The Painted Lady

Chapter Seven

Christopher Redmayne had met several of his brother’s friends before and they tended to be as shameless and profligate as Henry. They also bore the indelible imprint of decadence. Expecting to see another unconscionable rake, Christopher was startled to find that Sir Willard Grail had none of the telltale signs of a sybarite. He was tall, well-favoured and looked remarkably wholesome. His boyish smile made him seem even younger than he really was. Sir Willard’s attire was flamboyant without being gaudy. He was affable and unaffected.

‘Henry’s brother, are you?’ he said, weighing his visitor up. ‘Nobody would ever guess it to look at you. I believe you’re a famous architect.’

‘No, Sir Willard — I’ve yet to rise in my profession.’

‘It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure. Having no inclination or capacity for hard work, I always admire those who do and you are obviously a Trojan in your chosen field.’

‘Work is never onerous when you enjoy it,’ said Christopher.

‘So I believe.’

They were in the hall of Sir Willard’s home near Shoreditch, an elegant house, designed by a disciple of Inigo Jones, which would have fitted into Covent Garden without a hint of incongruity. It was close enough to the city to allow easy access yet sufficiently distant to give it a sense of isolation. It was a place where Lady Grail could live in style and comfort while her husband pursued pleasures elsewhere.

‘I’m glad that we finally met,’ said Sir Willard, ‘though I’m bound to observe that you seem to have gone out of your way to make my acquaintance.’

‘I came on private business, Sir Willard. Given its nature, you might wish to discuss it somewhere other than in your hall.’

‘To what does it relate?’

‘Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Perhaps we’d better step in here,’ said the other, smoothly, taking Christopher into the drawing room before closing the door firmly behind them. ‘You know Araminta?’

‘I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her.’

‘Then you must be as enthralled as the rest of us.’

‘She’s a very beautiful lady, Sir Willard.’

‘Araminta is quite incomparable. But you do not need to be told that. We all worship her. Your brother has been sending poems to her for months.’

Christopher stared. ‘Henry has no talent for poetry.’

‘That might explain why he met with such a cold response. He once showed me a sonnet he penned in praise of her,’ said Sir Willard with a laugh. ‘It beggared description. Shakespeare has no rival in the Navy Office, I do assure you.’ He met Christopher’s gaze. ‘Now, then, what exactly has brought you to my door?’

‘The theft of Lady Culthorpe’s portrait.’

Sir Willard’s eyes narrowed. ‘The theft?’

‘It was stolen some time during last night.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Monsieur Villemot’s valet sought me out to tell me,’ explained Christopher. ‘Since his master is at present in Newgate, it fell to Emile to guard his property. The loss of the portrait has struck him like a thunderbolt.’

‘Why did the valet turn to you, Mr Redmayne?’

‘I’ve designed a house for Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Of course,’ said Sir Willard. ‘I should have remembered that. What a pity the house will never be built!’

‘I’m confident that it will.’

‘Even though its owner will soon be dangling from the gallows?’

‘I don’t accept that he committed the murder,’ said Christopher, resolutely, ‘and I’ll strain every nerve to prove his innocence.’

Sir Willard grinned. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was much mistaken in you. There is a resemblance to your brother, after all. You have Henry’s boldness, his wild-eyed passion and his readiness to pursue a lost cause.’

‘Trying to rescue Monsieur Villemot is not a lost cause.’

‘The man is patently guilty.’

‘Not in my eyes, Sir Willard.’

‘Then perhaps it’s time to buy some spectacles.’

‘I’ve been in this position before,’ said Christopher, ‘and on that occasion I also saved someone who had been judged guilty before he was even brought to trial. His name was Henry Redmayne. I’m sure that he’s told you the story of how he evaded the noose.’

‘Many times,’ replied Sir Willard, ‘though he’s never mentioned your name in his account. He prefers to claim all the credit for himself, but that’s ever his way.’

He gave a dismissive gesture with his hand that Christopher recognised as belonging to his brother, and there were other indications — a shrug, a nod, a facial expression — that Sir Willard had picked up some of Henry’s characteristic actions. What Christopher could not believe was that, even by candlelight, Sir Willard could be mistaken for Henry. He was of similar height and build but his age, fair complexion and handsome features set him clearly apart.

‘I’m sad to hear that Araminta’s portrait has gone astray,’ said Sir Willard, ‘and I’m grateful that you rode all this way to tell me.’

‘I’m not here merely to impart news.’

‘No?’

‘I came in search of your help,’ said Christopher. ‘I wondered if you could suggest the name of anyone who would covet that portrait enough to steal it.’

Sir Willard laughed again. ‘That’s a very naive question,’ he pointed out. ‘I can suggest the names of at least a hundred men who would yearn for that painting. I’m one of them and, since you saw Araminta in the flesh, your name could probably be added to that list.’

‘Very few people even knew that the portrait was in hand.’

‘Then that cuts down the number appreciably.’

‘Does anyone come to mind, Sir Willard?’

