The Painted Lady

Chapter Eight

Henry Redmayne collapsed into a chair. He cut a sorry figure. Dressed in his finery for an evening with friends, he was now totally deflated. His body drooped and his shoulders sagged. With his long, thin, sad face hollowed by despair and framed by his wig, he looked like a giant spaniel bemoaning the death of its master. Notwithstanding his rage, Christopher felt some sympathy for him. He had bullied the truth out of his brother and left him in disarray.

‘Are you sure that Lady Culthorpe’s portrait was not there?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled Henry.

‘It could have been somewhere else in the studio.’

‘I searched, Christopher. I looked at every painting in the room and there was no sign of Araminta. Someone had got there before me. I only came to gaze in wonder. The rogue went there to steal.’

‘So did you,’ said Christopher. ‘You swore to me that you’d have that portrait as your own by whatever means were necessary.’

‘I did,’ admitted Henry, ‘and, at the time, I meant it. When I set out from here last night, I planned to spirit it away and hang it in my bedchamber. But when I got there, Christopher, when I entered the studio where Araminta had sat, when I thought how deeply wounded she would be by the disappearance of her portrait, I realised that I could simply not take it. I was overwhelmed with remorse.’

‘Ha! That must have been a novel sensation for you.’

‘Laugh at me, if you must. I deserve it. I know that my erratic way of life invites your sarcasm. But something good happened to me in that studio, something that surprised me as much as it would have surprised our dear father. I discovered that I had a conscience.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t make the startling discovery earlier,’ said Christopher. ‘It would have stopped you committing the crime.’

‘I’m not a thief. I lack the nerve and ruthlessness.’

‘You had enough of both to break into someone else’s property. You were trespassing, Henry. That, too, is against the law. The wonder is that you got in and out without being seen by anyone.’

‘I must thank the maid for that.’

‘Matilda?’ gasped Christopher. ‘She was your accomplice?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘without even realising it. If you’ve met her, you know what a plump, unlovely, slow-witted creature she is. Matilda had never before had a gentleman heap praise upon her.’

‘So you took advantage of her.’

‘All I had to do was to pay her a few pretty compliments and she surrendered to my charm. When she explained that the family she served were away from the house, I told her to leave a window open for me so that I could visit her at night.’

‘That was cruel, Henry.’

‘I made no promises. I only said that I would try to call on her.’

‘Without ever intending to do so.’

‘Do you blame me?’ said Henry, pompously. ‘Where assignations are concerned, I have the highest standards. She met none of them.’

‘But she lay in bed all night awaiting you. That’s a brutal way to treat any woman,’ Christopher admonished. ‘No wonder Matilda looked so crestfallen when I saw her earlier. You not only raised false hopes in her breast, you made her an unwitting accessory to a crime.’

‘I had to get into the house somehow.’

‘Yes — by cunning and duplicity.’

‘It was no more than a means to an end.’

‘A reprehensible means to an ignoble end. Really, Henry,’ said the other with consternation. ‘Each new revelation makes me wonder what kind of monster I have as a brother. Do you have no moral sense at all? The only honest course of action for me is to have you placed under arrest.’

‘On what charge?’

‘I can think of three or four at least.’

‘I did not break into that house — the window was left open for me. And I stole nothing from that studio. I could not have done so. I felt the sharp prick of my conscience.’

‘I rejoice to hear that you have one,’ said Christopher. ‘Until now you’ve been governed by a sharp prick of another kind — the one you dangled in front of that gullible maid by way of enticement. I’ve heard enough,’ he added, moving to the door. ‘Tell the rest of the revolting story to a magistrate.’

‘No!’ yelled Henry, jumping to his feet and rushing to stop his brother. ‘Don’t do that, I beg you. I acknowledge that I did wrong and I’ve been haunted by guilt ever since. I want to repair my fault. Teach me how I can make amends.’

‘A ten-year penance would not be enough.’

‘I implore you, Christopher. Hold off out of brotherly love. Do you really want to see me branded as a criminal?’

‘That’s what you are, Henry.’

‘Could you write the letter that would tell our father so? Think how much sorrow it would bring him. The old gentlemen would be distraught. Spare him that agony.’

It was a telling argument and it made Christopher pause. Unlike his brother, he kept up a regular correspondence with their father and he spent much of his letters trying to present any news about Henry in a favourable light. He did not want the venerable dean of Gloucester Cathedral to know just how wayward and unchristian an existence his elder son led. To confront him with the full horror of what Henry had done would cause him immense pain.

‘Give me a chance,’ pleaded Henry. ‘I’ll do absolutely anything to make up for my misdemeanours.’

‘Anything?’

‘Nominate it and it shall be done.’

‘The first thing you must do is offer recompense to Matilda.’

Henry blanched. ‘Sleep with that plain-faced tub of flesh?’

‘No,’ said Christopher. ‘I’d not inflict that ordeal on any woman but an apology would not come amiss. And a gift of some sort might help to take away the bitter taste of your callous betrayal.’

‘Matilda shall have both with some honey-tongued flattery to make her feel like the Queen of the May.’

‘An apology and a gift will suffice.’

‘What else?’

‘Resolve to help Lady Culthorpe instead of hurting her. Send no more of your unwelcome poetry to her.’

