The Dark Clue (50 page)

But something about it reminded me of another picture. Not the style – not the subject-matter – but the grandiose scale. The
not-qnite-rightness
of it.

What was it?

And then I remembered. Poor Haste's huge picture of Lear.

Perhaps Walter saw my reaction; for he snapped: ‘It's not finished!' and then, without giving me a chance to reply:

‘What do you want?' From the tone of his voice you might have supposed I was a naughty child, who had been told that in no circumstances was Papa to be disturbed.

‘I forgot my reticule,' I said hastily – which was true enough,
though I had only that moment thought of it.

He nodded towards the table where it still lay. I picked it up, and knew at once that it was too light.

‘Where's my notebook?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

I pulled it open, and looked inside. Nothing else was missing. I took out my purse. Two sovereigns and some change. Just as I remembered.

‘Could it have fallen out?'

He shook his head.

‘Are you sure?'

‘The thief had the string round his wrist.' He rotated his own wrist impatiently for emphasis. I noticed that it was red and chafed, but knew better now than to ask why. ‘And after that it was in my pocket.'

‘What about when you took it back from him?'

He shook his head again. ‘You must have left it at the East-lakes'.'

‘I didn't.'

‘You
must
have!' He seemed taken aback by his own vehemence, and made an effort to calm himself before going on, more reasonably:

‘It would have been easy enough to forget, wouldn't it? In the circumstances.'

‘Perhaps,' I said, moving towards the door; for I could see there was no point in discussing it further. ‘I'll write to Elizabeth East-lake about it.'

And I will. But I still find it difficult to believe that I would have left my notebook there, even in all the confusion – for usually, whether I am thinking consciously of it or not, I am as aware of its whereabouts as I am of my own hand.

Walter did not come in to dinner.

LV

From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
14th December, 185–

To live as Turner did you need a basement.

I did not think to provide myself with one when I designed the studio. As a result, Marian surprised me today when I was writing, and saw the
Ironworks Accident
before it was ready.

There is not a great deal I can do about the painting, save to deter further visits. But for this notebook there is a simple remedy. I shall go out tomorrow and get a box.

LVI

Letter from Lady Eastlake to Marian Halcombe,
15th December, 185-

7
Fitzroy Square,
Friday

My dear Marian,

Thank you for your note. I am so glad that your brother was able to retrieve your reticule, which has a little restored my faith in Fortune's taste, if not in her morals – for had she deprived you of
that,
after heaping on us all the other disasters of the evening, I should have considered her guilty of vulgar excess, and avoided her society altogether. Did the wretch who tried to steal it escape, or was Mr. Hartright able to deliver him to the police?

No sign, I fear, of your notebook. I have made a fleeting search of the drawing room myself, and made enquiries of the servants, without success; but we shall keep looking, and if the fugitive is found will put it securely under lock and key, and return it to you under armed guard.

We must – we will – meet soon, and make good what we so signally failed to do on Tuesday; though it will not now, I am afraid, be until some time after Christmas.

In haste,

Yours very truly,

Eliz. Eastlake

LVII

From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
15th December, 185-

I am like an engine. Pulled and pushed by so many conflicting pressures I fear the rivets will break, and I shall fly apart.

But if I can hold myself together this will be a great book. Not just the life of an artist, but – for the first time – his soul.

People will ask me how I know.

I shall say nothing.

They will see the answer in my painting.
Chiaroscuro.

LVIII

Letter from Laura Hartright to Walter Hartright,
16th December, 185-

Limmeridge,
Saturday

My darling Walter,

Still nothing from you. Is something the matter?

I thought things were well between us again, but now I fear they are not.

Please write soon.

Your loving wife,

Laura

LIX

From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
17th December, 185-

Sunday

A dreadful night. Dreamed of Laura. She was crying. She said:
If that's what you wanted, you had but to ask.

Another letter from her this morning. Did not open it. Have not opened the last one.

