a murky figure ahead of me on Grafton Street, but it seemed a little too tall for Mr. Turner, whom I concluded (or rather guessed), therefore, must have turned on to Upper John Street; and so I went that way myself. And I was right, as luck would have it, for I had not gone fifty paces – still running, and choking on the cold unwholesome air – when I came upon him suddenly.

I shall never, as long as I live, forget the picture he made standing there, the mist swirling about him, before a shabby door with the number ‘46' painted on it (I see it still, the ‘4' not quite straight, and the ‘6' blotched and disfigured, as if it was being consumed by mould). His hand was already on the handle; but even now he hesitated, and peered over his shoulder to make sure that no-one saw him, his little bird-like eyes turned yellow by the sulphurous haze, and burning with the most malevolent expression I have ever seen. For a moment I thought he had recognized me, for he started, as I appeared, like a frightened animal; but I immediately lowered my gaze, and hurried on, and when I glanced back he was entering the house.

There was a small public on the other side of the street, which commanded a good view of number 46, and I found myself a place by the fire, and settled there to watch. But an hour passed, and then another, and still Mr. Turner did not come out, and no-one else went in; and at length, thinking I could delay going home to my wife no longer, I told the landlord I thought I had seen a friend enter a house opposite, and asked him, as casually as I could, if he knew who lived there. He could not meet my eye, but blushed (for he must have thought my ‘friend' was Mr. Turner), and looked down at the mug he was wiping, and mumbled:

‘There's a young widow there, sir, a Mrs. Danby. She's kept by an artist, they say, who treats her, if you'll pardon me speaking plain, as his whore – and none too kindly, by all accounts.'

This is all I know for a certainty, and I shall not lie to you, or pretend to more understanding than I have. I have heard from others, however, that in later years Mr. Turner's habits of secrecy and dishonesty became ever more vicious, until at length he deceived even his closest friends – living, unknown to them, under a false name, in a poor little cottage in Chelsea. Do not, I beg, allow yourself to be deterred by certain persons from doing your duty, and discovering what this extraordinary conduct was intended to conceal.

For my part, I can say only that J. M. W. Turner was the most tight-fisted, black-hearted devil of a man I ever met. I see him still in my dreams, and wake thanking God that he now has no other power to hurt me and my family.

Yours very truly,

John Farrant

XXI

Letter from Miss Mary Ann Fletcher to Marian Halcombe,
1st October, 185-

Sandycombe Lodge,
Twickenham

Dear Miss Halcombe,

I shall be delighted to receive you and your brother here, any morning you please. I should warn you, however – lest, like the generality of visitors, you imagine it to be some great villa, that
can profitably occupy you for a day – that Sandycombe Lodge is only a house in miniature, and you will be done in no more than half an hour.

I do believe, though (but you may perhaps consider me partial!) that you will find it well worth the journey: it is a charming little curiosity; and affords an interesting glimpse into Turner's mind, and into his unusual mode of life.

Yours very truly,

Mary Ann Fletcher

XXII

Letter from Walter Hartright to Laura Hartright,
2nd October, 185–

Brompton Grove,
Saturday

My dearest Laura,

Your strange letter arrived by this morning's post. You silly girl! How can you think – let alone write – such things? Do you really imagine that I can bear this separation any more easily than you (who at least have little Walter and Florrie to comfort you)? – or that I would willingly protract it an hour longer than was necessary?

It grieves me – as it would any man – to hear that our children ask, ‘Has Papa forgotten us? Does he not love us any more?'; but what wounds me a thousand times more is that you say you are at a loss how to reply. Great God! How can you be at a loss? Does not your heart answer for you: ‘Of course not, my darlings; he thinks of you, and misses you, every minute of every day; but he is engaged on some great undertaking that shall one day make you proud of him.'? Or do you think so poorly of me that you no longer believe it yourself, but really suppose that I care nothing for family and home, and that I linger in London, like some shallow, worthless man of the world, merely to indulge the whims of idleness and pleasure?

You say that my letters no longer sound like your ‘old dear Walter' – that while they are addressed to you, you feel I am really directing them to someone else entirely. My dearest –
have I not explained?! I have not time enough to keep a journal
and
to write to you (if I did so, I should be always at my desk, and have to delay my return still further!), and must consequently depend on my letters to preserve a record of my thoughts and impressions. So, yes, others (God willing!) shall one day read some of my words – but would you sooner I confided them all to a diary, and so excluded you, my life's companion, from the very marrow of my experience?

This book – let me state it plainly, when I should have hoped I had no need to – is very dear to my heart. Through it, I believe, I shall be able to say something of true value about the life of a great artist, and about the nature of art itself. If I do as you ask, however, and return to Limmeridge now, all my efforts (and the hardship we have both endured) will have been in vain; for there are more doors I must open, more corners I must peer into, more questions I must ask, before I can confidently reach a judgement on this elusive man and his work. I shall not, therefore, deceive you (as I unwittingly did before) by saying: I shall be home in so many weeks. I shall be home when I have done what I must do; and that – trust me – will be as soon as I can possibly contrive it.

My love as always, and kisses to the children.

Walter

XXIII

From the notebook of Marian Halcombe, 5th October, 185-

Sandycombe Lodge, Twickenham

Neat, plain, geometrical

Whitewashed walls, low slate roof

So small, at first think it's a
real
lodge – expect to see gate, and long drive, with great man's house at end of it

Only inside see it for what it is – Lilliputian classical villa, conceived on different scale from modern houses surrounding it (presumably not there in Turner's time?)

Even on a dull day – first impression (like Turner's paintings): Light

Tiny hall – barrel-vault ceiling – simple decoration – entrance to an elegant dolls'-house

To left: curving staircase, lit by oval skylight, up to two bedrooms

Beyond hall, transverse corridor: dining room at one end; library at the other; in the middle, Turner's studio, with a great window overlooking garden. Light! light! light!

