The Painted Lady

Chapter Nine

It was mid-morning before Elkannah Prout called on the house in Bedford Street and he fully expected to have to wait while his friend was summoned from his bedchamber. In fact, Henry Redmayne was already up and had breakfasted, shaved and dressed. Moreover, he had a zest about him that was unheard of at that time of day.

‘Good morning, Elkannah,’ he said, cheerily.

‘You are uncommonly happy this morning.’

‘I’m exultant.’

‘For what reason?’

‘The best reason in the world,’ said Henry. ‘When I looked in the mirror this morning, I saw a fine gentleman who was tall, handsome and extravagantly in love. The very thought that I inhabit the same city as Araminta made me feel elated.’

‘We all share that elation,’ said Prout, quietly, ‘though it’s tempered by the fact that Araminta is in mourning. I adore her as much as anyone but the tragic change in her circumstances has made me look at her in a different way.’

‘There’s only one way to look at her.’

Prout did not share his laugh. ‘Vulgarity is out of place, Henry.’

‘None of this solemnity,’ ordered the other, taking him into the drawing room. ‘I’ll not let anyone put me out of countenance today. Last night, Dame Fortune finally remembered my name.’

‘You won at cards?’

‘Repeatedly. I had the Midas touch. I was able to repay my loan from Jocelyn and I have an equal sum to give to you.’

‘There’s no hurry to settle that debt.’

‘But the money is here.’

‘Keep it, Henry. If you are having a run of luck at last, keep what you owe me and invest it at the card table to win even more. I know that feeling of success. When it courses through your veins, you have to take full advantage of it.’

‘Then I shall — thank you.’

They sat down opposite each other. Since he had to go to the Navy Office that afternoon, Henry was dressed more soberly than when gadding about town with his cronies. Though his job was largely a sinecure, he was called upon to put in an appearance from time to time and to be seen to do some nominal work. Elkannah Prout, by contrast, was a man of inherited wealth, who had been able to retire from the legal profession and devote himself entirely to pleasure. He was a generous friend and he had often helped Henry out of financial difficulties in the past. Prout now had a serious air about him.

Henry was guarded. ‘I hope you haven’t come here to talk about that pact, Elkannah,’ he said.

‘Not at all.’

‘I know that you’ve been hounding Jocelyn and Sir Willard on that score, and I also know that they rebuffed you.’

‘Quite rightly,’ said Prout. ‘I acted too rashly. It was foolish of me to try to tell them how to behave. They are a law unto themselves and I should have accepted that.’

‘I’m relieved to hear you taking a more tolerant view.’

‘You were the only person willing to see any merit in the pact, Henry, and I wanted to express my thanks in a tangible way. There’s racing at Newmarket tomorrow,’ he went on. ‘If the Navy Office can spare you, those winnings you collected at the card table last night may be doubled or trebled at the racecourse.’

‘It’s a tempting offer.’

‘I shall put it to Jocelyn and Sir Willard.’

‘Then they’ll view it in the same cynical way as me.’

‘Why cynical?’

‘We are not blind, Elkannah,’ said Henry with a grin. ‘You’ve not abandoned your pact at all. You are simply presenting it to us in disguise. If we go to Newmarket tomorrow, we’d be unable to attend Sir Martin’s funeral. That’s your ruse. You wish to get the three of us out of London.’

‘I feel that I owe it to Araminta to do so.’

‘Then your feelings do not accord with mine.’

‘How so?’

‘I grieve with her,’ said Henry, trying to sound dignified. ‘I share her misery. Tomorrow will be the most trying day of Araminta’s young life. It would be callous to spend it enjoying myself at the races.’

‘You intend to break our pact, then?’

‘Only minutes ago, you declared it impractical.’

‘The principle holds, Henry.’

‘It will be something to reflect on as you journey to Newmarket.’

‘Do you plan to sneak off to the funeral behind my back?’

‘I will do what I will do,’ said Henry, grandly.

‘Then you are just as bad as the others.’

‘We are all four banded together in this, Elkannah.’