Tried to reassure myself with Nisbet's words: ‘Everything has its price. Turner knew that.'

But what if the price is unbearable?

The worst of it is not being able to talk to anyone. This afternoon, in desperation, I called on Travis. He is a man of the world, I think. But his wife said he had gone to the Athenaeum. I was not dressed for the Athenaeum.

Spent the evening working on the
Accident.
It still would not come; and at length I could not bear to look at it any more, and retreated to my room. But I will not be defeated.

If I have learned anything, it is that victory or defeat is all a question of will. Tomorrow I shall return to it, and
force
it to express what is in my mind.

LX

Letter from Laura Hartright to Walter Hartright,
18 th December, 185–

Limmeridge,
Monday

My darling Walter,

Why do you not answer me? I can scarce see the paper for weeping.

Remember my condition.

Please.

Your loving wife,

Laura

LXI

From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
18th—20th December, 185-

Monday

It is a monster, but I must face it.

Travis appeared about three o'clock. I was doing well enough until then.

‘Kate told me you called yesterday,' he said. One raised eyebrow asked:
Why?

I did not feel I could tell him at once. ‘Yes.'

He did not press me, but whistled under his breath, and looked about him at the studio, nodding approvingly. Then his eye fell on the
Accident.
He did not say anything, but gave a knowing smirk that galled me.

‘I't isn't finished,' I said hotly. I am growing tired of having to explain it.

‘No,' he drawled. He did not add:
I can see that,
but he might just as well have done. ‘So you are still pursuing Turner?'

‘Yes,' I said, wiping my hands, and edging him away from the canvas. ‘I am writing his biography.'

‘Are you, indeed?' He pursed his lips, and rolled the notion round in his mouth, as a man will savour a wine before pronouncing on its quality. ‘What a good idea,' he said at last – in a manner that perfectly conveyed:
Or better, at least, than trying to paint as he did.

His condescension was insufferable; but I managed to contain my rage, and even to give a fair impression of genial hospitality as I gestured him to a chair, and took one myself.

‘And what have you found out?' he said.

‘A good deal. Did you, for instance, know that he used to patronize a brothel in Wapping? Where he tied the girls up, and made them hide their faces?'

His response astonished me. I had expected surprise – disbelief – a cry of
Gracious, man! How do you know that?
and then the glorious relief of telling him. Instead, he merely chuckled, and said:

‘Oh, yes! – I've heard those stories!'

‘You have?'

He nodded and smiled superciliously, like a schoolboy amused at the naïveté of one of his fellows.

‘And you do not believe them?'

He shrugged. ‘I really don't know. And I don't greatly care.' He took a cigar-case from his pocket and opened it. ‘It's not my taste at all. The wilder and freer the better, so far as I'm concerned.' He laughed. ‘Smoke?'

‘Thank you.'

‘It's possible, I suppose. We're all rather strange, aren't we? And Turner was stranger than most.' He lit our cigars, and then meditatively tapped the match until it went out. ‘But it's equally possible there are people who want
us
to believe it.'

I almost choked.

‘Too strong for you?' he said.

' Who
would want us to believe it?'

‘Oh, I could give you a hundred names. Many of them titled. Most of them powerful.' He shrugged again, as if the point were too obvious to need further elucidation. ‘And what else?'

‘Wait!' I held up my hand to silence him, while I struggled to order my thoughts. Which was no easy task: for suddenly a whole clamour of doubts and misgivings, which up until now I had successfully kept at bay, breached my defences, and broke in upon my conscious mind.

Had my captors really gone to all that risk and trouble merely in order that I should know the truth? Even the cost of the cab, surely, would have been prohibitive for them?

Was it not far more probable that someone else had paid them to do it?

And then I remembered Farrant. And the man I had met with him, Hargreaves.
There's a value now, to stories about Turner. There's a gentleman as pays good money for them.