‘But I slaved over those verses.’

‘To ill effect from what I hear,’ said Christopher. ‘Your poems offend her, Henry. She did not even read the last one you sent.’

‘I refuse to believe that.’

‘I had it from an impeccable source — her maid, Eleanor Ryle.’

Henry’s face ignited. ‘You know her maid?’

‘She came to see me.’

‘How is Araminta? Is she bearing up? Has she mentioned me?’

‘Only with distaste,’ said Christopher. ‘Everything you’ve done so far has incurred her displeasure. If you want to win her approval, there are two simple ways.’

‘Tell me what they are and I’ll do both instantly.’

‘The chief one is to leave her alone, Henry — no more letters, no more verses, no more communication from you of any kind.’

‘But I want to express my condolences.’

‘I’ve just told you the most effective way to do it. The second thing you must do is to assist me. If we can prove that Monsieur Villemot is innocent, we’ll remove a whole dimension of Lady Culthorpe’s grief.’

‘What if he’s guilty?’

‘Then he’ll pay the penalty for his crime. But I’m convinced that he was not the killer and I’m not alone in that belief. Lady Lingoe also has complete faith in his innocence.’

Henry laughed. ‘It’s the first time that Hester has been troubled by the concept of innocence,’ he said. ‘You should have seen the portrait for which she sat.’

‘I did see it, Henry. I thought it tastefully done.’

‘It was — I could taste her as soon as I looked at it.’

‘Even though you claim you’ve dedicated yourself elsewhere?’

‘Hester and Araminta cannot be mentioned in the same breath,’ said Henry, reprovingly. ‘One arouses carnal desire while the other attracts only the purest love.’

‘I don’t recall any mention of the purest love in the title of the infamous society of which you were a member.’ Henry was cowed. ‘But let’s not dwell on that. The person we must think of now is the one who’s wrongly imprisoned in Newgate. You know better than anyone how that feels. You were once wrongly accused of murder.’

‘It was a ghastly experience. The place is a common sewer.’

‘Then help to get Monsieur Villemot out of it.’

‘How?’

‘You are acquainted with more people than anyone else in London,’ said Christopher, ‘and those you’ve never met you somehow seem to know about.’

‘Only if they belong to the aristocracy or the gentry,’ said Henry with a lordly tilt of his chin. ‘I deal with the elite of society. I have no truck with the lower orders.’

‘Does the name of Foxwell mean anything to you?’

‘Partner it with another and it might. I could list half-a-dozen Foxwells and still not give you the fellow you want.’

‘This gentlemen is called Cuthbert Foxwell.’

‘Living in Chelsea?’

‘Yes, Henry — do you know him?’

‘Not in person but Sir Willard Grail knows him very well.’

‘Does he?’

‘He ought to — Cuthbert Foxwell is his brother-in-law.’

Sir Willard Grail sipped his wine and gave a smile of satisfaction. He was seated at a table in the corner of a tavern. Elkannah Prout was beside him. He tasted his own wine before returning to the argument.

‘You must join us in this pact,’ he said.

‘I’ll not be dictated to by anybody, Elkannah.’

‘Keep away from that funeral.’

‘I’d intended to until you tried to make it mandatory. My instinct now is to go. In a congregation of that size, I’d hardly be noticed.’

‘That’s not the point, Sir Willard.’

‘What is?’

‘You should stay away as a mark of respect.’

‘Araminta will not know if I’m there or not,’ said Sir Willard, ‘so she will be quite unaware of any supposed respect I’m showing.’

‘I didn’t expect you to be so obstinate,’ said Prout, irritably. ‘When I put the idea of a pact to him, Henry agreed to it immediately.’

‘What of Jocelyn?’

Prout scowled. ‘He was less forthcoming.’

‘I’ll wager that he dismissed the notion out of hand. Jocelyn Kidbrooke and I are cut from the same cloth. We are free agents. We do not like being told what to do.’

‘You both subscribed willingly enough the articles of the Society and they imposed certain restrictions on you.’

‘We were united by a common purpose — to court Araminta and win the ultimate favour from her. Her marriage made that aim more ambiguous,’ said Sir Willard, drinking his wine. ‘The murder of her husband removed what might have proved a fatal handicap.’

‘It left me with no stomach for the contest,’ said Prout.

‘Then stop trying to influence those of us still engaged in it.’

‘Attending that funeral would be wrong, Sir Willard.’

‘That’s a judgement each of us must make for himself.’

‘Can you be so heartless?’

‘Yes, Elkannah,’ said the other. ‘I can and so could you a week ago. You may have been converted on the road to Damascus but the rest of us remain committed to our common objective. There was a time when you were the most pitiless and cold-blooded member of the Society. We took our lead from you.’

‘I confess it freely and am deeply ashamed.’

‘Shame is not an emotion with which I am familiar, and nor is Jocelyn. From what I know of him, he’ll not only be at that funeral, he’ll probably contrive to act as a pallbearer.’

‘At least, Henry Redmayne has scruples.’

‘They may lose him the prize,’ said Sir Willard. ‘By the way, did I tell you that I was accosted by his brother earlier today?’

‘Christopher?’