‘Do not include me,’ said Prout, firmly. ‘I renounce the Society and all it stands for. My devotion to Araminta remains unaltered but it prompts me to move in a different direction.’

‘To Newmarket — so that you can bet on horses.’

‘That was merely a device to keep you away from her tomorrow.’

‘Why not admit that at the start?’

‘You disappoint me, Henry.’

‘There’s nothing I can do about that. Allow me to give you a word of warning. Do not even think of inviting Jocelyn or Sir Willard to join you tomorrow. They will laugh in your faces.’

Prout got to his feet. ‘Is that what you are doing?’

‘No, Elkannah.’

‘I know mockery when I hear it.’

‘I’m giving you sound advice.’

‘What you are doing is to betray the promise you gave me. You agreed to stay away from Araminta tomorrow.’

‘And I may still do so,’ said Henry, getting up from his chair.

‘No,’ said Prout, angrily. ‘I see you for what you are. You, Jocelyn and Sir Willard have signed a pact of your own. The three of you are plotting to be there tomorrow to get a glimpse of her even though she will be consumed with sorrow.’

‘There’s no plot, Elkannah.’

‘I looked upon you as a friend.’

‘I remain one still.’

‘Not when you deceive me like this.’

‘It’s you who wilfully misunderstands me.’

‘I’ve seen far too much of Henry Redmayne to misunderstand him. You tell me that you grieve with Araminta but that did not hinder you from spending half the night at the card table. Is that the way you share her misery?’

‘Why this sudden piety?’

‘I know you for what you are.’

‘A devotee of pleasure in all its forms.’

‘A weak-willed degenerate.’

‘I patterned myself on you,’ rejoined Henry. ‘There was not a rake in the whole of the capital who could touch Elkannah Prout for drinking, gambling and whoring. You gave the lead that I followed. Yet now you’ve lost your appetite for vice,’ he continued, ‘you portray yourself as a paragon of virtue.’

‘I just felt that it was time to make a stand.’

‘We preferred you as you were.’

‘That’s your prerogative.’

‘Come back to us, Elkannah.’

‘Not while the three of you scheme against me.’

‘But we’ve not been doing that.’

‘There’s nothing I despise as much as disloyalty, Henry, and that’s what you’ve displayed. I take back my former suggestion.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please repay the money you owe me.’

‘When I have the chance to make it work for me?’

‘Yes,’ said Prout, nastily. ‘And look to borrow nothing more from my purse. I’ll not lend a single penny to you ever again.’

Henry was alarmed. ‘That’s too harsh, Elkannah.’

‘It’s a fit penalty for a traitor.’

‘But you have ever been my most reliable banker.’

‘Not any more, Henry.’ Prout snapped his fingers. ‘Pay up!’

After his brief imprisonment there, Christopher Redmayne knew all about the multiple indignities of Newgate. As a result, he returned to the place with some trepidation. Because he had helped to capture and hand over Jean-Paul Villemot, he was no longer suspected of aiding the escape of a fugitive and was safe from arrest. That fact brought him no comfort as he walked reluctantly towards the prison. Once inside, he feared that they would somehow find a means of keeping him there.

Destroyed by the Great Fire, the prison had been completely rebuilt and it was slowly nearing completion. The structure had a splendour to gladden the heart of any architect yet it did not even attract a glance from Christopher. Behind the imposing exterior, he knew, was a world of suffering, hunger and darkness of the soul. As he entered the great portal, he felt an instant tremor. The man who conducted him to Villemot’s cell insisted on staying to listen to the conversation. When he saw that he had a visitor, the artist flung himself at the bars.

‘Christopher!’ he cried.

‘How are you, Monsieur Villemot?’

‘I am not well, my friend.’

‘If you are ill, I can arrange for a doctor to visit.’

‘The illness, it is not in my body,’ said Villemot, tapping his skull with a finger. ‘It is up here — in the head.’

‘Are you in pain?’

‘My thoughts leave me in agony.’

