The Painted Lady

Chapter Ten

Jean-Paul Villemot dreaded the approach of night. The day had been a trial but visits from Emile and Christopher Redmayne had acted as a welcome distraction and left him with the minor comforts of clean clothing and edible food. Natural light had also filtered into his cell. Although the narrow slit in the wall was too high for him to look out through, he was grateful for the sunshine that poked in and for the additional benediction of a whiff of fresh air that came in its wake. At night, one of them disappeared.

Newgate was plunged into darkness. Villemot had a candle in his cell but its flickering flame created only a small circle of light. He was lost in shadow, a hunched figure sitting against the wall as he listened to the nocturnal howls of the crazed, the sick and the violent. Noise was more intrusive at night, bruising his ears, battering on the iron bars and pressing in upon him with almost physical force. As the din built to a crescendo, he put his hands to his face in sheer dejection.

There was no way out. He admired Christopher Redmayne but he simply could not believe that the architect — albeit with the aid of a constable — would be able to secure his release from prison. There were strict limits to what Emile could do for him and even Lady Lingoe was only able to make his imprisonment marginally less hideous. Villemot was on his own, a renowned French artist who discovered that his fame, his nationality and his choice of profession only provoked derision in Newgate. Charged with murder, he was treated like the lowest criminal. It was degrading.

He was not only obsessed with his own suffering. His thoughts frequently turned to Araminta and to the torment that she was undergoing. Her pain would be intensified beyond endurance by the belief that the artist had stabbed her husband to death. Wanting her to think well of him, he was horrified that he was seen as the agent of her grief. Young, vulnerable and forlorn, Araminta would be locked in a prison of anguish. She had her own Newgate.

The notion of suicide had at first been too frightening to contemplate but it began to take on a seductive appeal. It would liberate him from his woes and save him from the strong possibility of being hanged in front of a jeering mob. The problem lay in deciding on a means of committing suicide that would be swift and effective. A razor was the obvious choice but he was not allowed to shave. The alternative was a dagger with a sharp blade. However, since a turnkey overheard every conversation he had, he could hardly instruct a friend to provide one for him.

Fire was a possibility, though a daunting one. Even if he managed to light the dank straw with his candle, it would be a slow, painful, lingering death. In any case, the smoke was likely to arouse suspicion before the fumes could take their effect on him. That left another potential way of departing the earth. Villemot could spurn one hangman by taking on the office himself. All that he needed was a ligature. In the gloom of his cell, he stripped to the waist and tore the sleeve off his shirt, looping it until it formed a noose. By way of experiment, he slipped it around his neck. It felt strong enough to dispatch him. He thought that it would be a merciful end.

Tearing the other sleeve from his shirt, he tied it to the noose then stood on tiptoe so that he could reach the highest point on the bars. With the noose around his neck, he slipped the end of the other sleeve through the bars, intending to use his own weight to throttle himself. His hands were shaking and he had difficulty tying the knot. By the time he finally succeeded, his heart was racing and his whole body was running with sweat. After offering up a silent prayer for the salvation of his soul, he kicked his legs forward and let the noose bite into his neck. The sudden pain made him gasp.

The attempt was soon over. As the turnkey walked past on patrol, he held up his lantern and saw the figure squirming in the cell.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, unlocking the door and rushing in to cut Villemot down. ‘You can’t escape as easily as that, you French cur. You’ll be hanged proper and I’ll be there to cheer with the rest of ’em!’

Christopher Redmayne had been past the house hundreds of times without ever once asking himself what lay behind its front door. It was a large, high, nondescript building, only five minutes’ walk from Fetter Lane, and they could see light blazing in some of the windows. He was relieved that it was night. Henry loved to disport himself in public but his younger brother felt far too conspicuous in the red doublet and matching petticoat breeches that he had put on. They belonged to his younger days when he was a more adventurous dresser. Christopher was pleased when they reached their destination.

‘Let me do the talking,’ suggested Henry.

‘Why?’

‘I speak the language.’

‘Is this a foreign establishment?’ said Christopher.

Henry laughed. ‘Entirely foreign to you,’ he replied. ‘Brace yourself for a surprise, dear brother. You are about to enter Mother Pilgrim’s domain.’

‘What exactly is this place?’

‘It’s a Molly House.’

Christopher was alarmed. He had heard about such haunts of effeminate young men and sodomites, and could not imagine why he had been brought there. He had no time to protest. Henry had already pulled the bell-rope and the front door swung open. Dressed in ornate livery, a black boy, no more than three feet in height, beckoned them in. They went into a large hall that was lit by candelabra and charged with a sweet perfume.

Fanny Pilgrim glided towards them. Tall, stately and with a blonde wig of enormous dimensions on her head, she wore a dress of such regal magnificence that it dazzled their eyes. She held an ivory fan in one hand and waved it beneath her chin. Henry beamed at her with unassailable confidence but Christopher felt far less comfortable. Though their hostess appeared to be a shapely woman, encrusted with jewellery of all kinds, the architect was certain that he was, in fact, looking at a man.

‘Welcome, darlings,’ said Fanny, her deep, rich voice confirming Christopher’s diagnosis. ‘What brought you to my house tonight?’

