The Painted Lady

Chapter Six

Work began early on the site of the new house. Oblivious to the fact that the person who had commissioned it was now in custody, Samuel Littlejohn was there to supervise his men and to help them unload the building materials that arrived by cart. He understood the importance of setting a good example for the others. Instead of standing apart and barking orders at them, therefore, he was quite ready to get his hands dirty from time to time by working alongside them. His combination of industry and cordiality won him the respect of his men and none of them tried to slack in his employ.

Littlejohn had just unloaded the last of the bricks when Christopher Redmayne came into view, riding his horse at a trot. The builder gave him a cheery wave then removed his hat and ran his sleeve across a perspiring brow.

‘Good morning, Mr Redmayne!’ he said.

‘And to you, Sam.’

‘There’s precious little for you to see, I fear. Give us a week and we’ll have made some real progress.’

‘Unfortunately, I can’t do that,’ said Christopher, dismounting from his horse. ‘I’ve come to call a halt to any work on the house.’

Littlejohn was wounded. ‘A halt?’

‘I fear so.’

‘Aren’t you satisfied with what we are doing?’

‘I’m eminently satisfied. The fault lies elsewhere.’

There was no point in shilly-shallying. The builder deserved the truth and Christopher gave it to him as quickly and concisely as he could. Littlejohn was shocked to hear what had happened. He broke off to order his men to stop work then he searched for more detail.

‘You say that Mr Villemot is not guilty?’

‘He swears it, Sam, and I believe him.’

‘Then why was he arrested?’

‘It seems that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘What was he doing there?’ asked Littlejohn.

‘Monsieur Villemot claims that it was pure accident that he was in the vicinity of Sir Martin’s residence. Two witnesses saw him at the rear of the house,’ said Christopher, ‘and that was where the killer gained access to the garden. Apparently, the gate was unlocked.’

‘Was that usual, sir?’

‘It was very unusual, Sam. Like any wealthy man, Sir Martin Culthorpe was careful to protect his property. A high wall encloses the garden and that gate is invariably locked.’

‘Yet you still think that Mr Villemot is innocent?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I wish I had your confidence,’ said Littlejohn, doubtfully, ‘but I don’t like the sound of what I’ve heard. A warrant would not be issued unless there was other evidence that we don’t yet know about. I admire your loyalty to Mr Villemot but I choose to keep an open mind.’

‘That’s fair enough, Sam.’

‘I did warn you something might go awry with this contract.’

‘Nobody could have foreseen that our client would be accused of murder,’ said Christopher. ‘I know that you look askance at the French but even you must concede that they are not, by nature, inclined to stab people to death.’

‘I never suggested that they were, sir.’

‘But you were worried.’

‘Foreign clients always worry me,’ confessed the builder.

‘This one may give you a pleasant surprise. When he’s released from prison, work can begin at once on the house.’

Littlejohn was philosophical. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ he said with quiet resignation. ‘Thank you, Mr Redmayne — it was good of you to come. I’d better go and pass on the sad news to the men.’

‘Tell them not to lose hope.’

‘I’ll tell them to prepare for the worst. It’s more honest.’

Putting his hat on again, the builder moved away. Christopher was about to mount his horse when he saw a rider approaching. He did not at first recognise the diminutive figure. It was only when the man pulled his mount to a halt that Christopher realised that it was Emile, the French valet.

‘I am glad to find you, M’sieur,’ said Emile, anxiously. ‘I go to your house. The old man, he say you come here.’

‘That would be Jacob, my servant.’

‘I do not know who else to tell.’

‘Tell what?’

‘Is very bad.’

‘You’re not making much sense, Emile,’ said Christopher. ‘I can see that you’re upset. Why not try to calm down before you speak? If there’s a problem, I’ll be glad to help.’ Emile nodded gratefully. ‘Now, let’s go through it very slowly, shall we? What is so very bad?’

‘I am afraid to tell him.’

‘Who — Monsieur Villemot?’

‘Oui, m’sieur. C’est terrible.’

‘Why?’

‘The portrait he paint…’

‘The one of Lady Culthorpe?’

‘Yes,’ said Emile in despair. ‘It was stolen.’

* * *

Henry Redmayne was not accustomed to being up so early in the morning and he was decidedly liverish. Still in his garish dressing gown, a garment that swept the floor as he moved, he was unshaven and without his wig. He regarded his visitor through a bleary eye.

‘Death and hell and furies!’ he shouted. ‘What the devil has brought you here at this ungodly hour, Elkannah?’

‘I needed to speak with you.’

‘Could you not delay conversation until a more fitting time of day? This is most inconsiderate. I’m never fully awake until noon.’