Christopher was disturbed by his appearance. The Frenchman was haggard with anxiety and loss of sleep. His eyes were darting and his body twitching. He slapped a hand to his temple as if suffering severe pain. Christopher feared that he might have picked up one of the many diseases that were so rife in the prison. Foul water and lack of sanitation made an already noxious environment far worse. Even the healthiest prisoner could succumb to the powerful compound of infections. In spite of a good constitution, Villemot might easily have fallen prey to a form of brain fever. In its later stages, it would make him rant and rave as it was patently doing to some of those who were contributing to the daily tumult in the other cells.

‘Emile came to see me,’ said Villemot.

‘Yes, I spoke to him earlier.’

‘He says you are trying to get me out of here.’

‘Indeed, I am,’ said Christopher, ‘and I’m not alone in my efforts. Jonathan Bale, whom you met, is helping me a great deal and I’ve called on the services of my brother, Henry.’

‘What can he do?’

‘He knows people. He can open doors for me.’

‘Then let him open this door,’ yelled Villemot, shaking it with such violence that it rattled aloud. ‘I lose my mind in here.’

‘Emile told me that you had another visitor, one who must have been shocked by your condition. Lady Lingoe came to see you.’

‘She brought food and drink.’

‘So did I,’ said Christopher. ‘I left them with the prison sergeant. Let me know if they don’t reach you.’

‘I am not worried about food. I hate being locked up.’

‘I know. I felt the same and I was only behind bars for a short time. It’s that sense of helplessness, of being at the mercy of others.’

‘Set me free!’ begged the other.

‘We are working hard to do so, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘I am an artist. I paint things of beauty. In here, everything is ugly. Is frightening. I look ugly myself.’

It was true. Even though he had put on the fresh clothing that his valet had brought, Villemot looked dirty, crumpled and beaten. The prison stench had burrowed its way into his garments and pieces of damp straw were sticking to his shoes and breeches. Christopher’s desire to rescue him was intensified.

‘Before I can get you out,’ he said, ‘I need your help.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Tell me what happened the day you went to that house.’

‘I’ve already done that, Christopher.’

‘No, you didn’t. You told me only part of the story and I need to know every last detail. Why did you go into the garden?’

‘I did not,’ said Villemot, defensively.

‘You were seen coming out of there,’ said Christopher, ‘so there’s no point in denying it. A reliable witness will stand up in court and tell the judge that you were in that garden.’

‘It was only for a second.’

‘So you were there?’

Villemot kept him waiting for an answer. ‘I put my head in,’ he said, eventually, ‘that is all, Christopher.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘Is not important.’

‘It’s very important,’ argued Christopher. ‘It could mean the difference between life and death. If all that you did was to look at the house, they have no case against you. Since you were seen coming out of the garden — the very place where Sir Martin was killed — then you do have questions to answer.’

‘I was there one or two minutes at most.’

‘Why?’

‘The garden gate, it was open.’

‘But why did you go through it?’

‘I was curious.’

‘Are you in the habit of trespassing on other people’s property out of curiosity?’

Villemot tensed. ‘You make fun of me.’

‘I’m asking exactly what will be asked in court.’

‘It must never get that far.’

‘Then give me some real help, Monsieur Villemot. I am on your side. Why do you keep holding things back from me?’

Drawing back from the bars, the artist retreated to a corner of his cell and sulked. He studied Christopher warily. It took time for him to reach the decision to trust his visitor. When he did so, he took a step towards him.

‘Araminta — Lady Culthorpe — she talk a lot about it.’

‘The garden?’

‘Sir Martin spent much money.’

‘He obviously derived great pleasure from it.’

‘I was curious,’ said Villemot. ‘When I see the gate open, I wanted to look at this famous garden for myself.’

‘Wasn’t there an easier way to do that?’ asked Christopher.

‘Easier way?’

‘All you had to do was to express an interest and I’m sure that Lady Culthorpe would have invited you to the house. Instead of which, you sneak in there like a criminal.’

‘I am no criminal!’ shouted Villemot.

‘Calm down, calm down.’

‘I do nothing wrong.’

‘There’s no need to get so angry, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Then do not call me names.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Christopher. ‘I am simply telling you how it looks to an impartial observer. A man is stabbed to death in his garden. You are seen leaving it. A plea of curiosity is not an adequate defence. We need more.’

