The Painted Lady

Chapter Five

Araminta was still in a daze. Twenty-four hours after the murder of her husband, she sat in the window of her bedchamber and gazed with mingled pain and curiosity at the garden where she had found his body. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, she could not accept that he was gone. Araminta tried to keep up her spirits by pretending that he was simply unwell and that, once treated by his physician, he would recover and return to her. She clung with pitiful desperation to a false hope even though she knew that Sir Martin’s body had been taken to the coroner for examination.

Since the moment of discovery in the grotto, she had not slept a wink. Araminta had insisted on keeping a vigil. Fatigue had rounded her shoulders and made her head droop. It had also put dark rings under her eyes but she refused to yield up to sleep. She told herself that she had to be ready to welcome her husband back home again. So preoccupied was she is staring through the window that she did not hear the door open, nor see her maid slip into the room. Eleanor Ryle was carrying a wooden tray bearing food and drink. Setting it down on the table beside the bed, she came across to her mistress.

‘How do you feel now, m’lady?’ she enquired, gently.

‘I’ll be fine when Sir Martin returns.’

‘The cook has made you some breakfast.’

‘I want nothing.’

‘But you haven’t eaten a morsel since yesterday morning.’

‘I’m not hungry, Eleanor.’

‘You must be.’

‘Take the food away, please.’

‘Why don’t I leave it beside the bed?’ said the other, coaxingly. ‘You might want to have it in a little while.’

Eleanor knew that it was unlikely. It was the fourth tray of food she had brought into the bedchamber and, like the first three she feared that it would remain untouched. She understood why. For several hours after the murder, she had lost her own appetite but the pangs of hunger had eventually overcome her resistance. Eleanor knelt solicitously beside her mistress.

‘You need some sleep, m’lady,’ she said.

‘I’m not tired.’

‘You must be.’

‘No, Eleanor.’

‘At least, lie down on the bed,’ the maid recommended. ‘Then you can have a proper rest.’

‘I don’t want a rest.’

‘You can’t sit in that chair all the time. You’re exhausted.’

‘Just leave me be.’

‘But I hate to see you in this state, m’lady.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘You’re punishing yourself in vain.’

‘I have to wait for my husband. He’d expect it of me.’

‘But he’s not coming back,’ said Eleanor, softly.

Araminta looked at her properly for the first time. She was fond of Eleanor. They had been together for years and she had come to place great trust in the maid. Eleanor was capable, obedient and loyal. She had devoted herself to the service of her mistress, sharing her woes and celebrating her moments of joy. When she had told them of her marriage to Sir Martin Culthorpe, some of Araminta’s friends believed that she had made a gross mistake she would soon regret. Their reaction had disturbed her. It was Eleanor who had comforted her, assuring her that she had made the right decision and telling her that she had never seen her mistress so happy. It had brought Araminta and her maid even closer together.

‘What did you say, Eleanor?’

‘It’s wrong to pretend that it never happened, m’lady.’

‘I’m not pretending.’

‘You are,’ whispered the maid. ‘Sir Martin is dead and you know it. He was murdered in the garden. You found his body.’

Araminta was befuddled. ‘Did I?’

‘Don’t you remember? The doctor came to verify the cause of death, then he spoke to you. He said that you must rest. He offered to give you something to help you sleep but you refused to take it.’

‘Is this true?’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

‘When did this all happen?’

‘Yesterday afternoon.’

‘My husband is dead?’

‘They took his body away,’ explained Eleanor. ‘There’s no point in sitting here like this because he will never come back.’ Araminta was still not persuaded. ‘There are lots of things to do, m’lady. There are so many people to be told — friends and relations. There are funeral arrangements to discuss. None of these things can be done if you just sit there in the window all the time.’

Araminta gave a pale smile, then, as if hearing of the murder for the first time, she suddenly burst into tears. Getting to her feet, Eleanor hugged her and let her cry her fill, rocking her to and fro like a mother with a child. At length, Araminta made an effort to control herself, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe the rivulets from her cheeks. She looked up at the maid.

‘Who killed him, Eleanor?’

‘Don’t worry yourself about that, m’lady.’

‘I want to know. Tell me.’

‘Nothing is certain as yet,’ said the other. ‘An officer called at the house earlier today and spoke to the butler.’

