Ellis turned back to the invalid chair, and interrupted its occupant without ceremony.
“I’ve never seen so many books in such a small space. Just been checking up on the Watsons. Pretty good. I’m going to enjoy looking over your books, Mr. Baildon. D’you use the gramophone?”
The old man glanced at it, and scowled.
“I don’t set no store by it. ’Tis Joan’s.”
“Any old records? Interesting ones?”
Baildon stared at him angrily.
“I don’t know what the maid ’ave got.”
“Don’t collect ’em yourself?”
“Collect ’em! Ooever yerd! Wat d’ee take me for?”
“You ought to. Give you a new interest. Lot of money in it, too.”
His only answer was a bilious glare. Then, reminded by the mention of money, Baildon turned to Gilkison.
“You can start this time to-morrow, if you’m mind to. Can’t go throwin’ money away.”
“Very well, Mr. Baildon. Thank you so much.”
Ellis beamed.
“And I may come too. Thank you, Mr. Baildon. You can teach me a lot, I see that.”
“I could learn ’ee manners, if I was twenty years younger. And I would.”
Ellis winked at him.
“I’m going to like you, Mr. Baildon. You say what you mean. So do I. Good-night.”
Before the indignant old man could reply, he had followed Gilkison from the room. Mrs. Baildon saw them to the door, and took nervous leave of them.
“A fine old chap,” Ellis said to her heartily. “A real character. Good-night, Mrs. Baildon. Thank you so much.”
He was humming cheerfully as they went down the drive, and into the road. As soon as they were out of earshot, Gilkison turned on him.
“You idiot. You nearly had us thrown out.”
“Nonsense. You don’t know how to handle him. Give it him back, broadside for broadside, and flatter him in between. I’ll have him eating out of my hand to-morrow.”
“I don’t know which is worse: your conceit, or your manners.”
“He fetched you a good one, anyway. Can’t see you tomorrow morning: he’s seeing someone important. Take that, you bloody tradesman.”
“You and he are a good pair.” Gilkison wrinkled his brow. “What I want to know is, what is Josh Nelder doing here?”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, after a very late breakfast, Ellis took easel and paintbox, and set off towards Matt Baildon’s. In reply to Gilkison’s comments, he announced his intention of sitting in a place from which he could keep the house under observation and see if Gilkison’s friend Mr. Josh Nelder put in an appearance.
Gilkison sniffed. “There’s nothing to paint there,” he said. “Even a lunatic like you couldn’t pretend he wanted to paint Matt Baildon’s place.”
“I shall sit by the crossroads and idealise the view.”
“You’ll need to.”
“I’ll be quite happy. I’ll fall into converse with the villagers, and probably learn facts of great importance. Besides,” Ellis added in afterthought, “you forget, I’m not on duty. I’m on holiday. Why shouldn’t I cultivate my harmless hobby?”
All the same, when he came to the place, Ellis had to admit to himself that Gilkison was right. The only view which anyone could at all plausibly wish to set on paper was from the far side of the crossroads about a hundred yards below Baildon’s house: and from this point it was not possible to keep watch on the gate. One could see anyone who approached the gate, but not whether he went in. Ellis noted, however, that there was a small side gate, opening into the road that led down to the main part of the village.
Still, none of this mattered. All he wanted was to sit in the sun, with a pretext for observing what went on and for getting into conversation with passers-by. Not that Ellis was ever diffident about starting a conversation. But country people, he had found, were invariably curious to look over the shoulder of anyone who was sketching, and regarded him as a species of skilled but harmless lunatic. They would therefore talk to him even more freely than in their own homes or in a pub, watching, hypnotised, the quick brushes at work. Ellis, if he had ever taken the trouble, could have done good work. He had the knack of producing a quick and lively impression, and he worked fast. This had the double advantage of holding anyone who was watching, since the pointing grew before his eyes, and of enabling Ellis to get enough down on paper to justify a far longer session, leaving him free to observe whatever he wanted.
This morning, however, he was on holiday. Gilkison’s breakfast speculations over the presence of his trade rival Ellis refused to take seriously. He promised to keep a lookout, but in such terms as to draw upon himself an acidulated rebuke for frivolity. Now, having established that he could not in any case see whether anyone went in the Baildon front gate, or came out of it, he dismissed the matter from his mind, and considered the singularly unpromising scene before him.
With broad self-parody—in which he usually indulged when his spirits were high—Ellis put his head on one side, screwed up his eyes, surveyed the flat field, the ugly clump of trees, the crossroads, the open laneway that cut past Matt Baildon’s side door, then the sky, placid almost to fatuity, that beamed above. The scene had no element of colour or composition: it was just an agglomeration. The only way to treat it, he decided, was with a sensational vulgarity. Ellis uttered a sudden high cackle, and started to mix his colours, talking vigorously to himself as he worked.
It was as well that he was content to be out of doors in the sun, and expected nothing from the morning; for nothing resulted from it. Nobody came to look at what he was doing, except a small boy and girl, who stood behind him, sniffing monotonously, and, when he asked them whether they had a pocket handkerchief, stared and made no reply. He saw no sign of Josh Nelder, nor of anyone else who looked as if he might be calling on Matt Baildon. A man, pushing a woman in a bathchair, might possibly have gone in, since he came back again. Equally well, he might not.
It was five to one by the time Ellis decided that he had done enough. Chuckling to himself, he packed up, and went back to the Plume of Feathers.
Gilkison was not to be seen. He did not come in till nearly a quarter past, by which time Ellis was sitting down to a large plate of cold lamb and a pint of the local beer.
“M’m’m. Si’ down.” Ellis’s mouth was full. “Make yourself at home. I knew you’d feel awkward if I waited.”
Gilkison sat down. His severe features wore an expression of faint disgust, which meant either that he was preoccupied, or that things weren’t going quite as he wished. He pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his forehead.
“Sweating, I see.” Ellis nodded approval. “Excellent. Do you good.”
“My dear Ellis. One of your many depraved heresies.”
“You ought to like this lovely, warm weather. After your musty shop.”
“It is not musty,” Gilkison said decisively.
“It smells musty. You ought to be thankful for the heat. We get so little of it.”
“I don’t mind it. It’s uncomfortable for walking, that’s all.”
“Obvious remedy—don’t walk. Sit down, like me. What were you walking for?”
“For one thing, I wanted to try and find out where Nelder was staying.”
“Tut. A one-track mind. Did you?”
“He isn’t at either pub.”
“He may be in lodgings.”
“My dear Ellis. I’m not an imbecile. The possibility had crossed my mind.”
“Sayings of the week. ‘I am not an imbecile. Mr. Paul Gilkison.’ Well—how did you go about to locate the estimable Mr. Nelder? No. Don’t tell me. I know. You went about and said you wanted lodgings.”