Crusader's Tomb

  ‘I outlined my ideas to you before I began. You seemed to approve them then.’

  ‘No one in his senses could approve these panels.’

  ‘Are you competent to judge?’

  ‘You thought us competent enough when we engaged you.’

  A flame of anger had begun to burn in Stephen.

  ‘In that case perhaps you would be good enough to specify exactly how my paintings fail you.’

  ‘Ah’ll give ye specify!’ exclaimed Cordley, provoked to his broadest accent. ‘Did ye think us wanted cripples, and blinded men … naked wimmen … Jezebels … to say nowt of b –––––y lechery …?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Tryng interrupted sharply. In the intervening hours, since the previous afternoon, he had carefully considered his position and the means by which we might best extricate himself from it. Although his sense of personal injury remained acute, he had come to the conclusion that only by hushing up this unfortunate affair could he minimise the damage to himself. He was determined, above all, to prevent at this meeting all particularisation of the objectionable features in the panels, since such discussion would, he well knew, be repeated at every dinner-table for miles around. He therefore fixed a cold blue quarterdeck eye on Stephen.

  ‘The committee’s position is perfectly clear and quite unalterable. We cannot accept your paintings. In my judgement to make them presentable one would require major alterations and three complete repainting. Will you do this?’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Stephen answered without hesitation. ‘ It’s absurd of you to ask it.’

  ‘In that case I must ask you to desist from all further work upon the panels. In due course the decision of the committee cancelling your engagement will be formally conveyed to you.’

  A brief pause. Then the voice of the law was heard on a point that had escaped the chairman.

  ‘I’d like to put on record,’ Sharp said, ‘that as these pictures have been unanimously rejected, under the terms of the agreement no payment, not a penny, is due on them.’

  Stephen remained completely still, struggling with the tumult in his breast. Never before, in all the bitter moments of his life, had he known such bitterness as this, such a suffocating sense of injustice. He wanted to cry out: ‘Keep your damned payment … your thirty pieces of silver. Do you think I poured my soul out for the sake of filthy money?’ But he knew that such an outburst could only confirm their worst opinion of him. Silence was his only refuge. His eyes dwelt, in turn, upon each of these faces, so blurred he could barely distinguish them, then without a word he swung round and left the room.

  Though his head was spinning, his steps led him instinctively to the Memorial. He was fiercely determined, despite the injunction laid upon him, to finish the panels straight away. Not much remained to be done, he would be ready for the final varnishing after two days’ work. By a fortunate omission they had not forced him to give up his key.

  But when he arrived at the Institute, he found the door secured by a bar and padlock, new, solid, resisting all his efforts to shake it loose. Again a moment of straining silence. And again he turned away. Through the town he went, all unseeing, with those hard and sombre eyes, out upon the Downs, where, striding forward, a dark and lonely figure against the skyline, he seemed, though extinguished by the vastness of the landscape, obliterated almost, beneath the great grey dome of sky, still to defy the universe that stood arrayed against him.

  Chapter Eight

  That same afternoon news of the rejection of the panels was in the public domain. But as Tryng kept a firm hold on the committee, and indicated in the strongest terms how damaging to all of them would be a disclosure of the ‘unsavoury’ nature of the painting, since after all they must be held responsible for Desmonde’s selection, it was announced simply that the work submitted had not attained the requisite standard and was therefore unacceptable. Nevertheless, the bare fact of rejection was enough to provoke a mild sensation, and a chorus of self-justification from those who disapproved of Stephen. To Adelaide, at Simla Lodge, it brought a pleasurable sense of vindication. Geoffrey, nursing his grievance, watching and waiting, but saying nothing, experienced a moody satisfaction intensified by a rumour, now circulating, that Stephen had disappeared and could not be found. No doubt the blighter was lying dead drunk in a Brighton pub!

  Two days later, on the Thursday evening of the same unhappy week, a prevailing silence lay upon the Rectory of Stillwater. After delaying as long as she could, Caroline entered the library. In his usual chair the Rector sat, staring into the fire, with Bishop Denton’s Commentaries, from which he now took his sermons, unopened on his knee. For a moment she stood, hesitant, as though unwilling to speak.