‘He seemed to think that I might have stolen that portrait.’

‘You are not the only suspect,’ said Prout. ‘I was there when he accused Henry of the theft. Jocelyn, too, has been questioned.’

‘What — by Christopher Redmayne?’

‘A parish constable lay in wait for him at the coffee house — a boorish fellow who demanded to know if Jocelyn had the portrait.’

‘Who was this constable?’

‘He’s a friend of Henry’s brother. They’ve worked together before to solve various crimes and had a measure of success. Christopher is tenacious and so is Bale.’

‘Is that his name?’

‘So I hear — Jonathan Bale. His heavy-handed questioning really upset Jocelyn and it takes a lot to do that. Christopher Redmayne and this constable are clearly determined to recover that portrait.’

‘To be honest, I thought it had been taken by Jocelyn.’

‘He denies it hotly.’

‘What about Henry?’

‘His denials were even more fervent. Since none of we four has that portrait of Araminta,’ said Prout, thoughtfully, ‘then only one conclusion can be drawn. Someone else stole it.’

Sir Willard’s envy glowed. ‘Who the devil is he?’

Wearing the blue dress and reclining on the couch, Araminta Culthorpe did not seem to have a care in the world. She looked happy, composed and thoroughly at ease with herself. The portrait was a study in unimpaired beauty and contentment. Though he had looked at it many times, the man never tired of his scrutiny. When he set the painting up on the table once more, he examined every last detail of Araminta’s face, hair and shoulders. Her soft, white, delicate arms held him in thrall. Her dainty hands had their own delight for him. It was over an hour before he had seen his fill. Pulling the cloth down over the portrait, he put it back carefully in its hiding place.

Araminta had lapsed back into melancholy. She sat beside the table in the drawing room and stared in silence at the paper in front of her. It contained the provisional list of mourners who would attend the funeral but she saw none of the names. Her mind was on the life that lay ahead and it was not appealing. When her husband was lowered into his grave, Araminta’s high hopes and bold plans for their marriage would go with him. It was depressing.

Coming into the room, Eleanor Ryle sensed the problem at once.

‘Try not to brood, m’lady,’ she said, crossing over to stand beside her mistress. ‘Only this afternoon, you were beginning to shake off sad thoughts. We had that walk in the garden.’

‘I know, Eleanor, and it restored me.’

‘You took such an interest in it.’

‘I have to, now that my husband is not here. That garden is a sacred duty I’ve inherited. I’ll keep it exactly as Sir Martin would have wished.’

‘He would not have wanted you to fret like this.’

‘It’s much more than fretting,’ said Araminta. ‘I feel a great emptiness inside me. And I’m so listless. I’ve no strength to cope with the demands made on me.’

‘That’s why you’ve got people like me to help,’ said Eleanor, a hand on her shoulder. ‘Have you been looking at that list of guests? You’ve no need to trouble with that. I’ve spoken to Mr Rushton. He’ll make sure that everyone is taken care of, m’lady.’

‘It’s the service itself that worries me.’

‘You’ve family and friends to carry you through it.’

‘I’m not sure if I shall be able to bear up.’

‘Yes, you will — for Sir Martin’s sake.’

‘Of course,’ said Araminta, sitting upright. ‘I’m doing it for his sake. I must stop thinking of myself and turn all my thoughts to him. What would my husband expect of me — that’s what I must consider.’

She addressed herself to the list and started to go through it. Glad to see her mistress’s spirit restored, Eleanor sat beside her. It was only when Araminta had been through all the names that her sadness returned.

‘What if one of them should come?’ she asked.

‘One of whom?’

‘Henry Redmayne and those other men who bothered me.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be considerate enough to stay away, m’lady.’

‘It’s so strange,’ mused Araminta. ‘Mr Redmayne and his silly poems were so objectionable yet his brother was charming. I could not believe they belonged to the same family. One is an idle fop and the other, a well-mannered and diligent young man. And he must have great talent as an architect or Monsieur Villemot would never have employed him.’ She let out a gasp. ‘Oh dear!’

‘What ails you, m’lady?’

‘I’ve just remembered him — locked away in that prison.’

‘If he’s guilty, that’s where he should be.’

‘But what if he’s not, Eleanor? That’s what worries me. I got quite close to Monsieur Villemot. I liked him. I respected him as an artist. He had a wonderful career ahead of him and was having a new house built so that he and his wife could live in London.’ She pursed her lips in thought. ‘Why put all that in jeopardy?’

‘It does seem rather reckless,’ said the maid.

‘He could never hope to get away with it.’

‘Then perhaps he was not the killer, after all.’

‘I’d love to believe that,’ said Araminta. ‘I’d love to believe he could be exonerated and set free.’

‘Perhaps that will happen, m’lady.’

‘How? He’s imprisoned in a foreign country with nobody to help him. Even if he were innocent of the crime, how would we ever know?’

Eleanor thought of her visit to Christopher Redmayne.

The meeting took place in the prison sergeant’s office. Lady Hester Lingoe had commandeered it with the help of a generous bribe, but even her money and position were not enough to ensure a private conversation with the prisoner. A turnkey was there throughout and his presence set precise limits on their freedom of expression. When they first met, therefore, all that Jean-Paul Villemot felt able to do was to touch her hand in gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

‘Did my lawyer visit you?’