‘What more is there?’

‘You still haven’t admitted why you went near the house.’

‘I was riding past.’

‘But what took you to Westminster?’

‘I wanted some fresh air.’

‘There are plenty of others places you could have gone.’

Villemot shrugged. ‘I go for a ride. I find myself in Westminster.’

‘You’re hiding something from me.’

‘What am I hiding?’

‘I think that you followed Lady Culthorpe’s carriage when it took her home that day.’ The Frenchman’s eyes flashed but he held his tongue. ‘When she had been dropped off at the front door of the house, the coachman drove around to the stable block. He saw you there. His name is Dirk and he’s another reliable witness. So,’ said Christopher, patiently, ‘let’s have no more pretence. Did you follow that carriage to Westminster?’

There was a long pause before Villemot grunted his reply.

‘Yes.’

‘Was that out of curiosity as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or was it because you’d grown so fond of Lady Culthorpe?’

‘No!’ snapped Villemot.

‘Is that what took you there?’

Spinning on his heel, the artist retreated to the farthest corner of his cell and kept his back to his visitor. His shoulders were heaving and his feet shuffling. Christopher gave him plenty of time before he returned to his questioning.

‘What happened afterwards?’ he asked. ‘When you came out of the garden, where did you go?’

‘Back to the studio.’

‘But you didn’t. When I called in there, Emile said that you’d been away for a couple of hours. Was your valet lying?’

Another lengthy pause ensued. ‘No, he was not.’

‘So where did you go?’

‘I tell you already,’ said Villemot, rounding on him. ‘I go for the ride. I often go for the ride. You can ask Emile.’

‘Did something happen in the course of the ride?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Did it, Monsieur Villemot?’

‘No.’

‘Then why were you so upset when you got back?’

‘I was not upset.’

‘I was there,’ said Christopher, tiring of his evasion. ‘I saw you with my own eyes. And if you were not upset, why did you come to my house the next day to apologise for your behaviour?’ He fixed the artist with a stare. ‘Or are you going to deny that as well?’

Villemot chewed his lip. ‘I was annoyed, Christopher,’ he said. ‘While I was out riding, I have the argument with someone and it annoyed me. That was why I was rude to you.’

‘With whom did you have the argument?’

‘A man I meet in the park.’

‘What was the argument about?’

‘I do not remember.’

‘If it annoyed you that much, you’d be certain to remember.’

‘Why do you keep on at me like this?’ demanded Villemot, banging the bars with his fists. ‘You say you wish to help yet you do not believe what I tell you.’

‘There’s still too much missing. I need more detail.’

‘Do you never ride your horse for the pleasure?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Can you always remember where you went and what you saw?’

‘I’d remember a heated argument in a park.’

‘It was all over in a moment.’

‘What did you do with the rest of the time?’

‘The rest?’ repeated the other.

‘You were out of the studio for two hours,’ Christopher reminded him. ‘Take out your brief visit to Sir Martin’s garden and your even briefer argument with some unnamed person in the park and that still leaves a large amount of time.’ He put his face close to the bars. ‘Why are you so afraid to tell me where you went?’

‘Get me out of this place,’ whispered Villemot.

‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to do.’

‘Get me out soon or you will be to blame.’

‘Blame?’ said Christopher.

‘Yes, my friend — for my death.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘If I stay here much longer, I will kill myself.’

He meant what he said. The visit was over.

Sir Willard Grail was leaving his house when he saw his brother-in-law riding towards him. He waited until Cuthbert Foxwell had dismounted before exchanging a greeting with him. A servant came to take away the horse. Foxwell was panting and beads of perspiration stood out on his brow.

‘A ride like that always tires me,’ he said, removing his hat to use its brim as a fan. ‘I’m an indifferent horseman, Sir Willard.’

‘My sister married you for your other virtues, Cuthbert. I don’t think that she values horsemanship in a husband overmuch. Like you, she’s a restful creature.’

‘I’m hoping that she had a good rest here, Sir Willard.’