‘A kind word from a friend,’ said Henry.

‘And who might that friend be?’

‘Samson Dinley.’

‘Ah, yes — dear Samson, our very own Delilah. You’ll find her in one of our rooms. If you are recommended by Samson, you are doubly welcome.’

‘Thank you, Mother Pilgrim.’

‘To my friends, I am known as Fanny.’

‘Then Fanny it shall be.’

She extended a gloved hand and, to Christopher’s chagrin, his brother actually kissed it. The visitors had clearly passed some kind of test. Fanny Pilgrim’s house provided a form of entertainment that was highly illegal, so any strangers had to be subjected to intense scrutiny before being allowed in. Henry’s foppish manner and his friendship with a regular denizen of the house had got them admitted. Christopher found himself wishing that they had been turned away.

They were taken across the hall to a room that was dimly lit and filled with the excited babble of a dozen or more men and women. Some of the men were so garishly attired that they made Henry’s suit look rather subdued. Their hair was brushed back from their forehead and combed into the high, curling waves of a woman’s coiffure. They had made heavy use of cosmetics to paint their faces. The women were even more decorative, wearing beautiful dresses, exaggerated wigs, glittering jewellery and an abundance of powder and perfume. It took Christopher only a second to determine that all the occupants of the room were men.

‘Why have we come?’ he said, nudging his brother.

‘To broaden your education.’

‘We do not belong here, Henry.’

‘Pretend to and all will soon be explained.’

A slim young woman in a scarlet gown came across to them and sized up Christopher with a roguish eye. She turned to Henry.

‘You never told me how handsome your brother was,’ said Samson Dinley with a titter. ‘Has he been to a Molly House before?’

‘No,’ answered Henry.

‘Then I’ll take good care of him.’

Dinley’s short, slight build and delicate features allowed him to assume the mantle of womanhood with comparative ease. His stance and gestures were genteel and ladylike. His voice was light and teasing. In the normal course of events, Christopher would have taken care to avoid such a person. That was not an option now — Samson Dinley was in a position to help them.

‘Henry tells me you know where Lady Culthorpe’s portrait is.’

‘I do,’ said Samson.

‘Is it still here?’

‘It will be on view upstairs any moment.’

‘How did it come to be here?’

‘What an inquisitive man you are, Christopher! I like that.’

‘Are you sure that it’s her?’

Dinley giggled. ‘Darling,’ he replied, arching an eyebrow, ‘do you think any of us would ever make a mistake about Araminta? She is our goddess. We worship her. We love, honour and reverence her. She has the beauty to which we all aspire.’

‘Araminta is an icon here,’ explained Henry. ‘Unbeknown to her, she has many acolytes in Fanny Pilgrim’s house. Araminta is a true emblem of womanhood in all its glories. She’s incomparable.’

‘She carries all before her.’

‘Did someone from here steal the portrait?’ said Christopher.

‘We have something far better than a portrait,’ said Dinley, taking Christopher by the arm. ‘We have Araminta in the flesh, a painting that moves and breathes as much as she herself. Come — let me show you.’

In spite of his misgivings, Christopher allowed himself to be led into the hall and up the wide staircase. Henry followed behind them. As they walked along the passageway, it was obvious from the noises emanating from every doorway that the rooms were occupied. Music was being played in one of them and Christopher caught a glimpse of two men dancing together. Samson Dinley stopped outside the room at the end of the passageway and rapped on it with his knuckles. It inched open.

‘I’ve brought some friends to see Araminta,’ he said.

An eye was applied to the crack between door and frame, and the visitors were subjected to a close inspection. Christopher was glad that the light from the candles was dim. He shrunk back slightly. Henry, on the other hand, took a bold step forward and grinned at the unseen gatekeeper. It seemed to impress the man because he opened the door and waved the three of them in.

Nothing had prepared the two brothers for what they were about to see and they were rendered speechless. The room was half-full of people who stood in a semi-circle around a large, gilded picture frame. Inside the frame, lolling on a couch and wearing a blue dress that shimmered in the candlelight, was a beautiful woman. She looked so much like the figure Christopher had seen in the portrait at the studio that he thought, for one startling instant, that it was Araminta. The resemblance was quite uncanny.

Henry felt it, too, craning his neck and blowing her a kiss. As they had been told, it was no mere painted likeness of Araminta but a creature of flesh and blood, capable of movement. As she adopted another pose, Christopher eased himself forward to get closer. The mirage before him slowly began to change. He could not only see the thick powder that had been used on the face, he realised that this woman was much older than Araminta. When their eyes locked for an instant, he realised something else as well and it sent him back to Henry’s side. He spoke in his brother’s ear.

‘I’m leaving, Henry.’

‘Why? Look on Araminta and understand why I love her.’

‘That’s not her,’ said Christopher.

‘It’s close enough to persuade me.’

There was a collective cry of disappointment as Araminta got up from the couch and withdrew into a dressing room. Christopher pulled his brother out by the sleeve.

‘We need to catch him when he leaves,’ he said.

‘Who?’ asked Henry. ‘All I saw was a vision of Araminta. She looks exactly as she did in that portrait at the studio.’