‘Yes,’ said the other.

‘I’ve already taxed Henry with regard to the matter.’

‘It’s just the sort of madcap thing he’d do. Jocelyn Kidbrooke is another potential art thief, and you’d have to bring Elkannah Prout into the reckoning.’

‘I’d discount him,’ said Christopher.

‘Why?’

‘As it happens, I met Mr Prout earlier today at my brother’s house. He did not strike me as the kind of man who would lower himself to such an act.’

‘Nevertheless, he was a member of the Society.’

‘Society?’

‘I’ll leave your brother to divulge any details of it,’ said Sir Willard, discreetly, ‘if he so decides, that is. By the way, what made you tax Henry with the crime?’

‘Someone called at the studio the previous evening,’ said Christopher. ‘My guess is that he watched the house until the valet left — Emile told me that he went out for a time — then he tricked the maid into letting him in so that he could see the premises from the inside. He also took the opportunity to have a sly look at Lady Culthorpe’s portrait.’

‘Did the maid give you a description of the man?’

‘It was her description that sent me haring off to Bedford Street.’

‘Then your brother must be the thief.’ He snapped his fingers in a way that was reminiscent of Henry yet again. ‘The crime is solved. Have him arrested and repossess the painting.’

‘He does not have it, Sir Willard.’

‘Then a confederate is hiding it for him.’

‘No,’ said Christopher, ‘there are rare moments in his life when Henry actually tells the truth — or, at least, enough of it to give the semblance of truth. He did not steal that portrait. Of that I have not the slightest doubt.’

‘He could still have visited the house yesterday.’

‘I mean to look into that more closely.’

‘Take the maid to Bedford Street to identify your brother.’

‘I’ve thought of an easier way than that,’ said Christopher. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already. You’ve already answered the question I was bound to ask.’

‘You thought that I might have been the thief, didn’t you?’

‘It did cross my mind.’

‘Well, don’t let it do so again,’ said Sir Willard, testily. ‘Much as I’d love to own that portrait, I have a distinct handicap — there’s nowhere that I could safely keep it. I could hardly suggest to my wife that I hang it in the library to encourage me to read more.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘Stay away from my house in future, Mr Redmayne.’

‘I’ll gladly do so unless I have cause to return.’

‘There is no cause. Now continue on your way and catch him. Catch the villain who stole Araminta from that studio and send him off to prison where he belongs.’

‘Henry is no culprit, nor is Mr Prout. I absolve both of them.’

‘Then turn your gaze elsewhere.’

‘To whom?’

‘The most obvious suspect, man — Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

* * *

Jonathan Bale was spared the prospect of a long walk across London. Thanks to information passed on by Christopher from his brother, the constable knew where to find Jocelyn Kidbrooke at a certain time of the day. He would be in his habitual coffee house. It was not a place that Bale entered willingly. In his view, coffee houses were either gambling dens or places where idle, over-dressed, wealthy individuals met to drink coffee, smoke, talk, argue, discuss political matters or boast of their latest conquests. He was alarmed by the spread of these exclusively male institutions. The first coffee house had been opened in Holborn in 1650. Now, some twenty years later, there were well over a hundred of them in the capital. Bale regretted the fact.

He got there early and lurked in the anteroom so that he could intercept Kidbrooke on his arrival. Finding his way blocked, the newcomer was resentful.

‘Out of my way, fellow,’ he ordered.

‘Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Jonathan Bale and I crave a few words with you.’

‘I’ve no time for chatter, Mr Bale,’ said Kidbrooke, trying to brush past him. He felt a strong hand on his arm. ‘Let me go, damn you!’

‘Not until you agree to talk to me, sir.’

‘We’ve nothing to say to each other.’

‘It concerns Lady Culthorpe.’

Kidbrooke’s resistance weakened. Through the open door of the coffee house, he could see his friends and hear their merry banter as they sat around the large common table at the heart of the room. Eager to join them, he was held back by curiosity.

‘You have news of Araminta?’ he asked.

‘I have sad tidings of her portrait,’ said Bale, releasing him. ‘It was stolen last night from the artist’s studio.’

Kidbrooke was impassive. ‘Really?’

‘You do not seem surprised.’

‘Very little surprises me, Mr Bale.’

‘Did you expect the portrait to be taken?’

‘It was the only means of acquiring it,’ said Kidbrooke, flatly. ‘I tried to buy it but my generous offer was turned down.’

‘Why did you want to buy a painting that was unfinished?’

‘I can see that you have never laid eyes on Araminta.’

‘True,’ said Bale.

‘Then you’ve missed one of the wonders of the world.’

‘I’m a married man, sir.’

‘For a smile from Araminta, you’d divorce your wife.’

‘Is that how you feel about the lady, sir?’

‘My feelings are my business.’

‘Did you steal her portrait?’

‘No,’ said Kidbrooke, reacting angrily to the bluntness of the question. ‘How dare you have the audacity even to ask that!’

‘You admit that you wanted it.’