‘She did — and she was wonderful company for my wife. Barbara is always welcome here and so are you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s odd how relationships subtly alter, isn’t it?’ said Sir Willard. ‘When we were children, Barbara was always the elder sister who kept me firmly in line. I was terrified of her.’

Foxwell grinned. ‘How could you be?’

‘Compared to me, she was so big, strong and formidable.’

‘Yet she has such a sweet disposition.’

Sir Willard laughed. ‘It wasn’t quite so sweet when we were growing up,’ he said. ‘I think I was fourteen before my sister realised that she could not order me around any more. That’s when the first subtle change occurred. Instead of bullying me, Barbara learned to get her way by the black art of female persuasion.’

‘I’ll listen to no more of this,’ said Foxwell, pleasantly. ‘My wife is the closest thing to perfection that I’ve ever met and I’ll not hear a word against her. I’m just grateful that when we ride home this afternoon, we’ll do so in our coach. I’d not have enjoyed a journey both ways in the saddle.’

Foxwell’s wife had visited her brother for a few days and her husband had come to collect her. The irony was that she had seen far more of Lady Grail than of Sir Willard but she was habituated to that by now. Her brother did not spend a great deal of time at home.

‘You’ll not be joining us for dinner, then?’ said Foxwell.

‘I’ve business to attend to in the city.’

‘That’s a pity, Sir Willard. I’d have appreciated a talk with you.’

‘Another time.’

‘You always put me off.’

‘We have so little to say to each other, Cuthbert.’

‘I set that down to lack of practice.’

‘Different interests are bound to keep us apart.’

‘Yet you knew I was coming to dinner today.’

‘Yes,’ lied Sir Willard, ‘and I’d intended to join you but I’ve been called away unexpectedly. You’ll have a splendid time with the ladies and you can sample the skills of our new cook.’

‘I look forward to that.’

Cuthbert Foxwell wanted to administer a mild rebuke but he felt unable to do so. Though Sir Willard was younger than him, he always found him faintly intimidating. Much as he disapproved of the way that he neglected his wife, Foxwell was unable to even broach the subject. The contrast between the two families was stark. In the ten years of their marriage, Foxwell and his wife had grown steadily closer and disliked being apart. Sir Willard and Lady Grail, however, were rarely together for any length of time, even though their marriage was of much shorter duration. His brother-in-law had his suspicions about the business in the city that always took Sir Willard away but he did not dare to voice them to the ladies.

‘Incidentally,’ he said, using a handkerchief to mop up the last of the sweat, ‘do you, by any chance, remember that gardener of mine who was stolen away from me?’

‘Gardener?’

‘Fellow by the name of Abel Paskins.’

‘You can’t expect me to know the names of gardeners, Cuthbert,’ said Sir Willard, scornfully. ‘Underlings are underlings. If you give them the dignity of a name, they tend to get above themselves.’

‘Your friend did not think so.’

‘What friend?’

‘Mr Kidbrooke.’

‘Ah, now I’m with you,’ said the other with a chuckle. ‘It was that time I called in with Jocelyn. You kindly showed us around your garden.’

‘Had I known that I’d lose a good man in the process, I’d not have bothered. Paskins had vision. He knew how to make the best of a garden. He designed and built that rockery for me.’

‘That’s what impressed Jocelyn so much.’

‘Did he have to take the fellow away from me?’

‘It was force of habit, Cuthbert.’

‘Does he make a habit of collecting other people’s gardeners?’

‘No,’ said Sir Willard, ‘but he acts decisively when he sees something that he wants. Jocelyn Kidbrooke is known for it.’

‘I found him rather disagreeable.’

‘He’s a good man at heart.’

‘I take your word for it,’ said Foxwell, ‘for I saw no evidence of it. But the reason I mention Paskins is this — did you know that he used to work for Sir Martin Culthorpe?’

‘I did not,’ said Sir Willard, nonchalantly, ‘and I’m not sure that I care.’ He concealed his interest behind a lazy smile. ‘Were you aware of that when you first employed him?’

‘No, it came as a complete surprise.’

‘When did you learn about this?’