‘Now we know who stole it.’

‘Do we?’

‘I got near enough to recognise her — it was Emile.’

Sir Willard Grail was carousing in the tavern with some friends when he saw Jocelyn Kidbrooke enter. Excusing himself from the table, he went across to confront him.

‘I’ve been looking for you all day, Jocelyn,’ he said.

‘I had to go to Richmond.’

‘So I was told.’

‘What did you want me for?’ said Kidbrooke. ‘If you’re after more money, Sir Willard, you’re out of luck. I have none on me.’

‘It’s not your money I’m interested in — it’s your garden.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you.’

He took Kidbrooke to a vacant table and they sat down. A waiter came to take the order. When the man had gone, Sir Willard let his anger show.

‘Did you poach a gardener from my brother-in-law?’

‘That’s a private matter,’ said Kidbrooke.

‘If it involved Araminta, it’s a very public matter. I spoke to Cuthbert earlier today. What you did to him still rankles. He adores his garden almost as much as he does his library.’

‘He has every right to, Sir Willard — it’s very impressive.’

‘It was until you lured away one of his best gardeners.’

‘I, too, have a garden.’

‘That wasn’t the reason you wanted Abel Paskins, was it?’ said Sir Willard, accusingly. ‘You discovered that the fellow once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Really? He never mentioned that to me.’

‘He had no need to, Jocelyn — you already knew.’

‘I did nothing of the kind.’

‘You wanted Paskins because he could tell you things about Araminta and her husband that only someone who had worked at the house would know. You didn’t employ a gardener — you were buying information.’

Kidbrooke smiled defiantly. ‘What if I was?’

‘It was a breach of the Society’s articles.’

‘There was no reference to a gardener in them.’

‘We made a solemn agreement that we wouldn’t try to bribe members of Araminta’s household to act as spies,’ said Sir Willard. ‘Yet that’s exactly what you did.’

‘I deny that.’

‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’

‘Perhaps you should take another look at those articles that Elkannah drew up for us. Specific mention was only made of Araminta’s household, not of Sir Martin’s. At the time when we formed the Society,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘she was not married and was living with her cousin here in London.’

‘Don’t try to wriggle out of this, Jocelyn. You violated the spirit of the articles and should forfeit your right to the purse.’

‘It’s not the purse I’m after, Sir Willard.’

‘No, it’s that poor, wounded, defenceless, grieving widow.’

‘As for the spirit of the articles,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘that does not apply here. I did not try to bribe one of Sir Martin’s gardeners. Abel Paskins had already left his employ.’

‘Yes — he was working for my brother-in-law.’

‘I made him a more attractive offer.’

‘Then pumped him for intelligence about Araminta.’

‘I may have asked him if he was aware of the way that the romance between Sir Martin and her had first developed, but I also wanted him to build a rockery in my garden. The one he constructed for Mr Foxwell,’ he went on, ‘was what first drew my attention to him.’

‘You cheated, Jocelyn.’

‘I simply made the most of my chances.’

‘You broke the rules.’

‘What would you have done in my place, Sir Willard?’

‘Behaved more honourably.’

‘I beg leave to question that,’ said Kidbrooke, roundly. ‘Had you known that Paskins had once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe, you’d have whisked him away from under your brother-in-law’s nose without a second thought. Am I correct?’

Sir Willard was spared the awkwardness of a reply by the return of the waiter with a bottle of wine. When he had poured it into the two glasses, he withdrew again. Kidbrooke lifted his glass.

‘Let’s drink as friends,’ he encouraged.

‘Very well,’ said the other, picking up his glass. ‘But I’ll not forgive you for what you did, Jocelyn. You tried to gain an advantage over the rest of us by using corrupt means.’

‘I admit that I tried.’

‘And what did you learn?’

‘That Sir Martin was right to dismiss Abel Paskins.’

‘Why?’

‘The fellow was surly and ungovernable. Left to himself, he worked well and hard but he insisted on having his own way. Also, he was forever complaining.’

‘About what?’

‘Whatever took his fancy — he thrived on argument.’

‘Cuthbert had no trouble from the fellow.’

‘Then he would have been welcome to have him back because I soon regretted tempting him away from Mr Foxwell.’

‘When I called at your house, they said Paskins was not there.’

‘That’s quite true, Sir Willard.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Kidbrooke, resentfully. ‘He left earlier this week without a word of explanation. Paskins has flown the coop.’

As soon as they got back to Christopher’s house, he asked Jacob to pour three large glasses of brandy. The old man was perturbed when he saw his master return with his two companions but he masked his concern with his usual aplomb. Jacob was used to seeing Henry in flamboyant clothing but not with a painted face. It worried him. What really disturbed him was the sight of the little French valet with a powdered features and a woman’s wig on his head. He was, however, spared the blue dress. Emile had changed out of that before leaving Mother Pilgrim’s Molly House.

Left alone with their brandy, Christopher fired off a question.

‘Why did you steal that portrait, Emile?’ he challenged. ‘Did you want to show it off to your friends at Fanny Pilgrim’s?’

‘I no steal it,’ insisted Emile.

‘Then what did you do?’

