The Painted Lady

Chapter Four

Jonathan Bale looked after his parish with an almost paternal care. Whenever a serious crime was committed on what he saw as his territory, he took it as a personal affront and bent all his energies to solving it. He hated to see Baynard’s Castle Ward soiled in any way but even he could not keep pace with the petty theft, drunkenness, domestic violence, prostitution, fraud and tavern brawls that were regular events there. Bale was fettered by mathematics. There were too many villains and too few constables.

While one pickpocket was being arrested, others were plying their trade nearby. If he felt obliged to part one angry husband and wife, Bale knew that other married couples would be having similar squabbles behind closed doors. He could not be everywhere at the same time but he liked to think that his presence had some impact. The local inhabitants admired and respected him. Because he had won their trust, they were much more likely to report incidents to Bale than to any other constable. Some of the others who patrolled the streets were too old, too wayward or too inept to be of much use to anyone. They lacked Bale’s fierce civic pride and commitment. None of them — Tom Warburton, especially — had his stamina.

‘I’m thirsty, Jonathan,’ he said.

‘You always are at this time of the day, Tom.’

‘I think I’ll step into the Blue Dolphin.’

‘Off you go,’ said Bale, tolerantly. ‘You know where to find me.’

‘I won’t tarry.’

Warburton hurried across the road to the tavern with his dog bounding along beside him. He was a tall, stringy, humourless man in his forties with a tendency to try to beat confessions out of supposed malefactors. In an affray, Warburton was a good man to have at one’s side but he was far too reckless at times and Bale had often had to restrain him, reminding him that they were appointed to quell violence and not to initiate it. Bale did not mind being left alone. It gave him the opportunity to meet up with an old friend.

Following his established route, he went round the next corner and strode briskly along the street until he came to a large gap between two tall new houses. Under the supervision of their employer, workmen were busy digging on the plot of land.

‘Good morning, Mr Littlejohn,’ greeted the constable.

‘Mr Bale!’ rejoined the builder, turning to see him. ‘I was hoping that I might bump into you now that I’m back in your ward.’

Bale sized him up. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

‘Blame my wife for that. She feeds me too well.’

‘You are keeping busy, I hope.’

‘Busier than ever, my friend.’

The two men had been brought together when Christopher Redmayne had designed his first house. Since it was being built in Baynard’s Castle Ward, the constable noticed it when out on his rounds but he paid it no attention. It was simply one more house, rising out of the ashes. Dozens of others were being constructed in every street. The situation soon changed. When the murder had occurred on the site of the new house, Bale was drawn into the investigation and had therefore met Samuel Littlejohn. They had got on well together and their paths had crossed a few times since then.

‘I hear that we are partners,’ said Littlejohn, genially.

‘Partners?’

‘According to Mr Redmayne, you built a model for this house.’

‘I tried to,’ said Bale, unassumingly.

‘I’m told it was very good. If the architect and the client approved of it, it must have been. Mr Redmayne promised to show it to me when he gets it back from Mr Villemot.’

‘I hope you like it, Mr Littlejohn.’

The builder grinned. ‘If I do, I might be offering you a job as a carpenter. Have you never thought of taking up your old trade?’

‘Never — I’m happy watching over the streets here.’

‘You’d earn a tidy wage from me.’

‘But I’d have to give up being a constable.’

‘Do you like the work that much?’

Bale shrugged. ‘It suits me, Mr Littlejohn.’

‘Then I’ll not try to entice you away.’ He glanced around. ‘Things seem to be quite peaceful in this part of the city.’

‘Wait till this evening when the taverns start to fill up.’

‘Do you have a lot of trouble?’

‘Anyone who works near the river has trouble,’ explained Bale. ‘This part of the district is safe enough but there are some tough characters along Thames Street. Sailors, fishermen and those who work in the docks seem to need a good fight at least once a week. What’s even worse,’ he added, scornfully, ‘is that they also need the company of loose women.’

Littlejohn was broad-minded. ‘We might feel the same urges if we’d been away at sea for months on end.’

‘Speak for yourself, sir.’

‘I’m not condoning it, Mr Bale, just trying to understand it.’

‘It’s against the law and a sin before God.’

‘When enough drink is taken,’ said the builder, ‘people seem to forget all about God. My men certainly do. Because they work hard, they expect to drink hard. Try to preach a sermon at them when they’ve downed their beer and you’d hear language that would burn your ears off.’

