Betty by this time felt as if she had spent half her life at Forde Manor. Save for that slight loneliness, she found the job ideal, and every day which passed made her feel more and more thankful that she had obtained it.
Only on one point was she dissatisfied, and that a matter which was not even her business. Sir Geoffrey was obviously unhappy. He had lost his optimistic eagerness and appeared to be worrying over some secret misfortune. Had it not been for Joan’s warning, as well as what she had herself seen in his eyes, Betty would have tried to comfort him. But she was afraid to seem too sympathetic. Then at tea one afternoon he made an enlightening remark.
‘How do you get to know people in this blessed place?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been here now ten weeks and I’ve scarcely spoken to a soul bar the newsagent and tobacconist and some of the other tradespeople in the village.’
‘Well,’ she answered, hoping she had not hesitated, ‘it’s not so frightfully easy. British reserve and all that, you know. They’re delightful of course when you know them, but sometimes it’s hard to break the ice.’
‘Now just what does all that mean?’ he returned. ‘Are you suggesting I won’t be able to make friends with them?’
As she looked at his undistinguished features and listened to his squeaky high-pitched voice with its suggestion of working-class America, she realized that that was exactly what she was suggesting. But she couldn’t hurt his feelings.
‘Of course not,’ she lied bravely, ‘but you’ll find it hard because you don’t go in for the things that they do. If you were a crack shot or golfer or tennis player, you’d meet them on their own ground. As it is, you’ve no very obvious points of contact.’
He made a joking reply, but his air of disillusionment remained. Indeed, sometimes he looked so worried that she felt it must be due to something more pressing than his failure to enter the local society.
It was partly to help him in this respect and partly to gratify herself, that a couple of days later Betty made a suggestion. The Barkes had just returned from America and she had been intending to go to town to see them. Now it occurred to her that instead, they might be asked down to lunch at Forde Manor. Charles Barke, she knew, would enjoy seeing the pictures, while Agatha would be interested in the house, even if only as the scene of her new job.
‘I should be very pleased if they’d come,’ Sir Geoffrey answered when at tea that afternoon she broached the idea, ‘but they’re your friends and you’d have to do the asking.’
‘Write,’ she directed, ‘a short note to Mr Barke saying that I said he might be interested in the pictures and asking him and Mrs Barke to lunch on whatever day you select. I’ll enclose it in a letter from myself, so it will really be a joint invitation.’
The visit took place on the following Friday. The Barkes turned up shortly before one and their obviously genuine admiration of the place pleased Sir Geoffrey and reduced his inferiority complex. Lunch passed off successfully enough. The Barkes were full of their trip, which appeared to have been an immense success. The lecture tour had taken them down to Florida, and for a week they had basked in the winter’s summer of that favoured land. Charles had been gratified by the attention given to his lectures and Agatha by the kindliness and hospitality which greeted them on all hands.
‘We had a great time,’ Charles declared. ‘You also liked the country, Sir Geoffrey?’
Sir Geoffrey had liked the country. He listened with just the right comments, then as their tales drew to an end, began to talk himself. He didn’t pretend to knowledge which he had not got, but spoke with some shrewdness on his experiences in Chicago in real estate. This interested Barke, who had been to Chicago on a previous visit, and the two men were soon chatting like old friends. Betty and Agatha Barke always had plenty to say to one another.
They had coffee on the terrace, then after a stroll down to the lake, they turned to the ostensible object of the visit. Here again the affair clicked. Barke was impressed by the two great rooms and enthusiastic about the art collection.
‘I knew you had some fine stuff here,’ he told Sir Geoffrey, ‘but I didn’t realize it was as good as it is. I quite envy you.’
‘I wish I knew more about art,’ Sir Geoffrey bemoaned. ‘The collection’s a bit lost on me. I like the pictures, you understand, but not enough to enthuse.’
‘If you like them,’ Barke returned, ‘your appreciation will grow the more you look at them.’
‘One side of them I can appreciate all right, the financial,’ Sir Geoffrey grinned. ‘I had them valued and reinsured lately and I was staggered by the prices put on them.’
‘Genuine old masters run into a lot of money,’ Charles agreed. ‘That Holbein, for instance, should be worth quite a tidy sum, and the Van Dyck,’ he pointed as he spoke to a three-quarter length portrait of a nobleman in velvet and lace, ‘is one of his best.’
They had tea after the inspection and then the Barkes drove off. It was not till a week later that Betty saw either of them again, when she lunched with Agatha in town.