‘I hide it so that nobody could take it away. Matilda, she warn me that this man go to the studio when I was not there. He look at the painting of Lady Culthorpe. He want it.’

‘You can hardly blame the fellow,’ said Henry, blithely, giving no hint that he was the man in question. ‘Any portrait of Araminta would be like spun gold.’

‘I was scared,’ said the valet. ‘I know what Monsieur Villemot would say if anyone steal it. So I hide it.’

‘Where?’

‘Under my bed.’

‘In other words,’ said Christopher, ‘it’s still in the house.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why did you tell us it was stolen?’

‘Because I want everyone to think that,’ said Emile, tasting the brandy with gratitude. ‘If they believe the portrait is not there, they will not come to the house.’

‘That was very clever of you but it did mean that we were searching for a stolen painting that never actually went missing. You wasted our time, Emile, time that could have been devoted to helping to get Monsieur Villemot released from prison.’

‘I sorry.’

‘What made you decide to be Araminta?’ said Henry.

‘I look at the painting every day. She is so lovely.’

‘You achieved a remarkable verisimilitude.’ He saw that he had strayed beyond the bounds of the valet’s English vocabulary. ‘You looked just like her, Emile.’

‘It was the tribute. I like her.’

‘How long have you been going to Fanny Pilgrim?’

‘Since we move to London.’

‘Does your master know about this?’ said Christopher.

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Emile as if the question was unnecessary. ‘Of course, he did. I hide nothing from him.’

‘And he didn’t mind?’

‘Monsieur Villemot is an artist. He believe in freedom.’

‘I can think of better ways to exercise it.’

Henry sipped his drink. ‘You take too narrow a view of the world, Christopher,’ he said, ‘and fail to appreciate its teeming variety. I’d not care to spend an evening among the catamites in a Molly House but I refuse to condemn those that do. Well, you met Samson,’ he added. ‘Have you ever seen a more feeble, confused, innocuous creature? I dislike his sin but pardon the sinner.’

‘I’d prefer to put tonight’s little escapade behind us, Henry,’ said his brother. ‘Now that we know the portrait is safe, one problem is solved. We can turn to the more pressing one of Monsieur Villemot’s imprisonment.’

‘We must get him out,’ pleaded Emile, ‘or he die.’

‘I hate to say this but he’s his own worst enemy. Instead of telling me what I need to know to mount his defence, he keeps holding back salient facts.’

‘What sort of facts?’ said Henry.

‘He won’t tell me where he went on the day of the murder.’

‘You already know that. He went to Araminta’s house.’

‘But where did he go afterwards?’ asked Christopher. ‘He did not come back to the studio for two hours or more, and when he did, he was in a state of excitement.’

‘If I’d been to her house, I’d be in a state of delirium.’

‘He’s hiding something from me, Henry, something that might prove his innocence. It’s perverse,’ said Christopher in exasperation. ‘How can I help someone who keeps telling me lies?’

‘What sort of lies?’

‘To begin with, he told me that he was married and that he wanted the house built for him and his wife. But it turns out that there is no wife back in Paris.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Emile told me.’

The two brothers looked at the valet. Shifting in his seat, he took a long sip of his brandy. The resemblance to Araminta Culthorpe had vanished completely now. He was a weary, aging, bewildered, frightened little man.

‘Why did he mislead me, Emile?’ said Christopher. ‘Why did he tell me that he has a wife in France?’

Emile looked hunted. He rolled the glass between his palms.

‘I not tell you.’

‘Why?’

‘Ask him,’ said Emile.

Elkannah Prout knew that his invitation would, in all probability, be declined but he nevertheless decided to offer. He called early at the house in the hope of catching his friend before he went out. Jocelyn Kidbrooke was less than welcoming but he agreed to speak to his visitor. They adjourned to the drawing room.

‘Why did you come here?’ asked Kidbrooke.

‘If we talk in your home, you’ll be reminded that you have a wife and children. I think that’s an important factor.’

‘Don’t preach morality at me, Elkannah. You’ve enjoyed every vice in London so it ill befits you to set yourself up as an arbiter of other people’s behaviour.’

‘That’s not what I’m doing,’ said Prout.

‘Then why does your voice have that sanctimonious ring to it?’

‘I came to issue an invitation.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘It’s the visit to Newmarket. When I saw Sir Willard last night, he warned me that you’d try to get me out of the city on the day of Sir Martin’s funeral.’

‘You’ve always liked racing.’

‘I’m engaged in a much more important race of my own at the moment — so are Sir Willard and Henry. That’s why none of us will stray one inch outside the capital.’

‘I think you should reconsider that decision, Jocelyn.’

‘Why?’

‘Your presence at that funeral will cause Araminta pain.’

‘Your absence will surprise her.’

‘I’ve written to offer my condolences.’

‘But what about the many blandishments you sent her in the past — the gifts, the invitations, the billet-doux? Won’t she find it strange that a man who professes to love her will neglect her on a day when she needs every ounce of support she can get?’

‘I do not see it that way.’

‘I respect your right to do so, Elkannah. By the same token, you must respect my right to view the situation as I choose. In short,’ said Kidbrooke, pointedly, ‘this conversation is over.’

‘So you did have a pact.’

