The Painted Lady

Chapter Eleven

Henry Redmayne was racked by indecision. As a rule, he made up his mind about his social calendar with remarkable speed but not in this case. Should he or should he not attend the funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe? It was a dilemma that vexed him for hours on end. If he went, would his presence be noted and appreciated by Araminta or would it alarm her? If he stayed away, could his absence please or disappoint her? More to the point, would it simply hand an advantage to his rivals? Elkannah Prout might avoid the occasion but Jocelyn Kidbrooke would definitely be there and, Henry suspected, so would Sir Willard Grail. Both might attract favourable attention from Araminta and it worried him.

After lengthy cogitation and much soul-searching, he made a provisional decision to go to the funeral but that only pitched him headfirst into another frothing pool of uncertainty. What should he wear? Henry needed something appropriate yet individual, muted apparel that showed his respect for the deceased yet somehow caught the eye of the widow. He began to work his way through his wardrobe, trying on and discarding item after item. He was preening himself before the mirror in his bedchamber when someone rapped on his door.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Christopher,’ replied his brother, opening the door to walk in. ‘I was told that you were dressing.’

‘Dressing and undressing,’ said Henry, turning at a slight angle to admire the cut of his long waistcoat in the mirror. ‘What I really need is a tailor to provide me with a new suit for the occasion.’

‘What occasion?’

‘Nothing that need concern you.’

‘What occasion, Henry?’

‘It does not matter.’

Christopher looked at the clothing scattered over the huge bed and draped over every available chair. Evidently, the occasion mattered a great deal to Henry. It was therefore easy to identify.

‘You are surely not going to the funeral?’ said Christopher with a blend of disapproval and disbelief. ‘How could you even conceive of the idea, Henry? You are not wanted there.’

‘I might be missed by Araminta.’

‘Gratefully.’

‘You don’t know that, Christopher.’

‘I know that she’d prefer the event to be a private affair, involving only family and close friends.’

‘I see myself as Araminta’s closest friend.’

‘You’d only be intruding.’

‘I want to help her through her bereavement.’

‘I’ve told you before,’ said his brother, ‘that the best way to do that is to fade out of her sight. If you want to ingratiate yourself with Lady Culthorpe, assist me in solving the crime.’

Henry adjusted his wig in the mirror. ‘I’ve already solved one crime for you,’ he said with a touch of arrogance. ‘I found the stolen portrait. That should endear me to Araminta.’

‘There’s no reason that she should ever hear about it — and I certainly wouldn’t tell her about the way in which she is revered at the Molly House. If she knew that Emile had impersonated her in front of Samson Dinley and his like, she’d be deeply offended.’

‘Do you mean that I get no credit for what I did?’

‘You get an immense amount of credit from me, Henry.’

‘That doesn’t count. I want to impress Araminta.’

‘Then I’ll give you a chance to do so.’

Christopher told him about Villemot’s failed attempt at suicide and his refusal to see Lady Hester Lingoe when she visited Newgate. Henry was interested to hear that the artist had been hounded out of France because of his love for a married woman, but he refused to believe that she could have matched Araminta for beauty.

‘Araminta has no peer,’ he insisted, ‘and certainly no twin.’

‘I’m only repeating what Monsieur Villemot said.’

‘No Frenchwoman could compete with a true-born English lady.’

‘You’ll have to take up the issue with him,’ said Christopher, ‘and you can only manage that if we prove his innocence. What I need you to do for me is to find out exactly what happened to him after he left the garden of Lady Culthorpe’s house.’

Henry was baffled. ‘How could I possibly do that?’

‘Because you know her much better than I do.’

‘Who?’

‘Lady Lingoe.’

‘Is that where he went?’

‘It must be,’ said Christopher, ‘though he won’t admit it. A man like Monsieur Villemot would only hold back information in order to protect a woman. He has a sense of chivalry.’

‘Why should he want to protect her?’

‘That’s what you must discover. The fact is that he was very excited when he returned to his studio that day — why?’

‘I can think of one explanation,’ said Henry with a sly grin. ‘He was invited to take full advantage of Lord Lingoe’s absence, then he was forced to listen to Hester, reading Juvenal to him in bed afterwards.’

‘Make discreet enquiries.’

‘Leave it to me.’

‘How well do you know Lady Lingoe?’

‘Not as well as I’d like, Christopher — though I’ve come to admire her much more since I saw that portrait of her at the studio. If Hester wishes to be a naked huntress, I’d gladly be her quarry.’

‘You are on a mission to save Monsieur Villemot’s life,’ said his brother, tartly, ‘not to pursue your own questionable ends. If, as I believe, he did go to her house from Westminster, what sort of state was he in? That evidence could be significant. If Villemot had killed Sir Martin Culthorpe, he would probably have been nervous, distracted or triumphant. Only Lady Lingoe can tell us the truth.’

‘I’ll call on her later.’

‘Go now, Henry.’

‘But I’ve not chosen what to wear.’

‘The fate of an imprisoned man is much more important than your choice of attire,’ scolded Christopher. ‘Think back to the time when you languished behind bars at Newgate. How would you have felt if I’d spent hours going through my wardrobe instead of doing all I could to secure your release?’

‘A sound argument,’ conceded Henry. ‘Urgency is in request. I’ll go to her house at once. It’s a pity I’ll not be able to dress the part,’ he went on, surveying the wide array of clothing. ‘If I’m calling on Hester, I should really do so in the toga of a Roman Emperor.’

After his visit to the locksmith, Jonathan Bale began the long walk back to Fetter Lane. He prided himself on having obtained a vital clue from Elijah Sayers and could not wait to pass it on. Lengthening his stride, he headed in the direction of the Strand and reflected on the way that his friendship with Christopher Redmayne had widened his sphere of activity and given him an insight into the higher levels of society. Those insights only served to confirm his prejudices and reinforce his republican leanings but he was nevertheless grateful to the young architect. One way or another, Christopher had provided him with an education.