Bale seized his cue. ‘Drinking, whoring, fighting, cursing — it’s all one, Mr Littlejohn,’ he said, sternly. ‘It’s part of the penalty we pay for having a dissolute King who revels in every vice of the city, and courtiers who fornicate openly and try to drag everyone down to their own bestial level.’

‘Things are not as bad as that.’

‘I see it happening every day. Corruption starts at the top and trickles down. In the last ten years, London has become a sink of iniquity. It was never like this under the Lord Protector.’

‘You may be right,’ said Littlejohn, tactfully suppressing his monarchist sympathies in the interests of friendship. ‘I leave crime and corruption to you, Mr Bale. All that I can do is to help rebuild this city to its former glory.’ His cheeks glowed with pride. ‘They say that Paris is more beautiful, Madrid more ornate, and Venice finer than both. But, to me, London is better than all three and always will be.’

‘I’d say the same, Mr Littlejohn. For all its faults, there’s no place on earth like this city. Well,’ said Bale, looking at the plot beside them, ‘that’s why so many foreigners come to live here.’

‘Jean-Paul Villemot among them.’

‘Have you met the gentleman?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Mr Redmayne has nothing but good to say of him.’

‘Then I’m content. Mr Redmayne is a good judge of character.’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘He must be if he chose the both of us.’

‘Oh, I did very little,’ said Bale.

‘You built the house in miniature and won the client over. That’s half the battle in this trade. All we have to do is to turn your wooden model into a splendid brick house that will make Mr Villemot glad he decided to move from Paris to London.’

* * *

Christopher Redmayne was working in his study when he had an unexpected visitor. It was his servant, Jacob, still spry in spite of his advanced age, who gave his master the warning.

‘The French gentleman is coming to see you, sir.’

Christopher was surprised. ‘Monsieur Villemot?’

‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Are you, sure, Jacob?’

‘I saw him through the window,’ said the old man, ‘so I sent the lad out to take care of his horse.’

When he had first moved into the house in Fetter Lane, Christopher had only employed one servant, responsible for everything in the house. Now that he had made his mark in his profession, the architect had taken on a youth to do the more menial tasks. It spared Jacob a lot of work and gave him someone he could instruct, cajole and generally order about.

‘You’d better show Monsieur Villemot in,’ said Christopher.

‘I will, sir.’

Jacob went out to invite the Frenchman into the house, guiding him to the study before fading out of sight. Christopher offered his hand to his visitor but Villemot wanted a more demonstrative greeting. Embracing the other as if he had just discovered a long-lost friend, he kissed him on both cheeks. He was extravagantly contrite.

‘Have you forgiven me, Christopher?’ he asked.

‘For what?’

‘The way I behave to you yesterday.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ said Christopher.

‘I was in the bad mood and I spoke with anger.’

‘That’s not true at all.’

‘It is,’ said Villemot. ‘I raise my voice. I am ashamed.’

‘The whole matter is best forgotten,’ said Christopher with a smile of pardon. ‘I certainly won’t let it come between us. We all have bad moods from time to time.’

‘I am better now, Christopher. It will not happen again.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But that is not the only reason I come here today,’ said the other, his face darkening. ‘You have heard the awful news?’

‘Yes, my brother told me.’

‘How did he know?’

‘Henry has a way of finding out these things,’ said Christopher.

‘I was only told yesterday evening,’ said Villemot. ‘It made me so sad. I liked Sir Martin. He was a good man — and a very lucky one to be married to Araminta — to Lady Culthorpe.’ He hunched his shoulders in despair. ‘It is the tragedy, Christopher.’

‘I know. I feel so sorry for his wife.’

‘Who could do such a thing?’

‘I hope that we soon find out. But I’d hate you to think that this is what usually happens in London, because it does not. Most of us are perfectly safe in our own homes,’ said Christopher, ‘especially in the part of Westminster where Sir Martin lived. Aristocrats and politicians inhabit that area. There’s comparatively little crime.’

‘This is more than a crime,’ said Villemot. ‘It is the calamity.’

‘I agree.’

‘That’s why I need your advice.’

‘Advice?’

‘About what to do, Christopher,’ he explained. ‘I do not know the rules in this country. I know what I want to do but it may not be the right thing. I would like to go to the house to tell Lady Culthorpe that I have the great sympathy.’

‘That might not be wise,’ cautioned Christopher.