  ‘I wondered, Father … if I should lock up.’

  Bertram did not move.

  ‘There is still no sign of him?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  The Rector straightened, blinked the film from his eyes.

  ‘He’s not in his room?’

  Caroline shook her head.

  ‘I’ve looked.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost eleven. Perhaps if I bolted the front door and left the side door on the latch …’

  ‘No, my dear … leave everything as it is. And be off to bed. You must be very weary.’

  ‘Let me sit up.’

  ‘No, no. I have work to do. And I’m not in the least tired. Good night, Carrie.’

  His use of her diminutive name – a rare event – plucked at her heartstrings. But she had no gift of showing tenderness.

  ‘Good night, Father.’

  Reluctantly, with a lingering look, Caroline went upstairs to her chilly bedroom while Bertram, erect in his chair and with a careworn expression, began to wait for his son. As though to deceive himself, in a pretence of application he turned, from time to time, the pages of his book. But his mind was not on it. Continually he glanced at his watch, his ear tensely attuned for a step upon the drive outside the window.

  Even now he could scarcely believe that Stephen, for weeks a model of propriety, could have plunged into a round of dissipation in the effort to drown his sorrows. Yet such was the general opinion. And how else could his prolonged absence be explained? In extenuation, it must be acknowledged that the blow had been a cruel one. He had himself built so high an edifice it was anguish to see it dashed in ruins to the ground. He sighed heavily and laid his hand upon his brow.

  Slowly the minutes dragged on; eleven struck on the grandfather clock; then the single chime of the half-hour. At midnight the last ember of the fire flickered and died. Useless to wait longer. The Rector got up, turned out the lights, and slowly mounted the stairs.

  The following afternoon, towards three o’clock, Caroline, upon whom domestic pressures enforced an early rising, and who had scarcely closed an eye all the previous night, was resting, partly undressed, in her room. Bertram had gone out on a parochial call. Suddenly the sound of footsteps, brisk, familiar, alerted her, hurriedly drew her to the window. Her heart bumped. It was Stephen, approaching with an alacrity which quite dismayed her. Quickly she threw on her old pink dressing-gown, met him as he came into the house.

  ‘Get me something to eat, Carrie, there’s a dear.’ He spoke with a directness that angered her. ‘As soon as you can. I’m starving.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Though her voice wavered, it held an accusing note.

  He smiled – at least his fixed expression broke.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, old girl. Sorry if I’ve upset you. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘How could you be busy … for three days and nights?’

  ‘Very easily … I had a screwdriver.’

  Had he gone crazy? Her tone changed.

  ‘Don’t joke about it Stephen … we’ve been worried. Where did you sleep?’

  ‘Where d’you think? My natural habitat. Ground level. And in my clothes. I’m going up for a wash and a change.’

  She sighed, reliev
ed to see him, yet mystified and full of misgiving. But she made him bacon and eggs herself – Sophie had so far become democratised that she never appeared in the kitchen between three and six o’clock – and brewed a pot of strong tea. Seated opposite, still in her robe, chin propped on her hands, she watched, doubtfully, while he made a hearty meal. As he ate and drank he parried all her questions, then, relenting, sat back in his chair and looked at her.

  ‘It’s really quite simple, Carrie. I had to finish my paintings. And as they’d padlocked me out, I broke in.’

  ‘Broke in?’

  ‘I tried a ladder at first but it didn’t work … so I unscrewed the bar.’

  ‘And you’ve been there … in the Institute … all this time?’

  ‘Practically.’

  ‘With nothing to eat … for three days and nights? And sleeping … on the floor?’

  ‘I assure you, dear Carrie, that didn’t bother me in the least.’ His voice hardened. ‘I wanted to get my work done … and now it is … varnished and complete.’

  She was silent. While his cheerfulness helped to allay her uneasiness, yet she could not but observe how this last effort, imposed upon long and unsparing creative work, had physically reduced him. The candour and gentleness that were his better qualities had gone, replaced by what seemed to her a terrible perversity.

  He glanced at the clock.