‘Yes, he did. He had me moved to a larger cell.’

‘A single one, I trust.’

‘I am all alone — apart from the rats.’

‘It must be intolerable.’

‘They treat me bad.’

‘Then I’ll make a formal complaint about that.’

Lady Lingoe held the pomander to her nose and inhaled deeply. Even in the prison sergeant’s office, the offensive odours were evident and Villemot was embarrassed by the fact that his clothing was giving off an unpleasant smell. He looked worn and desperate. For her part, Lady Lingoe had shed the costume of a Roman priestess and put on more conventional apparel. In the drab little room, she looked like a beacon of light and he dared to nurse hopes again.

‘Get me out of here!’ he begged.

‘That may take a little time, Jean-Paul.’

‘I did not kill this man.’

‘I know that,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘We have to gather evidence to prove it. Mr Redmayne is doing all he can to help you.’

‘But he handed me over to the magistrate.’

‘It was for your own good.’

‘Good?’ he echoed with a mirthless laugh. ‘This is good?’

‘Put some trust in Christopher Redmayne,’ she advised. ‘That’s what I’ve decided to do. He’s eager to build that house for you, Jean-Paul. He has an incentive to get you released — and so have I.’

Unseen by the turnkey, she touched the artist’s hand again then she held the pomander to her nostrils. Thrilled to see a friend, Villemot was frustrated by the watchful presence of a third person. It made for halting and unsatisfactory exchange.

‘I’ve brought food and wine for you,’ she said.

‘Merci beaucoup!’

‘My lawyer will come to see you every day.’

‘You are the only person I wish to see, Hester!’

‘I hope we can meet in more propitious circumstances next time, Jean-Paul.’ She glanced around. ‘This is hardly the ideal place for a tete-a-tete.’

‘I am living in the privy.’

‘How sordid!’

‘The noise, it drives me mad.’

‘Hold fast — we will do everything in our power to save you.’

‘And if you fail?’

Lady Lingoe could not hide her fear. For one vital second, the mask of reassurance slipped from her face and Villemot saw that she was as frightened as he was. She recovered her air of imperturbability and produced a dazzling smile.

‘We’ll not fail, Jean-Paul,’ she said. ‘You mean too much to us.’

It was still light when Christopher Redmayne reached the house in Chelsea and he was able to see the extensive gardens in which it stood. In the previous century, Chelsea had been known as a village of palaces because Henry VIII and some of the leading men of the day had maintained splendid houses there. It was still a place to catch the eye of an architect. Cuthbert Foxwell’s mansion was not as large or palatial as many others but its clear signs of French influence aroused Christopher’s interest. He noted features that he had incorporated into the design for the Villemot residence.

When he rang the doorbell, he was invited into the house and introduced himself to its owner. Cuthbert Foxwell was a short, slim, round-shouldered man in his late thirties with a book under his arm. After conducting his visitor into the library, he looked at him over the top of his spectacles.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, sir?’ he asked.

‘I believe that you are Sir Willard Grail’s brother-in-law.’

‘I have that honour. Do you know Sir Willard?’

‘My brother is a close friend of his,’ said Christopher.

‘Redmayne…Redmayne…’ Foxwell’s memory was jogged. ‘I thought I’d heard that name before. Sir Willard has mentioned it to me. I can’t say that I see much of my brother-in-law,’ he continued. ‘We have no mutual interests — apart from my wife, that is. Sir Willard is a man of the world while I’m more parochial in outlook. I think he looks upon me as a country yokel.’

‘You’re hardly that, Mr Foxwell,’ said Christopher with a gesture towards the bookshelves. ‘You have a magnificent library here.’

‘I’m bookish by nature and account myself a true scholar.’

‘You obviously have a passion for the garden as well.’

‘I do indeed, Mr Redmayne.’

‘It’s on that subject that I came to speak to you.’

‘Tell me more, dear sir.’

When they had sat down, Christopher told him about the murder and the arrest of Jean-Paul Villemot. He explained that he believed in the Frenchman’s innocence and was bent on proving it. Foxwell was impressed with the clarity of his report and the earnest manner in which it was delivered.

‘This is all very intriguing,’ he said, ‘but I do not see how your researches can have brought you to Chelsea.’

‘I came to look for a gardener.’

‘We have a small team of them here, Mr Redmayne, and they are kept very busy. Gardens are a joy to behold when they are well-tended. If you neglect them, however,’ he counselled, ‘you’ll soon end up with a wilderness.’

‘One of your gardeners once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Did he? That’s news to me.’

‘He may have concealed the fact from you, Mr Foxwell. I gather that he left Sir Martin’s employ under something of a cloud.’

‘What was the man’s name?’

‘Paskins — Abel Paskins.’

‘I remember him — a sturdy, hard-working fellow.’

‘Is he here at the moment, by any chance?’ said Christopher.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘You dismissed him?’

‘No, Mr Redmayne — he left of his own accord. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. I later learned that he’d been poached.’

‘By whom?’