‘Wonderful pictures, those,’ Agatha remarked as they discussed their visit. ‘Charles raved about them. And poor Sir Geoffrey was right; he doesn’t at all appreciate them.’
‘What do you think of him, Agatha?’ Betty asked with some curiosity.’
‘Much more prepossessing than I expected from your description,’ Agatha returned slowly. ‘But he won’t be taken up by the local bigwigs, if that’s what he wants.’
‘You think not?’ Betty’s sympathetic heart made her sorry to hear so decided an opinion.
‘I’m sure of it and Charles says the same. “It’s no use his trying,” Charles said. “He seems a decent sort of fellow, but he’s not the type.” As Charles points out, he lives in another world and speaks a different language.’
‘I’m afraid you’re both right,’ Betty admitted. ‘But he will be disappointed and disappointment is unpleasant to watch. I think he’s really hospitable and was looking forward to entertaining the countryside, and now it looks as if he’s not going to do it.’
Agatha shrugged. ‘There are plenty of people—nice people—whom he could entertain. I don’t know that I feel so sympathetic.’
From the first moment they had met, Betty had noticed a strain in her friend’s manner and now she asked if anything was wrong. For a moment Agatha did not answer, then just as Betty began to think she had been indiscreet, she explained.
‘Nothing to do with me in a way,’ she said, ‘but Charles has been so worried. It’s a profound secret, but you’re safe.’
‘My dear, if it’s a secret I don’t want to know it. It was only—’
‘No, I’ll tell you; I’d like to and Charles wouldn’t mind. It’s about Mr Lorrimer. You know; you’ve met him here. That tall young man with the blue eyes and the BBC announcer voice.’
‘I remember. Charles’s second in command?’
‘Yes, he’s assistant director at the Crewe. Or rather was, for that’s the trouble. Charles has just had to sack him.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Betty hated to hear of unhappiness anywhere. But she could not see why Charles and Agatha’ should be so much upset. ‘What was the trouble?’
‘Money, I’m afraid. It was when we were in America. It occurred to Charles when he came back to make a rough Check of the books, as he does occasionally. Well, he couldn’t balance the figures, and to make a long story short, Lorrimer had been cooking them.’
This was more serious than Betty had somehow expected. ‘Oh, that’s bad, Agatha,’ she answered. ‘Had much disappeared?’
‘Nearly two hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘Horrible! And that young man! I couldn’t have believed it.’
‘Charles thought he was led into it without exactly meaning to steal. He’s fond of women, you know. What we both think is that he got into some harpy’s clutches and couldn’t resist her demands. Such a pity! Charles was upset because he and Lorrimer’s father were such friends. He brought him into the Crewe and to some extent felt responsible for him. You understand?’
‘Of course. Is the father alive?’
‘No, fortunately in a way. He’d be terribly cut up over this.’
‘Horrible for Charles. But is he not prosecuting? I should have thought he’d have no option.’
‘No, he’s not. Lorrimer appeared so repentant and begged so hard for time to repay the money that Charles didn’t know what to do. He thought if Lorrimer were sent to prison he would be ruined for life, and he remembered his promise to his father to do what he could for him. On the other hand there was his duty to the Crewe: he could not allow it to be swindled.’
‘Very difficult, but I should have thought the Crewe would have come first.’
‘It did. Very strictly between ourselves, Charles paid the debt himself. Then he gave Lorrimer six months to find the money, holding the threat of prosecution over him. Lorrimer doesn’t know the debt is paid.’
‘How handsome of Charles and how just like him! And what is Lorrimer doing? Has he private means, or how will he pay?’
‘I don’t know, but I think he has a little money. He’s going to Paris and says he’ll get work there among the ateliers: a tutor probably, with perhaps copying in his spare time.’
‘Well, I think it was extraordinarily good of Charles. I don’t believe there’s another man in the world would have done it.’
‘Nonsense! Charles liked him and found him very helpful. But altogether it has been an unpleasant fortnight for Charles since we got home. But there, that’s enough of grousing. Let’s talk of something pleasanter. What’s the news of Roland?’
The inquiry, Betty thought, was just like Agatha, or for the matter of that, like Charles. Always kind! She was glad the Barkes knew all about Roland—except perhaps how much money she had given him. Their sympathy had been a support to her. And when Charles’s frequent Continental business took him to Paris, he usually contrived to meet Roland.
‘I had a letter about ten days ago,’ she answered gratefully. ‘Things appear to be looking up. He has a scheme for joining in a small company to tour the suburban music halls. Thinks it would do well.’
‘Does he want you to put money into it?’ asked Agatha, who had less use for Roland than her husband.