  ‘I must be off.’

  ‘Oh, no, Stephen.’ She started up in protest. ‘Not again. Father will want to see you.’

  ‘I shall be back quite early,’ he assured her. ‘Certainly before ten. I promise you.’

  His words carried conviction, yet there was something behind them which she could not comprehend. The next minute he had left the house as abruptly as he had appeared.

  At the end of the lane, after a brief delay, the ‘hourly’ Rural District bus loomed up and Stephen hailed it. The antique vehicle was almost empty and, as he took his seat, moved off along the highroad in the direction of Charminster.

  All the stubbornness in Stephen’s character had risen against the treatment meted out to him. Six years ago he might have questioned the quality of his work. Now, he was convinced that the panels were of the highest quality, not only as the expression of a universal theme, but also as a work of art. That they should have been dismissed so arbitrarily, in such objectionable terms, and without recourse to expert opinion, made the blood surge within him. Worst of all was the manner in which the committee had sought to suppress the affair by impounding his work, for which they had paid nothing, forbidding him access to it, and in general stifling, before they could begin, his attempts to secure redress. Once again, as he sat in the lumbering bus, the recollection of all that he had poured out so willingly and in such good faith made him bite his lip and clench his hands. He could not, he would not submit, but, in spite of everything, would bring the matter into the light of day. Carefully, he went over the arrangements he had made – though far from perfect they were the best he could improvise and he felt they would serve. How fortunate that he had, for once, adequate spare cash. He had never wanted it more.

  As the bus entered the outskirts of Charminster he felt his nerves tighten. The market clock, illuminated against the encroaching darkness, showed a quarter to six o’clock. At the stop before the square he got off and, taking the short cut through Oat Lane, walked rapidly towards the county railway station. He reached the main platform and took up his position at the barrier just before the six-twenty-five from London drew in.

  Few passengers descended from the train, and amongst them he immediately made out the youthful figure of Thorpe Maddox advancing towards him, carrying a handbag.

  ‘Good of you to come,’ Stephen said as they shook hands.

  ‘Only too glad to help, Mr Desmonde. Uncle sent his regards.’

  ‘I’m putting you up at the Blue Boar. You ought to be comfortable there,’ Stephen continued as they walked towards the station exit. ‘But first we have some work to do.’

  ‘You did get the premises?’

  ‘I’ve rented them for two weeks, beginning tomorrow. We’re going there now.’

  In the centre of Charminster, just off Market Street, there was situated a shop, originally a stationer’s and circulating library known as Langlands, which, through a succession of failures, had become a sort of local ‘let-out’on short-term leases for such diverse purposes as Boy Scout rallies, electioneering headquarters, and sales of work by the various charitable organisations of the district. Opposite this establishment Stephen drew up.

  ‘This is the place. Not much. But it will do. Good wall-space, and a desk and chair for you. Come round the back way. There’s a hand-cart in the yard.’

  Five minutes later, pushing the hand-cart between them, they trundled off, by a quiet, circuitous route, to the Institute. Charminster, known as a city only because of its cathedral, was actually little more than a small country town, seldom given to nocturnal gaiety. Few people were in the streets at this hour, and Stephen observed with satisfaction that their passage went unnoticed. In less than twenty minutes they had transferred his panels from the building to the barrow, where, having assured himself that the varnish had set hard, he covered them with a strip of sacking. After locking the door, as a final refinement which he felt the committee might appreciate, he screwed back the bar and padlock tightly, in its original place.

  Proceeding towards the market-place with due discretion, they presently got back to the Langlands establishment, brought their vehicle alongside, unloaded the cargo, carried it into the empty shop. After drawing all the blinds they began to set up the five pictures. One, the Rape of Peace panel, Stephen placed in the front window; the second, Armageddon, directly opposite the entrance; the remaining three were hung in the large room which had once housed the library. It was not an easy undertaking – the frames were heavy and required to be strongly wired – but at last, just after nine o’clock, it was completed to Stephen’s satisfaction. He turned to his companion.

  ‘Well, what’s the verdict?’