‘Only yesterday,’ said Foxwell. ‘I had a visit from a young man whom I think you may know — Christopher Redmayne.’

‘I know and like his brother much better.’

‘He was trying to find out where Abel Paskins was.’

‘Why on earth should he do that?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say, Sir Willard.’

‘You can tell me, surely.’

‘Before he left, Mr Redmayne asked me to treat everything he had told me in the strictest confidence and I gave him my word.’

‘I’m your brother-in-law, Cuthbert. There should be no secrets between us. Why is he so interested in a gardener?’

‘My lips are sealed,’ said Foxwell. ‘What I will tell you, however, is that, no matter how long it takes, he’ll track the man down. Mr Redmayne is very determined.’

‘That was only one of his faults,’ complained Sir Willard.

‘He’s set himself a difficult task — I hope he succeeds.’

‘Since you won’t tell me what that task is, I can make no comment. Go on in and meet the ladies, Cuthbert. My business will not wait.’ He walked towards the horse that was saddled and waiting for him then he stopped. ‘What was that gardener’s name again?’

‘Abel Paskins.’

Intending to do some work that afternoon, Henry Redmayne dined at home for a change and allowed himself only one glass of wine. In the days when Sir William Batten had been Surveyor to the Navy, tippling was the order of the day and Henry had joined in the merriment with gusto, if only to hear Sir William’s ripe language booming across the tavern like a broadside. Things were somewhat different now. He was expected to have a degree of sobriety when he was at the Navy Office.

He was still eating his meal when his brother arrived. As Christopher was shown into the dining room, Henry almost choked on a piece of chicken.

‘You’ve no cause to upbraid me,’ he said, spluttering. ‘I did what you commanded, Christopher. I gave that moon-faced maid a basket of flowers and soothed her ruffled feathers with an apology.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, Henry.’

‘What’s more, I’ve resolved to stay away from the funeral.’

‘A commendable decision.’

‘You’ve no need to harry me further.’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Christopher. ‘I need to talk to you about your friends.’ He sat down at the table and helped himself to a slice of pie. ‘How well do you know them?’

‘As well as any man can know his boon companions.’

‘Could there be a killer among them?’

‘Unthinkable!’

‘I’m forced to explore the realms of the unthinkable.’ He chewed then swallowed the pie. ‘This is good, Henry.’ He cut himself another slice. ‘I think I’ll have some more.’

‘I didn’t know that you were coming to dinner.’

‘I didn’t know I’d have the good fortune to find you at home.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Information. Tell me about Sir Willard Grail.’

‘You’ve met the fellow.’

‘He kept me very much at arm’s length. What is he really like?’

‘He’s like so many of my acquaintances — he’s an impecunious aristocrat who married for money and who chose a wife who would not be too inquisitive about the way he spent his time. In character, Sir Willard is a younger version of Henry Redmayne.’

‘Another strutting peacock, you mean?’

‘An urbane, intelligent, harmless fellow of good breeding who has a fondness for the luxuries of life.’

‘Some of those luxuries being the favours of Lady Culthorpe.’

‘That would be the ultimate indulgence.’

‘Would Sir Willard kill to achieve it?’

‘No,’ said Henry with emphasis, ‘and I’m absolutely certain that he did not murder Sir Martin.’

‘Are you?’

‘At the time when the crime was committed, Sir Willard was dining at Locket’s with Elkannah and me. You can eliminate all three of us, Christopher.’

‘What about Jocelyn Kidbrooke?’

‘He didn’t turn up that day.’

‘Was he supposed to?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Henry, nibbling a piece of bread. ‘When we formed our Society, we agreed to dine together once a week to compare the progress each of us had made with regard to Araminta. Jocelyn let us down.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘He claimed that he dined with his wife.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘Not for one second,’ said Henry. ‘Jocelyn spends as little time at home as possible. He leaves early and gets back late. Take last night, for instance,’ he added. ‘It would have been almost one in the morning when he went back to the house. His coach dropped me off here well past midnight. And there’s another thing…’

‘Go on.’