Betty smiled rather unhappily. ‘He needn’t. I have none to give him.’
‘Just as well, my dear. You spoil him. He’d be far better standing on his own feet.’
‘I don’t think I do, Agatha. I know he was wrong to lose his job, but he’d had a very rough time in Paris and he’s trying so hard to pull up.’
‘If he does, it’ll be thanks to you. You’re much too soft hearted.’
‘You old hypocrite!’ Betty laughed. ‘As if you wouldn’t share your last crust with a beggar!’
For some days after Betty’s visit to Town things went on uneventfully at Forde Manor. No other visitors came to meals or to see the pictures, but Sir Geoffrey now began leaving home more frequently, spending long days in London and weekends in Paris. Betty remained rather worried about him, for in spite of her efforts to cheer him up, he was undoubtedly growing more and more depressed.
Betty herself, while remaining profoundly thankful for her job, was finding her loneliness increasing. It was this loneliness and the time which lay heavy on her hands which redirected her thoughts to an old and cherished project. She wanted to write a novel. The theme was to be the successful struggle of a girl against poverty, and she had devised what she believed was a striking and original plot. Now the urge to put it all on paper took possession of her, and she presently went off to the nearest stationer’s, bought some ruled quarto sheets and a new fountain pen, and set to work.
It proved an even greater interest and pleasure than she had expected, and on fine mornings when her housekeeping was done, she would take a boat out on the lake, and sitting on a pile of cushions, allow it to drift while she covered sheet after sheet of her new paper with her angular and rather untidy writing. She began with a Synopsis, which took several days to lick into shape, then when the great morning came on which she wrote ‘Chapter I’ at the head of a sheet, she felt that the keel of the magnum opus was at last visible on the stocks.
It was just a week later that she made a discovery which for the moment gave her a rather nasty shock. On her daily inspection of the picture gallery she noticed something unusual, though for a moment she could not think what it was. Then suddenly she realized: the Van Dyck was missing!
Its loss was not apparent at first sight, as the adjoining pictures had been moved so as to cover the vacant space. Whoever had taken it had therefore done so deliberately and unhurriedly.
For a moment she stood motionless, overwhelmed with dismay. How could anyone have got into the room? The door was always locked at night and it certainly had not been forced. Leaving the gallery, she locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and set off to look for Sir Geoffrey.
She found him writing in the library. He looked up as she entered, and his evident surprise increased as she carefully shut the door behind her and advanced into the room.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, getting up and pulling round an easy chair. ‘You look as if a disaster of the first magnitude had occurred.’
‘I’m afraid one has,’ she answered. ‘I went into the picture gallery this morning on my usual rounds and—’ She paused, then added in a low urgent tone: ‘Did you know that the Van Dyck is missing?’
For a moment he looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I meant to tell you, but it slipped my memory. May I congratulate you on your supervision? It only went away yesterday afternoon and you discover it first thing this morning. Pretty good!’
She felt relieved, though still puzzled. ‘Oh, if you know, it’s all right. I thought at first it had been stolen.’
‘No,’ he smiled, ‘not so bad as that. The fact is I’m having it cleaned. I’ve been advised that some of the pictures are in a very filthy state and that a bit of cleaning wouldn’t do them any harm.’
Betty stared. She knew that the question of the cleaning and restoring of oil paintings was very controversial and that different artists held different views upon it. But to interfere with the Van Dyck seemed absolute sacrilege! And though she knew she was no judge, she didn’t think it had needed cleaning.
‘Oh, Sir Geoffrey,’ she exclaimed, ‘are you sure you’re right? I mean, it’s not my business of course, but it’s so easy to damage a picture, and to damage a Van Dyck would be so irrevocable and so—so, forgive me, so unpardonable.’
‘It’s good of you to warn me,’ he returned, ‘but, you know, I’m not trusting to my own opinion. I’ve had what I’m told is the best advice. However, I’m impressed by what you say, and I’ll certainly not get a second one done unless this turns out O.K. Perhaps your friend Mr Barke would advise me then?’
Betty laughed. ‘I can tell you what his advice would be,’ she declared. ‘Except in the case of actual injury, he would be dead against doing anything. It’s one of his obsessions. He’s against unnecessary cleaning or renovation.’
‘Then we must just wait and see how this turns out.’
She wished he would cancel the work till Charles could advise him, but she felt she could scarcely suggest it. She wondered who had recommended it. Only Mr Wilberforce, she imagined, as so far as she knew, no other artist of repute had visited the collection. She had asked Charles about Wilberforce, and he had said that he was a sound man and an expert in his own line. So perhaps the idea was not so bad as she had feared.