‘What did he say?’

‘It’s perhaps best if you don’t know. I don’t want you upset any more. Let the law deal with the killer.’

‘But who is he?’ demanded Araminta. ‘Give me his name.’

‘What use will that be?’

‘It will make me understand. It will help me to fit my mind to this horror. Who was the devil who took my husband away from me?’

‘They are out searching for him, m’lady.’

‘Tell me his name. I can see that you know it.’

‘I only know what Mr Rushton — what the butler told me. A warrant has been issued for the arrest of the man they suspect.’

‘And?’ Araminta was impatient. ‘Come on, girl — speak!’

‘It’s the French artist, m’lady.’

‘Monsieur Villemot?’

‘That’s what I heard.’

Araminta was aghast. Someone she considered to be a friend had stabbed her husband to death. Bringing both hands up, she buried her face in her palms. Her body trembled, shook, then went into a series of convulsions as she tried to cope with the dire news. Enfolding her once more in her arms, Eleanor stroked her hair to soothe her.

‘I told you that it was better if you didn’t know, m’lady.’

As Jonathan Bale approached the house, he had grave reservations.

‘We do not know if the gentleman is there,’ he complained.

‘I agree,’ said Christopher, ‘but, by the same token, we do not know that he is not there. In view of what Emile told us, we should at least look into the matter.’

‘I think it will be a wasted journey, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Have more faith, Jonathan. You heard what his valet told us. Monsieur Villemot became very friendly with Lady Lingoe.’

‘Yes,’ said Bale, disapprovingly. ‘Having seen that portrait of her, I shudder to think what kind of friendship it was.’

Christopher laughed. ‘This is no time for maiden modesty.’

‘That painting was indecent.’

‘It was unexpected, I’ll admit that.’

‘A woman, disporting herself like that — it was lewd.’

‘Not at all,’ said Christopher. ‘It had great artistic merit. It was firmly in the Classical tradition.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If you want to see lewdness and bad taste of the worst kind, you should look at some of the paintings in my brother’s house.’

‘I’ve seen them, sir. They are coarse and immoral.’

‘That, alas, is why Henry bought them.’

By keeping up a good pace, they finally reached Piccadilly, a wide thoroughfare that took its name from a tailor who had made his fortune by selling picadils, a high, stiff collar much in vogue at Court earlier in the century. Open fields were still in view but more and more houses were being built in the area, and Christopher had designed one of them. Emile had given them the address and it did not take them long to find the Lingoe residence, an imposing abode of white stone with a Classical facade that the architect stopped to admire. He marvelled at its beauty.

It only served to unsettle Bale. He was never at ease in the presence of wealth and privilege, and the house symbolised both. Its sheer opulence revolted him. Understanding his reluctance to enter the building, Christopher had a solution to the problem.

‘If he’s there,’ he predicted, ‘he will not give himself up. My guess is that he will try to sneak away again.’

‘Shall I cover the garden, sir?’

‘Please do, Jonathan. Cut off his escape.’

‘Only if he’s inside,’ said the constable, dubiously.

‘There’s one way to find out.’

After giving his friend plenty of time to walk to the rear of the house, Christopher rang the bell. The butler who opened the door was a tall, stately man in his forties with a searching gaze. It took him a second to establish that his visitor was a gentleman. Christopher’s elegance, respectability and air of wholesomeness impressed him.

‘Yes, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’d like to speak to Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said the other.

‘Is she expecting you, sir?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Lady Lingoe is not in the habit of receiving chance visitors,’ said the butler, ‘especially while her husband is out of the country.’

‘I have a feeling that she’ll agree to see me. Tell her that it concerns a portrait that she recently had painted.’

‘May I give her your name, sir?’

‘Christopher Redmayne.’

The butler invited him in, closed the front door and disappeared down a corridor. Christopher had the opportunity to look around and he was intrigued. Marble predominated. Statues of classical heroes stood everywhere, all of them armed and most of them naked. It was like being back in Rome, a city that Christopher had once visited when deciding to follow architecture as a profession. The gilt-framed art also had a classical theme. He was still studying a dramatic painting of Leda and the Swan when he heard footsteps clacking down the corridor. He looked up to see Lady Hester Lingo sailing gracefully towards him.