‘My business will not brook delay,’ said Elkannah Prout.

‘What does it concern?’

‘Araminta.’

‘Ah!’ The name brought Henry to life. ‘Now she is the one person in the world for whom I would willingly drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn. I’d go without sleep for a month for Araminta.’

‘I’m glad that she arouses a philanthropic impulse.’

‘There’s nothing I would not do for her, Elkannah.’

‘Then bestow upon her the greatest gift you have to offer.’

‘I’ve already done that,’ said Henry, dreamily. ‘I’ve given her my exclusive and undivided love.’

‘Araminta would prefer your forbearance,’ said Prout. ‘At a time like this, she needs to be left alone to mourn in peace. I want you to join with me and stop your reckless courtship of her.’

Henry was disdainful. ‘That’s a strange entreaty on the lips of the man who first devised the Society to which all four of us were willing signatories,’ he said. ‘I spy your intent here, Elkannah. Because you have no chance of enjoying Araminta’s charms, you want to prevent others from doing so.’

‘I merely want her protected from your unsavoury attentions.’

‘There’s nothing unsavoury about me,’ said Henry, pouting.

‘Sir Martin’s death weighs heavily with me,’ said Prout, head down and hands clasped tight. ‘It brought me to my senses. Like you, I disguised my licentiousness behind the many tokens of love I sent to Araminta. When she was single, such gifts were simply a nuisance to her. Now that she is a widow, they would be a source of torment.’ He grabbed his friend’s arm. ‘Leave her be, Henry!’

‘She needs me.’

‘She needs respect and freedom from this persecution.’

‘Nobody respects Araminta more than I do,’ said Henry, ‘and nobody has persecuted her less.’ He shook his arm to detach Prout’s hand from it. ‘You are being very noble and I applaud you for it, but there are two reasons why I am unable to follow your example.’

Prout was critical. ‘The first is your desire to win that bet.’

‘No, Elkannah. I care nothing for the money. I’ll gladly give it away to the deserving poor, if, that is, I did not myself happen to qualify for membership of that group of needy recipients. The first reason is this — I adore Araminta. To step aside now,’ argued Henry, ‘would be a repudiation of my love and that would be an act of treachery. The second and more pressing reason is one that you can surely guess.’

‘If you do not go after her, others will.’

‘Jocelyn and Sir Willard are even now making their plans.’

‘I’ll speak to each one in turn and urge him to stop.’

‘You’ll get the same answer,’ warned Henry. ‘They’ll not budge an inch from their declared ambition — and neither will I.’ He crossed to the door and opened it. ‘I bid you good day, Elkannah.’

‘Think over what I told you,’ said Prout, crossing to the door.

‘My ears are deaf to such petitions.’

They did, however, pick up the sound of the doorbell. It was rung with such vigour that that everyone in the house heard it. A servant opened the front door and Henry’s brother came into the hall without waiting for an invitation.

‘Christopher!’ he exclaimed. ‘What means this violent entry?’

‘Up at this time?’ said the other in surprise. ‘I thought I’d have to roust you out of your bed.’

‘Why — has something dreadful happened?’

‘It has indeed, Henry.’

‘Our father has died? The Tower of London has burned to the ground? Your beloved Susan Cheever has run off with a one-legged Spanish sailor?’

‘Spare me your drollery.’

‘Only a catastrophe of such proportions could make you try to burst our eardrums with the doorbell.’ He indicated his companion. ‘You know Elkannah, I believe.’

‘We’ve met,’ said Christopher, giving the man a respectful nod.

‘Your servant,’ replied Prout.

‘Forgive my intemperance, sir, but I need to speak to my brother as a matter of urgency. He knows only too well why I must do that.’

‘For the life of me,’ said Henry, ‘I do not. Enlighten me.’

‘I am talking about a portrait of Lady Culthorpe.’

Prout’s ears pricked up. ‘Araminta?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘I must discuss it with Henry.’

‘It’s a subject in which I, too, have an interest.’

‘Then you must stay, Elkannah,’ said Henry, glad to have a shield between himself and his brother’s anger. ‘Let us go back into the drawing room where we can talk quietly.’

He led the way out of the hall, then closed the door behind his guests. Christopher did not mince his words. Taking off his hat, he confronted his brother with a blunt accusation.

‘The portrait has been stolen and I am looking at the thief,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been so ashamed of you in all my life, Henry, and given your long career of drunkenness and debauchery, that’s a bold claim. I’m revolted by the thought that my brother is nothing more than a common criminal.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Prout. ‘You stole that portrait?’