Bale liked to believe that his friend had learned a great deal from him in return. Christopher had been taught how onerous and wide-ranging the duties of a constable were, and he had also seen how a family of four with a very modest income managed to get by. Bale was so preoccupied with this thoughts that he did not realise he was being followed. The man stayed well back. Wearing rough garb and with a hat pulled down over his forehead, he was a sturdy individual of middle height, around the same age as Bale. Over his shoulder, he carried a spade and looked as if he was going off to work in a garden.

There was too much traffic about at first and far too many pedestrians who might act as witnesses. The man therefore bided his time. When Bale eventually turned down a side street, his shadow saw his chance and began to gain on the constable. A horseman was approaching and there were a couple of people talking on a corner, but there was nobody to stop the attacker or to overpower him after the assault. It was the moment to strike.

Breaking into a run at the last moment, he took hold of the spade in both hands. Bale heard the footsteps and turned on his heel to see who was behind him. The man swung the flat of the blade at his head, intending to crack his skull open and knock him unconscious. Bale had a split-second to react. Pulling his head sharply back, he ducked instinctively and turned his face away from the oncoming spade. The implement caught him on the side of the head. It was only a glancing blow but it was enough to knock him from his feet and open up a gash on the side of his skull.

The man did not stop to assess his victim’s injuries. His only concern was to get away from the scene of the crime as swiftly as possible. Running fast, he dived down the first lane he came to and raced on until he was certain that he was not being followed. When he saw that nobody was behind him, he joined the main road and sauntered along with the spade over his shoulder. A hundred yards behind him, Jonathan Bale lay motionless on the ground.

* * *

Lady Hester Lingoe took her visitor into the library and offered him a chair. She was dressed once more as a Roman priestess though there was nothing at all spiritual about her manner. Henry Redmayne was given no time to take stock of his surroundings.

‘Why did your brother send you, Henry?’ she asked.

‘I came of my own accord.’

‘You lost interest in me when I married so let’s not pretend that this is anything more than a search for information.’

‘You malign me,’ said Henry with a grin of admiration. ‘I never lost interest in you, Hester. I merely thought it proper to liberate you from my attentions when you took your marriage vows. In any case, my interest was soon revived when I saw that portrait of you at Villemot’s studio.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m rather proud of that.’

‘Did you enjoy sitting for it?’

‘Immensely.’

‘Villemot would have enjoyed working on the painting, that much is beyond doubt. Any man with the privilege of gazing upon your beauty day after day was bound to be enthralled by it.’

‘Jean-Paul is an artist. He was not there to gloat.’

‘I’m not for a moment suggesting that he was,’ said Henry, wondering if every Roman priestess had worn quite so much powder on her face. ‘All I mean is that, in those circumstances, an artist and his model are inevitably drawn close.’

‘So?’

‘You must have got to know him very well.’

‘What are you implying?’ she asked, sitting opposite him and subjecting him to a long, challenging stare. ‘I hope you’ve not been sent to pry into my personal life.’

‘Only insofar as it affects Villemot,’ he said, his tone emollient. ‘Since you twice went to Newgate to see him, it’s reasonable to assume that you and he are more than passing acquaintances. I speculate no farther than that.’

‘Thank you, Henry.’

‘When he saw Villemot in prison today, Christopher found him in a miserable condition. He’s overcome with shame at what he did and promises that he’ll never try to take his own life again.’

‘That’s comforting to hear.’

‘Villemot was also more honest about his past.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he admitted that he was not actually married — even though he’s talked frequently of his wife and employed my brother to build a house for the two of them.’ He paused for her to comment but she said nothing. ‘It seems that he was compelled to leave France because of his romance with a married woman. This lady — Monique, I believe she’s called — apparently bears some resemblance to Araminta Culthorpe, though it can only be of the faintest kind.’ He stopped again but she maintained a watchful silence. ‘Did you know all this?’

‘Some of it,’ she acknowledged.

‘Is there anything you’d care to add, Hester?’

‘Only that I’d be glad if you told me precisely why you’re here.’

‘Then let’s abandon all the formalities,’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘On the day that Sir Martin was killed in his garden, did Villemot come here?’

‘Is that what Jean-Paul is claiming?’

‘He refuses to answer the question. Christopher knows that the man was away from his studio for over two hours, but all that Villemot will confess is that he spent a short time at Araminta’s house in Westminster. Where did he go afterwards?’ pressed Henry. ‘If we know that, it might help in his defence.’

‘How?’

‘We could then have a witness who saw him immediately after the time when the murder took place. Villemot is, by all accounts, a man of high emotion. Had he committed the crime,’ said Henry, ‘he would surely have been agitated as a result.’

‘There are other causes for agitation.’

‘So he did come here?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and that fact is proof of his innocence in my opinion. If Jean-Paul were a killer, he’d never have come near this house. He’d have fled the scene in a panic without knowing where he was going. He’s not a phlegmatic Englishman, trained to hide his feelings. He expresses them freely. That’s what made him such delightful company,’ she added, dreamily. ‘Jean-Paul is honest, impulsive and wonderfully spontaneous.’

‘Some Englishmen can be spontaneous,’ he insisted with a mischievous smile. ‘We are not all dull and phlegmatic. I’ve been famed for my spontaneity.’

‘Unfortunately, you are famed for other things as well. I won’t embarrass you by saying what they are.’

‘Happy is the man who can hear his faults and put them right.’

‘I thought you wanted to talk about Jean-Paul.’