‘I want her to know that she can call on me for any help.’

‘Lots of people will feel the same, Monsieur Villemot, but I don’t think that Lady Culthorpe would want anyone to intrude on her grief. She’s probably still dazed by what’s happened. It would be a kindness to leave her alone until she has recovered from the shock.’

‘But there is the portrait to think about.’

‘It won’t even enter her mind, I fear. You may have to accept the inevitable. The portrait will never be completed.’

‘Yes, it will,’ asserted Villemot with a flash of spirit. ‘I will finish it as a matter of honour.’

‘Lady Culthorpe will certainly not be able to sit for you again.’

‘Her husband paid me handsomely for the painting of his wife. Jean-Paul Villemot, he does not let the customer down.’

‘But the commission has been revoked by his death.’

‘I do not agree.’

‘You can hardly complete the portrait without Lady Culthorpe’s permission,’ said Christopher, worriedly. ‘In the circumstances, she may want it destroyed.’

‘Never!’ cried Villemot. ‘I’ll not allow it.’

‘Strictly speaking, the portrait belongs to her.’

‘It belongs to me, as the artist, until I am ready to hand it over. If Lady Culthorpe, she no longer wants it, I will give her back the money that her husband paid me.’

‘I don’t think that would be necessary.’

‘It is necessary for me, Christopher,’ insisted the other. ‘I have the conscience. I could not keep the fee I did not earn.’

‘But you have earned it. If you complete the portrait, you’ll have done exactly what Sir Martin asked of you.’

‘I do not see it that way.’

‘Ultimately,’ said Christopher, ‘the decision lies with Lady Culthorpe and she won’t be in a position to make it for a long while. I hope that the portrait will be kept safe in the meantime.’

‘I would guard it with my life — so would Emile.’

‘We don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.’

‘The wrong hands?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher with his brother in mind. ‘Lady Culthorpe is a very beautiful woman. If it were known that a famous artist had painted her portrait, there might be any number of her admirers who would like to acquire it.’ He remembered Henry’s plea for a loan. ‘They might even try to buy it from you.’

‘It is not for sale.’

‘What if you were offered a large amount of money?’

‘I would throw it back in the face of the man who holds it out to me,’ snapped Villemot. ‘No money on earth could buy that portrait from me. Araminta — Lady Culthorpe — will be treasured.’

‘I’m relieved to hear you say it.’

‘Why is that, Christopher?’

‘Lady Culthorpe may not want it herself,’ said the architect, ‘but she would be very distressed if it went astray. Beauty like that will not have gone unnoticed. She will have had many suitors and was only able to shake them off by getting married. Now that Sir Martin is no longer able to shield her,’ he went on, ‘there may be some who are unscrupulous enough to try to take advantage of her.’

‘I’ll not allow it!’ howled the artist. ‘I’ll protect Araminta.’

‘You’d help her best by protecting that portrait of her.’

Villemot snatched his dagger from its sheath. ‘I’d kill the man who tried to take it from me!’ he threatened, brandishing the weapon. ‘I’d cut him into shreds.’

There was a long, uncomfortable, embarrassed silence. Villemot was shamefaced at his outburst and Christopher was startled by his visitor’s explosive rage. The dagger glinted in the light from the window. Before the Frenchman could put it back in its sheath, there was a thunderous knocking at the front door.

‘See who that is, please, Jacob!’ called Christopher.

‘I’m on my way, sir,’ replied the servant from the passageway.

‘Thank you.’ He looked at the dagger. ‘I suggest that you put that away, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the other, sheathing the weapon. ‘I did not mean to pull it out like that, Christopher.’

But the architect was not listening to him. His attention was diverted by the sound of raised voices at the front door. Shortly afterwards, Jacob put his head into the room and licked his lips nervously before speaking.

‘There are two officers at the door, sir,’ he said.

‘What do they want?’ asked Christopher.

‘They say that they have a warrant for the arrest of…’ Jacob looked with dismay at Villemot.

Christopher was mystified. ‘On what possible grounds?’

‘The murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘But that is ludicrous!’

‘I did not kill him!’ said Villemot, trembling.

‘Shall I show them in, Mr Redmayne?’ asked the servant.

‘No, Jacob. I want to see this so-called warrant for myself.’

Gesturing for Villemot to stay where he was, Christopher went out of the room and marched purposefully down the passageway to the front door. Two burly men in uniform stood on the threshold.