‘No!’ retorted Henry. ‘Until this very moment, I did not even know that it had been taken. Where did you glean this intelligence, Christopher?’

‘I spoke with Monsieur Villemot’s valet.’

‘Is he certain the portrait is missing?’

‘Emile would not make a mistake like that,’ said Christopher, keeping his brother under close scrutiny. ‘As soon as he went into the studio this morning, he saw that it was gone.’

‘Where was it kept?’

‘On an easel near the window.’

Henry gulped. ‘Who would dare to steal it?’

‘You are the prime suspect, Henry. The last time we met, you swore that you’d acquire that portrait of Lady Culthorpe by whatever means were necessary. Now I know what those means were.’

‘This is unpardonable of you,’ said Prout.

‘By rights, you should be arrested,’ added Christopher.

‘But I’ve done nothing wrong,’ bleated Henry, flapping his hands. ‘Do you really think I’m capable of such a dastardly act?’

‘Yes,’ said the two men in unison.

‘Then you cut me to the quick. My life has not been without its occasional irregularity — what gentleman’s has not? — but I would never stoop to theft or any other crime.’ He thrust out his chest. ‘I am a model of a law-abiding citizen.’

‘If you had no designs on the portrait,’ said Christopher, ‘why did you bother to go to the house yesterday?’

Henry gulped again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve just come from there. According to the maid, someone who fits your description to the last detail called at the house yesterday evening and claimed that he had left something in Monsieur Villemot’s studio by mistake.’ Henry’s eyelids flickered. ‘Since nobody was there, the maid obligingly showed the visitor into the studio. Luckily, she had the sense to stay with him.’

‘What did you do then, Henry?’ Prout challenged.

‘I was not even there!’ cried Henry.

‘The maid got a close look at you,’ said Christopher.

‘Then I must have a double.’

‘Your double did not stay long in the studio. Once he had reclaimed what he said was a handkerchief that had fallen from his sleeve, he took a peep under the cloth on the easel. Your motive was crystal clear,’ said Christopher, sombrely. ‘It was a reconnaissance expedition. You contrived to get inside the house in order to take your bearings, and you checked to see where the portrait was so that you could return at night and spirit it away.’

‘Where is it?’ demanded Prout.

‘Return it immediately or face arrest,’ Christopher put in.

‘I’ll have you arrested in any case. This is abominable.’

‘But I do not have that portrait!’ bellowed Henry. ‘How many times must I tell you? Search the house, if you do not believe me. Turn the whole place upside down and look in every corner. You are quite correct, Christopher,’ he said, displaying both palms in an attempt at mollifying him. ‘I did make some foolish boasts with regard to that painting of Araminta, and I did hope that I might somehow purchase it from the artist. Wiser counsels prevailed and I backed off.’

‘Before or after your visit to the house?’ asked Christopher.

‘I did not go anywhere near it.’

‘That’s a blatant lie,’ said Prout, jabbing the air with a finger. ‘I spoke to Jocelyn yesterday evening and he told me that he met you standing outside Monsieur Villemot’s lodging.’

‘I was strolling down the street by pure chance,’ said Henry, thrown on the defensive. ‘It’s only a few minutes away from here so there’s nothing sinister in the fact that I was there. I often use that street as a short cut to Covent Garden. Jocelyn, however,’ he went on, seizing on the opportunity to escape the interrogation, ‘went there for a reason. He offered money for the portrait of Araminta and admitted as much. There’s your thief, Christopher,’ he continued. ‘Instead of hounding your innocent brother, talk to Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘I’ll need his address.’

‘You shall have it — along with that of Sir Willard Grail.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because he must be suspected as well,’ said Henry. ‘They are both men in the grip of an obsession with Araminta. Neither of them would hesitate to steal the portrait. Am I right, Elkannah?’

‘They would both dearly love to possess it,’ confirmed Prout.

‘So I am in the clear. I require an apology, Christopher.’

‘You’ll not get one until the truth of the matter has been established,’ said his brother. ‘And there is still the question of why you inveigled yourself into that studio.’

‘But that was not me. Nor could it have been Jocelyn, for he’s too fat and misshapen. Sir Willard, on the other hand,’ he said, ‘is a very different proposition. He’s younger than me but — to the eyes of some ignorant little maid — he could pass for Henry Redmayne, especially in bad light. Elkannah?’

‘Yes,’ said Prout, thinking it over. ‘He could do so.’

‘He even apes some of my gestures.’

‘That he does, to be sure.’

‘There you are, Christopher. Now stop looking at me as if I had just stolen His Majesty’s entire art collection. Jocelyn and Sir Willard are the true suspects here.’ He pulled himself up to his full height. ‘I am vindicated.’