‘A friend of my brother-in-law,’ said Foxwell. ‘To be frank with you, I was rather put out. When you have guests in the house, you do not expect one of them to tempt a gardener away. For that’s what happened,’ he continued. ‘When Sir Willard and his friend arrived, we entertained them as we saw fit. I showed them around the garden.’

‘Was Abel Paskins there at the time?’

‘He was. I saw Sir Willard’s friend chatting to him.’

‘Then the gardener left you.’

‘I think he was lured away by the promise of more money.’

‘What was the name of your guest?’

‘It was my brother-in-law who invited him. He was not the sort of person to whom I could ever take — a portly man who looked as if he caroused too much, and who only remembered that he had a wife on Sunday when they went to church. In fact,’ said Foxwell, ‘he was a very disagreeable fellow altogether.’

‘Did he have a name?’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

Henry Redmayne was not given to making apologies. He had certainly never been compelled to tender one to a roly-poly maid with an unappetising face. But his brother had ordered him to do so and it was the only way he could appease Christopher. To that end, he asked a servant to gather a basket of flowers from the garden then set out with it on his arm. Reaching the house, it took him a long time before he could pluck up the courage to ring the bell. While he waited for the door to open, he rehearsed his apology and manufactured his most ingratiating smile.

Matilda opened the door to be greeted by the daunting sight of a gentleman in fashionable attire. The maid had been crying and her eyes were still moist. Strands of straggly hair hung down over her forehead. She was so overwhelmed by her ostentatious visitor that she dropped a curtsey by instinct.

‘How are you, Matilda?’ asked Henry, solicitously.

Recognising his voice, she let out a yelp of pain and tried to close the door. He stuck out a foot to hold it open. Matilda was cowering with a mixture of fear and anguish. Tears began to explore the periphery of her fat cheeks.

‘I’ve brought you a gift,’ he said, holding up the basket. ‘Do you see? These are for you — by way of an apology.’

Matilda regarded the flowers warily. When she saw what a large and colourful variety had been gathered, she slowly began to relax. Her caution gave way to pleasure and she was soon beaming. When she opened the door wide, Henry gave her the basket.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said.

‘I am sorry that I was unable to come to you last night.’

‘I waited and waited.’

‘Circumstances beyond my control intervened,’ he said. Seeing her look of incomprehension, he supplied his excuse in plain terms. ‘My wife came home unexpectedly.’

‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t know you were married, sir.’

‘I forgot that I was when I looked upon you, Matilda.’ Her cheeks turned crimson. ‘Alas, I was unable to fulfil my promise.’

‘I left the window open all night long, sir,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘If they ever find out, I’ll get the blame.’

‘For what?’

‘A thief crept into the house.’

‘Never!’

‘He stole a portrait from the studio upstairs. He couldn’t have done that if the window had been locked. It was all my fault.’

‘No,’ said Henry, altruistically, ‘I absolve you of any blame. I was the culprit, Matilda. That window was open because of me. You need have no qualms about it. The responsibility is entirely mine.’

‘But I don’t even know your name, sir.’

‘It’s perhaps better that you never do.’

Clutching the basket to her bosom, she beamed hopefully. ‘Shall I see you again, sir?’ she enquired, coyly.

‘One day, perhaps,’ said Henry, gallantly. ‘One glorious day.’

Then he flitted gratefully away into the gathering twilight.

Darkness was falling by the time he reached Addle Hill. Christopher was glad that he had made the effort to ride to Chelsea and back. He was now calling on Jonathan Bale to apprise him of what had happened since they parted. He was always glad to visit the little house when the whole family was at home. He was as fond of Sarah Bale as she of him, and he liked the two boys. It did not trouble the architect that Oliver and Richard had been named after the Lord Protector and his son. They were two lively, friendly, fun-loving lads. Whenever he met them, Christopher found himself wondering if he and Susan would ever have such a contented family.

When his wife had taken the children into the kitchen, Bale invited his visitor to sit down then perched on a stool that he had made when first married. It seemed too small for his bulk but it held his weight without any difficulty.

‘I’m sorry that you had to leave us earlier on,’ said Christopher, ‘but my brother would not have been so open in your company.’

‘Did you get the truth out of him, sir?’

‘Little by little.’

‘I long to hear it.’

Christopher gave him a brief description of what had occurred at the house in Bedford Street, picking out only the salient points. Since his friend already had a low opinion of his brother, he saw no point in revealing that Henry had coaxed the maid into leaving the window open for him at night. Bale would despise him even more and would insist that legal action be taken against him for attempted theft. Christopher preferred to keep his brother out of prison so that he could be of assistance to them, and so that their father could be spared the shock of learning about the antics of his elder son.

Bale was interested to hear about the visit to Chelsea.

‘The gardener was poached?’ he said. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I can think of one good reason — he would know about Sir Martin Culthorpe’s regular visits to his garden.’

‘And he’d have some idea how to get the key to that gate.’

‘There’s also the fact that Abel Paskins might have had a score to settle with his old employer,’ said Christopher. ‘I think it significant that, when he found a new position with Mr Foxwell, he took care to say nothing about having worked for Sir Martin.’

‘The person we must look at is the one who recruited him, sir.’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘He’s not the nicest man you’ll meet.’

‘You said that he was rude and quick-tempered.’