‘My name is Christopher Redmayne, gentleman,’ he said, ‘and I own this house. May I help you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the older of the two men, gruffly. ‘We are given to believe that Jean-Paul Villemot might be here.’

‘He called on me to discuss business.’

‘So his valet told us.’

‘What’s this nonsense about a warrant of arrest?’

The man was offended. ‘It’s not nonsense, Mr Redmayne,’ he said, pulling a scroll from his pocket and unrolling it for Christopher to see. ‘Read it for yourself. He’s being arrested for stabbing Sir Martin Culthorpe to death yesterday afternoon.’

‘That’s preposterous! Monsieur Villemot is no killer.’

‘Let the court decide that, sir.’

‘Sir Martin was employing him. Why on earth should he murder a client who had paid him a large fee? It does not make sense.’

‘The only thing that makes sense to us is a name on a warrant. We’ll have to ask you to stand aside so that we can take the gentleman into custody.’

‘Where will he be held?’

‘That’s for the magistrate to determine.’

‘There’s been a grotesque mistake here,’ protested Christopher.

‘Mr Villemot is the person who made it,’ said the man, grimly. ‘Now, will you invite us in or do we have to force an entry?’

Christopher stepped back. ‘No force will be needed,’ he said. ‘You can come in.’ The officers walked quickly past him. ‘It’s the last door on the right.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The two men went along the passageway and into the study. Christopher was about to follow them when the older man rounded on him angrily.

‘Is this some kind of jest, sir?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s nobody here.’

‘There must be,’ said Christopher, easing him aside so that he could go into the study. ‘This is where I left him.’

Jean-Paul Villemot was not in the study now. Since there was only one door, his method of departure was clear. He had lifted the window and fled. Christopher’s stomach heaved. He felt compromised. The older of the two officers nudged his companion.

‘After him, Peter,’ he ordered. ‘Search the garden.’

Peter did not stand on ceremony. Cocking a leg over the windowsill, he pulled the other behind him and trotted down the garden, looking in all directions for the fugitive. Until that moment, Christopher could not believe that Villemot had had anything to do with Sir Martin Culthorpe’s death, but his sudden flight was hardly the action of an innocent man. And Christopher was well aware that the Frenchman possessed a dagger.

‘You’ll have to come with us,’ said the officer, taking him roughly by the arm. ‘I’m placing you under arrest.’

Christopher was scandalised. ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong!’

‘You helped a wanted man to get away from us.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Yes, you did,’ said the man, tightening his grip. ‘You kept us talking at the door so that he’d have time to climb out of that window. That’s what I’d call aiding and abetting an escape.’

‘But I didn’t know that he was going to escape.’

‘Tell that to the magistrate, sir.’

‘I know my rights,’ yelled Christopher. ‘Let go of me.’

‘Not until we have you safely locked up, Mr Redmayne. You obstructed two officers in the execution of their duty.’

‘That’s an absurd accusation!’

‘Yes, you did,’ said the man, officiously, ‘and the law does not take kindly to that. You may have saved your friend for a little while but it will cost you a spell in prison.’

Christopher reeled as if from a blow. He was a criminal.

Henry Redmayne was as good as his word. Having set his heart on acquiring the portrait of Araminta Culthorpe by whatever means necessary, he first went to see where it was kept. The rooms that Villemot rented were in a house in Covent Garden within easy walking distance of Henry’s own home in Bedford Street. He sauntered past the house on the other side of the street and gave it only a cursory glance. When he paused at the corner, however, he turned to take a closer look at the dwelling, noting that there was an alleyway that led to the rear. He was still trying to assess the easiest way of getting into the house when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun round to look into the fleshy face of Jocelyn Kidbrooke.

‘What are you doing here, Jocelyn?’ he asked.

‘I happened to be passing,’ said Kidbrooke, blandly.

‘You live over a mile away. You’d not come to Covent Garden without a particular reason.’

‘I have one. I came to see you, Henry.’

‘Then why not call at my house?’

‘Because I knew that you’d come here sooner or later,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘You found out where Villemot has his studio because you know that there’s a portrait of Araminta inside.’

‘You misjudge me.’

‘I know you too well to do that. You want that portrait. I waited to see how long it would be before you came in search of it. If you’re thinking of trying to purchase it, save your breath.’