I said:

‘Why?'

‘Why what?'

‘Would they want…?'

‘Oh, because of the will, of course.'

‘Turner's will, you mean?'

‘Well, certainly I don't think
mine
would have roused their interest,' he murmured. ‘And' – here he looked about him, and smiled languorously – ‘forgive me, but I rather doubt whether yours would, either.'

I gritted my teeth. ‘And what of it?'

‘You don't know?' he said, as if it were the first thing a biographer should have discovered.

‘Well, naturally . . .' I began, trying frantically to recall what Marian had told me of her conversation at the Eastlakes. ‘Naturally, I realize he made things difficult. By being too mean to pay a competent lawyer to draw it up.'

‘And who is your source for that?' simpered Travis. ‘Sir Charles Eastlake?'

I could have hit him. ‘In part,' I said. ‘Why? Is he not to be trusted?'

He shrugged. ‘He certainly has an interest in promoting that view,' He hesitated; and then, as if he had finally decided he had played with me enough, stuck his cigar between his teeth, and leant forward purposefully.

‘Look,' he said, picking up the cigar case. ‘Here is Turner's fortune. Houses, money, and so on. Mm?'

I nodded. He took the matchbox in his other hand.

‘And here are his pictures. Some unfinished. Some unsold. But also many of his most famous works, which he's painstakingly bought back over the years, often at excessive prices.' He opened the box, and spilled matches on the table. ‘See. There are hundreds of them. Thousands, if you include the drawings. Now' – tapping the cigar case – ‘this, apart from a few small legacies, he leaves to charity. To build alms-houses for decayed or unsuccessful artists. While these' – sweeping the matches to one side – ‘he leaves to the nation. On condition that, within ten years of his death, a “Turner Gallery” is built to house them. Do you follow me?'

‘It's an undeniable challenge, for a man of my limited powers. But I think I can keep up.'

I had landed a small blow. He smiled and nodded – and even, if I am not mistaken, blushed slightly.

‘But the family – a gaggle of cousins and what-not, whom Turner hadn't seen for years – contest it. First they claim he was mad. When that fails, they take it to Chancery, saying the wording of the will is too unclear to be understood. After three years there's a compromise. The charitable scheme is overturned on a technicality. So the family get this.' He lifted the cigar case. ‘And the nation gets these.' He drummed his fingers on the matches, scattering them across the table. ‘Only it doesn't want to go to the trouble of fulfilling his condition.'

‘Why ever not?'

‘Why do you suppose? Money. Only conceive the unspeakable suffering of one of Her Majesty's ministers obliged to stand up in Parliament and propose spending £25,000 on art! But Eastlake's determined to hold on to them nonetheless.'

‘I don't see how he can.'

‘By resorting to the most bare-faced sophistry. His argument – he actually had the audacity to say this, can you believe it, to an ex-Lord Chancellor! – is that, since the will was overturned, the
National Gallery can keep the collection without having to do anything at all.'

‘But surely – it was only because of the will that he got them in the first place!'

‘Exactly. As the ex-Lord Chancellor did not hesitate to point out. So Eastlake's in a ticklish situation.'

I nodded. ‘But I don't see how blackening Turner's name would help him.'

‘Don't you, indeed?' He absently swept the sticks together again. ‘Well, now. Just imagine – for a moment – that it's not Turner we're talking about, but the Duke of Wellington. He has made a munificent bequest to the nation, but the government refuses to honour its terms. What would be the result?'

‘A public outcry.'

‘Yes. Questions in the House. A resignation or two. Articles in
The Times. Disgrace. Stain on the national honour. An Englishman's word…

‘Yes,' I said; for it was undeniable. ‘Go on.'

‘Of course, Turner was only a painter, which any patriotic Englishman knows is a far lesser thing than a soldier. But still – he was, by common consent, our
greatest
painter. So what's poor Eastlake to do? How does he walk the tightrope?'