At the end of that week they had their second visitor. Betty had just finished her inspection and was about to sally forth with her manuscript when the butler called her to say that there was a Mr Davenport on the phone. He was asking for Sir Geoffrey, who had gone down to the village.
Betty took the receiver. ‘I’m afraid Sir Geoffrey’s out at the moment,’ she explained. ‘I’m the housekeeper and if you like I can give him a message when he comes in?’
‘Thanks. My name is Davenport and I met Sir Geoffrey when crossing the Atlantic in the summer. He asked me to call if I were passing, and it was just to say that I shall be in your neighbourhood in the afternoon and would look in if Sir Geoffrey was not busy.’
‘I’m sure,’ Betty returned, ‘he would be delighted.’ As she spoke she heard Sir Geoffrey’s voice speaking to the butler. ‘Hold on for a moment,’ she added. ‘Sir Geoffrey’s just coming in.’ Then putting her hand over the mouthpiece, she went on: ‘It’s Mr Davenport who crossed with you on the Nicarian. He wants to call this afternoon if you can see him.’
‘Davenport?’ Sir Geoffrey queried. ‘Oh yes, I remember. I’ll speak to him.’
She heard him as she was leaving the hall. ‘Hullo, Davenport! Very glad to hear of you again. And you say you’ll be able to look in today?’ There was a pause and he went on, ‘Splendid! But couldn’t you come to lunch?’
On this she waited to hear if special arrangements were to be made for the meal, and when Davenport accepted the invitation she turned back to the kitchen to give the necessary instructions.
She met him at tea. He was a curious-looking man. Small and inclined to stoutness, he had small round features, round eyes, a round mouth and a little round spud of nose. All these were grouped closely together in the centre of his round face. He had just been looking at the pictures.
‘A splendid collection,’ he exclaimed when introduced. ‘I paint myself and I’m lost with envy of Buller.’
‘Yes, isn’t it grand?’ Betty returned, ‘and so well hung. The light is good in these rooms.’
Davenport agreed, rubbing his hands together. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘with the utmost respect to our host, I don’t think it’s right that such pictures should be privately owned. They should be the property of the world.’
Sir Geoffrey smiled. ‘The world has no gallery to hang ’em in!’
‘I mean, they should be the property of the nation. You know. The painter’s nation preferably.’
‘That’s just what my friend Mr Barke says,’ Betty put in. ‘He thinks that great works of art should be available to everyone.’
‘Mr Barke?’ Davenport asked. ‘Mr Charles Barke?’
‘Yes,’ returned Betty. ‘Do you know him?’
Davenport shook his head. ‘I don’t, I’ve just come back to this country after some years in America. But of course I know his name. Everyone does.’
‘But surely,’ Sir Geoffrey interposed, going back a step in the conversation, ‘there’s not much to all that. These pictures are privately owned and in a private house, but anyone who wishes to see them can do so by asking leave.’
Davenport again rubbed his hands. ‘Ah, but that’s just it,’ he declared. ‘They shouldn’t have to ask leave. They should have the right to walk in when they liked. You know. As they can into the National Gallery.’
‘Just what Mr Barke says,’ Betty added.
They discussed the point for some time, then Sir Geoffrey began to ask his visitor about his American experiences. ‘I was in Chicago in real estate for several years. What part of the country were you in?’
‘The south. I lived at Baton Rouge for three years, then drifted about through Louisiana and Florida, painting and so on. I’m fond of sea and river scenes. I’ve done a number of the Mississippi and the cays off Florida.’
‘Never been north?’
‘Never been north or west. I’ve wanted to go to California, but somehow I’ve never been able to manage it. You know. You plan these things, but they don’t always come off.’
Betty was interested and wished to ask Davenport where his pictures could be seen, but she hesitated. Somehow she did not take to him personally. There was a shifty look in his eyes which was unprepossessing. She felt in her bones that he was untrustworthy, then chid herself for letting a mere fancy influence her against him.
Outwardly he was much more a man of the world than Sir Geoffrey, but in spite of that, her feeling against him was so strong that she made no advances of any kind, and as soon as she decently could, she said goodbye and went back to her room. Shortly afterwards she heard his car starting up and then the sound faded as it went down the drive.
That was the first and last visit of Davenport to Forde Manor, and so far as she knew, Sir Geoffrey never paid a return call. In fact, as later she looked back over this part of her life, she realized that Davenport was the last visitor ever to be given lunch in the old house of Forde Manor.