‘Why?’ Henry was alarmed. ‘You’ve not bought it already?’

‘I made a generous offer for it.’

‘Damn you, Jocelyn!’

‘This is a contest — each man for himself.’

‘Does that mean you have the painting?’

‘Alas, no,’ admitted Kidbrooke, sorrowfully. ‘My offer was refused. I didn’t speak to Villemot himself — he was out at the time. His valet assured me, however, that his master would not part with the portrait of Araminta for a king’s ransom.’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘I thanked the fellow politely and withdrew.’

‘But you did gain access to the house?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘It’s mine as well,’ said Henry, irritably, ‘so do not hold out on me. Where are his rooms — upstairs or downstairs? And which one is his studio? That’s what I’d really like to know.’

Kidbrooke was smug. ‘Then you’ll have to find out for yourself.’

‘I thought that we were friends.’

‘Not when there’s a lady in the case.’

‘We must all compete on equal terms, Jocelyn.’

‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ said the other with a derisive laugh. ‘I’ve never met anyone so ready to gain an advantage over his rivals. You’d stop at nothing, Henry. I’ll wager that you’ve already asked your brother to secure that portrait for you by trading on his friendship with the artist.’

‘That’s a vile accusation,’ said Henry, counterfeiting righteous anger. ‘Christopher has no part in this venture and I would never even think of involving him.’

‘In other words, he rebuffed your entreaty.’

‘There was no entreaty.’

‘You sneaked off to see him without telling us.’

‘I’ve not seen my brother for weeks,’ lied Henry, tossing his head and making his periwig flap. ‘As for sneaking off, Jocelyn, you are the one who did that. You agreed to dine with us at Locket’s yesterday but you never turned up.’

‘I had business elsewhere,’ said Kidbrooke.

‘Yes — you were pursuing Araminta, I dare swear, while the rest if us were eating our meal.’

‘My wife requested me to dine with her.’

‘Since when have you ever listened to your wife?’

‘We had things to discuss.’

‘The only wife in whom you have any interest is the one who was married to Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Henry. ‘I think you went spying on her again through that telescope that you bought.’

Kidbrooke shifted his feet uneasily. ‘Arrant nonsense!’

‘Then where were you?’

‘At home with my wife.’

‘I’m surprised that you remember where your house is,’ said Henry with heavy sarcasm. ‘You spend so little time there that you probably wouldn’t recognise your wife if she stood only inches away from you. Can you even recall her name?’

‘Cease this railing!’

‘No? I thought not. Araminta has eclipsed her completely.’

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Kidbrooke.

He looked as if he was about to strike Henry but the blow never came. Instead, both men were diverted by the sound of someone ringing a bell and pounding on a door. They looked down the street to see two officers, standing outside the house where Jean-Paul Villemot lived and worked. Henry’s eyebrows arched inquisitively.

‘What’s going on here, I wonder?’ he said.

Christopher Redmayne had never been so overjoyed to see his friend. Hauled before a magistrate, he had then been summarily locked in Newgate, kept in a noisome cell with a group of desperate prisoners and denied any right of appeal. It was only because he was able to bribe one of the turnkeys that his message was duly delivered. A couple of hours later, to his intense relief, he peered through the bars and saw Jonathan Bale being conducted down the stairs by the prison sergeant. Christopher could not believe his good fortune when the cell door was unlocked so that he could step through it. With the jeers of the other prisoners ringing in his ears, he walked away with Bale.

‘What happened?’ asked Christopher.

‘I spoke to the magistrate,’ replied Bale, ‘and told him that it had all been a misunderstanding. I vouched for you, Mr Redmayne. Since the magistrate knows me well, he agreed to release you, pending further investigation.’

‘There’s nothing to investigate, Jonathan. I’m innocent.’

‘I know that, sir. I spoke to Jacob.’

Christopher was taken aback. ‘You went to my house?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the other. ‘I needed to hear all the facts.’

‘Well, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you. I knew what a cesspool Newgate was because I visited my brother when he was held here, but I was on the right side of the bars then. When you’re locked up with those bickering ragamuffins,’ said Christopher, shuddering at the memory of what he had endured, ‘it’s like being in the seventh circle of hell. I don’t know which was worse, the stench, the noise or the random violence.’

‘Let’s get you out of here where we can talk properly.’