‘That does not mean I was ready to steal it.’

‘May I ask where you were when the crime was committed?’

‘You may ask, Mr Bale, but I’ve no intention of telling you. I came here to commune with friends, not to be accused of a crime.’

‘Where would you have kept it, sir?’

‘What?’

‘The portrait,’ said Bale. ‘If you’d been able to buy it, where would you have hidden it? Your wife would hardly approve. Do you have such little care of Mrs Kidbrooke that you’d smuggle a painting of a beautiful woman into your house?’

Kidbrooke was infuriated. ‘I’ll not be censored by you!’

‘You face a higher critic than me, sir.’ Bale looked upwards. ‘You entered holy matrimony in His sight. Does that mean nothing to you?’

‘My private life does not concern you.’

‘It does when a crime is committed.’

‘But I was not the thief, you insolent dog!’

‘You might have hired one to do the business for you.’

‘That’s a slanderous suggestion!’

‘I have to look at every possibility, sir.’

‘Then look elsewhere,’ snarled Kidbrooke, ‘and let me go to enjoy some civilised company in place of this brash interrogation.’ When he tried to move, Bale’s hand held him fast again. ‘Unhand me, sir!’

‘We are not done yet, Mr Kidbrooke,’ said Bale, steadfastly. ‘I have something important to put to you. The thief will surely know how many people would like to own that portrait.’

‘So?’

‘Supposing that he offered to sell it to you?’

‘You’re hurting my arm.’

Bale let him go. ‘Would you buy it from him?’ he pressed. ‘Knowing that you’d be receiving stolen goods, would you pay to have that painting of Lady Culthorpe?’

Jocelyn Kidbrooke was silent but a shifty look had come into his eyes. It was time to go. Bale had his answer.

Christopher Redmayne rode back to his house in Fetter Lane where he expected to meet with Jonathan Bale so they could trade information about their respective visits. But it was not his friend who had called to see the architect. Jacob passed on the news.

‘A young lady is waiting for you, Mr Redmayne,’ he said.

‘Did she give her name?’

‘She refused to do so, sir.’

‘What does she want?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jacob, ‘but she insisted on seeing you. The young lady is in the drawing room. She’s very pretty.’

There was the faintest touch of reproach in his voice. Knowing how close his master was to Susan Cheever, the old man felt it improper for him to be entertaining another young lady in her absence. Christopher quashed his suspicions at once.

‘She is not here by invitation, Jacob, I promise you.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Walking past the servant, he opened the door to the drawing room and went in. The young woman leapt to her feet at once. Though extremely pretty, she was also tense and uncertain.

‘Mr Redmayne?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Christopher Redmayne?’

‘The very same,’ he said, appraising her. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘Eleanor Ryle, sir,’ she said. ‘I work for Lady Culthorpe.’

He was taken aback. ‘Lady Culthorpe sent you here?’

‘No, Mr Redmayne — I came of my own accord. She doesn’t even know that I’m here and she might be very cross with me if she did. I can’t stay, sir. I have to be back in case Lady Culthorpe needs me, but I felt that I had to come.’ Having gabbled the words, she paused for breath. ‘I hope I’ve done the right thing.’

‘At least, sit down while you’re here, Miss Ryle,’ he offered. When she resumed her seat, he took the chair opposite her. ‘Why exactly did you want to see me?’

‘It was because of your letter, sir — the one you wrote to Lady Culthorpe. She found it very moving. I took the trouble to read it myself and that was how I got your address.’ She chewed her lip. ‘I was touched by what you wrote. I felt you were a person I could trust. That’s not true of some of the men who sent letters of condolence.’

‘Are you referring to my brother?’

‘Lady Culthorpe would not even read the verses he sent.’

‘From what I hear, he’s been harassing her for some time with his foolish attempts at poetry. I’ll speak to him about it,’ promised Christopher. ‘So you came here solely on the strength of my letter?’

‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘It was what Lady Lingoe wrote about you.’

‘Oh — what was that?’

‘She sent her condolences to Lady Culthorpe but she also claimed that Mr Villemot did not commit the murder. She knows the gentleman well and swears he is innocent. Lady Lingoe mentioned you in her letter. She said that you agreed with her and were determined to clear his name.’

‘That’s true, Miss Ryle.’

‘Then I’d like to help.’

‘I’d be grateful for any assistance.’

‘I’m doing it for Lady Culthorpe’s sake,’ said Eleanor, playing nervously with the edge of her cloak. ‘I can’t bear to see her suffering so much. She’s in agony, Mr Redmayne, even though she tries to hide it. If it goes on like this, it will make her ill. Imagine what it must have been like for her to find Sir Martin the way she did.’

‘It must have been excruciating,’ said Christopher. ‘And while she was tottering from that blow, she was hit by another. The man arrested for the murder is none other than the artist who’s been painting her portrait.’

‘That really hurt her.’

‘Understandably.’

‘In her heart,’ said Eleanor, ‘I know that Lady Culthorpe doesn’t believe he could do such a thing, but the evidence is against him.’