She was a full-bodied woman of medium height with bright red hair dressed in broad plaits in the style of a Roman matron. Her long tunic with its wide flounce was fastened along the upper arm by some gold brooches. An outer garment of silk was wrapped around her like a shawl. Christopher was irresistibly reminded of an illustration he had once seen of a Roman priestess. Though she was nearing thirty, her face had a sculptural splendour and seemed to be totally unlined. When she got closer, however, he saw how artfully Lady Lingoe had used cosmetics to conceal any signs of aging. The lady in the painting at the studio was indeed a painted lady.

‘Mr Redmayne?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher.

‘You must be Henry’s younger brother.’

‘Do you know Henry?’

‘We are acquainted,’ she said with a noncommittal smile. ‘He mentioned to me that his sibling was a brilliant architect.’

‘My brilliance has yet to be proven,’ said Christopher, ‘but I revel in my work. I am in awe of your house,’ he went on, looking around the hall. ‘It’s taken my breath away. I am pleased that you favour the Ionic Order. The shaft is more slender in proportion than the Doric and the capitals more intricate. The cornice-mouldings are small masterpieces.’

‘I’m glad that you approve, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, ‘but you did not come here to show your appreciation of my house. I believe that you came to talk about a portrait for which I sat.’

‘Yes, Lady Lingoe.’

‘Well?’

‘It’s rather a delicate subject,’ said Christopher, feeling that the hall was too large, cold and echoing a place for a private conversation. ‘Is there somewhere else we might go?’

She kept him waiting for an answer. ‘Very well,’ she replied after long cogitation. ‘Follow me.’

Lady Lingoe opened a door and took him into the library, a sizeable room with shelves of books against two walls, topped by a series of marble busts of Greek and Roman poets. When he was waved to a chair, Christopher sat in the shadow of Catullus.

‘What is this about a delicate subject?’ she said.

‘It concerns the artist, Monsieur Villemot. I believe that he befriended you while painting your portrait.’

‘Do you have any objection to that?’

‘None at all, Lady Lingoe.’

‘Have you seen the portrait?’

‘Briefly,’ he said with evident discomfort.

She gave a brittle laugh. ‘There’s no need to be quite so coy, Mr Redmayne,’ she said. ‘As an architect, you must be accustomed to nude figures, if only carved in marble. Why feel ashamed — I certainly am not? The portrait is a present for my dear husband on his fiftieth birthday. Lord Lingoe is in Holland at the moment, attending to his ambassadorial duties. I wanted to surprise him with the gift.’

‘I’m sure that he will be delighted with it.’

‘We share a common passion for classical antiquity.’

‘I gathered that, Lady Lingoe.’

She sat opposite him. ‘I’m still waiting to hear what brought you to my door, Mr Redmayne.’

‘The death of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Really? I had no idea that he had passed away.’

‘He was murdered, Lady Lingoe — stabbed in his garden.’

‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Has the killer been apprehended?’

‘Not yet.’

‘These are dreadful tidings. I did not know Sir Martin well but I nevertheless grieve for him. Murdered in his garden — how frightful! That young wife of his must be in torment.’

‘She is, Lady Lingoe.’

‘I’m full of sympathy for her,’ she said with unfeigned sincerity, ‘though I fail to see what connection my portrait can have with the crime.’

‘It’s not your portrait that’s relevant here,’ said Christopher, ‘but the one Monsieur Villemot was painting of Lady Culthorpe. For reasons I don’t fully understand, he is suspected of committing the crime and a warrant has been issued for his arrest.’

‘Jean-Paul, a killer?’ she cried, incredulously. ‘That’s an absurd suggestion. I know the man and can vouch for his character.’

‘So can I, Lady Lingoe. I’ve designed a house for him and it has meant our spending a lot of time together. Like you, I hold him in high esteem. I do not believe he’s guilty. However,’ added Christopher, ‘he has, unfortunately, behaved like a guilty man.’

He told her about the attempted arrest of Villemot at his home and how, in the wake of the artist’s escape, he had been imprisoned. Since he had still not been fully exonerated, Christopher wanted to dispel any doubts about his own innocence by persuading Villemot to give himself up so that he could confront the charge against him and clear his name. Lady Lingoe was very attentive.

‘M. Villemot has a good friend in Christopher Redmayne.’