‘Not yet, Henry,’ warned his brother. ‘There’s a lot more to come out about this little adventure and I’m sure that you will be implicated in the crime in some way or other.’

‘But I’m the victim of it. I coveted that portrait.’

‘So did we all,’ murmured Prout.

‘Araminta must be found. I’ll join forces with you to recover her.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Christopher. ‘I choose to work with Jonathan Bale. His integrity is not in doubt.’

‘That sour-faced imbecile has no place in this search.’

‘He most certainly does, Henry. We are not just looking for someone who stole a painting. We are hunting the killer of Sir Martin Culthorpe. The two crimes are inextricably linked. I have an interest here,’ he declared. ‘Lady Culthorpe lost a husband and, as a result, I have been deprived of a client. Sir Martin, alas, is beyond recall but Jean-Paul Villemot is not. I mean to prove his innocence and recover the portrait he painted. Jonathan has volunteered to help me.’

‘Who is the fellow?’ asked Prout.

‘A dull-witted constable with a Puritan conscience,’ said Henry with a sneer. ‘He’s an odious creature.’

‘I like him,’ said Christopher.

‘There’s nothing remotely likeable about the ugly devil.’

‘There are many things, Henry. For a start, I like his essential goodness. After dealing with you, I find it uplifting. Jonathan would never trick his way into someone’s lodging by pretending to have left a handkerchief there.’ His gaze was cold and unwavering. ‘Couldn’t you have invented a better excuse than that?’

Until he was imprisoned, Jean-Paul Villemot had never known that such squalor and degradation existed. He had seen poverty in the back streets of Paris where women sold their bodies to feed their children, and where there was a pervading stink of despair. None of it compared with the sustained nightmare that was Newgate. It seemed as if the most violent, foul-mouthed, desolate, God-forsaken human beings on earth had been gathered there. The noise was deafening, the stench unbearable and the food inedible. Everyone inside the prison was filthy and depraved. He could not decide if the prisoners or the turnkeys were the more corrupt.

Villemot had important concessions. In return for payment, he was given a single cell and that isolated him from attack. But it did not rescue him from the jeering of his captors or from the pandemonium in the nearby cells. He was kept awake all night by the howls of pain, the forlorn pleas, the screams of violated women and the sound of bruising fights. He had paid for wine but it tasted like vinegar. He had asked for visitors but he was told to wait until the next day. Sympathy was nowhere to be found. Villemot was treated less like someone whose guilt was uncertain than a condemned man biding his time before he ascended the gallows.

His cell gave him neither comfort nor privacy. It was small, fetid and covered in dank straw. When Villemot was shoved into it, a rat had scurried out. Through the iron bars of the gate, the turnkeys could keep him under constant surveillance. He was horror-struck at the thought of relieving himself in a wooden pail that was pitted by age and stained by long usage. For a man of the artist’s delicate sensibilities, Newgate Prison was pure torture.

Morning brought the same sickening reek and the same unceasing tumult but it also brought his first visitor. When he saw Emile being led along the corridor by a turnkey, Villemot flung himself at the bars.

‘Emile!’ he exclaimed. ‘Enfin!’

‘Bonjour, M’sieur Villemot.’

‘None of that,’ decreed the turnkey. ‘You speak English or you speak nothing. Talk in that turkey-gobble and, for all I know, you could be plotting an escape.’ He folded his arms. ‘English.’

He loomed over Emile who was plainly intimidated by his presence. Fastidious by nature, the valet was disgusted by everything he saw, heard and smelled. He was appalled to see his master in such a place and gave him an affectionate handshake through the bars.

‘How are you, sir?’ he enquired.

‘I am glad to see the friendly face at last, Emile.’

‘You do not belong.’

‘Then why did you help to put me here?’

‘M. Redmayne ask the question — I tell truth.’

‘Lie for me next time,’ said Villemot. ‘Protect your master.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘I could have got away.’

‘They look for you, sir. You not run forever.’

‘I’d do anything to keep out of this hell-hole.’

‘It’s cosy when you get used to it,’ said the turnkey with a snigger. ‘You’ll come to like it here in time.’

‘Never!’ Villemot turned to the valet. ‘It is so bad.’

‘I speak to Mr Redmayne this morning. He tell me he will get you out of here soon.’

‘What can he do?’

‘He want to help, sir.’

‘That’s what he says but can I trust him?’

‘I think so. He tell me he has the friend who is the constable.’

‘I met him.’ Villemot fingered the lump on the back of his head. ‘His name is Jonathan Bale. Because of him, I was almost killed when I was thrown from a horse. Why should he help me? Jean-Paul Villemot is nothing to him.’