‘At the moment,’ he said. ‘That could well change.’

‘Nothing could bring Sir Martin back, sir, but it would make his death so much easier to bear if Mr Villemot was not the killer. My mistress liked him. Whenever she got back from a sitting, she told me how thoughtful and caring he was.’

‘That’s exactly how I found him, Miss Ryle.’

‘Why would he do something that would cause her so much pain and misery? That’s what puzzles me. It set my mind thinking.’

‘I’m glad that it did.’

‘I came to tell you what I know, Mr Redmayne. I spend each and every day with Lady Culthorpe. Because I hate to see her like this, I’ve picked up every scrap of information I can about the crime. Ask me anything you want.’

‘Monsieur Villemot was seen at the house by two witnesses,’ he recalled. ‘Do you happen to know who they were?’

‘One of them was Dirk, the coachman.’

‘How would he have recognised him?’

‘He drove Lady Culthorpe to the studio every day,’ she replied. ‘A couple of times, Sir Martin went with her but it was Dirk who looked after her from then on. Monsieur Villemot came to the front door to welcome her. The coachman would have got a close look at him.’

‘And he saw him again at Sir Martin’s house?’

‘Yes, Mr Redmayne, he did. The stable block is at the rear of the garden. After dropping Lady Culthorpe at the front door, he drove around to the back. Dirk swears that he saw Monsieur Villemot, sitting astride his horse.’

‘What about the second witness?’

‘That was Jamie, the stable lad,’ she said. ‘He was walking past the garden gate when Monsieur Villemot came out. He didn’t know him by sight, of course, but he described him so well that it simply has to be him.’

Christopher was alarmed. ‘Are you sure that Monsieur Villemot was in the garden?’

‘Jamie took his Bible oath.’

‘Was the garden gate open or shut?’

‘Wide open.’

‘And was Monsieur Villemot running when he came out?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Eleanor. ‘I only know what the butler told me. He says that Jamie is very trustworthy. He wouldn’t make up a story like that.’

Christopher was disturbed. The artist had admitted riding past the house at the crucial time but he had never mentioned that he actually went into the garden. That was damning evidence. It was ironic. Eleanor had come in the hope of helping to prove Villemot’s innocence but her information had so far only confirmed his probable guilt.

‘How many keys are there to the garden gate?’

‘That’s what the officers wanted to know.’

‘And?’

‘There are three, it seems. Sir Martin had one, so did the head gardener and the third was kept in the house.’

‘So how could Monsieur Villemot have got hold of one?’

‘I can’t say.’ Worried about the time, she stood up abruptly. ‘I’d better go, sir, or they’ll start to miss me.’ She paused. ‘But there is one last thing,’ she remembered. ‘I don’t think this is anything to do with what happened but I thought I ought to tell you.’

‘Go on,’ he said, getting up from his seat.

‘Sir Martin was very fond of his garden. He spent a lot of time there. A couple of weeks before he was killed, Sir Martin had an argument with one of the gardeners and dismissed him.’

‘Do you know what the argument was about?’

‘No, sir,’ she answered.

‘What was the man’s name?’

‘Abel Paskins.’

‘Thank you, Miss Ryle — that could turn out to be important.’

‘I must leave now — it’s a long walk.’

He was amazed. ‘You came all this way on foot?’

‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Well, you’ll certainly not have to walk back.’ He opened the door and called, ‘Jacob!’

The old man appeared from the kitchen. ‘Yes, Mr Redmayne?’

‘This is Miss Eleanor Ryle. She’s Lady Culthorpe’s maid and has taken great pains to provide me with valuable intelligence about the murder. I want her to ride back to Westminster.’

‘I’ll get Nigel to saddle the other horse.’

‘But I’ve never ridden before,’ she protested.

‘The lad will look after you, Miss,’ said Jacob. ‘All you have to do is to sit tight and let Nigel tug you along on a lead rein.’

Christopher smiled. ‘Would you rather walk all the way back?’

‘No, sir,’ she said.

‘Then it’s settled. Jacob will arrange everything.’

Catching his master’s eye, the servant shot him a look of apology before going out. He regretted making a false assumption about him. Christopher kept thinking about the gardener.

‘This man who was dismissed — Abel Paskins…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I suppose you have no idea where he went?’

‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ said Eleanor, helpfully. ‘I asked Mr Rushton — he’s the butler. Mr Rushton likes to keep a close watch on everyone who’s employed at the house.’

From the way that she pronounced the butler’s name, Christopher had the impression that he was rather more to her than a colleague on the domestic staff. Eleanor’s fondness for the man was apparent. Everything she told Christopher had come from the butler.

‘So where is Abel Paskins?’ he asked.

‘He’s working for a Mr Foxwell in Chelsea.’

‘Mr Foxwell?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mr Cuthbert Foxwell.’

It was the second time within an hour that Jocelyn Kidbrooke had been deprived of pleasure at the coffee house and he was embittered. Instead of being able to sit at the common table and revel with the others, he was taken aside by Elkannah Prout.