‘He needs help. Our judicial system is foreign to him.’

‘It’s no wonder he fled from it,’ she said, levelly. ‘Fascinating as all this may be, however, I still do not see how I am involved.’

‘It was Emile who suggested your name, Lady Lingoe.’

‘The valet?’

‘He was aware of the warm friendship between you and his master. If he would turn to anyone for assistance, Emile surmised, Monsieur Villemot would probably come here.’

‘Well, he has not done so.’

‘How would you respond if he did?’

‘I find that question impertinent, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, curtly, ‘and I think less of you for asking it.’

‘My apologies, Lady Lingoe — I only sought to warn you.’

‘Of what?’

‘The consequences.’

‘I am not unaware of those, sir.’

‘Harbouring a fugitive is a crime,’ said Christopher, ‘even though you may be — as I am — convinced of his innocence. All that I did was to talk to two officers for a short while and I was locked in a cell in Newgate.’

‘That would never happen to someone like me,’ she said with disdain. ‘Not that the situation would arrive, I can assure you. Jean-Paul would simply never come here.’

‘But he does know where you live.’

‘Of course.’

‘And he has probably been here before.’

‘You are lapsing into impertinence again, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Then I’ll tender my apologies once more,’ he said, getting up from his seat, ‘and bid you farewell. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

‘I was grateful to hear the news.’

Christopher smiled disarmingly. ‘I was grateful to have the opportunity to see inside this remarkable house,’ he said. He looked over his shoulder at Catullus. ‘You keep good company, Lady Lingoe.’

‘I choose my friends with extreme care,’ she said, pointedly.

‘Monsieur Villemot is lucky to be one of them.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘The butler will show you out. You’ll have no need to call again.’

‘None at all,’ he agreed. ‘Forgive this intrusion. I can see that it was a mistake to assume that he would come here. As a good friend, he would not dare to cause you such embarrassment. At least we are united on one thing, Lady Lingoe?’

She was icily cold. ‘Are we?’

‘Yes — we both have Monsieur Villemot’s well-being at heart.’

Henry Redmayne was annoyed. Having brought what he believed was the latest news regarding the crime he was dismayed to hear that Sir Willard Grail had already heard it.

‘From whom?’ he demanded, peevishly.

‘I have my sources,’ said Sir Willard.

‘Well, you might have had the grace to pass on the tidings to the rest of us. Villemot’s guilt changes everything.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yes, Sir Willard, it does. It opens up the possibility of collusion. If Araminta was drawn into a romantic entanglement with the artist, it may be that she actually encouraged him to remove her husband so that they could in time be together.’

‘Given her character, I think that highly unlikely.’

‘Love has the power to corrupt a saint.’

‘But it would not drive her to the point of condoning a vile murder, Henry. If she had developed an attachment — and it seems beyond the bounds of possibility to me — then she and the Frenchman could have had clandestine assignations to satisfy their lust. In plotting the death of Sir Martin,’ he pointed out, ‘they would be ensuring that they were pushed apart.’

Henry Redmayne had called at his friend’s house and the two of them were now conversing in an arbour in the garden. It was a tranquil place with a feeling of privacy that was only disturbed by birdsong and the buzzing of insects. Sir Willard waved a hand.

‘It was in such a place as this that Sir Martin was killed,’ he said. ‘One is entitled to feel secure in one’s own garden. He must have been taken completely by surprise.’

‘How did Villemot gain entry to the garden?’

‘The gate was left unlocked, it transpires.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I like to keep well-informed.’

‘What other details are you hiding from us, Sir Willard?’

‘That’s for you to find out.’

‘If it’s true that the gate was unlocked,’ said Henry, ‘then my contention that Araminta was a confederate may still hold.’

‘Only in your mind,’ Sir Willard told him. ‘I spoke to the doctor who attended her after the murder. She was overwhelmed with grief and Araminta is not given to dissembling.’

‘You knew about the garden gate? You talked to the doctor? You seem to have done everything but arrest Villemot for the crime.’

‘He is still at large, Henry.’

‘But I daresay you know where he’s hiding.’

‘I could hazard a guess or two.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m not so foolish as to tell you,’ said Sir Willard, patting his friend’s knee. ‘If I can track down Villemot on my own account, it would endear me to Araminta. Only the capture of her husband’s killer would soften her bereavement.’