‘A pact?’

‘To ignore my advice and attend the funeral,’ said Prout, sharply. ‘You, Henry and Sir Willard have lined up against me.’

‘We’ve done nothing of the sort.’

‘Yes, you have.’

‘We simply agree with each other.’

‘The three of you came to a formal agreement.’

‘Henry and Sir Willard may have done so,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘but I was not party to it. I’ve argued from the start that it was a case of each man for himself. I’ve not consulted them for a second and I doubt if they consulted each other.’

‘I got the strong impression from Henry that the three of you had a verbal contract and that he was going back on his earlier promise to me.’

‘You were misled.’

‘Do you give me your word?’

‘I’ll happily do so, Elkannah. I can’t speak for the others but there’s been no collusion on my part. I’ve not wavered in my view that Araminta is fair game in her bereavement.’

‘I find that notion shameful.’

‘Nobody is forcing you to accept it.’

‘Henry and Sir Willard seem to have done so.’

‘Then each has acted of his own volition. Why have you suddenly decided to bark at my heels?’ complained Kidbrooke. ‘I had enough of that from Sir Willard. As soon as he saw me yesterday evening, he was yapping away like a dog after a fox.’

‘What had you done to offend him?’

‘I’d seized an advantage that he should have taken.’

‘Advantage?’

‘His brother-in-law, Cuthbert Foxwell, hired a gardener who had formerly been employed by Sir Martin Culthorpe. Having worked for Araminta’s husband, the man had privileged information. I decided to avail myself of it by hiring the gardener myself. When I did so,’ he recalled, ‘Sir Willard didn’t make the slightest protest.’

‘Why was he so angry now?’

‘He had just discovered the link between Araminta and the gardener. When the man worked for his brother-in-law, Sir Willard was quite unaware of that link.’

‘How did he find out?’

‘Henry’s brother told him.’

‘Christopher? Why should he get involved?’

‘He seems to be poking his nose into anything and everything,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘It was he who set that unsightly constable on to me. I hope that Christopher Redmayne comes in person next time. I’ll have the pleasure of telling him how I despise meddlers like him.’

Listening to the recital of events, Jonathan Bale did not realise that his friend had omitted some crucial details. Christopher had deliberately concealed the fact that he and his brother had visited a Molly House. Such places were anathema to Bale and he would have passed on the address of the establishment to a magistrate. All that he was told was that the missing portrait had been in the safe hands of the valet from the start.

‘Why didn’t Emile tell us that?’ he asked.

‘He wanted everyone to believe a theft had taken place.’

‘In doing that, he was misleading an officer of the law. They may do things differently in France, Mr Redmayne, but we take a dim view of that sort of thing in England.’

‘I did make that point to him, Jonathan.’

‘I’d like to do so myself, sir. He wasted our time.’

‘Let’s not criticise him too harshly. His ruse did prevent the portrait from being stolen and I know for a fact that one thief did gain access to the house.’

‘Do you know the man’s name?’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t,’ said Christopher, shielding his brother from arrest. ‘On balance, I feel that Emile’s action had a purpose.’

Christopher did not add that part of that purpose had been to fuel the valet’s interest in Araminta to the point where he actually tried to become her. The constable would have considerable difficulty in understanding why any man should do that.

‘Putting aside the portrait, sir,’ said Bale, ‘I’m more worried by what you’ve just told me about the gardener.’

‘Abel Paskins has disappeared. It was Henry who found that out for us. Nobody at the house knew where Paskins had gone.’

‘So your brother did not speak to Mr Kidbrooke.’

‘He wasn’t there yesterday.’

‘What about today?’

‘Henry has agreed to tackle him on our behalf.’

‘Your brother is being unusually helpful,’ noted Bale. ‘In the past, he has always done his best to hamper any investigation.’

‘I fancy that he’s seen the light at last,’ said Christopher with gentle sarcasm. ‘Father would be delighted.’

Bale was sombre. ‘I’ve been thinking about that key, sir.’

‘What key?’

‘The one that opened the gate to Sir Martin’s garden,’ said the other. ‘Without that, the killer would not have been able to get in and lie in wait for his victim. He must have had a duplicate made.’

‘So?’

‘That points us firmly towards Abel Paskins, sir. While he was working there, he would have had the key in his possession from time to time. He could have taken it to a locksmith to be copied. If we could find that locksmith,’ suggested Bale, ‘we might get a description of the man who wanted the duplicate.’

‘Locksmiths are making spare keys all the time, Jonathan. How would one of them remember that particular commission?’

‘I’d show them a key to the garden gate. If someone made a duplicate recently, I think that he might remember it.’

‘But we do not have one of those,’ said Christopher.

‘Get one, sir,’ said Bale. ‘You have a friend in the house.’

It was something that Christopher had forgotten. Eleanor Ryle had cared enough about helping the investigation to slip away from her mistress and visit Fetter Lane. Since they were in the study, Christopher had pen and paper to hand. He dashed off a letter to the maid then summoned Jacob.

‘I want Nigel to deliver this immediately,’ he said, handing over the missive. ‘He knows the way to the house.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Tell him to await a reply.’