‘We must agree to a pact, Jocelyn,’ said his friend.

‘The only pact I favour is one which commits all of us to entering a coffee house for the sole purpose of enjoyment.’

‘I appeal to your conscience.’

‘When I come in here,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘I leave it at the door.’

‘So do the rest of us but this is a special case.’

‘Do as you wish, Elkannah. That’s your privilege. But you have no right to force the rest of us to imitate your folly.’

‘It’s not folly,’ retorted Prout. ‘It’s an act of clemency. I’ve persuaded Henry to agree to the pact. I’d hoped you’d join us.’

‘Confound your pact! Have a cup of coffee with the rest of us, man, and forget about serious matters. Wear a smile again — you were always wont to do so.’

‘How can one smile at a funeral, Jocelyn?’

‘How can one be miserable in a coffee house?’

Prout relaxed slightly and even managed a ghost of a smile. He had chosen the wrong place to broach such a solemn subject but he did not give up. After gritting his teeth, he tried once more.

‘It’s a simple request, Jocelyn,’ he said. ‘In two days’ time, Sir Martin Culthorpe is to be buried. Will you consent to stay away from the funeral?’

‘No, Elkannah.’

‘You have no place there and neither do the rest of us.’

‘I neither consent to stay away nor to go,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘I’ll make the decision on the day itself and not have it made for me. If you and Henry shy away like frightened horses, that’s your affair.’

‘Sir Willard will also see sense in the pact.’

‘Then let him accept it. I’ll have no rival at the graveside.’

‘It would be a cruelty to Araminta to go.’

‘How else can I get close to her?’

‘You would not be wanted.’

‘Stop browbeating me,’ complained Kidbrooke. ‘You’re the second person to snap at my heels about Araminta and I’ll not endure it. First, I am accused of stealing that portrait of her and now you try to force me to sign a pact. I’ll have none of it.’

Prout was interested. ‘What’s this about the portrait?’

‘An oafish constable named Bale stopped me at the door and had the effrontery to ask me if I was a thief.’

‘According to Henry, you did offer to buy it.’

‘I would have thought that was proof of my good intentions,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘Why offer money for something if I intended to take it by stealth?’

‘Was the constable persuaded?’

‘I don’t think he had brain enough to comprehend logic. When such men are in charge of law and order, how can we wonder that London is awash with crime?’

‘Who did steal that portrait of Araminta?’

‘I wish I knew, Elkannah. Were you the thief in the night?’

‘No,’ replied the other, indignantly. ‘I told you — I’ve withdrawn from the Society so I am no longer at the mercy of the same imperatives.’

‘Are you saying that you’ve lost interest in Araminta?’

‘No man who has seen her could do that. I just respect her right to mourn her husband without being bothered by any of us.’

‘Would you like to own that portrait?’

‘That’s neither here nor there.’

‘You’re prevaricating,’ said Kidbrooke, digging his ribs with a finger. ‘Be honest, man. Did you or did you not covet it?’

‘I did,’ conceded Prout.

‘There you are — you’re as bad as the rest of us.’

‘No, Jocelyn, I’m not. I wanted it but knew that I could never have it. The portrait belongs to Araminta and it would be an act of cruelty to take it away from her.’

‘Who would do such a thing — Henry?’

‘He vehemently denies the charge.’

‘Sir Willard?’

‘I’d not put it past him.’

‘A few days ago, I’d not have put it past Elkannah Prout. You were always in the forefront of the chase. But now,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘you’ve lost your nerve.’

‘I’ve lost nothing. What I did was to gain a moral sense.’

‘Has it robbed you of your love of coffee?’

‘No,’ said Prout, inhaling the aroma with a smile. ‘I’ll join you in a cup or two this minute. As for our pact…’

‘Your pact, Elkannah,’ said the other, slipping a companionable arm around his shoulders. ‘It has no power to restrain me. Stay away from the funeral, if you wish. I answer to my own desires.’

* * *

When Jonathan Bale arrived at the house, Christopher took him into the study and first listened to his report before giving one of his own. They agreed that neither Sir Willard Grail nor Jocelyn Kidbrooke had stolen the portrait, but that both would be likely to pay handsomely for it were the painting to be offered to them. Bale grew quite excited when he heard about the visit of Eleanor Ryle. It was an unexpected bonus to get such valuable information from someone inside the Culthorpe household. He was shaken by the revelation that Villemot had been seen leaving the garden around the time when the crime was committed, but he rallied when he heard about Abel Paskins.

‘We must find him, sir,’ said Bale.

‘That’s my office, Jonathan. I’ll save your legs by riding there. Not that I have a horse at present,’ he added, ‘but I will before too long.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers from the table. ‘Take a look at these sketches and tell me who the subject is.’

‘An easy question, sir,’ said Bale, glancing at them. ‘It’s your brother, Henry.’

‘You recognise him?’