‘We need to declare a moratorium on our pursuit of her,’ said Henry, piously. ‘I would suggest a period of three months.’

‘Elkannah urged that we call off the chase altogether.’

‘That’s far too precipitate.’

‘He wants no more of the business.’

‘Then he can withdraw of his own accord. That still leaves three of us in the hunt. Jocelyn will certainly not pull out.’

‘He does not even believe in giving Araminta any time to mourn the loss of her husband,’ said Sir Willard, ‘and he has a point. As soon as the funeral is over, she is there for the taking.’

‘Surely not!’ Henry’s finer feelings asserted themselves for once. ‘By all the laws of decency, we must allow her a long respite.’

‘You may do so, Henry — we will follow our own inclination.’

‘Must it be left to the two bachelors — Elkannah and me — to teach the pair of you the basic courtesies?’

‘Marriage blunts the appetite for such things. While you are being virtuous, Jocelyn and I will dedicate ourselves to vice, especially as he has offered a delicious enticement.’

‘Enticement?’

‘Araminta may still be in possession of her maidenhood,’ said the other with a confiding smirk. ‘By all external signs, Sir Martin reached middle age without once experiencing the joys of carnal knowledge. When he had not yet lost his own virginity, how could he, with any confidence, have claimed hers?’

‘A moot point, to be sure.’

‘Elkannah has already resigned from the Society he invented.’

‘That was very high-minded of him.’

‘What about you, Henry?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘Now that we may revert to our original intention and go in pursuit of Araminta’s maidenhood once again, will you stand aside in the name of morality?’ He gave a teasing grin. ‘Or will you join Jocelyn and me in the hunt?’

Henry wavered. His finer feelings began to crumble.

Nothing had happened to dispel Jonathan Bale’s doubts. In his opinion, he had been waiting at the rear of the house far too long. He turned a lugubrious face on Christopher Redmayne.

‘This is a waste of time, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve been standing at this spot for over half an hour.’

‘Tarry a little longer, Jonathan.’

‘The man is not inside the house.’

‘I believe that he is.’

‘I thought that Lady Lingoe told you otherwise.’

‘She could have been lying.’

‘Why should she do that, Mr Redmayne?’

‘I can think of only one reason,’ said Christopher, ‘and that is to help someone. She did not deny that she and Monsieur Villemot had become close friends.’

‘Too close,’ complained Bale, thinking of the nude portrait. ‘A married man should not be allowed to see his wife in that state, yet she allowed a stranger to view her body.’

‘That should tell you something about her, Jonathan.’

‘It tells me that Lady Lingoe is shameless.’

‘A kinder way of putting it is that she lacks the inhibitions that would keep most women from posing in such a way. She certainly has a more liberal cast of mind than I’ve encountered before among the aristocracy.’

‘Liberal or brazen?’

Christopher laughed. ‘I can see that you’re unfamiliar with the tradition of nude painting,’ he said. ‘It has a long and honourable history.’ Bale snorted. ‘Yes — honourable. The greatest artists of the Renaissance showed what could be done with nude figures.’

‘Then I’m glad I’ve never seen their paintings,’ said Bale with frank displeasure, ‘and I’m sorry to hear you praise them.’

‘I praise artistic excellence wherever I find it. There were many examples of it inside the house.’

‘I’m more worried about Lady Lingoe.’

‘In what way?’

Bale shuffled his feet. ‘Did you tell her you’d seen that painting of her at the studio?’

‘Of course.’

‘She must have been mortified.’

‘Not for a second,’ said Christopher. ‘If anything, she seemed quite pleased. Lady Lingoe is not one to hide her light under a bushel.’

‘It’s not her light that needed to be kept hidden,’ grunted Bale.

‘I think that it’s just as well that I spoke to her and not you.’

‘I’d have been afraid to look her in the face.’

‘But she enjoys being looked at, Jonathan.’

‘Not by me,’ said Bale. ‘Neither of us would have got what we came for in that house, sir. It’s clear to me that Mr Villemot is simply not there.’

‘I have a sneaking suspicion that he is.’

‘Why?’

‘I felt I was being subtly deceived.’

‘How much longer must we stay?’

‘Until he comes out.’

‘But why here?’ said Bale. ‘He could leave by the front door.’