‘He treated me with disdain,’ said Bale, ‘and he had the look of a man who treats the law likewise.’

‘If he’s part of Henry’s circle, he’ll not qualify for holy orders, we can take that for granted. My brother always describes his friends as belonging to a merry gang.’

‘That’s not what I’d call them, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Nor me, Jonathan,’ said Christopher. ‘They pursue pleasure as huntsmen pursue a fox, and they care nothing for the damage they may do in the course of the chase.’

‘Shall I speak to Mr Kidbrooke again, sir?’

‘No, I think it’s my turn. As Henry’s brother, I may at least get some civility out of him. On second thoughts,’ he went on, ‘it might be better if I got Henry to approach him on our behalf. We don’t want to arouse his suspicions. My brother is the best person to tackle Kidbrooke.’

Bale was surprised. ‘Would he agree to help us?’

‘I’ve no doubt about that.’

‘But Jocelyn Kidbrooke is his friend.’

‘Henry owes me a very large favour,’ said Christopher, thinking of the way he had suppressed details of his brother’s peccadilloes. ‘Let me put it more strongly — he’s in no position to refuse.’

‘How close are the two men?’

‘Very close.’

‘They dine and drink and go to the theatre together?’

Christopher sighed. ‘Oh, I think they do much more than that.’

‘He was a parish constable, a blundering fool named Jonathan Bale.’

‘I know the rogue,’ said Henry Redmayne.

‘Then you know how stubborn he can be.’

‘Stubborn, stupid and far too inquisitive.’

‘The man had the gall to ask me if I stole that portrait,’ said Jocelyn Kidbrooke with a snort. ‘I almost knocked him down for his impudence. What’s the world coming to when one can’t have a coffee with friends without being set upon by some idiot like that?’

‘Bale is no idiot. I’d clear him of that charge.’

‘Wait until he comes calling on you.’

‘He already has, Jocelyn,’ said the other, ‘on more than one occasion. He has no need to accuse me of being a thief. My brother has already done that. Ask Elkannah — he was there at the time.’

After an evening spent at a tavern, the two men were being driven in Kidbrooke’s coach through the echoing streets of London. Both had imbibed heavily and their speech was slightly slurred, but, as far as they were concerned, there was a long way to go yet before they would even think of retiring for the night. Henry still felt raw after his abrasive encounter with Christopher and was relieved that no legal action would be taken against him. Jocelyn Kidbrooke had other preoccupations.

‘I’m glad you mention Elkannah,’ he said, pausing to inhale snuff from a silver box. ‘What’s all this balderdash about a pact?’

‘He thinks we should stay away from the funeral.’

‘And you agreed?’

‘Only to get rid of Elkannah,’ said Henry. ‘He kept on and on at me so I pretended to concur.’

‘He badgered me as well and I daresay that Sir Willard was also his victim. I liked the fellow before he developed a conscience. He’s beginning to sound horribly like a priest now.’

‘He’ll come back to us in time. What did you say to him?’

‘I spurned his nonsensical pact.’

‘Does that mean that you intend to go to Sir Martins’ funeral?’

‘I wouldn’t miss a chance to see Araminta for anything.’

‘You won’t see much of her, Jocelyn. She’ll be swathed in black and surrounded by mourners.’

‘But I’d be in the same church as her, breathing the same air.’

‘It is a temptation,’ confessed Henry. As the coach began to slow, he glanced through the window. ‘Here we are at last. I hope that my luck changes tonight. The cards have been unkind to me all week.’

‘I’m not here to gamble,’ said Kidbrooke.

When the coach came to a halt, they got out and walked uncertainly towards the portico of a tall, elegant house. The front door opened before they even reached it and they went into the building and down a corridor. Henry peeled off into the first room they came to, looking for an empty chair at one of the card tables and sniffing the strong aroma of tobacco smoke. Because he was a regular visitor to the house, he was given a cordial welcome and a free glass of wine. His fingers itched to touch the cards again.

Jocelyn Kidbrooke, meanwhile, had gone to a room at the back of the house. Large, luxurious and only half-lit by candelabra, it was watched over by a buxom woman in her fifties with a beauty spot on one cheek. Powder had been used in liberal amounts to disguise her raddled face, and arching black eyebrows had been painted on in such a way that she seemed to be in a permanent state of astonishment. The sight of a new customer brought her to life. As she laughed aloud, her breasts wobbled and her jowls shook.

‘Mr Kidbrooke,’ she gushed, embracing him familiarly. She indicated the array of attractive young women, reclining seductively on sofas as they tried to catch the newcomer’s attention. ‘Whom will you choose tonight, sir?’

Jocelyn Kidbrooke ran an expert eye over the painted ladies.

‘The one who looks most like Araminta,’ he murmured.

In his master’s absence, Emile did not slack. He attended to his duties with even more alacrity. When he had eaten his breakfast, he washed the dishes, fed the cat, made his bed, cleaned all three rooms, taking care, as he did so, to leave the studio almost exactly as it was when Jean-Paul Villemot departed. Believing that the artist was innocent, he was less convinced that anyone would be able to rescue him from the menace of the English judicial system. For his visit to Newgate that morning, he was taking food, wine and the fresh clothing that his master had requested.