‘You are, sir.’

‘Am I?’

‘The new house, it is in M’sieur Bale’s parish.’

‘It may never be built now.’

‘Do not say that. You will get out somehow.’

‘Yes,’ said the turnkey. ‘You’ll get out, Villymott. We’ll see to that. We’ll even provide the cart to take you to the hangman.’

‘It is no jest!’ snapped Villemot.

‘Don’t you shout at me, you lousy French dunghill!’

‘I want to talk to my friend.’

‘Two minutes — that is all.’

‘But I have a lot to tell him.’

The turnkey grinned provocatively at him. ‘You’ll have to speak fast, then, won’t you?’

‘What can I do, sir?’ said Emile.

‘Go to the lady.’

‘Mr Redmayne helps you.’

‘He has no power — the lady does. Tell her where I am.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go straight to the house.’

‘What do I say?’

Villemot was explicit. ‘Beg her to get me out of here!’

The response had been overwhelming. As word of the murder spread ever wider, letters of condolence, tributes and flowers were delivered in abundance to the house. Dozens of visitors came to pay their respects and offer their sympathy. Though it was very tiring to cope with it all, Araminta Culthorpe was glad to have something to occupy her mind. Having dealt with another batch of callers that morning, she settled down in the drawing room to go through the piles of letters that had accumulated.

Eleanor Ryle assisted her, noting each sender’s name before passing the missive over to her. She picked up another from the pile.

‘Mr Henry Redmayne,’ she announced.

‘Throw it away!’

‘But it’s a poem.’

‘It always is,’ sighed Araminta. ‘Destroy it.’

‘You don’t know what he’s written, m’lady.’

‘I know exactly what he’s written and I’ve no wish to read a word of it. Anything that bears his execrable name must be torn up.’

‘Yet you read that letter sent by his brother.’

‘That was different,’ said Araminta, her voice softening at once. ‘Christopher Redmayne is a true gentleman. His commiserations were sincere and heart-felt. What he wrote touched me. Henry Redmayne, however,’ she said, sharply, ‘has sent a poem that contains the same flowery language and the same unsought declaration of love as all the others he’s written. It’s both hurtful and vexing. Tear up his letter.’

Eleanor obeyed her, putting the pieces of paper aside on the table. She reached for the next letter and unfolded it.

‘Mr Elkannah Prout.’ At the sound of the name, her mistress hesitated. ‘Shall I tear up this one as well?’

‘No,’ decided Araminta. ‘I’ll read it.’ The letter was handed over to her. ‘And I’m glad that I did,’ she went on as she scanned the neat calligraphy. ‘Mr Prout is very kind. His words bring real comfort. He’s also apologised for any earlier correspondence he sent me and done so handsomely. Elkannah Prout was acquainted with my husband and says kind things about him.’ She put the letter aside. ‘Next?’

‘Lady Lingoe.’

Araminta was checked. ‘Lady Hester Lingoe?’

‘Yes,’ said Eleanor. ‘She has a fine hand.’

‘But she hardly knew Sir Martin. Her husband, on the other hand, certainly did — he’s an ambassador who travels all over Europe.’ She took the letter and glanced at it. ‘Wait,’ said Araminta, looking up. ‘I’ve just realised why she may have felt impelled to write.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lady Lingoe and I have something in common — we both had our portraits painted by Monsieur Villemot. I remember my husband remarking on it.’

‘Did he see the portrait of Lady Lingoe?’

‘Sir Martin forbade me to do so.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He said that it was not a suitable example of the artist’s work. Besides, I was there to sit for my own portrait, not to look at what Monsieur Villemot had done for his other ladies.’

Eleanor was curious. ‘Does he only paint ladies?’

‘For the most part,’ said Araminta. ‘That’s how he made his name. His excellence is not in question. He has done portraits of members of the French royal family and was feted in his own country, yet he preferred to live and work here.’

‘I wonder why, m’lady.’

‘He told me that he adores England.’

‘But he has a wife in Paris, does he not?’

‘Yes, Eleanor — I’d rather forgotten about her.’

‘It seems that he forgot about her as well,’ said the maid.

‘I’m mightily afraid that he did.’

‘How will she feel when she hears about her husband?’

‘Poor thing!’ said Araminta with a surge of compassion. ‘I’ve been so bound up in my own misery that I’ve not spared a thought for anyone else’s suffering. Madame Villemot will be horrified. What the husband did was utterly detestable,’ she continued, grimacing at the memory, ‘but I can still feel sympathy for the wife. She was not to blame. Madame Villemot is another victim of this tragedy.’

‘It may be some time before the news reaches her.’