‘The stables are here at the rear, and I’m sure that Lady Lingoe would provide him with a horse. She might even advise him where to go. Be patient,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s only a question of time.’

Jean-Paul Villemot was in a state of panic. Thinking that he was safe in the house, he had been alarmed to be tracked down so quickly. He and Lady Lingoe were in the library of her house.

‘How did he know that I’d be here?’ he asked.

‘Your valet gave him this address.’

‘Emile is an idiot!’

‘He could not be sure that you’d be here,’ said Lady Lingoe, ‘and he must have known that, even if you had come running to me, I’d never give you away.’

‘Thank you, Hester — I had nowhere else to go.’

She smiled. ‘I was touched that you thought of me.’

‘I think of you often.’

‘Good.’

They gazed at each other for a few moments and he reached out to squeeze her hand. Lady Lingoe soon put affection aside in favour of practicality.

‘It’s not safe for you to stay here, Jean-Paul,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘Others may come looking for you. Mr Redmayne was sent on his way but it will be more difficult for me to fend off any officers. You must get away as soon as possible — otherwise both of us will be in trouble.’

‘I would not put you in the danger,’ he said, considerately. ‘You are my good friend, Hester.’

‘And I’m happy to remain so.’

‘Where will I go?’

‘To our country house near St Albans,’ she decided. ‘They’ll know nothing of this affair there. You can bear a letter to the steward. He’ll look after you.’

‘If I am to leave London, I will need the horse.’

‘A servant is saddling one for you even as we speak.’

‘Merci beaucoup! You think of everything, Hester.’

‘That’s what friends are for, Jean-Paul. You gave me your word that you did not kill Sir Martin Culthorpe and I accept it without question. That being the case,’ she went on, sitting at a table so that she could write a letter. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to help you avoid arrest.’

‘I am sorry that Christopher suffered because of me,’ he said.

‘Yes, he struck me as an admirable young man. An alert one, too,’ she recalled. ‘That’s why I tried to get rid of him before he had time to question me too closely.’ She began to write. ‘Ride to Lingoe Hall and you’ll be perfectly safe. Nobody would look for you there.’

‘What about you, Hester?’

She looked up at him. ‘Oh, I’ll be joining you before very long, Jean-Paul. It will be the fulfilment of a dream,’ she confessed, touching his arm. ‘I’ll have you all to myself at last.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, ‘but I’m neglecting my duties in Baynard’s Castle Ward. I can’t stand around here all day.’

‘It would be unfair to keep you any longer,’ said Christopher. ‘You’ve already done me a huge favour today by securing my release from Newgate. To ask anything else of you would be an imposition.’

‘What about you, sir?’

‘I’ll linger for a short while.’

‘It will be in vain.’

‘You are probably right, Jonathan.’

They were still lurking at the rear of the house in Piccadilly. After a farewell handshake, Bale walked back in the direction of the city. Sad to see him go, Christopher was loath to abandon his post. After his conversation with Lady Lingoe, he felt certain that Villemot was in the house, sheltered by a friend who would surely report to him that Christopher was on his trail. The information would alarm the Frenchman and make him anxious to get away.

He could easily understand why the artist had been drawn to Lady Lingoe. She was a handsome woman and, though the portrait of her was nominally for her husband, she did not have the look of a wife who moped in his absence or prayed for his early return. The age gap between the couple was significant. Knowing that she was attractive to men, she had given Christopher the impression that she liked exerting that attraction, albeit with carefully chosen targets. Even at a casual meeting, the architect had felt her power. In the more intimate setting of an artist’s studio, that power could be overwhelming. Resting against a tree, Christopher stood up when he heard the clatter of hooves from the other side of the wall. He rushed to stand beside the door that led to the garden and the stables. Unlocked from the other side, it swung open to allow Jean-Paul Villemot to bring a bay mare out into the street. Before the artist could mount, Christopher leapt out to stop him.

‘Stay here, Monsieur Villemot,’ he pleaded. ‘Running away will only get you into more trouble.’

‘Leave me alone, Christopher.’

‘But I’ve come to help you.’

‘I don’t need your help.’