‘I did, I did,’ said Henry, quickly. ‘Why did he not tell my brother that he came to you that day?’

‘Because he’s intensely loyal,’ she replied, ‘and that’s another quality you lack. He wanted to guard my reputation. If it became common knowledge that a handsome Frenchman spent time under this roof in my husband’s absence, people would draw some unkind conclusions. I’d be compromised.’

‘Was he very agitated when he got here that day?’

‘Yes, he was — agitated but also excited. Jean-Paul needed someone to talk to and I was the only person he could trust. He poured out his heart to me.’

Henry sat forward. ‘What exactly did he say?’

Sarah Bale had been the wife of a parish constable for long enough to know that it was pointless to rebuke him for any injuries that he picked up in the course of his work. Bruises, cuts and abrasions were an accepted part of a job that involved keeping the peace. Bale never complained. Whenever he had been hurt, all that he wanted was for the wound to be treated so that he could go back to work again. His wife’s sympathy was something he could take for granted.

‘It’s a bad one this time, Jonathan,’ she said as she finished bandaging his head. ‘What did he use to hit you?’

‘I think it was a spade,’ he replied, ‘though it felt more like a giant anvil. He was a strong man.’

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘I can stand the pain, Sarah. It’s the folly of it that stings me.’

‘Whose folly?’

‘Mine, of course,’ he said. ‘I never let someone creep up on me like that. If I’m being followed, I usually know at once. Not this time, I fear. My mind was on other things.’

‘At least, you’re still in one piece.’

She kissed him gently on the cheek then stood back to admire her handiwork. Encircling his head, the bandage hid the wound itself but it could not conceal the dark bruise that spread down the side of his face. He looked battered and faintly sinister. She could tell that the injury was still smarting but she knew that he would never admit it. Bale had a stoical attitude towards pain. It was something that had to be mastered so that it could be ignored.

When someone knocked on the front door, Bale tried to rise from his chair. Sarah pushed him back into it with a firm hand before going out of the kitchen. She soon returned with a visitor.

‘There you are, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘I told you there was no need to struggle over to Mr Redmayne’s house. He’s here in person.’

‘Whatever happened?’ asked Christopher, looking at his friend in dismay. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Much better now that Sarah’s seen to me,’ said Bale. ‘The main thing is that I found that locksmith. I know who wanted the key.’

‘Forget the key, Jonathan. Your welfare comes first. When you didn’t come back to my house, I knew that something untoward must have occurred. Tell me all.’

Because his wife was there, Bale gave only a terse account of the attack, trying to make it sound less threatening than it had been. Christopher felt guilty for having sent his friend on an errand that had put him in such danger. Bale brushed aside his apologies.

‘I got what I went there for, sir,’ he said, taking the key out of his pocket. ‘I showed this to a locksmith named Elijah Sayers.’

‘Did he recognise it?’

‘Straight away, Mr Redmayne.’

‘That was lucky. There must be hundreds of similar keys.’

‘They’re all different to Mr Sayers and he remembers this one.’ Bale handed it to Christopher. ‘He described the man who brought it in and it sounds as if it might have been that gardener.’

‘Abel Paskins.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Bale. ‘And I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that it was the same Abel Paskins who tried to do some gardening on my head. He knew how to handle a spade.’

‘You’re lucky to be alive, Jonathan,’ said his wife.

‘It’ll take more than a tap on the head to stop me, Sarah.’

She snorted. ‘A tap! Is that what you call it?’

‘That’s all it felt like.’

‘Nonsense! The kind man who brought you back home on that cart said that you were unconscious on the ground. When he first saw you, he thought you were dead.’

‘Don’t fret about that,’ said Bale.

‘Did the customer give his name?’ said Christopher.

‘No, Mr Redmayne, but he told the locksmith the name of the gentleman who wanted the duplicate made so quickly. I think you can guess who it was.’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke, by any chance?’

‘That’s him, sir.’

‘But you were told that Paskins no longer works for him.’

‘If he committed a murder on Mr Kidbrooke’s behalf, he’d have been well-paid for his work. He might not need to go on gardening, sir.’ He put a hand gingerly to his head. ‘I’ve a feeling that Paskins is still working for Mr Kidbrooke. We both need to be careful.’

‘I’ll take over from now on, Jonathan. You deserve a rest.’

‘Not until we’ve caught the pair of them,’ said Bale, struggling to his feet. ‘I’ve a score to settle with Paskins.’

‘And I’ve one to settle with Jocelyn Kidbrooke,’ said Christopher. ‘By plotting the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe, he almost robbed me of a commission to build a new house here in Baynard’s Castle Ward.’

‘Which one do we arrest first, sir — Paskins or Mr Kidbrooke?’

‘I think we’ll start with Kidbrooke.’

‘The truth of it is that I’m still dithering,’ said Sir Willard Grail.

‘You’ll have to make a decision fairly soon,’ warned Jocelyn Kidbrooke. ‘The funeral will be in less than two hours.’

‘I’m not sure that I wish to go.’

‘Elkannah has been at you again.’

‘He knew he’d be wasting his time.’

‘Then why these last-minute doubts?’

‘They’re not really doubts, Jocelyn. I suppose that they are best described as faint rustlings at the back of my mind.’

‘That’s an affliction from which I’ve never suffered.’

‘No conscience?’

‘Not in this case, Sir Willard,’ said the other, happily. ‘It makes life so much easier when you don’t have to consider the rights and wrongs of your actions. Morality can be such a nuisance.’

They were in the coffee house, seated in the corner so that they were not drawn into the general discussion at the common table. Sir Willard was in his customary flamboyant attire but Kidbrooke had dressed to attend the funeral. They made an incongruous pairing.

‘When did Elkannah first stumble upon it?’ said Kidbrooke.