Before the servant could do so, the doorbell rang and he went off to answer the summons. The haughty voice of a woman was heard then Lady Lingoe was ushered into the study.

‘Good morning, Mr Redmayne,’ she said. ‘Forgive this intrusion but I come on a matter that will brook no delay. It concerns Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Then you’ll not mind if Jonathan stays,’ said Christopher, ‘for he is helping me to prove Monsieur Villemot’s innocence.’

After introducing Bale to his visitor, he offered her a seat. Lady Lingoe arranged herself on the couch and Christopher sat close to her. Cowed by her appearance and aristocratic mien, Bale took the chair that was farthest away from her. He marvelled that his friend could be so at ease in the company of a high-born lady. Being in her presence only accentuated his feelings of social inferiority.

‘Let me go straight to it,’ said Lady Lingoe, ignoring the constable as if he were not there. ‘I’ve just come from Newgate.’

‘How is Monsieur Villemot?’ asked Christopher.

‘They would not let me see him.’

‘Why not?’

‘He tried to kill himself last night. He begged the prison sergeant not to allow me in. I regard myself as a friend of Jean-Paul,’ she went on with unconcealed affection. ‘Why did he have me turned away? The only explanation is that he’s come to the end of his tether. He’s set on taking his own life.’

‘What happened last night, Lady Lingoe?’

‘He attempted to hang himself. Can you think of anything more deplorable? A dear and gifted man like that is driven to suicide, and all because of a crime he did not commit. I was distressed beyond measure when I heard.’

Christopher was on his feet. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘I’ll visit the prison myself and insist on seeing him.’

‘That’s what I was hoping you’d do, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Keep me informed of what transpires.’

‘I will, Lady Lingoe.’

‘And give him…’ She smothered the words she was about to say. ‘And please pass on my warmest regards.’ She rose to her feet. ‘You know where to find me, Mr Redmayne.’

‘You’re welcome to stay here with Jonathan.’

‘No, I need the comfort of my own home. Goodbye, Mr Bale.’

‘Goodbye,’ he said, getting up awkwardly.

Christopher took her to the front door to see her off. When he came back into the study, he was carrying his hat.

‘I’ll go at once, Jonathan.’

‘What about me, sir?’

‘You have to stay here for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘Someone might bring you a key to that garden.’

The funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe was due to take place that evening and a pall hung over the whole house. Servants went about their duties in a respectful silence and guests spoke in hushed voices. Since her mistress had asked to be left alone in her bedchamber, Eleanor Ryle was able to retire to her own little room. Letters were still arriving from friends and well-wishers but she had never expected that one message would be addressed to her. The butler delivered it in person. Delighted to have a private moment with Mr Rushton, she opened the letter in his presence and read it.

‘What does it say, Eleanor?’ he asked.

She looked up. ‘I have to ask you a favour, Mr Rushton.’

Overcoming his aversion to the prison, Christopher entered Newgate and asked to see Jean-Paul Villemot. The prison sergeant was at first dubious about allowing the visit but a handful of coins helped him to make up his mind. Christopher was taken to the Frenchman’s cell by one of the turnkeys. He knew immediately why the artist had refused to see Lady Lingoe. After his failed attempt at suicide, he had been stripped of most of his clothes and fettered to an iron ring in the wall of the cell. Embarrassed to be seen by Christopher, he would have felt utterly humiliated if Lady Lingoe had viewed him in that situation.

Crouching down low, the visitor spoke through the bars.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Not well.’

‘What made you do it, Monsieur Villemot?’

‘It was the only thing left to me.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Christopher, ‘and it’s a terrible indictment against the rest of us that you should have reached this point. You must know that taking one’s own life is a crime and a sin. It would leave a terrible stain on your reputation.’

Villemot groaned. ‘What reputation?’

‘The one you took such pains to build up over the years. Would you sacrifice that in a single moment of despair? You must have been brought up as a Roman Catholic. Were you never taught about the consequences of suicide?’ asked Christopher. ‘The Church would renounce you. By law, you’d be buried in unconsecrated ground.’ Villemot started. ‘Is that what you wanted?’

‘No, Christopher.’

‘Then why did you do it?’

‘I could not put up with the shame,’ said Villemot.

‘So you decided to let your family and friends live with an even greater shame. That’s what they would have had to do. The stigma would have stayed with them throughout their lives. People care for you, Monsieur Villemot,’ he said with feeling. ‘They love, respect and admire you for what you’ve become. Did you not stop to think of the pain you’d be inflicting on us all by doing what you tried to do?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Villemot, tears coursing down his face. ‘I have spent the whole night praying for forgiveness.’

‘Will you promise to do nothing like this again?’

‘Yes, Christopher.’

‘If I have anything to do with it,’ said the other, ‘you’ll not have the time. We’ll get you out of this place very soon.’

‘Do you mean that?’ pleaded the artist.

‘I give you my word.’

Sympathy welled up inside him. Villemot looked even worse than on his previous visit. Unshaven, unkempt, caked with filth and visibly aged by his ordeal, Villemot was forlorn.

‘You had another visitor,’ Christopher told him.

‘Hester?’

‘Yes. She was not permitted to see you.’