Villemot pushed him firmly in the chest and sent him reeling backwards. The artist was in the saddle immediately, kicking the mare into a canter. He did not get far. Jonathan Bale stepped out from behind a clump of bushes some thirty yards away and waved his hat wildly at the horse. Frightened by the obstruction, the animal came to a halt and reared. Villemot was hurled from the saddle and hit the ground with a thud.

Christopher ran up to join them, grabbing the reins to bring the horse under control. Bale, meanwhile, stood over the fallen figure.

‘I thought you’d gone,’ said Christopher.

Bale smiled. ‘I had a feeling you might need some help, sir.’

Having been compelled to accept the truth of the situation, Araminta Culthorpe threw herself into a frenzy of activity. Instead of sitting in her bedchamber and staring out at the garden, she came downstairs to the drawing room to write a series of letters, make decisions and give orders to the servants. She even consented to eat some food at last. Delighted by the signs of improvement in her mistress, Eleanor Ryle was nevertheless worried that she might overtax herself.

‘You must try to rest, m’lady,’ she advised.

‘There are too many things to do, Eleanor.’

‘Let someone else do them for you.’

‘That’s out of the question,’ said Araminta. ‘Who else could write to Sir Martin’s brothers but me? Who else could pass on the tidings to his sister in Kent? They deserve to hear from me in person. While he was alive, I tried to be a good wife to my husband. Now that he’s dead, I’ll not shirk my duty.’

‘What about your own family, m’lady?’

‘I’ve sent word. It should reach them by this evening.’

‘They will want to comfort you.’

‘That’s why I ordered rooms to be prepared for them and food to be ordered. In a day or two, the house will be full. We must be ready for them, Eleanor.’

‘If you take to your bed, everyone will understand.’

‘My place is here, acting as mistress of the house.’

‘At least, let me do something,’ implored the maid. ‘I want to take the burden off your shoulders, m’lady.’

‘You do that simply by being here, Eleanor.’

Araminta got up from her chair to give her a hug of gratitude. She suddenly became aware of how tired she was. Her eyelids were heavy, her body aching and her legs unsteady. Making a conscious effort to shake off her fatigue, she reached for a sheet of paper on the table and handed it to Eleanor.

‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘See if there’s anything I’ve missed.’

‘It’s such a long list,’ noted the maid, running her eye down the names and the items. ‘You’ve been so busy these past few hours.’

‘There’s still a lot more to be done.’

‘I don’t think so, m’lady.’

‘My brain is addled. I’m sure I’ve missed things out.’

‘Only one thing, as far as I can see.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The portrait.’

Araminta was perplexed. ‘Portrait?’

‘The one that Mr Villemot was painting of you.’

‘Oh, that — I’ve tried to forget it, Eleanor. That portrait was the start of all our woes. If I hadn’t become acquainted with Monsieur Villemot, none of this would have happened.’

‘We don’t know that for certain.’

‘I do,’ said Araminta, sadly. ‘I feel it in my bones. When you first told me that Monsieur Villemot was the killer, I could not believe it. He would never do anything to cause me so much pain. But, as I wrote those letters,’ she continued, ‘I became more and more convinced that I was wrong. There were moments when I felt profoundly uneasy in his company. I was never sure what was going through his mind.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Now, alas, we know.’

‘There is still the portrait to be considered.’

‘He can never finish it if he is convicted of the murder.’

‘Another artist might do so in his place, m’lady.’

‘That’s inconceivable,’ said Araminta.

‘Then you might want it in its present condition,’ said Eleanor. ‘I know that Sir Martin paid for it even though Mr Villemot told him he should wait for it to be finished first.’

Araminta was wistful. ‘That was my husband’s only fault. He was too trusting. He had such faith in Monsieur Villemot’s skill that he insisted on giving him the money before the first sitting.’

‘That means the portrait is your property.’

‘Not any more.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a symbol, Eleanor. Whenever I look at it, I’ll remember the wonderful man who commissioned it, the loving husband who was snatched away from me before his time.’

‘Sir Martin would want you to keep it.’

‘The decision is out of his hands,’ said Araminta with a sigh. ‘As for me, I’ve no use for it. To tell you the truth, Eleanor, I never want to set eyes on that accursed portrait again!’

* * *

Stunned by the fall, Jean-Paul Villemot was in no position to resist arrest. Jonathan Bale helped him to his feet and took a firm grip on him. Christopher, meanwhile, returned the horse to the stable. All three of them then set off. With a man either side of him, Villemot had no chance of escape. He felt betrayed.