‘Yes, Eleanor — it will tear her life apart as it has sundered mine. No matter for that,’ she said, holding back tears. ‘We must make an effort to carry on as best we may.’ She looked down at the letter. ‘Let me see what Lady Lingoe has to say.’ Her face soon crumpled. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Eleanor.

‘It’s what Lady Lingoe has written in her letter. According to her,’ said Araminta, upset and bewildered, ‘Monsieur Villemot did not commit the crime at all. She claims that he’s innocent.’

Lady Hester Lingoe had always liked Emile. She found him attentive and amusing. He was an educated man. To relieve the boredom she inevitably felt while sitting for long periods in the studio, Emile had read the poems of Catullus to her in the original Latin, and he had found other ways to stave off tedium. She was less pleased with what he said to her now. His account of what had happened made her roam around the library of her house like a restless animal.

‘I had no idea that he had been arrested,’ she said in dismay. ‘I ordered a horse to be saddled for him. Nobody told me that the animal had been returned to the stable. It’s my fault,’ she admitted, slapping her thigh. ‘I should have known that Christopher Redmayne did not believe me. He was too astute. When I allowed Monsieur Villemot to leave the house, I let him fall straight into Mr Redmayne’s hands.’

‘He wants to help, Lady Lingoe.’

‘Locking up your master in prison is not my idea of help.’

‘He help you as well,’ Emile reminded her.

‘All that he did to me was to pester me with questions.’

‘You were hiding my master. That is against law. Monsieur Redmayne, he does not get his friend, the constable, to arrest you.’

‘That’s a small mercy, I suppose,’ she conceded. ‘It would have been humiliating to be hauled before a magistrate even though he would never have dared to impose a sentence on me. My husband is an important man. We have friends in high places.’

‘What can they do for my master?’

‘We shall see, Emile. To begin with, I’ll appoint a lawyer to defend him and to make sure that he’s treated properly in Newgate.’

‘He wants to get out now.’

‘That’s more difficult to arrange.’

‘Is frightening in there.’

‘I can imagine.’

She stopped to consider the situation and Emile had his first opportunity to look around the library. He loved its classical style and its array of leather-bound books. He also liked the attire of a Roman priestess that she was wearing. It gave her allure and distinction. Most of the English ladies whose portraits had been painted by his master had been either shy and reticent or haughty and garrulous. Lady Hester Lingoe fitted neither of these categories. She was unique. Shrewd, perceptive and friendly, she was a woman of real character.

‘I need more time to think,’ she said, conscious that he was waiting for her to speak. ‘I’ll be in touch, Emile.’

‘Thank you, m’lady.’

‘When will you be seeing Monsieur Villemot again?’

‘Soon.’

‘Tell him that he is in my thoughts.’

‘I will,’ said Emile with a smile. ‘My master will like that.’

Sarah Bale was delighted to see him again and she became almost girlish. Christopher Redmayne always had that effect on her. For his part, he was pleased to be given the customary warm welcome and to answer the battery of questions that she fired at him. After making some polite enquiries after her children, Christopher was rescued by Bale. The constable eased his wife into the kitchen.

‘Mr Redmayne came to see me, my love,’ he told her, gently, ‘and not to listen to your gossip.’

‘Is he going to ask you to make another model?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Offer to do so, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘Don’t hold back.’

‘We’ve other things to talk about, Sarah.’

After kissing her on the forehead, he went out and closed the kitchen door behind him. He and Christopher went into the little parlour. Bale moved some toy soldiers from a chair so that his visitor could sit down. He put the soldiers on a table. Christopher peered at them with interest.

‘Did you make those?’

Bale smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, I did, sir.’

‘I thought so,’ said Christopher with a grin. ‘Who else would build his children a New Model Army?’

‘I served under Oliver Cromwell and I’m proud of the fact.’

‘You’ve a right to be so, Jonathan. You were on the winning side at the battle of Worcester and that’s a memory you’ll cherish. But,’ he went on, ‘that’s all past. We are subjects of a King once more.’

‘You know my views where His Majesty is concerned,’ said Bale, ‘so I’ll not spoil our friendship by giving them to you again. Something has happened, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes — the portrait of Lady Culthorpe has been stolen.’

Bale started. ‘Who took it?’

‘That’s for us to find out.’

‘Did you have anyone in mind?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, thinking of his brother but determined to keep his name out of the discussion. ‘There are two people who might bear close examination. We must recover that portrait.’

‘Does the lady herself know that it’s been stolen?’

‘No, Jonathan, and she must never find out. It would distress her even more if she realised that her likeness was in the hands of a thief. Lady Culthorpe doesn’t know what occurred and neither does Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Why?’ asked Bale. ‘The artist ought to be told.’