Clemence gave him a yawn of farewell then started to clean herself. Carrying the supplies in a basket, Emile went downstairs. Matilda was cleaning one of the windows, humming to herself as she did so. One of the late daffodils from a Bedford Street garden was pinned to her frock. Emile came up behind her.

‘Bonjour,’ he said.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, breaking off and turning around. ‘I didn’t see you there, sir — good morning.’

‘You sound happy.’

‘I am very happy.’

‘I like your flower.’

‘So do I,’ she said, touching the daffodil.

‘Who was the man who calls last night?’

‘What man?’

‘I see him through the window. He dress well.’

‘Oh, that gentleman,’ she said, not wishing to confide in Emile. ‘He was asking directions from me.’ She looked at the basket. ‘Are you going to see Mr Villemot?’

‘Yes, Matilda.’

‘Tell him that I don’t believe he did the crime.’

‘Thank you, I will.’

‘He likes women so much. He’d never do anything to hurt one.’

‘I know that.’

She moved nearer. ‘Have you found that missing portrait yet?’

‘No, Matilda — not yet.’

‘What a terrible thing to do, stealing it like that.’

Emile gave a shrug. ‘London, it has bad people.’

‘It has good ones as well, sir. We’re not all thieves.’ She felt an upsurge of guilt as she remembered leaving the window open. ‘I’d do anything to get that portrait back.’

‘We get it somehow.’

‘Mr Villemot must have been so upset when you told him.’

‘He does not know,’ said Emile. ‘It would be unkind. He has the trouble enough.’

‘He ought to be told.’

‘The painting, we find it before he come.’

Matilda was optimistic. ‘He is coming back, then?’

‘I hope so. I pray for him. He is the great artist,’ said the little Frenchman with pride. ‘He must come back.’

Bright sunshine bathed the garden and made it glow with morning freshness. Under a cloudless blue sky, the full colour of the flowers, trees, shrubs and lawns came out, turning the whole scene into a triumph of natural beauty. Seated at her bedroom window, Araminta Culthorpe gazed down on it with sadness. She was still wearing her dressing gown as Eleanor brushed her mistress’s hair.

‘Nature can be so cruel at times,’ observed Araminta.

‘Cruel?’

‘When my heart is full of sorrow, it gives us the most glorious day in weeks. Part of me wants to be out there, revelling in this weather, but another part holds me back.’

‘There’s nothing to stop you going into the garden,’ said Eleanor.

‘Yes, there is — it would be inappropriate.’

‘We went for a walk in it yesterday, m’lady.’

‘That was only a test,’ said Araminta. ‘I had to find out if I could face the garden after what happened out there.’

‘And you did.’

‘To venture out now would be an indulgence. Our guests would frown upon it and they would be right to do so. I must mourn my husband indoors.’

‘The garden will wait for you,’ said Eleanor.

She brushed on with slow, careful, measured strokes, wishing that her own hair were as long and silken. Everything about her mistress was so perfect that it reminded her of her own imperfections. Yet there had been a moment when she was asked to be Araminta Culthorpe, to impersonate her in such a way that Villemot could finish the portrait. The artist had seen enough similarity between the two women to select Eleanor as his model. That thought still had the power to excite her.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Araminta.

‘Nothing, m’lady.’

‘I saw your reflection in the window — you were smiling.’

‘I was thinking how lovely your hair was,’ said Eleanor.

‘Your mind was not on me. It was elsewhere.’ She turned round and took the brush from the maid. ‘Now, tell me what you were thinking. Come on, Eleanor — I’ll not be angry.’

‘It’s more likely to make you miserable.’

‘Why?’

‘I was thinking about Mr Villemot.’

‘Then why did you smile like that?’ Araminta read the look in her eyes. ‘Ah, I see. You wanted to sit for him in his studio.’

‘I was being selfish, m’lady. I apologise.’

‘There’s no need. You’ve not only shared my loss, you’ve had one of your own to bewail. You were deprived of a privilege. I understand. I’m glad that you can have such a pleasant memory about Monsieur Villemot when I’ve had so many black ones.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘You’re entitled to your own thoughts, Eleanor.’

‘I’m here to serve you, m’lady.’

‘And so you have,’ said Araminta, thankfully. ‘Since my husband died, you’ve kept me alive. Without you beside me, I’d have perished from grief.’

‘Call on me at any time of the day or night.’

‘That’s what I have done. It’s been a real trial for you.’

‘I’m not important,’ said Eleanor, humbly. ‘But you are.’

Putting the brush aside, Araminta took hold of her hands and squeezed them hard in a gesture of affection and gratitude. Then she swung round to look out at the garden again.

‘I’m ready to get dressed now, Eleanor.’

‘Very good, m’lady.’

Picking up the hairbrush, the maid took it across to the dressing table. She moved on to one of the large wardrobes that stood against the far wall. Made of walnut, it was catching the sun and shining with the brilliance of a mirror. Eleanor opened the door. The first thing she saw was the blue dress that she would have worn as the model and she could not resist taking it out and holding it against herself. She felt a pang of remorse when she recalled that the dress belonged to a vanished time. There was no place for it now.