‘Upon what?’

‘Morality.’

‘Very recently,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He’s gone through the best part of forty years without realising that such a thing existed. That’s why his conversion has been so surprising.’

‘Is it a conversion or a form of madness?’

‘Both, I fancy.’

‘What sane man would renounce his interest in Araminta?’

‘And why did he break off his friendship with Henry simply because they had a disagreement? I’m always having disagreements with Henry Redmayne,’ disclosed Sir Willard. ‘He invites argument. It’s one of his few virtues that he never bears grudges when I best him in debate. It’s just as well because I do it so frequently.’

‘Henry is a fool but an extremely likeable one.’

‘How would you characterise Elkannah Prout?’

‘Until recently,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘I’d have described him as one of the most amiable, wicked, depraved, heartless men in London. In short, inspiring company for thorough-going libertines like us. All that changed when Sir Martin was killed,’ he went on. ‘Elkannah had a sudden attack of religious principles and the vile disease warped his mind.’

‘I hope that I don’t catch it when I reach his age.’

‘The only thing we are likely to catch is the French disease.’

Sir Willard laughed. ‘That’s why I choose my ladies with such care,’ he said. ‘Their purity is part of their charm.’

‘As it is with Araminta, the princess of purity.’

‘You never said a truer word, Jocelyn.’

Kidbrooke got up. ‘I’ll leave you to dither, Sir Willard,’ he said. ‘I have a funeral to attend. You’d be wise to go to it as well.’

‘I’ll think it over.’

They exchanged farewells. Kidbrooke left the coffee house but his friend remained to consider his own position. Sir Willard wondered if there was a positive gain in going to the funeral. He would have little chance of getting anywhere near Araminta. On the other hand, a list of mourners would eventually reach her and she might be touched by the fact that he was there. After several minutes of rumination, he decided to go to the church. Before doing that, he would need to change into something more suitable.

Getting up, he hurried towards the exit. The moment he stepped through the door, however, he found two figures barring his way. He recognised Christopher Redmayne as one of them.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said, brusquely. ‘I’ve no time to speak to you now as I have an important appointment.’

‘Our appointment is also important,’ said Christopher. ‘We’ve come to make an arrest in connection with the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’ He looked past him into the coffee house. ‘I understand that Mr Kidbrooke may be here.’

Sir Willard was astounded. ‘You’re going to arrest Jocelyn?’

‘Is he still inside?’ asked Jonathan Bale.

‘No, he left a short while ago.’

‘Do you have any idea where we could find him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Sir Willard. ‘At a funeral.’

Araminta Culthorpe looked out of the portrait with the steady gaze of a woman who was sublimely happy. Still unfinished, the painting had been reclaimed from the studio and now stood beside the dressing table in Araminta’s bedchamber. After looking at the portrait, she let her gaze shift to the mirror and she saw a very different face from the one that graced the canvas. Whitened by grief and lined by anxiety, it was thrown into sharp relief by her widow’s weeds.

Eleanor Ryle, also in black, hovered behind her mistress.

‘How do you feel now, m’lady?’ she asked, softly.

‘I feel as if I’ll never get through the service,’ said Araminta, ‘but I know that I must. I’ll find the strength from somewhere.’

‘Everyone is waiting downstairs.’

‘There’s plenty of time yet before we need leave.’

‘I thought it might help to be with your family,’ said Eleanor.

‘I just want to be alone at the moment.’

‘Do you want me to leave?’

‘Please, Eleanor — and take the portrait with you.’

The maid was surprised. ‘Take it away?’

‘Yes,’ said Araminta. ‘It reminds me of Monsieur Villemot.’

Instead of sinking further into despair, Jean-Paul Villemot made an effort to control his feelings. He even dared to embrace a distant hope. In trying to commit suicide, he had shocked himself and he was deeply grateful that he had been stopped in time. He thought of all the people who would have been rocked by the news that he had ended his life at the end of a noose in a London prison. It would have been an appalling epitaph. The very notion now made him shudder.

When his visitor arrived, he was relieved to see Emile again, even if they were prevented from speaking their native language. The valet had brought food, wine, unlimited sympathy and news from the outside world. Knowing how fragile his master was, Emile did not upset him by mentioning that the portrait of Araminta Culthorpe was no longer at the studio. Nor did he reprove him for attempting to take his own life. He sensed that Villemot had already castigated himself mercilessly.

‘How are you?’ asked Emile.

‘I’m a little better today.’

‘Good.’

‘I was at my lowest point a day or so ago. Now,’ said Villemot with a brave smile, ‘I know I have something to live for.’

‘You do, you do.’

‘How are you managing without me?’

‘The studio, it is very empty.’

‘What about Clemence?’

‘She misses you — we both miss you.’

Emile reached through the bars to squeeze his master’s hand. It felt cold and damp. Yet there was a hint of spirit about Villemot and that was gratifying. He tried to offer encouragement.

‘You will not be here long,’ he said.

‘I feel as if I’ve been here forever, Emile.’

‘They will get you out. They are very clever.’

‘Who?’

‘Monsieur Redmayne and his brother, Henry,’ said the other. ‘They are good men. They will save you.’

Henry Redmayne disliked seeing Jonathan Bale at the best of times. When the constable’s head was swathed in bandaging, and when the bruise made his face even more ugly, he was a daunting presence. Henry shot a look of dismay at his brother.

‘Did you have to bring this walking gargoyle with you?’

‘Jonathan has a right to be here,’ said Christopher. ‘He discovered a valuable clue for us. A duplicate key to the garden of Sir Martin’s house was made on the instructions of a certain gentleman.’

‘A friend of yours, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, solemnly.

Henry was startled. ‘A friend of mine?’

‘Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘Never!’