‘Clearly.’

‘Then let’s see if someone else does as well,’ said Christopher, looking over his friend’s shoulder at the sketches. ‘I can conjure buildings out of the air and create a wonderful garden with deft strokes of my pencil, but I’m no Jean-Paul Villemot. He can distil the essence of a person. I can only capture a faint likeness.’

‘It’s more than a likeness, Mr Redmayne.’

‘I hope that’s enough.’

‘When did you do the drawings?’ asked Bale, handing them back so that Christopher could slip them into a portfolio. ‘And what did your brother think of them?’

‘I did them a year ago at Henry’s request. He picked out the best one to send to a lady with whom he’d become acquainted. My brother blamed me when it was returned in tiny pieces.’ He moved to the door. ‘Come, Jonathan — you are about to meet Matilda.’

‘Is she the lady who tore up the sketch?’

‘No, she’s the maid at Monsieur Villemot’s lodging.’

They set out together and maintained a good pace until they reached Covent Garden. When they got to the house, Emile saw them from the upstairs window and came down to open the door.

‘You bring good news?’ he asked, hopefully.

‘Not yet,’ said Christopher, ‘but we soon will.’

‘I see my master in the prison. Is terrible place.’

‘It’s intended to be,’ said Bale.

‘He ask me to tell Lady Lingoe where he was. She will help.’

‘So will we, Emile,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re here to speak to Matilda but there’s something I must ask you first.’

‘What is it?’

‘You told me that you went out for a walk yesterday evening. Someone must have seen you because that’s when he persuaded the maid to let him into the studio. How long were you away?’

Emile shrugged. ‘An hour?’

‘You walked for an hour in the dark?’ said Bale. ‘I should take more care, sir. It’s not safe to be on the streets at that time. London is a dangerous city.’

‘We learn that, my master and me.’

‘May we come inside?’ requested Christopher.

Emile stood back to let them into the passageway. ‘I fetch Matilda for you,’ he said.

He walked a few yards and tapped on a door. The maid’s head soon emerged. At the sight of the strapping constable, she drew back slightly. Christopher beckoned to her.

‘Could we have a moment of your time, Matilda?’ He held up the portfolio. ‘I want you to look at something.’

‘If you wish, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, coming towards him.

‘Do you remember that gentleman who called yesterday?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Did he look anything like this?’

He took out the sketches and handed them over. Matilda was a short, fat, young woman who was worried by the thought that she had mistakenly allowed the stranger to enter the house. At the time, he had seemed so friendly and plausible. She was less sure about him now. As she peered at the drawings with great concentration, Emile stood beside her. He was not impressed.

‘These are not by the good artist,’ he said.

Christopher smiled. ‘I’m the first to admit that.’

‘Oh!’ cried Emile in embarrassment, ‘I did not know that they are yours, Mr Redmayne. I am sorry.’

‘You made an honest judgement. Stand by it.’ He turned to Matilda, who was gazing hard at one sketch. ‘Was that the man?’

‘I think so.’

‘Close to my height and a few years older?’

‘He kept moving his hands.’

‘Like this?’ said Christopher, gesticulating in a manner typical of his brother. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Look at all the sketches — be certain.’

‘I am certain,’ she said, holding two of the sketches side by side. ‘This is the man who called here yesterday.’

‘Thank you, Matilda.’

‘You know this man?’ asked Emile.

‘Yes,’ replied Christopher, putting the drawings back into the portfolio. ‘Unfortunately, I know him only too well.’

Since she was no horsewoman, the ride back to Westminster was both frightening and uncomfortable for Eleanor Ryle but it got her there much quicker than her own feet could have done so. Nigel, the fresh-faced young servant who had accompanied her, helped her down from the saddle. She thanked him profusely before running to the house. In her estimation, she had been away for the best part of two hours and feared that her mistress might have called for her in the interim.

Admitted through the side door by one of the kitchen maids, she scampered up the backstairs and along the corridor to Lady Culthorpe’s bedchamber. Eleanor was relieved to see that the door was firmly shut. Leaning against the wall opposite, she tried to catch her breath. She did not regret what she had done. Like her mistress, she had lingering doubts about Jean-Paul Villemot’s guilt and she felt a frisson of pleasure when she recalled the artist’s suggestion that she should wear the exquisite blue dress at a sitting in place of Lady Culthorpe. He had noticed her. During the few seconds they had met, Villemot had observed that her figure and deportment were similar to those of her mistress. That simple act of recognition meant so much to Eleanor. It made her want him to be innocent of the crime.

The door of the bedchamber suddenly opened and Araminta stood before her. With a squeal of surprise, Eleanor stood away from the wall and gave an obedient smile.

‘I hope you haven’t been waiting there all this time,’ said Araminta with concern.

‘No, m’lady.’

‘What have you been doing?’

‘I went for a little walk,’ said the maid. ‘We’ve been trapped in the house so long that I felt the need of some fresh air.’

‘An excellent idea — there’s no need to entomb ourselves here.’