Hanging it back in the wardrobe, she took out the black mourning dress that Araminta had been wearing since her husband’s death. It felt cold and heavy in her hands. Eleanor was sad. There would be no more colour in either of their lives for a long time.

When Jacob let him into the house, he could not understand how a man who did the same domestic tasks as he could remain so trim and spotless. Emile was as neat and well-groomed as ever. The old man showed him into the study and left him alone with Christopher.

‘Bonjour, Emile,’ said the architect.

‘Bonjour, m’sieur.’

‘I was hoping to see you today.’

Emile was morose. ‘I have been to the prison.’

‘I intend to pay Monsieur Villemot a visit myself today,’ said Christopher. ‘How did you find him?’

‘Is very unhappy.’

‘We’re doing our utmost to get your master out of there.’

‘Lady Lingoe, she help.’

‘Oh?’

‘She have him put in better cell.’

‘Lady Lingoe has been there?’ asked Christopher in amazement.

‘Yesterday.’

‘That’s a real testament to the quality of her friendship. Newgate is no place for a lady like her. That stink is nauseous.’

‘I still feel sick.’

‘Sit down and tell me all about it,’ said Christopher, waving him to a chair. ‘Is there anything I can take Monsieur Villemot? Does he have enough to eat and drink? What about clothing?’

Emile sat on the edge of a chair and related everything that had passed between him and his master. He felt it a great injustice that they were not allowed to converse in their native language. The visit had obviously shaken him up badly.

‘Did you tell him about the portrait?’ said Christopher.

‘Non, m’sieur.’

‘He’ll have to know sooner or later.’

‘We find it,’ said Emile.

‘We’ve not had much success in doing that so far, but I’m not without hope. Only a handful of people even knew that Lady Culthorpe was having her portrait painted. I am working through them one by one.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Apart from anything else,’ said Christopher. ‘It was a superb piece of work — unlike my own artistic efforts.’

‘Everything my master paint, is very good.’

‘His brushwork is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Emile smiled. ‘He is the best.’

‘His reputation goes before him.’

‘Nobody paints the ladies as he does.’

‘I don’t suppose they do,’ said Christopher as an image of the nude Lady Lingoe popped into his mind. ‘He’s able to delineate the character of his subjects.’ Emile looked blank. ‘I’m sorry — that’s a difficult word for you. What I mean is that we see people as they really are in his paintings.’

‘He is the artist — he look for the truth.’

‘He certainly found it in Lady Culthorpe’s case.’

‘He like her.’

‘It’s impossible not to do that, Emile.’

‘He not kill her husband.’

‘You don’t have to persuade me,’ said Christopher. ‘The more I reflect on this whole business, the more certain I am of his innocence. The one thing that troubles me, however, is why he went into that garden on the day of the murder. Has he said anything to you about that? Did he tell you what he was doing at the house in the first place?’

‘He ride past, m’sieur.’

‘He didn’t ride past — that’s the problem. For some unknown reason, he dismounted from his horse and went into the garden. There’s a witness who saw him coming out of the gate.’

‘This man, he tell the lie.’

‘I don’t think so, Emile. He’s given a sworn statement.’

‘What is that?’

‘He took his oath before a magistrate,’ said Christopher. ‘He’s prepared to stand up in court and tell the judge what he saw. We have to make sure that it doesn’t reach that stage.’

‘How you do that?’

‘By working hard to find the man who did murder Sir Martin.’

‘You know who he is?’

‘We have a suspect in mind.’

‘Arrest him!’ demanded Emile.

‘That’s not possible as yet,’ explained Christopher. ‘We have to gather more evidence before we can apprehend the man. That will take a lot of time and effort. Monsieur Villemot will have to be patient.’

‘Is bad in there — very bad.’

‘I know. I’ve been in Newgate before.’

‘All he want is to live here quiet and paint.’

‘I hope that he’s eager to occupy his new house as well. It would be dreadful if this unfortunate experience were to rob him of his desire to stay in England. Has he said anything to you on that subject?’

Emile was puzzled. ‘Subject?’

‘Does your master want to go back to France?’

‘Non!’

‘You sound very positive about that.’

‘He stay here.’

‘That’s gratifying to know and it will make me redouble my efforts on his behalf. But I’m concerned about you as well as Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, Emile,’ said Christopher. ‘You must be quite bewildered by everything that’s happened. Your master is put in prison and you are left alone in his lodging. The next thing that happens is that a portrait is stolen from the studio next to the room where you sleep.’

‘Clemence, she let me down.’

‘Clemence?’

‘She is the cat, m’sieur. She should have waked me.’

‘Does she sleep in the studio?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then she should have heard an intruder.’

Emile gave a nod of assent. Having come for reassurance, he looked gloomier than ever. He got to his feet and bid Christopher farewell. The architect walked him to the front door.

‘Cheer up, Emile,’ he said. ‘We’ll get him released soon.’

‘You think?’

‘I know — as long as he promises to stay in England.’

‘He must stay.’

‘He wouldn’t spend so much money on that new house if he did not intend to put down roots and bring Monique over. That’s something else I meant to raise with you,’ he added. ‘Have you written to his wife to tell her what’s happened?’

‘Who?’

‘Monique — his wife.’

The words spilled out before Emile could stop them coming. ‘He is not married, m’sieur.’