Christopher had to go through the formalities of being signed out by the prison sergeant then taken through a series of doors. When he was finally allowed to leave the prison altogether, light rain was falling but it nevertheless seemed like a glorious spring day to him. Having lost it for two intolerable hours, he found that freedom was a heady experience. As they were standing near one of the main gates into the city, they were caught up in swirling traffic but Christopher didn’t mind in the least. He had been liberated.

They slipped into one of the first taverns they came to and found a table in a quiet corner. Unlike Tom Warburton, Bale did not as a rule drink on duty, but he accepted the offer of a tankard of beer on this occasion. Christopher treated himself to a cup of Canary wine. Bale sampled the beer.

‘Strong stuff,’ he opined, ‘but not as good as the beer that my wife makes. Sarah has a real gift as a brewer.’

‘I know, I’ve tasted her beer.’ Christopher sipped his wine. ‘That tastes like nectar,’ he said. ‘All they served in prison was black, brackish water. It made me feel sick just to look at it.’

‘Let’s make sure that you don’t have to go into Newgate again, sir, nor into any other gaol.’

‘How do we do that, Jonathan?’

‘The first thing we have to do is to find Mr Villemot,’ said Bale. ‘It was him that got you into this trouble. If you were to be involved in catching him, it would stand you in good stead with the magistrate.’

‘There must be officers already out looking for him.’

‘But they don’t know him, sir — you do. You’ll have a much better idea of where he’s gone to ground.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ confessed Christopher. ‘Besides, I’m not at all convinced that Monsieur Villemot had anything to do with the murder. What could he possibly hope to gain by killing Sir Martin Culthorpe?’

‘That’s not the way to look at it, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Why not?’

‘Innocent or guilty,’ said Bale, solemnly, ‘the gentleman avoided arrest by taking to his heels. That’s a crime in itself and he’ll have to answer for it. The longer he’s on the loose, the worse it is for him.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The only place where the truth will come out is in court.’

Christopher was rueful. ‘I beg leave to doubt that,’ he said. ‘Nobody showed much interest in the truth when I was arrested. The magistrate had the nerve to call me deceitful.’

‘Be that as it may, sir, Mr Villemot must be found.’

‘Oh, I agree, Jonathan. We need this whole matter sorted out as quickly as possible or a lot of people are going to be hurt.’

Bale frowned. ‘A lot of people?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, ‘and you’re one of them. Do you want to spend all that time making a model of house that will never be built? I certainly don’t want to design one that stays on a piece of paper. If Monsieur Villemot is convicted, we all stand to lose — you, me and Sam Littlejohn, not to mention all his men.’ Christopher shook his head in dismay. ‘Because it was in the French style, Sam was really looking forward to building this house.’

‘I know, sir. I spoke to him this morning.’

‘Did you meet him on the site?’

‘Yes,’ said Bale, ‘he was very pleased to have got this contract. It will be a terrible shock if he suddenly loses it.’

‘Then let’s try to ensure that never happens.

‘It’s bound to, if Mr Villemot is guilty of the murder.’

‘I still believe he’s innocent,’ said Christopher, loyally.

‘Then why did he run away from the officers?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that, Jonathan. We have to remember that he’s French and, as such, viewed with suspicion by people who are unable to see beyond their own prejudices. If I were in a foreign country,’ he reasoned, ‘and were accused of a crime I did not commit, I fancy that my first instinct would be to do exactly what Monsieur Villemot has done. That’s not to excuse it, mark you,’ he emphasised. ‘What he did was wrong and he must be held to account for it. Our job is to help him clear his name.’

‘Only if he is innocent,’ warned Bale.

‘Quite so.’

‘Where do we start looking, Mr Redmayne?’

‘At the obvious place,’ said Christopher. ‘His lodgings.’

Elkannah Prout stared at him in utter disbelief. He was bemused.

‘Are you serious, Henry?’

‘Deadly serious.’

‘You saw this happen with your own eyes?’

‘I can call on a second witness,’ said Henry Redmayne, ‘for Jocelyn was standing beside me. Two officers banged on the door of the house then went inside. When they came out again, I asked them what was afoot and they told me they were hunting Villemot.’

‘Do they really think he was the killer?’

‘Yes, Elkannah.’

‘But he’d have no reason to murder Sir Martin.’

‘He’d have the best reason in the world,’ said Henry. ‘He’s infatuated with Araminta.’

‘He’s only known her for a few days,’ argued Prout.