Christopher explained how the information had come to light and how Bale had been assaulted as a result. Henry was forced to congratulate the constable and he even offered a token of sympathy. The three of them were in the hall of the Bedford Street house. Dressed for the funeral, Henry was descended upon before he could leave. He was glad to see his brother but wished that he had come alone.

‘What did Lady Lingoe say?’ asked Christopher. Henry glanced uneasily at Bale. ‘You can speak in front of Jonathan. I told him about my visit to Monsieur Villemot. He’s aware that it was the resemblance between Lady Culthorpe and his beloved that took Villemot to Westminster on that fateful day.’

‘Does he know that Villemot’s beloved is already married?’

‘Yes, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale. ‘I’m sorry to hear that there are people in France — as well as here — who do not respect the institution of holy matrimony.’

‘But Villemot does respect it,’ said Henry, irritably. ‘That’s why he wishes to make this lady his wife. Unfortunately, Monique Chaval is married to a member of the French government, a vindictive man with the ear of the King. He’s almost forty years older than his poor wife — even in France that must verge on indecency.’

‘They were married in a church,’ Bale reminded him.

‘A Roman Catholic church,’ rejoined Henry. ‘I’m surprised that an unrepentant Puritan like you considers that to be a proper union. It’s certainly a wretched one for his wife. Chaval bullies her, starves her of money and keeps her locked away in his mansion. It was only because he wanted to show her off to his friends that he decided to have her portrait painted.’

‘Choosing Monsieur Villemot as the artist,’ said Christopher.

‘You can guess the rest. He fell in love with Monique and, when he heard how cruelly she was treated, he was determined to flee the country with her. Unfortunately,’ said Henry, ‘the plot was discovered and Villemot was lucky to escape with his life.’

‘Yet he still nurses the ambition of marrying her.’

‘He does — and with good reason. Old age and too much wine have taken their toll of Chaval. He’s also been something of a roue.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Bale.

‘A French version of my brother,’ explained Christopher.

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Chaval is in decline,’ said Henry, ignoring the censorious look he collected from the constable. ‘Villemot only has to wait until he passes away and he can claim his bride. According to Hester, the lady does look remarkably like Araminta.’

‘Did he go to Lady Lingoe’s house that day?’ said Christopher.

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Then why didn’t he admit it to me?’

‘For the obvious reason,’ said Henry. ‘He didn’t want you to make any unflattering assumptions about him and Hester. That’s what I did and she took me to task over it. Hester assures me that their friendship is essentially Platonic, and since she has a bust of Plato in her hall, I’m inclined to believe her.’

‘Something must have taken him there,’ argued Christopher.

‘It was fear.’

‘Of what?’

‘A vengeful husband, of course,’ said Henry. ‘Chaval knows that his wife is still coveted by Villemot because he was courageous enough to sneak back to France in order to see Monique. As a result, the love-struck artist received death threats from Chaval.’

‘But he’s perfectly safe in England.’

‘That’s what he hoped, Christopher.’

‘Does he have cause to believe otherwise?’

‘He thought that he did. Something happened at Sir Martin’s house to give him a real fright. It made him ride off at once. Hester said that he was shaking all over when he got to her house.’

‘What frightened him?’ said Bale.

‘Somebody was watching Villemot from behind a tree.’

‘Did he know who it was, sir?’

‘No, Mr Bale,’ said Henry. ‘Given the threats against his life, he was afraid that the man had been sent by Chaval. If he’d spoken to me, I could have put his mind at rest but I wasn’t there at the time.’

‘What could you have done, Henry?’ said Christopher.

‘I could have told him that the man was no assassin sent from France. He was an English gentleman whose sole interest in being there was Araminta.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because of what Villemot told Hester,’ said his brother. ‘What scared him was that the man was peering through a telescope. As Villemot came out of the garden, he saw the telescope glinting among the trees. He felt that he was being hunted and he fled.’

‘Who was the man with the telescope?’

‘The person you’re looking for, Christopher — Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

Drizzle had started to fall out of an overcast sky, making a sad occasion even more sombre. The first mourners had already started to arrive at the church and others soon came in their wake. Sir Martin Culthorpe had been a popular man with many friends who wanted to pay their last respects to him. It was not long before a ring of coaches besieged the church. Interested bystanders lurked nearby so that they could watch the funeral cortege appear.

Jocelyn Kidbrooke had been among the early arrivals but he had not taken up his seat inside the church. Positioning himself where he had an excellent view of the whole scene, he ran his telescope across the sea of faces and picked out a number that he knew. It was a curious instrument and it had taken him time to master it but it gave him a distinct advantage over his rivals. In order to see Araminta, they had to get close to her but Kidbrooke could watch her at will from a distance. Where they would get only a mere glimpse of her, he was rewarded with continuous surveillance.

None of the others were there yet. Elkannah Prout had vowed to stay away from the funeral and Sir Willard Grail’s attendance was by no means certain. Kidbrooke fancied that Henry Redmayne would be unable to stay away and that he would do his best to get near to Araminta at some point. Kidbrooke was not worried that any of his rivals would have an edge over him. With his telescope in his hands, he felt that his position was unassailable.

The telescope did not stay in his hands for long. It was snatched away by Jonathan Bale. When its owner swung round to protest, he was staring into the face of Christopher Redmayne.

‘Give me back my telescope!’ demanded Kidbrooke.

‘We need to use it as evidence,’ said Christopher.

‘Of what?’

‘Your involvement in the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘But I had nothing whatsoever to do with it!’

‘You may not have stabbed him with that dagger, Mr Kidbrooke, but you paid the man who did. His name was Abel Paskins.’

‘And unless I’m mistaken,’ said Bale, whisking off his hat to reveal the bandaging, ‘you also instructed Paskins to attack me when I came to Westminster earlier.’