Miss Fletcher – answered door herself. About 40 – long, pale, anxious face, eyes rather close together. Frail, trembled, as if with cold. Sat with her while Walter went outside to sketch house and garden.

Semi-invalid – amuses herself finding out ‘all I can about Turner, and his odd mode of life here'. Thinks he was ‘a funny little man'. [There – ‘funny' again]

Turner moved here 1813.

Why Twickenham? Air. Light. View of Sir J. Reynolds' house – also poet James Thomson's.

Solus – Solis

Blackbirdy

‘Billy'

Pony & trap – sketching

‘Daddy' or ‘Old Daddy' – looked after house

Also gallery [strange!]

Market gardener – cart – gin

Left 1826

House sold to Mr. Ford – sold to Miss Fletcher's fath

From the diary of Marian Halcombe, 5th October, 185-

I have sat here a full hour, and written no more than ‘5th October' – and shall soon be obliged to change even that, for looking at the clock I see it now wants but ten minutes to be
6th
October. Walter depends on me for an account of the day's events, and all I shall finally be able to give him is my notes.

And yet as soon as I start to write for myself rather than for him – see! – the words begin to come. Why? Do I all of a sudden no longer feel at ease with him? No longer trust him?

Certainly I was puzzled, and not a little embarrassed, by his
manner today. He was so withdrawn, so wound about with his own thoughts, that for whole minutes together he said nothing at all, but acted as if he were quite alone, opening a cupboard door, or unfolding the shutters on the window, without question or comment. Miss Fletcher seemed not so much offended by this off-handedness as astonished by it; perhaps assuming that such behaviour would be considered quite normal in London society, she watched him open-mouthed, like a child bemused at the strangeness of the adult world but determined to learn its secrets. Only once did she try to engage him in conversation, as he stood sketching the fireplace in the dining room, and she burst out admiringly: ‘Oh! I wish I could draw like that! How fortunate – to have the Muse of Art as well as of Literature!'

To which Walter did not reply at all (surely a modest ‘You overstate my talents, I'm afraid', or a polite ‘I'm sure you have remarkable gifts, Miss Fletcher', would have cost him little enough?); but merely looked away, with a half-smile that seemed to say:
Yes – you are right – I am infinitely your superior; and you are of so little consequence that I needn't waste breath denying it.
The poor woman was left staring and gulping like a stranded fish; until at length, unable to bear the humiliation any longer, she was forced to resort to the pitiable fiction that she had been talking to me the whole time, and muttered:

‘Hm, Miss Halcombe?'

‘Yes, indeed,' I said. I was debating whether to add, ‘But sad that the Muse of Good Manners seems to have deserted him completely,' when Walter forestalled me.

‘I think I shall go outside now, if I may,' he said suddenly. I should have liked to go with him, but decided to stay and talk to Miss Fletcher instead – partly to show my anger with him, and partly my sympathy for her.

‘You must forgive my brother if he seems a little distracted,' I said as he left. ‘He is very preoccupied with his book.'

‘Oh! – no – I quite understand!'

‘Turner is proving a difficult subject.'

‘Yes, yes,' she said sorrowfully, as if living in Turner's house somehow made her responsible for his vagaries. ‘But I suppose that's the privilege of genius, isn't it? To be a little odd?'

‘Do you think you would have liked him?'

‘What, Turner?' she said, surprised (as, indeed, I had intended she should be; for jolting her into another train of thought was the only way I could conceive of avoiding a none-too-original lecture on the artistic temperament). ‘I really don't know.' She thought carefully for a moment. ‘It all depends, I think. Sol
us
or Sol
is.
'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I don't know why he later changed the name to “Sandycombe Lodge”, but when he first moved here he called the house “Solus” …'

‘“Alone”,' I said.

She nodded. ‘But my brother thinks he meant “Solis”, S-O-L-I-S. “Of the sun.” Or perhaps just “Sunny”. Turner'd barely been to school, you see, and didn't have Latin, so it would have been an easy enough mistake for him to make.'

My mind's eye was suddenly dazzled with the array of suns we had seen at Marlborough House. ‘That seems likelier, doesn't it?'

‘Perhaps,' she said. ‘But you'd certainly suppose he wanted solitude, for he put bars on all the windows, and made the garden a thicket of willows.'

I looked outside. A few yards away I recognized the top of Walter's head. Beyond it, sure enough, was a thick wall of trees.

‘And the boys called him “Blackbirdy”,' said Miss Fletcher, ‘because he wouldn't let them bird's-nest.'

That might, I thought, have simply been because he liked blackbirds; but before I could say anything she went on:

‘And there were only the two of them in the house.'

Two? Was there a wife, then? A young Mrs. Booth? I could not, for a moment, think of a delicate way to phrase the question; but she must have see it in my face, for she said:

‘Turner and his father.'

‘His father!'

She nodded. ‘“Billy” and “Daddy”.'

‘And not even a servant?'

‘Daddy
was
the servant, Miss Halcombe. I know – an eccentric arrangement, but there it is – while Billy was out in his pony and trap, sketching, Daddy was here, taking care of the house
and garden. And as if being his son's cook and valet weren't enough, he was also expected to stretch his canvases, and varnish them when they were done, and go up to London to open the gallery.'

‘What gallery?' I asked.

‘Oh – did you not know? – Turner kept on his house in Queen Anne Street, even while he was living here; and there was a gallery there, where buyers could view his work. And Daddy, of course, was a tight-fisted old man – it was something of a family trait, as I'm sure you've discovered – so to avoid paying the coach-fare he'd give a market gardener a glass of gin to take him into town on his cart.'