‘Did you get any sleep, m’lady?’

‘Yes, I did, for an hour or so.’

‘Oh, I’m so pleased.’

‘It’s left me feeling drowsier than ever.’

‘Perhaps you should go back to bed.’

‘No,’ said Araminta, ‘I feel the need to stretch my legs. Fresh air will do me good. Let’s take a turn around the garden.’

‘The garden?’

‘Yes, Eleanor.’

‘Are you sure that you’re ready for that, m’lady?’ said the other, thinking about Lady Culthorpe’s last venture into the garden. ‘I don’t want you to upset yourself.’

‘I need to go,’ decided Araminta. ‘A dreadful event may have taken place there but I’ll not bar myself on that account. My husband adored his garden and he’d want me to enjoy it to the full. In any case, I have another reason for wanting to see it.’

‘What was that, m’lady?’

‘It was where Sir Martin proposed to me,’ confided the other, a distant smile touching her face. ‘So it will always be a very special place to me. Come, Eleanor. The garden will revive happier memories.’

‘As long as it does not trouble you in any way.’

‘We will soon find out,’ said Araminta.

The ritual of dressing to go out was a long and laborious one for Henry Redmayne. Every detail had to be right, every colour had to match, every article of clothing had to blend into a dazzling whole. After a final ten minutes spent on choosing the best hat, he was ready to depart but, when he opened the front door, his brother was bearing down on the house with Jonathan Bale beside him. Henry shivered with apprehension. Recovering quickly, he sought a means of escape.

‘I’m sorry, Christopher,’ he said, holding up a hand. ‘I can see that you’ve come on urgent business. Whatever it is, it will have to wait until the morrow. I have an appointment with His Majesty at the palace and he must not be kept waiting.’

Christopher was direct. ‘I don’t think the King would be pleased to know that he was consorting with a thief.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That portrait.’

‘I did not steal it,’ said Henry. ‘I’d swear on the biggest Bible in Christendom. I’d even do so before our esteemed father and there’s no more solemn oath than that. Now, let me get on my way.’

‘No, sir,’ said Bale, obstructing him.

‘You’ve no right to stop me.’

‘And you’ve no right to tell us lies, Mr Redmayne. I am not as close to King Charles as you but I do hear gossip about him from time to time, and I am certain that he’s not even in London.’

‘That’s true,’ said Christopher. ‘I read it in the newspaper. His Majesty is visiting Oxford. No more flimsy excuses, Henry. Invite us in so that we may settle this matter.’

‘It already is settled — I’m not a thief.’

‘We are talking about the visit you paid to the house yesterday.’

‘That wasn’t me, Christopher.’

‘The maid believes that it was,’

Henry was incensed. ‘Do you accept the word of an ignorant slattern over mine?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, tapping the portfolio. ‘We showed Matilda those sketches I did of you. She recognised you.’

‘And she is no ignorant slattern, sir,’ said Bale. ‘The girl has good eyesight. Even by the light of a candle, you are very distinctive.’

‘If you still persist in denying it, Henry, there’s an easy solution. Now that you no longer have to rush off to the palace, you can step along to Monsieur Villemot’s lodging with us and let Matilda take a proper look at you.’ Christopher held out an arm. ‘Shall we do that?’

Henry Redmayne was like a trapped animal. Caught at the threshold, he could not get free. What made his discomfort more intense was that Bale was there to enjoy it. They had met before in the course of Henry’s previous indiscretions and the constable had always seized the chance to deliver a lecture at him on morality. Henry could not bear that. He looked for a compromise.

‘Very well,’ he said with a grandiloquent gesture, ‘perhaps my curiosity did get the better of me. There’s no harm in that.’

‘You entered that house under false pretences,’ said Bale.

‘I’m prepared to discuss this misunderstanding with my brother, Mr Bale, but not if you are party to the conversation. Your presence would inhibit me. This is an occasion for filial confidences.’

Bale looked at Christopher and they had a silent discussion. At length, and with reluctance, Bale agreed to withdraw, touching the brim of his hat in farewell. Henry took his brother into the house and guided him into the drawing room. Sweeping off his hat, he conjured up an expression of remorse.

‘I did visit the house,’ he confessed, ‘and it was wrong of me to do so. But I was desperate to see that portrait of Araminta and it seemed like the only way.’

‘Short of stealing it, that is,’ said Christopher.

‘I did not take the portrait and there’s an end to it.’

‘Far from it, Henry — I fancy we are just at the beginning. I spoke to Sir Willard Grail earlier and he mentioned an association to which you and he belong. What exactly is it?’

‘Harmless fun among friends,’ said Henry, airily.

‘I don’t think that wheedling your way into someone else’s property can be classed as harmless fun. Matilda has been blaming herself for letting you in ever since. I could see it in her face,’ said Christopher. ‘But for her, that portrait would not have been stolen.’

‘I told you — I had nothing to do with the theft.’

‘We’ll come back to that. First, tell me about this society.’