  With an intent expression, young Maddox answered:

  ‘You know how I’ve always been keen about your work, Mr Desmonde, from the very first. I’ll swear these surpass anything you’ve done. They are tremendous … they simply bowl one over.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind sitting with them for a couple of weeks?’

  ‘I’d say not. It’ll be … exciting.’ He paused. ‘Uncle hasn’t seen them?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m just wondering, Mr Desmonde … whether he would think you wise in exhibiting them in Charminster.’

  ‘Damn it all, Thorpe, it’s in Charminster I must show them. And why not?’

  ‘Well, sir … this is a small, backward sort of place. I’ll bet they don’t know a work of art from a turnip.’

  Something was on young Maddox’s mind. Stephen waited.

  ‘If these panels were in the National Gallery or the Louvre, people would take them at their worth. But, Mr Desmonde’ – he made a gesture which expressed his artistic valuation of the whole rural neighbourhood, and his young eyes had turned oddly serious – ‘what on earth will they think of them down here?’

  Chapter Nine

  Next morning dawned crisp and clear. At the Blue Boar, Thorpe Maddox rose early, breakfasted, then set out for the shop known as Langlands, which, at nine o’clock precisely, he opened, placing the panels on public display. Almost at the same moment Mark Sutton, a punctual man, came along Market Street on his way to the bank, which stood at the corner only a few doors away. He saw the great painting in the window, recognised it, and almost had a fit. Four minutes later he was in his office telephoning to Tryng. Inside the hour the Admiral had joined him, and with a helpless gesture, declared that he washed his hands of the whole affair.

  ‘I did my best, Sutton, to straighten out a very nasty situation. Not in my own interest, but because of persons for whom I have a high regard. Everything w
as taut and ship-shape. And now this damn fellow has scuttled us by pinching the pictures and throwing them right in the public eye.’

  ‘Of course they are his paintings … he was entitled to take them …’

  ‘Isn’t that just the trouble? Otherwise I’d have burned the lot long ago.’

  A pause, during which Tryng rammed tobacco into his pipe.

  ‘Hadn’t you better see the Dean?’ Sutton suggested unhappily.

  ‘I tried to on my way down. But he had a chill and isn’t available. In any case he’s beyond all this. It’s we who must stand the rub.’

  ‘You think there will be …’ nervously he balked at the word ‘scandal’ … ‘a reaction?’

  ‘Are you mad? Good God, man, these cursed paintings will cause a bigger commotion in Charminster than anything since the fire in Bailey’s brewery. But I’ve taken my stand. I was let in for this in the first place. And now I’m done with it.’

  And Reggie stalked out of the bank.

  In the ordinary way an exhibition of paintings would have had no more impact on the life of this country town than a snowflake falling upon a tombstone. Indeed, there had been few such exhibitions, the last, so far as memory served, before the war, a display of flower pictures by the paralysed daughter of old Major Featherstonhaugh, whose vases of primroses, pansies, and the like, priced at a guinea each, were really quite first-rate, when one considered they were done by a cripple.

  But this was not the same kind of exhibition, nor were these floral pictures. The sequence of events which preceded their public presentation, linked to the known reputation of the artist, was enough to enwrap them with a horrid fascination. Briefly, they attracted because they repelled – and all Charminster went to view them, as a crowd might gather at a morgue. In so doing, the gentry, whatever they reserved for privileged conversation, maintained fitting hauteur – though distasteful mutterings were occasionally heard and it was observed that as she stepped into her Daimler the lady dowager, present incumbent of Ditchley Castle, wore a look of marked severity, thus increasing her likeness – a resemblance which she prized – to the late Queen Victoria. The lower orders, on the other hand, mainly workers of both sexes from the surrounding farms, were regrettably underbred. Some gaped in silence, but for the most part their comments were noisy, loud and vulgar, interspersed with gross humour, and a bawdy interpretation of certain phases of the compositions which provoked amused giggles from the younger females. It was left to the intermediate section of this cathedral town, the solid, respectable, God-fearing, law-abiding middle class, to assume a proper attitude towards this untoward presentation, and to weigh seriously its effect upon the community.