‘I haven’t seen Paskins for days,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘and I certainly wouldn’t pay him to commit a crime. He needed no incentive from me to do that. Abel Paskins was a deep-dyed villain. After he left my service, I learned that he’d stolen several things from my garden.’

‘Offer these excuses to the magistrate, sir.’

‘They’re not excuses, Mr Bale.’

‘On the day of the murder,’ said Christopher, taking control, ‘you were seen outside Sir Martin’s house.’

Kidbrooke blanched. ‘It was not me.’

‘How many people own a telescope like this one?’

‘Very few — it was highly expensive.’

‘You were seen with it in Westminster. And do not claim that you dined with your wife that day,’ Christopher added, ‘because we have it on good authority that Mrs Kidbrooke was in Hampshire. You were expected to dine at Locket’s with my brother, Henry, and some other friends, but you did not turn up. We know why.’

‘You were keeping watch for Abel Paskins,’ said Bale, grimly, ‘while he was stabbing Sir Martin in the back.’

‘You’ll have to come with us, Mr Kidbrooke.’

Bale took the man’s arm. ‘You’re under arrest, sir.’

‘I can’t leave now,’ yelled Kidbrooke, trying in vain to shake his arm free. ‘I haven’t seen Araminta yet.’

‘You disgust me,’ said Christopher, hotly. ‘How can you dare to come to her husband’s funeral when you were the agent of Lady Culthorpe’s distress? She’ll hate you for what you did.’

‘So will every decent human being,’ said Bale.

‘But I was not involved in the murder,’ protested Kidbrooke. ‘I’d swear that on the eyes of my children.’

‘Do you admit that you were at the house on that day?’

Kidbrooke was shamefaced. ‘Yes, Mr Bale.’

‘Then your guilt is clear.’

‘No,’ said the other with passion. ‘I’m only guilty of wanting to see Araminta so much that I lay in waiting near her house for hours. I went there to look at her, not because I had murderous designs on her husband. I worship her,’ he went on, piteously. ‘I wouldn’t harm Araminta for the world. The last thing I’d even think of doing is to have Sir Martin killed. What could I hope to gain by such cruelty?’

The speech had such a ring of truth about it that Bale let go of his prisoner. Christopher had the same reaction. Much as he disliked the man and the Society of which he had been a sworn member, he had to accept that Jocelyn Kidbrooke’s argument was a strong one. Inciting someone to murder Araminta’s husband would not bring her any closer to him. She would retreat into mourning and be out of his reach. He remembered the gardener.

‘We thought that you poached Abel Paskins so that he could tell you about Sir Martin’s household,’ he said. ‘You knew that he’d once worked as a gardener there.’

‘I did,’ confessed Kidbrooke, ‘and I pumped him for every detail I could. But I wanted to learn about Araminta and not her husband. I also recognised that Paskins was an exceptional gardener.’

‘And a practised thief, by the sound of it.’

‘I found that out to my cost.’

Bale was confused. ‘If you didn’t instruct Paskins to commit the murder,’ he said, running a hand across his jaw, ‘then who did?’

Elkannah Prout arrived on horseback and reined in the animal not far from the church. As he dismounted and tethered his horse, he found that Abel Paskins was waiting for him. The gardener stepped out from behind a tree and touched the brim of his hat in deference.

‘Did you do as you were told?’ said Prout.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Paskins with a smirk. ‘I hit him with a spade.’

‘Good man.’

‘That’s one of them you don’t have to worry about, Mr Prout.’

‘Bale was only the assistant,’ said the other. ‘The person who troubles me is Christopher Redmayne. He’s much more acute and he’s the kind of gallant fool who never gives up.’

‘I’ll take care of him, sir.’

‘It’s the one sure way to stop him,’ said Prout. ‘It’s a pity — I rather liked the fellow. But we can’t have anyone finding out the truth. Christopher Redmayne is all yours.’

‘How much will I earn?’

‘The same as I paid you for Sir Martin’s death.’

‘I’d have killed him for the pleasure of it,’ said Paskins with a curl of his lip. ‘Sir Martin was a tyrant in the garden. Everybody thinks he was such a fine man but he could be vicious if you crossed him. He was always picking on me and making me look like a fool in front of the other gardeners. I loathed him.’

‘I was grateful to be able to harness that loathing.’

‘What happens next?’

Prout silenced him with a gesture. The funeral cortege was approaching and he craned his neck along with the other bystanders. First in line was the funeral cart, draped in black, pulled by black horses and containing the coffin that held the body of Sir Martin Culthorpe. Hats were doffed on both sides of the road. It was the carriage bearing the chief mourners that interested Prout. He could just see Araminta through the window as the vehicle rolled past and the sight made him sigh with a mingled sadness and joy. Grieving with her now, he hoped one day to be sharing her happiness.

‘What happens next?’ repeated Paskins.

‘I want you to kill Christopher Redmayne.’

Christopher waited until the cortege had gone past and until the coffin had been carried into the church. Replacing his hat, he used the telescope to look along the line of people on the other side of the street. When a familiar face came into view, Christopher paused.

‘That looks like Mr Prout,’ he said.

‘Impossible,’ declared Jocelyn Kidbrooke, standing beside him. ‘Elkannah went to Newmarket to watch the races. He swore that he would not come anywhere near the funeral.’

‘Then he must have changed his mind.’ He handed the telescope to its owner. ‘I’m certain that’s him.’

‘Let me see.’ Kidbrooke peered through the instrument. ‘By thunder,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is Elkannah! And do you know who the man beside him is?’

‘No,’ said Christopher.

‘It’s Abel Paskins.’

‘Paskins?’ echoed Bale with interest. ‘Where?’