‘It was Elkannah’s notion,’ said Henry, trying to shift responsibility on to someone else. ‘I was against it from the start but the others cajoled me into it, and I was as entranced by Araminta as any of them. Under pressure from the others, I joined the group.’

‘And what was its purpose?’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Come along, Henry. I know that it pertained to Lady Culthorpe so you might as well be honest about it. What was its name?’

‘The Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood.’

Christopher was shocked. ‘That’s disgraceful!’

‘It was only meant in jest.’

‘Well, the jest has so far led to the murder of her husband and the theft of her portrait. What other amusement is your iniquitous society going to offer?’

‘Do not be so harsh on me, Christopher.’

‘A round of applause seems inappropriate.’

‘I expect you to appreciate your brother’s position.’

‘Allying yourself with your companions in corruption in a bid to deflower an innocent young woman!’ said Christopher. ‘That’s your position. I’m not surprised that you or Sir Willard were drawn into this hideous scheme, but I expected more of Mr Prout. He struck me as a man with some sense of honour.’

‘Yet he proposed that we set up the Society in the first place.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Elkannah even drew up the articles of association and nominated the amount of money that was to be involved.’

‘Money?’ Christopher’s voice was rich with disgust. ‘There was money at stake here? What sort of degenerates are you that you should gamble on the loss of a lady’s virtue?’

‘It was not like that, Christopher.’

‘What other construction can I put upon it?’

‘Think about Susan Cheever.’

‘Don’t you dare mention Susan’s name in this context,’ said Christopher, pulsing with fury as he grabbed his brother by the shoulders to shake him hard. ‘Keep her out of it.’

In the interests of safety, Henry stepped back out of his brother’s reach, smoothing the wrinkles in his coat and adjusting the wig that had been shaken down over one eye. Seeing how irate his brother was, he measured his words.

‘You have just proved my point, Christopher,’ he said.

‘What point?’

‘Love is a ruthless emotion. When once it gets hold of us, we are driven to extremes by violent passion. I only had to mention your beloved and you flew at me.’

‘You deserved it, Henry.’

‘I also deserve a fair hearing. The Society was conceived during a drinking bout in a tavern, and I subscribed too hastily to its rules. As soon as I began to court Araminta Jewell, as she then was, I shed my lustful feelings and became instead madly in love.’

‘But still in pursuit of that purse.’

‘It was a foolish game, played out among friends.’

‘Four confirmed rakes, stalking their prey.’

‘Not in my case,’ argued Henry. ‘I felt about Araminta as you feel about Susan.’ He jumped back smartly as Christopher threatened him with a bunched fist. ‘As you wish,’ he added, quickly. ‘If the comparison offends you, I’ll keep her name out of it. I simply ask you to admit one thing. Is it not true that someone in the grip of passion will do anything to secure the favours of his inamorata?’

‘No, Henry, respect and gentlemanly restraint hold him back.’

‘Well, it was not so with me. I was desperate to see that portrait of Araminta. The thought that it was only a few streets away burned into my brain like a hot iron.’

‘So you decided to steal it.’

‘I only wanted to look at it.’

‘So that you’d be able to find it in the dark later that night.’

‘The thought never occurred to me.’

‘Be honest,’ said Christopher, advancing on him. ‘You cannot hide behind the excuse of blind passion then claim you were able to control it. If it took you as far as the house, it would have made you want to possess that portrait.’ Henry began to jabber. ‘Give me a straight answer, man. This is important. Lady Culthorpe has lost a husband. Why did you set out to increase her misery by taking that portrait of her from the studio?’

‘That was not my intention,’ said Henry.

‘Then what was it?’ Christopher grabbed him again. ‘We are trying to solve a murder and vindicate an innocent man. That portrait holds great significance so I need to know what happened to it. Now, will you tell me or do I have to beat the truth of you?’

‘You’re crumpling my new coat!’ protested Henry.

‘If you don’t tell me what happened, I’ll tear everything in your wardrobe to shreds. Now, speak. For the sake of Lady Culthorpe, I must recover that portrait. Where, in God’s name, is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re lying again.’

‘I don’t know,’ repeated Henry. ‘It was not there.’

Christopher released him. ‘So you did go back at night?’

‘Yes — but only to look at it.’

‘In the dark?’

‘I’d lit a candle. I was a true votary. I had an overpowering desire to worship at her altar. That was all. I wanted to gaze lovingly upon Araminta’s beauty.’

‘Then bring it back here as a trophy. Is this what it’s come to, Henry?’ asked his brother with revulsion. ‘A man is brutally killed and the only way you try to console the widow you profess to love is to break into a house and steal her portrait.’

‘It was not there, Christopher,’ said the other, meekly. ‘Araminta has disappeared. When I saw it earlier, the portrait was standing on the easel beside the window.’

‘And that’s exactly where I caught a glimpse of it.’

‘It had been replaced.’

‘By what?’

‘I blush to tell you.’

‘By what, Henry?’

‘A portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe.’