‘How could I let her?’ said Villemot, rattling his fetters. ‘What would she think of me if she saw me chained up like a wild animal?’

‘I think she’d feel as I do — grateful that you were still alive. Lady Lingoe sent her warmest regards,’ said Christopher. ‘I’m sure that Emile would do the same.’

‘Emile,’ sighed the other. ‘Poor little Emile — I forgot about him.’

‘In your dejection, you forgot about a lot of people. The worst thing is that you forgot about yourself, Monsieur. You forgot who you are and what you are.’

‘I’m a condemned man.’

‘You’ve not even been brought to trial yet.’

‘I’ve been charged. They tell me in here I will be convicted.’

‘They’re only baiting you,’ said Christopher. ‘You know that you didn’t commit that murder and so do we. All that we have to do is to work together and we’ll have the evidence to get you released.’

‘What evidence?’

‘It’s being gathered even as we speak, Monsieur Villemot. But I still need you to cooperate more with me.’

‘There’s nothing that I can do.’

‘Yes there is. You can explain why you lied to us.’

‘I tell you no lies.’

‘You did,’ said Christopher. ‘When you commissioned me to design a new house, you told me it was for you and your wife.’

‘That was true.’

‘Yet you are not married.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Emile.’

Villemot was hurt. ‘Emile betrayed me?’

‘No,’ replied Christopher, careful to correct him. ‘That’s the last thing he’d do. Emile is fiercely loyal. What he said slipped out by mistake. He refused to give me any details. All I know — all that I suspect, at least — is that you are not married. Is that true?’

‘Yes,’ admitted the other, head on his chest.

‘Then why tell me that you were?’

‘It is private.’

‘I took you for an honest man, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘And that is what I am,’ retorted the other, looking up. ‘The house will take time to build. When it is finished, I was hoping to move into it with my wife.’

‘Monique?’

‘That’s her.’

‘But you are not married to her at the moment?’

‘No, Christopher.’

‘Why not?’

‘She already has a husband.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Villemot. ‘Why do you think I leave my own country? Paris is a finer city than London — they would not have thrown me into prison there.’

‘But you had to leave for some reason?’ guessed Christopher. ‘Was that reason connected with Monique?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘But you still nurtured hopes of being together one day.’

‘I did until last night — not even she could keep me alive then.’

‘Monsieur Villemot,’ said Christopher, ‘this may seem like prying but, given the situation, I feel that I have to ask the question.’

‘Ask me anything — I am not afraid.’

‘You admitted that you went to Lady Culthorpe’s house that day and that you went into the garden out of curiosity.’

‘That is so.’

‘I put it to you that you were not curious about the garden but about the lady who lived in the house. That’s what took you through that gate. You were enchanted by her.’

After agonising for a full minute, Jean-Paul Villemot nodded.

‘You see my dilemma here?’ said Christopher. ‘I am asked to believe that you love someone enough to want to marry her and have a house built for her — and yet you pursue someone else.’

‘I did not pursue Lady Culthorpe,’ snapped the other.

‘I’m not making any moral judgement here, Monsieur Villemot. I can understand how you could be drawn to someone like her when you are able to spend so much time alone, and when your work allows you to gaze upon her so intently.’

‘What are you trying to say to me?’

‘That you are infatuated with Lady Culthorpe.’

‘No!’

‘Then what took you to her house that day?’

‘She interested me.’

‘I think it was much more than interest.’

‘It was,’ confessed Villemot, blurting out the words. ‘It was like a passion. She is a very beautiful lady, so young, so perfect. I could not believe the coincidence.’

‘Coincidence?’

‘Araminta could almost be her twin.’

‘Who?’

‘Monique. She and Araminta, they look so alike.’

‘And you were bewitched by the similarity between the two?’

‘It was a miracle,’ said Villemot, smiling for the first time. ‘Every time I see Araminta, I am looking at my Monique. Every time I put the paint on the canvas, I am touching the woman I love. That is why it is the most important portrait that I paint in England. When I work on it, I’m able to be with Monique once again.’

Christopher understood for the first time what had impelled the artist to go to Araminta’s house. Since she would no longer be sitting for the portrait, Villemot would be losing touch with her physical presence. He wanted to see her in her own home. He had followed her carriage and lingered outside the house. One mystery had been solved but another remained.

‘You said you were in that garden for a couple of minutes,’ said Christopher. ‘Where did you go afterwards?’

Villemot jerked backwards as if he had just been jabbed in the ribs by the point of a dagger. He sounded hurt and defensive.

‘I cannot tell you,’ he said.

Eleanor Ryle was starting to worry. Hours had passed and there had been no summons for her mistress. She hoped that Lady Culthorpe had been asleep, gathering her strength to meet the demands of the funeral, but she knew that was unlikely. Since the murder of her husband, Araminta had enjoyed very little sleep and much of her slumber had been filled with disturbing dreams. Deciding to check on her, Eleanor went swiftly upstairs and tapped on the door of her bedchamber. There was no response. She opened the door slightly and peeped through the gap, only to discover that the room was empty.

