Holmes absorbed this without comment. He pointed again at the painting.
‘And the sheen on that figure and his flamboyant hat? Was that achieved by scumbling?’
‘No, not by scumbling,’ Pevensey responded abruptly, as though affronted.
‘Then?’ Holmes pursued in the sweetest of voices.
Pevensey appeared reluctant to reply. Finally, under the sustained press of Holmes’ questing look, he responded ‘With boiled linseed oil’
‘Hum,’ said Holmes, ‘That explains it. Scumbling is best for half-lights and half-distance.’
My companion gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I confess that while techniques with brush and paint are of great interest, it is the chemistry that excites me most. Why did you use boiled linseed for that figure, may I ask?’
‘Why, that’s simple, Holmes,’ Siviter interrupted. ‘Pevensey has already informed us he ran out of his supply of linseed oil. Presumably he called for the next best thing, the boiled linseed we use around the property as a wood-finish.’
A fit of disquiet appeared to overtake the President of the Royal Academy. The atmosphere had grown more unwelcoming. We - or Holmes’ questions - were, I presumed, an intrusion on so self-regarding a painter. The artist turned half-left to face the darkling figure of Siviter.
‘Siviter, you will excuse me, I must prepare to return to London.’
Turning back to us, Pevensey repeated, ‘You will excuse me. I need to gather up my paints and brushes to go to London or I would offer you further instruction in my art. Perhaps,’ he added, with a cold smile, ‘in return for some slight instruction in yours. Siviter, I believe I have completed your commission. The canvases are yours. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I anticipate boarding an earlier train than yours lest weighted down with my paints and brushes I run into throngs of hop-pickers and counter-jumpers.’
Pevensey’s manner was now cold in the extreme. I smiled politely, more at his excess of snobbery than from a warmth I did not feel, for he would in any case, like us, be in a Pullman car where hop-pickers and ‘counter-jumpers’ with their trinkets and appurtenances would fear to tread.
Disregarding both my and Holmes’ out-thrust hands he turned away. At the opening to the narrow staircase, he threw a final glance at Holmes. Had the thought not been absurd, I would have wagered he was in the grip of fear, certainly someone on extreme guard. He switched his look to Siviter, giving a peculiar nod. With a quick turn and again maintaining a grim stare in Holmes’ direction, he descended the steep stairs, his head disappearing downwards like a hanging in slow motion. Holmes looked at me with a glance of comic resignation and gave a shrug.
On Pevensey’s departure, Holmes and I left our positions and moved across to look at the second canvas. It portrayed a ruined castle surrounded by a moat, the water as blue as the Blauer See.
‘Where is this?’ Holmes asked our host. ‘I don’t recall seeing...’
’No, not here at Crick’s End. That is also at Scotney Castle, the ruin itself, a slight departure from the wagon pond. It seemed convenient while we had Pevensey with us to commission him to make it a pair.’
Siviter turned away. His pointing finger redirected our attention to the tiny aperture through which the sunlight flooded.
‘Duck Window,’ he remarked immediately. ‘Until to-day’s uncertain weather Pevensey has been hanging his canvases out of this window to dry in the evening sun.’
He pointed through it. ‘Look at the view! For two centuries along that river you would hear the ironmasters’ hammer resounding loud and clear.’
Siviter stepped back, beckoning us to look out. Over our shoulders I heard him say, ‘Down there is Rye Green where Jack Cade, leader of the Kentish Rebellion, was killed in 1450.’
The mill-pond lay immediately below us. The water level was too low to register on the marker at the sluice. Sticks and plant material jutted from the mud, darkening the little water that remained.
With Pevensey no longer in the attic, Holmes stepped within arms-length of the easel. He withdrew a large round magnifying glass from his voluminous coat and placed it over the painting. As if offering a compliment to the departed painter, Holmes remarked, ‘One brush is made from the ashy-grey upper half of the Ratel, a carnivorous animal of the Badger family, found only in Southern India and Southern Africa, though overall I see he is a sable man.’
I caught Siviter’s rueful eye in the gloom and gave him a barely-suppressed smile in return. ‘Well done, Holmes,’ I applauded loyally. ‘You surprise me still. I had no idea of your expertise in artists’ brushes.’
Holmes scowled. ‘My dear Watson, In addition to the fact my grandmother was sister to the French painter Horace Vernet, I took instruction from Roy Perry, Head of Conservation at the Tate.’
He stepped back to allow me to take a closer look.
‘I hesitated to mention this before,’ I remarked, looking across at our host, ‘but this painting is remarkably like...’
‘The Hay-Wain by the great John Constable, yes,’ Siviter interjected. ‘Who else portrays L’Angleterre Profonde so well, though,’ he added self-deprecatingly,’ hardly one of his six-footers. The owners of the Scotney Estate are to be the recipients of this work. Lady Fusey adores Constable’s paintings - she was born and bred up by the Stour. She had her labourers dig an exact copy of the wagon pond ready for Pevensey’s arrival,’ adding, almost regretfully, ‘she eschews all modern schools of ‘-ism’ - Impressionism and Post-Impressionism, or I might have commissioned Cezanne or Vlaminck.
‘But in the Constable,’ I persisted, pointing, ‘this figure....’
‘...wasn’t there...’ Siviter responded. ‘Quite right. Instead there was a dog - well remembered. Like the palimpsest there is a dog there still, but I’m afraid I obliged Pevensey to over-paint it.’ With a laugh he confided, ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t feel he is at his best painting our canine friends.’
With the exit of Pevensey our host had returned to his former convivial self. He gave us a disarming smile. ‘Gentlemen, though I should not hurry you, an informal meal is being served before your departure.’
Once outside we walked in crocodile formation across the small bridge and reassembled in the Wild Garden. Siviter took up again, ‘I have ordered the cook to prepare a special treat. Sir Julius’ mother, now some time dead, was a member of the Sephardim, brought up in Constantinople. She taught her son a special dish called Imam bayildi which I believe translates as ‘The Imam swooned’, presumably with pleasure rather than indigestion. Sir Julius has made me learn the ingredients by heart.’
Cued by his words, I asked, ‘And what would they be?’
Crossing back to the sundial and terraced lawns Siviter recited, ‘Take an aubergine and split its belly, stuff it with chopped and sautéed tomato, onion and aubergine, seasoned with bay leaves, marjoram, garlic, basil, cumin, and cardamom, add nuts, lemon juice, fruit, wine, rice and cheese, and bake in olive oil in an oven for at least one hour ...’
Companionably he fell back to walk by my side. ‘And Dr. Watson, time permitting, in celebration of your years on the North-West Frontier you and I shall retire to the gun-room and wash it down with two bottles each of Burton India Pale Ale - produced at...?’
‘Meux’s Brewery?’
‘Where else!’
Though still remaining in ear-shot, Holmes fell away from the discussion at the mention of Imam Bayildi. He pays slight attention to nourishment with the exception of woodcock and Mrs. Hudson’s eggs for which his appetite is voracious. He prefers food which can be eaten at speed, cold beef or simple mutton, tins of corned beef or pilchards in tomato sauce, and a glass of beer. Only once to my recollection did he depart from this frugality, at the time of the extraordinary conclusion to our adventure chronicled as The Sign of Four.