‘I thought you were my friend, Christopher,’ he said.

‘I am,’ replied the other. ‘That’s why I want to help you to get out of this mess. You only made it worse by running away.’

‘I did not kill Sir Martin!’

‘Then why act as if you did?’

‘Because of you,’ said Bale, ‘Mr Redmayne was arrested and taken into custody. They thought he was your accomplice.’

Villemot was chastened. It was something that Lady Lingoe had failed to mention to him. ‘This is true?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Christopher. ‘The officers who called at my house thought I was distracting them so that you could get away. I spent a couple of hours in Newgate Prison.’

‘I am sorry, Christopher. Is my fault.’

‘I survived.’

‘What about Lady Lingoe?’ asked the other with sudden fear. ‘I hope that she will not suffer.’

Bale was blunt. ‘She took in a fugitive from justice.’

‘Unwittingly, I think,’ said Christopher, ‘and that makes all the difference. I see no reason to mention her name at all and I’m sure that Jonathan agrees with me.’ The constable gave a reluctant nod. ‘Your friend is quite safe, Monsieur.’

The Frenchman was grateful. ‘Thank you, Christopher.’

‘What we have to do is to prove your innocence.’

‘I will tell them. I will explain that it was not me.’

‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ said Christopher. ‘There’s evidence against you. The fact is that you were seen near Sir Martin’s house around the time of the murder. And you were very excitable when you returned to your studio. I was there, remember. You were extremely rude to me.’

‘I know. I came to make my peace with you. I apologise.’

‘It will take much more than an apology to satisfy the court. It may well be that only one thing will persuade a judge that you were not guilty of the crime.’

‘And what is that?’

‘We have to catch the man who did stab Sir Martin to death.’

‘Who is he?’

‘We have no idea at the moment,’ admitted Christopher, ‘but we won’t rest until we find out. It’s not the first time that Jonathan and I have saved someone from the gallows.’

‘True enough, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale.

‘Rely on us, Monsieur.’

‘If you’re really innocent, we’ll help you cheat the hangman.’

As the trio walked on, Villemot ran a hand around his throat.

Emile was horrified by the turn of events. When he heard that his master had been imprisoned in Newgate, he tried to visit him but was turned away and told to come back the following day. Returning to the rooms in Covent Garden, he reflected on how completely things had changed in such a short space of time. Instead of being the valet of the most famous artist in London, he was employed by a man accused of a heinous crime. Instead of having a job for life, he faced the threat of summary dismissal. Instead of looking forward to moving to the new house, he might have to sneak home to Paris in disgrace.

Villemot had not committed murder. Of that Emile was certain. But he was equally certain that his master would not be the first innocent man to be hanged by mistake. As an artist, his nationality was in his favour, suggesting a flair and passion felt to be lacking in the more reserved English. As a prisoner, however, his French manners and accent would be a serious disadvantage, attracting scorn from the turnkeys and other prisoners, and prejudicing the jury against what they would perceive as a wicked foreigner.

The problem had all started with Araminta Culthorpe. She was not the first beautiful woman to sit for her portrait but she had a quality that the others had lacked, a purity that set her apart and lent her face its spiritual glow. Emile went over to the easel and threw back the piece of cloth, staring in wonder at Araminta’s face, neck and shoulders. She was truly captivating. Even with his long experience of painting young and gorgeous ladies, Villemot had been deeply moved by her presence in the studio.

It was late before Emile retired to bed, having tried to console himself with several glasses of wine. Once his eyes closed, he was dead to the world. The studio was unguarded.

The intruder came with great stealth, entering the house by means of a window at the rear and climbing the stairs with furtive steps. When he reached the rooms rented by Villemot, he first made certain that the valet was asleep then went into the studio and closed the door soundlessly behind him. Knowing that the floor was littered with objects, he took the precaution of lighting a candle. It enabled him to step between the scattered items and reach the easel without colliding with anything.

Here was the moment for which he had been waiting, the act of revelation that would deliver his beloved Araminta into his hands. Taking hold of the cloth, he threw it back and held the candle close to illumine the painting. His eyes widened in amazement and his heart began to pound. What he beheld was quite beyond belief.