‘His valet is terrified of the way he would respond,’ said Christopher. ‘His master has a temper — I’ve seen him flare up with my own eyes. While he’s away, Emile is in charge of the studio. It’s his responsibility to protect the paintings.’

‘Especially the one of Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Emile told me that he would rather have lost all the other paintings in the studio.’

‘Does that include the portrait of Lady Lingoe?’

‘It does, Jonathan. I know that you’d be saddened if that had been stolen,’ he teased. ‘The portrait had a special meaning for you.’

Bale sniffed. ‘It made me wonder what goes on in an artist’s studio,’ he said, dourly.

‘You’ll have to put that question to Lady Lingoe herself.’

‘No, thank you, sir — I’d rather not meet her at all.’

‘You’d be quite safe. She dresses as a Roman priestess.’

‘I’ll keep my distance from her, dressed or undressed.’

‘One thing is certain,’ said Christopher. ‘Whoever stole that other portrait, it was not Lady Lingoe. I begin to think that it may be the same person who killed Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘He could have stolen it without resorting to murder.’

‘That depends on his motive. If he was spellbound by Lady Culthorpe’s beauty, he could have been driven to kill the husband in order to get closer to her.’

‘She’s in mourning.’

‘That’s why he has to be patient,’ said Christopher. ‘Since he can’t even see her while she’s brooding on her loss, he would have wanted to look upon her in some way.’

‘The portrait.’

‘Why else would he take it?’

Bale fell silent, deep in contemplation. His brow was rutted, his lips pursed, his eyes staring into space. Christopher looked down at the toy soldiers. They had been made with love for Bale’s two sons so that they could play out various battles. Each soldier had been carved and painted with precision. To a doting father, the soldiers were every bit as important as Villemot’s portraits were to the artist. Christopher could see how deeply wounded Bale would be by the theft of his handiwork. Over the time he had worked on the miniature figures, he would have built up a close relationship with them.

‘I wonder if we are mistaken,’ said Bale, suddenly.

‘Mistaken?’

‘I very much doubt if the thief was also the killer.’

‘You reason?’

‘I deal with crime every day, Mr Redmayne. In my experience, a man who commits murder has only one thought in mind and that is to get far away from the place where the deed was done. I do not think that he would stay in London so that he could steal a portrait.’

‘If he’d taken flight,’ said Christopher, ‘he’d have given himself away. Better to stay here and keep out of sight. A city as large as London has many hiding places.’

‘I still say the thief is not the killer.’

‘But the two must be connected in some way.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Bale, ‘but it may not be the case at all. For the sake of argument, suppose that Lady Culthorpe has nothing to do with what happened to her husband.’

‘Lust is a powerful motive, Jonathan.’

‘So is greed, so is envy, so is hatred. Sir Martin was known for his kindness but even the kindest of men have enemies. Someone may have wanted to strike him down out of sheer malice. Remember this,’ he went on. ‘The murder was planned. It was no accident. The killer must have known that Sir Martin went for a stroll in his garden at certain times of the day. He must have contrived a means of getting the key to the garden gate.’

‘I realise that,’ said Christopher. ‘The problem is that the person who could help us most is the one who is out of our reach.’

‘Lady Araminta Culthorpe.’

‘She would know about Sir Martin’s habits and be able to tell us who had the keys to that gate. Without realising it, Lady Culthorpe probably has lots of information that would be useful to us but we could not possibly approach her at a time like this.’

‘When is the funeral?’

‘Very soon, I should imagine.’

‘Then we must wait until it’s over.’

‘There’s one way we might ensure her assistance.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘By finding that portrait,’ said Christopher. ‘Because Sir Martin commissioned it, it’s a last memento of her husband. If we tell her that we recovered it from the thief, she’ll be extremely grateful.’

‘How do we track it down?’

‘I’m not entirely sure.’

‘You told me you had two suspects in mind, sir.’

‘I hoped that we might question one each.’

‘Who are they?’

‘They’re friends of my brother.’ Bale sniffed again. ‘Yes, yes, I know you think they’re Henry’s fellow libertines and that may turn out to be true. What we have to decide is whether or not one of them is also a thief and a killer.’

‘He’ll not be both, Mr Redmayne, mark my words.’

‘I bow to your superior instincts.’

‘Who are these gentlemen?’

‘One is Sir Willard Grail and the other, Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘I do not like the sound of that title,’ said Bale, curling a lip, ‘unless, of course, it was awarded by the Lord Protector.’

‘Sir Willard comes from Cavalier stock.’