The maid went into the bedchamber and looked around in dismay. Her mistress had not stirred from the room before without calling for her. Eleanor was like a human walking stick, something to offer unquestioning support. Now, it seemed, she had been cast aside and that troubled her. She wondered where Lady Culthorpe could possibly be. There were family members staying at the house but they had respected the widow’s request to be left on her own. It was highly improbable that she would have sought company.

Eleanor crossed to the window and looked out at the garden. Even under a leaden sky, it looked full of colour and blossom. A stray thought floated into her brain like a dry leaf blown by the wind. It produced an immediate reaction. Leaving the room, she went down the backstairs and out into the garden, following a path that twisted its way between trees, shrubs and flowerbeds. Eventually, she came to the shaded grotto where Sir Martin Culthorpe had been murdered. There, dressed in black, sitting on a bench, dwelling on memories that brought a faraway smile to her face, was Araminta Culthorpe.

‘I wondered where you were, m’lady,’ said Eleanor.

‘What?’ Araminta came out of her reverie. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Why did you come here?’

‘I felt drawn back to this place, Eleanor.’

‘But it has such unhappy memories for you, m’lady.’

‘That’s not what I found. It’s an odd word to use perhaps, but I feel renewed. Being able to come here has dispelled some of my gloom. It was almost as if my husband beckoned me back to this spot. He wanted me to conquer any fears I have of this grotto, to remember the many happy moments he and I spent in this garden.’

‘It’s good that you can feel like that.’

‘I have to, Eleanor, or there’s no point in going on.’

‘You must go on, m’lady.’

‘I know — and I will. Sir Martin would expect it of me. I’ll tend this garden with the same love that he showed.’ She gave the maid a shrewd look. ‘Do you have something to tell me?’

‘No, no.’

‘I can see it in your eyes. What’s happened, Eleanor?’

‘Nothing, m’lady.’

‘Come on, I insist on knowing.’

‘Wait until after the funeral,’ said Eleanor. ‘That’s the only thing that matters now. Forget everything else.’

Araminta was persistent. ‘Is it something to do with Monsieur Villemot?’ The maid pursed her lips. ‘Well — is it?’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

‘Go on.’

‘Mr Redmayne — Christopher Redmayne — is more certain than ever that Mr Villemot was not the murderer. To prove it beyond doubt, he asked for some help from us.’

‘What sort of help?’

‘He wanted to borrow a key to the garden gate.’

Jonathan Bale did not enjoy the wait. Left alone in Christopher’s house, he was restless and uncomfortable. When Jacob offered him refreshment, the constable was even more ill at ease. Having no servant of his own, he could not bring himself to allow someone else to fetch and carry for him, unless it was his wife. Nigel eventually rode back to Fetter Lane and handed over the key. Bale went off on his mission at once.

If Abel Paskins had indeed borrowed the key, he reasoned, the man would have wanted the duplicate made as quickly as possible. The gardener would therefore have chosen a locksmith nearby so that the key was not missing from the house in Westminster for long. Bale set off at a brisk pace and maintained it all the way. The first locksmith he found had never seen the key before but he gave the constable the name of a rival whose workshop was only streets away. Bale soon made the acquaintance of Elijah Sayers.

‘What do you want?’ asked Sayers, bluntly.

‘I want you to look at this key.’

‘I don’t have the time.’

Bale was assertive. ‘Make some time, Mr Sayers.’

‘I’m too busy. If you want a duplicate, you’ll have to wait at least a fortnight before I could take on more work. Find someone else.’

‘I don’t want a duplicate,’ said Bale, ‘I want information.’

After introducing himself, Bale explained why he was there. Elijah Sayers did not appear to be listening to him. He continued to use a file on a large key and did not even look at his visitor. Sayers was a short, wiry man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair sprouting on both sides of his balding head like a pair of supplementary ears. He wore a leather apron over his filthy working clothes. Filled with smoke from the little forge, the workshop was a long, low, narrow room that was never swept, with keys of all sizes hanging from the rafters. Locks were arranged haphazardly on a rough wooden table. The place was so filled with shadow that Bale wondered how the locksmith could see well enough to practise his trade.

Sayers glanced up, eyes gleaming in the half-dark. He thrust out a hand and took the key from Bale. After a brief examination, he handed it back and returned to his work.

‘Do you recognise it?’ said Bale.

‘Yes.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Do you recognise people you once arrested?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s the same with me and my keys, Mr Bale,’ said the other, turning to spit into the forge. ‘They’re like humans to me — each one has a different face and character. I’d know that anywhere.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I made a tidy profit out of it.’

‘Who brought it in?’

‘A man in a hurry,’ said Sayers. ‘He wanted me to make another key while he waited. I told him I had other customers waiting for their locks and keys. He’d have to take his turn.’

‘What was his reply?’

‘He said it was urgent. The gentleman who’d sent him had to have a duplicate that day. Money was no object. He’d pay whatever was asked. I took him at his word.’

‘You made the key?’

‘Yes, I did — and I charged him four times what I would have done. He paid up without any argument then watched me do my work. Afterwards, he rushed off.’

‘Did he give his name?’

‘No, Mr Bale.’

‘What about the gentleman who sent him?’

‘Oh, he told me what he was called.’

‘And what was that?’

‘Mr Kidbrooke — Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’