The Dark Clue Read Online Free PDF

yellow glove and shook my hand.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ we both said together, and laughed.
    â€˜Sir William Butteridge,’ he said. He tried to sound nonchalant, but his face shone, and in struggling to suppress his smile he distorted his next words so much that all I could make out was ‘.. . discuss a . . .’
    â€˜A
what?
’
    â€˜A commission.’
    â€˜Really? That’s wonderful!’ I said. And I was, needless to say, truly delighted for him; but I cannot deny that I felt a pang of envy, too, swiftly followed by satisfaction at the recollection of my own commission, and as swiftly again by frustration that I was sworn to secrecy, and could not, therefore, counter ‘Sir William Butteridge’ with ‘Lady Eastlake’.
    â€˜Is it in there?’ I asked, nodding towards the portfolio.
    â€˜Just a few sketches. You want to see?’
    He laid the portfolio on a bench and opened it. Inside were some rough drawings of a sickly-looking young woman with flowing hair clutching a broken column for support. ‘She’s swooning at the sight of her lover,’ Travis explained, pointing at a vague blob on the left-hand side, ‘who is returning, mortally wounded, after a seven-year absence. Faith and Purity, that’s what Sir William wants. I think I’ve got it, don’t you?’
    â€˜I’m sure he’ll be very pleased.’ It did occur to me that, since Sir William had made his fortune dispossessing widows and orphans from the path of railways, he might stand in greater need of faith and purity than most; but I said nothing.
    â€˜There’s money in mediaevalism,’ said Travis, perhaps feeling he had failed to impress me as an artist, and must therefore do so as a man of the world. ‘Take my advice, Hartright. Find yourself a knight and a damsel, and set to work.’
    â€˜I haven’t the time, just at the moment,’ I said. I hesitated, giving him an opportunity to ask me why not; but he merely busied himself with putting his sketches away, so I went on: ‘Tell me, what do you remember of Turner?’
    â€˜Turner? I barely met him,’ he said, closing the portfolio. ‘My first Academy dinner was his last. I did see him once or twice on Varnishing Days, but it would never have occurred to me to speak to him.’ He turned towards me, and a spasm of silent laughter shook his heavy chestnut curls like blossom on a tree. ‘Like sauntering up to the altar, and helping yourself to communion wine.’
    â€˜Was he really so extraordinary?’ I said.
    â€˜Not to look at,’ he said. ‘Well, yes,
extraordinary,
but not in the way you mean. Not
impressive
. He was about so tall’ – he held his hand out, below the level of his own shoulder – ‘with a hugeJew nose, and beady grey eyes, and an enormous top hat with the nap brushed the wrong way, and an old-fashioned coat with tails that almost swept the ground (and couldn’t have been much dirtier if they had), and long sleeves that entirely covered his filthy hands. Like this.’ He hunched forward, miming the ridiculous little figure he had described. Several passers-by stopped to stare, and a small girl erupted in uncontrollable giggles. I could not help laughing myself – Travis always looks most beatific when he is being most malicious, and seeing his pale, noble face contort into this grotesque hobgoblin was irresistibly comical – but it made me uncomfortable, as if I had joined in the mockery of some poor unfortunate whose only fault was his unusual appearance.
    â€˜I meant,’ I said, ‘was he really so great a genius?’
    â€˜Certainly if you equate genius with industry,’ said Travis. ‘He never stopped. Rain, shine, awake, asleep, in the water closet… He’s doubtless at it now, scraping sunsets on his coffin lid.’
    â€˜Oh, come now,’ I said, laughing. ‘What’s