‘Then I’ll take the other gentleman, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke made his money in trade,’ said Christopher, ‘and bought his way into society. My brother describes him as serious-minded but amiable. That might just mean that he loaned Henry some money. Kidbrooke fell in with my brother in order to secure an introduction to His Majesty’s circle.’

‘What am I to ask him, Mr Redmayne?’

‘You might begin by saying that you know he made a substantial offer for that portrait. His interest in it is clear.’

‘Did your brother think him capable of stealing it?’

‘Not in person, perhaps, but he might hire someone to do it.’ Taking a piece of paper from his pocket, Christopher handed it over. ‘This is Kidbrooke’s address,’ he said. ‘Like so many men — Henry, alas, among them — he’s besotted with Lady Culthorpe. That’s why I need to warn you about something.’

‘And what’s that, sir?’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke is married.’

Bale stiffened. ‘He has a wife yet pursues another woman?’

‘So it appears.’

‘That’s a betrayal of his marriage vows.’

‘It’s something else you might raise with him,’ said Christopher.

Despair came in waves. Though she immersed herself in work, there were times when Araminta Culthorpe simply could not keep dejection at bay. Coming when she least expected it, it washed over her and left her drenched with misery as she was forcibly reminded of the gruesome discovery she had made in the garden. With one thrust of a dagger, her husband had been murdered and her happiness taken away. The future looked bleak and empty. Araminta did not know if she would have the courage to face it.

‘Bear up, m’lady,’ said Eleanor Ryle.

‘I’ve no strength left to do it.’

‘Then you need to rest. You’ve not had a proper sleep since the day it happened. Go to bed, m’lady. Things may not look so daunting when you’ve had a good, long sleep.’

‘I’ve tried to sleep,’ said Araminta, ‘but my mind is too full of phantoms when I lie down. I remember what I saw in the garden and the horror starts all over again. The only way I can block it out is by keeping myself busy.’

‘But you’re close to exhaustion, m’lady.’

‘So are you, Eleanor. You’ve hardly left my side for days. It’s a terrible strain on you. I can see how weary you are.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘Every ounce of energy has been drained out of us.’

‘As long as you want me, I’ll stay by you.’

‘Thank you.’

Seated beside each other, they were in Araminta’s bedchamber. The strain of a long day had told on both of them but it was Araminta who was drooping. She was fighting to stay awake. Eleanor offered the same advice once again.

‘Go to bed, m’lady,’ she urged. ‘Why suffer all this pain? Let me help you off with your clothes.’

‘No, Eleanor — you are the one who needs to sleep.’

‘How can I when I have to attend to you?’

‘Leave me,’ said Araminta, touching her hand in a gesture of gratitude. ‘You’ve done more than enough. I can manage without you now.’

‘I want to help you keep sad thoughts away, m’lady.’

‘They’ll come again and again, whatever you do.’

‘Then you must have someone to share your grief.’

‘It’s time for me to be on my own,’ decided Araminta, getting up and pulling Eleanor gently after her. She ushered the maid towards the door. ‘There are some things even you can’t share,’ she said. ‘I’ve imposed on you enough.’

‘You could never do that,’ said Eleanor, gravely.

‘Off you go now.’

‘No, m’lady — my place is here.’

Araminta was firm. ‘I’m telling you to leave,’ she said. ‘I may not be able to sleep but you certainly will. I can see the fatigue in your face. Go to bed, Eleanor. I do not wish to see you for hours.’

‘What if you should need me?’

‘I’ll have to manage without you.’ Araminta opened the door and waved her out. ‘Don’t try to slip back in again because I’ll lock the door. Away with you, girl — you’ve earned a rest.’

‘Will you promise me that-’

‘I’ll promise you nothing apart from this,’ said the other, cutting her off before she could finish her sentence. ‘I can manage by myself. I have to manage, Eleanor. That’s what my life will be about from now on.’ She forced a smile then closed the door. ‘Goodbye.’

Eleanor heard the key turn in the lock. She was both worried and relieved, sorry to leave her mistress alone but glad to be spared the constant stress of looking after her. While the prospect of rest was enticing, she was not ready to yield to it. The maid was prompted by a higher priority than her own comfort. Tripping along the corridor, she went down the backstairs until she came to her own room.

She let herself in, poured water from the jug into the china basin then gathered it up in her palms to sprinkle her face. It was cold but refreshing. After drying her face, she looked in the mirror and saw how gaunt she was. She hardly recognised herself. Eleanor did not worry about her appearance. Finding her cloak, she put it on before leaving the room and going along a passageway. Making sure that nobody saw her, she opened a side door, went out swiftly and hurried away from the house.