‘I only saw her for a few minutes before I was ensnared, and the same goes for the rest of us. We all saw her from afar. Think how it must have been for someone who was allowed to look upon her at close range for long periods of time. The most telling thing of all, Elkannah, is that Villemot is a Frenchman.’

‘So?’

‘He comes from a nation of uncontrollable lechers.’

Prout blinked. ‘You think this crime was driven by lust, then?’

‘The only way he could possess her is by getting rid of her husband,’ said Henry. ‘That’s another aspect of the French. They are prone to impetuous action.’

They were in a coffee house in Holborn, oblivious to the stream of chatter all around them. Henry was still amazed by what he had learned, eager to accept Villemot’s guilt because it served his purpose. If the artist were arrested, he would not be able to mount guard over the portrait of Araminta. The holy grail of art was suddenly within Henry’s reach. Elkannah Prout seemed less ready to believe in the artist’s guilt. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

‘No,’ he decided, putting down his cup, ‘it would be madness. Who could possibly expect to endear himself to a woman by killing her husband? That’s sheer lunacy.’

‘Villemot expected to get away with it. In time, he must have hoped, Araminta would turn to him for comfort and wed him.’

‘But the fellow is already married.’

‘So is Jocelyn,’ said Henry, ‘but that hasn’t stopped him from having wild thoughts about a future with Araminta. The same goes for Sir Willard. It was less than two years ago that we attended his wedding yet he already behaves as if the ceremony never took place.’

‘My only interest at the moment is in Villemot.’

‘So is mine, Elkannah.’

‘How could he imagine that he would escape detection?’

‘The French are a peculiar breed.’

‘Even they do not think they can murder at will, Henry.’

‘A warrant is out for his arrest, that’s all I know. Unless there was strong evidence against him, he would not be being pursued with such vigour. The law does not often make mistakes.’

Prout smiled. ‘I wonder that you should say that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were once wrongfully arrested and imprisoned.’

‘Do not remind me,’ said Henry with a shiver. ‘There’s no more harmless creature on this planet than me, yet I was accused of foul murder. But for my brother, I’d have been hanged for the crime.’

‘I was just thinking about your brother.’

‘What put Christopher into your mind?’

‘Has he not designed a new house for the artist?’

‘Indeed, he has,’ said Henry, snapping his fingers. ‘I’d forgotten that. It was a lucrative commission. Poor Christopher! When his client is convicted, my brother will lose a large amount of money.’

* * *

‘You must be able to tell us something,’ said Christopher, urgently. ‘We’re trying to help your master, Emile, but we can’t do that unless we can find him.’

The valet looked beleaguered. ‘I know nothing.’

‘What did you tell the two officers?’

‘It’s a crime to hold back information,’ warned Bale. ‘It may be different in your country but, in England, you have to tell the truth to any law officers. Do you understand?

‘I’m sure that he does, Jonathan. Don’t frighten him with veiled threats or we won’t get a single word out of him.’

They were in Villemot’s studio and the visitors were attempting to question Emile. It was proving difficult and not only because his grasp of English was uncertain. The valet was frightened. For the second time that morning, two officers had come to the house to demand to know the whereabouts of his master. In their wake, two more people wanted to interrogate him. Clemence was equally scared. Sensing danger, she stood on the chair with her back arched and her fur bristling. She took particular exception to Bale and hissed every time that the constable looked in her direction.

Christopher had seen the studio before but it was a revelation to his companion. Its combination of striking art and spectacular disarray was almost overwhelming for Bale, and he did not like the atmosphere of the place. The sense of excess repelled him. Nor did the little French valet reassure him. Neat, smart and wholesome he might be, but there was something about Emile that worried Bale. What puzzled him was that he could not work out what it was.

‘Let’s try again,’ said Christopher, patiently. ‘Do you believe that your master has committed this crime, Emile?’

‘Non!’ The answer was decisive.

‘Has he ever been in trouble before?’

‘Non!’ replied Emile, hurt by the suggestion.

‘So why did they want to arrest him?’ The valet looked blank.

‘We won’t leave until you tell us,’ said Christopher. ‘What did those officers say when they first called?’

‘They look for Monsieur Villemot,’ said Emile.

‘But why? They must have had cause to do so.’

‘A warrant would not be issued without evidence,’ said Bale. ‘Did they tell you what that evidence was, sir?’

Emile shook his head. Clemence gave her loudest hiss yet.