It was his turn to look through the telescope. When he picked out the gardener, he studied him for a long time. His head began to pound at the memory of the fearsome blow it had received.

‘Well?’ asked Christopher. ‘Is that the man who attacked you?’

‘I don’t know, sir — it could be.’

* * *

As befitted the solemn occasion, everything moved at a slow pace. Mourners arriving in the cortege entered the church sedately. Those who had gathered outside now began to file in. Elkannah Prout decided to follow them. He had seen Sir Willard Grail join the queue of mourners but Jocelyn Kidbrooke was nowhere to be seen. Prout surmised that his friend must already be in the church. Of Henry Redmayne, there was also no sign at all. It appeared that he had elected to stay away altogether.

Prout intended to sit at the rear of the nave where none of his friends could see him. As far as they were concerned, he was at the races in Newmarket. It was a ruse that had to be maintained. Prout shuffled on behind the others. Before he got anywhere near the church door, however, he saw Christopher Redmayne bearing down purposefully on him. The moment their eyes met, he knew that his villainy had been discovered. Prout had to get away at once. While everyone else was moving forward with an unhurried tread, he broke into a trot in the opposite direction.

Christopher went after him, his youth and superior fitness allowing him to make ground easily on the other man. Prout, however, had his accomplice. Abel Paskins was still standing near the horse.

‘Stop him!’ yelled Prout. ‘This is Christopher Redmayne.’

‘I’ll handle him, sir,’ said the gardener.

Pulling out his dagger, he brandished it at the oncoming figure, forcing him to slow down. Paskins advanced on Christopher, intent on using his weapon, but he was suddenly deprived of it. Jonathan Bale came up behind him, felled him with a blow to the neck then kicked the dagger out of his hand. Paskins rolled on the ground.

‘Remember me?’ said Bale, removing his hat. ‘This is what you did when my back was turned. It’s not turned now,’ he went on, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him to his feet. ‘Let’s see what you can do in a fair fight.’

Paskins roared with anger and threw a punch at him. Blocking it with ease, Bale plunged his fist hard into the man’s midriff, knocking the breath out of him and making him squeal in pain. The gardener soon recovered and grappled with his opponent, getting in some sly punches to the ribs and trying to crack Bale’s nose open with a jerk of his forehead. The constable had quelled too many tavern brawls to be caught by the manoeuvre. Pulling his head back, he took the blow on the chin before pushing Paskins away from him.

The gardener responded by aiming a kick at his groin but Bale was too quick for him. Moving adroitly sideways, he caught hold of the flailing foot and yanked Paskins off his feet. The man hit the ground with a thud. Before he could move, he had Bale on top of him, using his weight to subdue him and punching away with both fists. The gardener’s face was soon running with blood and his strength was draining fast. Nothing he could do could get his opponent off him. Fired by the need for vengeance, Bale pounded on remorselessly until resistance finally stopped.

Elkannah Prout had watched it all with horror. Seeing that his accomplice had been overpowered, he mounted his horse and tried to ride off. Christopher stood in his way. He remembered how Bale had unsaddled Villemot when the artist had tried to ride off from Lady Lingoe’s house. Whisking off his hat, the architect waved it wildly in the horse’s face. It reared up on its hind legs and flung its rider backwards. Prout was badly dazed by the fall. When he had caught the reins and calmed the horse, Christopher tethered the animal before moving to stand over Prout.

‘You should have gone to Newmarket.’

‘I had to be here,’ insisted Prout. ‘Araminta is mine.’

‘You’ll never get anywhere near her again,’ said Christopher, hauling him up. ‘Unless she decides to attend your execution, that is.’

It was several days before Araminta Culthorpe felt able to see them. In the aftermath of the funeral, she had shunned company of any kind and spent most of the time alone in her bedchamber or the garden. She had not even allowed Eleanor Ryle to stay with her for long. As the full facts about the murder began to emerge, however, she saw how indebted she was to the efforts of Christopher Redmayne and others. When she felt strong enough, she invited him to visit her at the house in Westminster. Henry was overjoyed when the invitation was extended to him.

The two brothers met her in the drawing room with its generous proportions and exquisite furniture. Rising from the table where she had been writing letters of thanks, Araminta did her best not to look so forlorn. When her visitors sat side by side on the couch, she took a chair opposite them.

‘I thought you had nothing whatsoever in common,’ she said, looking from one to the other, ‘but I see now that I was mistaken. You’ve both shown your mettle and I’m deeply grateful. So, I am sure, is Monsieur Villemot.’

‘We believed strongly in his innocence,’ said Christopher.

‘I never doubted it for an instant,’ added Henry.

‘Fortunately,’ she recalled, ‘someone else thought that he’d been wrongly accused — my maid. Eleanor is a wonderful companion. I never thought that she would help to solve a murder as well.’

‘Her assistance was invaluable,’ said Christopher. ‘She’s a young woman with initiative, Lady Culthorpe. But she’s not the only person who deserves plaudits here,’ he went on. ‘Thanks to my brother, Lady Lingoe was able to provide some useful information and the real hero was a parish constable, Jonathan Bale.’

‘Yes, I heard about the way that he was assaulted.’

‘He was able to turn the tables on his attacker.’

‘He was able to arrest Abel,’ said Henry, disappointed that his weak pun did not even earn a smile from Araminta. He felt a twinge of guilt at his earlier stalking of her. ‘May I take this opportunity to apologise for sending you those unwelcome verses?’

‘I prefer to forget that they ever existed, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Then they did not, Lady Culthorpe. They were figments of my imagination.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Whoosh — they’ve gone forever!’

‘I’m grateful — and I owe you thanks for another reason. You were considerate enough to stay away from the funeral.’

