A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [71]
“What name?”
“Jenkins.”
At this, Barnby became on the spot more accommodating. He opened the door wider and came out on to the step.
“Didn’t you take Edgar to Milly Andriadis’s party?” he asked, in a different tone.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“He was in an awful state the next day,” Barnby said. “Worried, too, about losing so many copies of that rag he hawks round. I believe he had to pay for them out of his own pocket. Anyway, Edgar is too old for that kind of thing.”
He spoke this last comment sadly, though without implication of disapproval. I mentioned the unusual circumstances that had brought Mr. Deacon and myself to the party. Barnby listened in a somewhat absent manner, and then made two or three inquiries regarding the names of other guests. He seemed, in fact, more interested in finding out who had attended the party than in hearing a more specific account of how Mr. Deacon had received his invitation, or had behaved while he was there.
“Did you run across a Mrs. Wentworth?” he asked. “Rather a handsome girl.”
“She was pointed out to me. We didn’t meet.”
“Was she with Donners?”
“Later in the evening. She was talking to a Balkan royalty when I first saw her.”
“Theodoric?”
“Yes.”
“Had Theodoric collected anyone else?”
“Lady Ardglass.”
“I thought as much,” said Barnby. “I wish I’d managed to get there. I’ve met Mrs. Andriadis—but I can’t say I really know her.”
He nodded gravely, more to himself than in further comment to me, seeming to admit by this movement the justice of his own absence from the party. For a moment or two there was silence between us. Then he said: “Why not come in for a minute? You know, all sorts of people ask for Edgar. He likes some blackmailers admitted, but by no means all of them. One has to be careful.”
I explained that I had not come to blackmail Mr. Deacon.
“Oh, I guessed that almost at once,” said Barnby. “But I was doing a bit of cleaning when you rang—the studio gets filthy—and the dust must have confused my powers of differentiation.”
All this was evidently intended as some apology for earlier gruffness. As I followed up a narrow staircase, I assured him that I had no difficulty in grasping that caution might be prudent where Mr. Deacon’s friends were concerned. In answer to this Barnby expressed himself very plainly regarding the majority of Mr. Deacon’s circle of acquaintance. By this time we had reached the top of the house, and entered a fairly large, bare room, with a north light, used as a studio. Barnby pointed to a rickety armchair, and throwing dustpan and brush in the corner by the stove, sat down on a kind of divan that stood against one wall.
“You’ve known Edgar for a long time?”
“Since I was a child. But the other night was the first time I ever heard him called that.”
“He doesn’t let everyone use the name,” said Barnby. “In fact, he likes to keep it as quiet as he can. As it happens, my father was at the Slade with him.”
“He has given up painting, hasn’t he?”
“Entirely.”
“Is that just as well?”
“Some people hold that as a bad painter Edgar carries all before him,” said Barnby. “I know good judges who think there is literally no worse one. I can’t say I care for his work myself—but I’m told Sickert once found a good word to say for some of them, so there may have been something there once.”
“Is he making a success of the antique business?”
“He says people are very kind. He marks the prices up a bit. Still, there always seems someone ready to pay—and I know he is glad to be back in London.”
“But I thought he liked Paris so much.”
“Only for a holiday, I think. He had to retire there for a number of years. There was a bit of trouble in the park, you know.”
This hint of a former contretemps explained many things about Mr. Deacon’s demeanour.