‘Where did Monsieur Villemot go?’ asked Christopher. ‘When I called to see him yesterday afternoon, he was not here. Where was he, Emile?’

‘He went out for the ride,’ said the other.

‘Where?’

‘I do not know.’

‘How long was he gone?’

‘A long time, Monsieur Redmayne.’

‘An hour — two, perhaps?’

‘Two, I think.’

‘So he was away from this house when the crime took place?’ After a pause, Emile gave an affirmative nod. ‘I saw him when he came back,’ Christopher continued, ‘and he was very disturbed. He was perspiring and he looked ill. Also, the sleeve of his coat was torn.’

‘I mended that,’ said the valet, promptly.

‘Did you think he was in a strange mood?’

‘I work for Monsieur Villemot. His moods are not strange to me.’

‘Is he often in that state?’

‘There’s only one reason that would have brought those officers here,’ said Bale, ‘and that was evidence from a witness. Sir Martin Culthorpe lived in Westminster, Emile. Was your master seen in the vicinity of his house yesterday?’

The valet bit his lip. ‘Yes,’ he conceded.

‘Do you know why he went there?’

‘No.’

‘How many years have you worked for him?’

‘Three.’

‘Then you must have got to know him very well in that time. If you work so closely together, he’d trust and confide in you.’ Bale took a step closer to him. ‘What did he tell you yesterday afternoon when he got back?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What did he do?’

Emile glanced at the easel. ‘He worked on the portrait.’

‘The one of Lady Culthorpe?’

‘Yes. He painted until it got too dark.’

‘That does not sound like the behaviour of a man who had just killed someone,’ said Christopher, trying to win Emile’s confidence. ‘He would have been much more likely to disappear. Instead, he came back here to get on with his work. Is that correct?’

‘It is, Monsieur Redmayne.’

‘When your master spoke to me earlier, he told me that he first heard about Sir Martin’s death yesterday evening.’

‘Is true,’ said Emile. ‘A servant came from the house. He tell us Lady Culthorpe will not be here again.’

‘How did Monsieur Villemot react?’

‘He was upset.’

‘I’m sure he was. Listen, Emile,’ said Christopher, gently, ‘we are very anxious to help your master. Can you give us any idea where he might be?’

‘Non.’

‘Does he have friends in London?’

‘Yes — many friends.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ There was a long pause before Emile shook his head. ‘I think there was and you do Monsieur Villemot no favours by keeping the name from us. Where would he go, Emile? Who could he rely on to hide him?’

Emile backed away slightly, wrestling with his conscience. He was in a quandary. Wanting to protect his master, he knew that fleeing the law might look like a confirmation of guilt. Unless his name was cleared, Jean-Paul Villemot would be hunted all over London. If anyone should find him, it was preferable that it was a friend like Christopher Redmayne and not two officers, annoyed at the way that he had eluded them in Fetter Lane. Emile bit his lip again.

‘I do not know where he is,’ he said with unmistakable honesty.

‘But you might have some idea?’

‘I could be wrong, Monsieur Redmayne.’

‘You know your master better than anyone,’ said Christopher.

‘There was a lady,’ admitted Emile. ‘She was his friend.’

Bale was suspicious. ‘What sort of friend?’

‘He was painting her portrait.’

‘Who was she and where does she live?’

‘Don’t press him, Jonathan,’ advised Christopher. ‘Let him tell us in his own good time.’

‘Her name was Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said Emile.

‘I fancy I’ve heard my brother mention her.’ Bale shot him a knowing glance. ‘Believe it or not, some of Henry’s friends are quite respectable. Let’s not rush to judgement on this lady.’ He turned to Emile. ‘What can you tell us about her?’

‘They were friends, this lady and my master.’

‘Go on,’ encouraged Christopher.

‘Is all I know. The painting is still here.’

‘Could we see it, please?’

‘If you wish.’

‘We do, Emile. Show us the portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe.’

The valet went across to a framed portrait that stood against the wall with a cloth over it. Picking it up, he had second thoughts and hesitated. The visitors waited in silence. Emile eventually decided that there was no point in hiding something that might lead them to his master. He pulled the cloth away to reveal the nude portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe, posing as Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the moon.

Christopher gaped in wonder but Bale was so shocked that he began to splutter, turning his head away from the painting in sheer embarrassment. It was Christopher who recovered first.

‘I think that we had better visit the lady,’ he said.