‘It never occurred to me to go,’ said Henry, saying nothing about his last-minute decision to stay away. ‘I wish that others had shown the concern for you that I did.’

She turned to Christopher. ‘Have you seen Monsieur Villemot?’

‘Many times,’ he replied.

‘Does he still wish to have a house built here?’

‘Work started again the day that he came out of Newgate.’

‘I’m so glad that we’ve not frightened him away.’

‘You could frighten nobody away,’ said Henry, beaming at her.

‘It’s I who’ve been frightened away, Mr Redmayne,’ she told him, meeting his gaze. ‘I’ll be quitting London for a while to live on my late husband’s country estate. You might pass on that information to your friends. Their attentions can cease forthwith.’

Henry was suitably reprimanded. Now that he was in the same room as the woman he had idolised, he saw how cold, ruthless and unwelcome his pursuit of her had been. He had been a willing member of a Society with base intentions and uncompromising methods and he was chastened, all the more so since the founder of the Society had been driven to commit a murder by his obsession. He left his brother to continue the conversation.

‘Monsieur Villemot is wondering about the portrait,’ said Christopher, tentatively. ‘He still regards it as his finest work.’

Araminta gave a pale smile. ‘I’m flattered to hear that.’

‘In due course, he’d like to finish it.’

‘I daresay that he does, Mr Redmayne.’

‘May I tell him that that will be possible? In view of what’s happened, that portrait has taken on great significance for him. It brought him untold and undeserved suffering,’ Christopher reminded her. ‘If he were allowed to complete it, those unhappy memories of Newgate might be obliterated.’

‘One day, perhaps,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘One day.’

It was too soon for her to make the decision. Christopher did not press her on the matter. When she had expressed her thanks to them again, he signalled to his brother that it was time to leave and they bade farewell. Before they were shown out, Araminta exchanged a handshake with each of them. Henry was thrilled that he had actually touched her. When he came out of the house with Christopher, his right hand was tingling with pleasure.

‘She likes me,’ he said, joyfully. ‘Araminta likes me.’

‘Lady Culthorpe likes what she saw of you today,’ said his brother. ‘She viewed you as a person who took great pains to prove Monsieur Villemot’s innocence. Had she known that you’d tried to steal her portrait from the studio, however, and heard what underhand methods you employed to do so, she’d never have let you cross her threshold. Be grateful that we were able to display the better side of Henry Redmayne for once.’

‘I thought I did that when I wrote those poems.’

‘They’ve helped to drive her out of London.’

‘I was not her only correspondent,’ said Henry. ‘Jocelyn and Sir Willard showered her with letters and gifts, and Elkannah sent her a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Poetry is the proper expression of true love. That’s why I addressed Araminta in heightened language.’

‘Heightened language that concealed the lowest desires.’

‘I confess it straight, Christopher. When I saw her today, I felt thoroughly ashamed that I’d been a member of that dreadful Society. It was Elkannah Prout who drew me into it.’

‘He was determined to win by any means,’ said Christopher, ‘even if he had to suborn someone to commit a murder. Unlike the rest of you, he was prepared to be patient.’

‘Yes,’ said Henry, sadly. ‘We were like eager schoolboys, chasing their first kiss from some rosy-cheeked girl. The moment that Sir Martin was killed, we thought more of our foul ambitions than we did of Araminta’s distress. While we pushed forward, Elkannah drew back and affected indifference. Since Araminta had chosen an older man as a husband, he hoped that his age and his forbearance would in time recommend him.’

‘He was a cunning man. When he had that key made, he told Paskins to give the name of Jocelyn Kidbrooke to the locksmith. That misled us. His most clever trick,’ said Christopher, ‘was to dine with you and your friends at the very time when he knew that Sir Martin would be murdered. That lifted any suspicion from him.’

‘Elkannah has always been a devious rogue. Well,’ said Henry, ‘he was a lawyer. What else can one expect? I should have known that he’d find out that Sir Martin had dismissed a gardener who nursed a grievance against him. He engaged Paskins as his killer, taking him away from Jocelyn.’ He laughed. ‘One poacher was outdone by another. Jocelyn Kidbrooke only wanted information from Paskins. Elkannah wanted someone with an urge to kill Sir Martin.’

They had walked to the rear of the house to collect their horses from the stables. When they saw the large, iron garden gate, they stopped to look at it. Christopher thought of the artist.

‘If that gate had been open,’ he said, indicating it, ‘I can see that it must have been a strong temptation to Monsieur Villemot. He’d been to the house before to choose the dress from Lady Culthorpe’s wardrobe that he wanted her to wear in the portrait. He knew that her bedchamber overlooked the garden. What took him in there was the vague hope of a glimpse of her at the window.’

‘I’d have done the same in his place, Christopher. This is where Araminta lives. It would have been like stepping into the Garden of Eden. I might even have been rewarded with a sighting of her.’

‘Monsieur Villemot was rewarded with a spell in Newgate. He also tore the sleeve of his coat on a briar. His visit to that garden was a disaster for him.’

‘The wonder is that he still wishes to remain in England.’

‘He likes it here.’

‘After the way he was treated?’

‘He’s unable to return to France,’ said Christopher, ‘until he can finally claim Monique as his wife. Paris is still full of her husband’s family and friends so they could never live there.’

‘Instead, you’ve designed them a French house in England.’

‘By the time it’s built, he may well have a beautiful wife with whom to share it.’

‘What will he do until then?’ said Henry.

‘Oh, he has plenty to keep him occupied in the meantime. There are gorgeous young women all over the city who want to sit for a portrait by Jean-Paul Villemot. Now that he’s been exonerated, he’s more popular than ever. He’ll be just like Henry Redmayne in that Molly House.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘Surrounded by painted ladies.’