Christopher had to wait until Henry had finished the last mouthful. His brother washed it down with a sip of wine, then surveyed the table to see if anything else tempted him.

‘According to Sir Willard — and he’s always unnervingly well-informed about such matters — Jocelyn’s wife is not even in London at the moment. She’s visiting her family in Hampshire.’

‘So why did he lie to you?’

‘Why else but to go peering at Araminta through his telescope?’

‘He has a telescope?’

‘He bought it for that sole purpose. All that the rest of us have had to sustain us are distant glimpses of her. Jocelyn has been able to bring her much nearer through his infernal instrument.’

‘So at the time of the murder,’ said Christopher, eager to confirm the fact, ‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke missed an opportunity to dine with friends because of a more urgent appointment?’

‘Yes, Christopher.’

‘That appointment could have been in Sir Martin’s garden.’

‘It could but I doubt very much that it was.’

‘Why?’

‘Wait until you meet him,’ said Henry. ‘He’s too fat and slow to be a likely assassin — though strangely enough, Elkannah did make a comment to that effect,’ he continued as a memory surfaced. ‘It was over that meal we had in Locket’s.’

‘What did Mr Prout say?’

‘Only that Jocelyn was so bedazzled by Araminta’s charms that he would kill to make her his own.’ He flapped a hand. ‘Elkannah was only speaking metaphorically. He knew as well as I did that Jocelyn would be incapable of such a deed.’

‘I wonder,’ said Christopher.

‘His passions run deep but they would not provoke him to commit a murder. To begin with, Jocelyn would have had no means of getting inside that garden.’

‘Abel Paskins might have helped him.’

‘Who?’

‘The gardener who was dismissed by Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

Christopher told him how he had first heard about the man and how he had driven to Chelsea in the hope of meeting him. The news that Kidbrooke had blatantly poached the gardener from his last employer made Henry forget all about his dinner. He began to revise his opinion of his friend.

‘Paskins could have told him everything he needed to know.’

‘Especially how to get into that garden.’

‘Jocelyn — the killer?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Why was he so keen to engage Abel Paskins? Why did he fail to turn up for dinner that day? What use did he put that telescope to?’ asked Christopher. ‘Is he simply a man in the grip of an obsession or was he driven by uncontrollable jealousy to stab the husband of the woman he pursued? I need you to find out, Henry.’

‘Me?’

‘You’re an intimate of his. If you make casual enquiries, he’ll give you some answers. If I try to approach him, Mr Kidbrooke will be curt and defensive. That’s what happened when Jonathan Bale talked to him.’

‘Bale would make anyone curt and defensive.’

‘Find out what he was really doing on the day of the murder.’

‘He’s unlikely to volunteer the information.’

‘Then dig it out of him by more devious means,’ said his brother. ‘As long as you don’t alert him to the fact that we have the gravest suspicions about him.’

‘I’m not sure that I’m equal to the task, Christopher.’

‘You have to be. You still have much to do to make amends for the way you tried to steal that portrait. Any magistrate who heard what you did would clap you in prison at once.’

‘Not prison again, please — it so disagrees with my complexion.’

‘It’s driven Monsieur Villemot to thoughts of suicide.’

‘That could be a sign of guilt,’ said Henry, pensively. ‘He’d rather take his own life than face the hangman in front of a baying crowd. Perhaps you are wrong about Jocelyn. What if the real killer is the man they have already arrested for the crime?’

‘Monsieur Villemot is innocent — I swear it.’

‘I feel the same about Jocelyn. ’Sdeath, I spent the whole evening with him yesterday. I cannot get my brain to accept that I was revelling with a cold-blooded killer.’

‘I’ve no proof that Mr Kidbrooke is guilty,’ said Christopher, ‘or that Abel Paskins is in any way involved in the crime. It may be that they are not. But it’s an avenue I must explore for the sake of Monsieur Villemot. About it, Henry.’

‘I’m working at the Navy Office this afternoon.’

‘Seek out your friend at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I need to think this over.’

Christopher was authoritative. ‘I’ve thought it over for you. Do as you’re told or there’ll be repercussions.’

‘Would you really turn me over to the law?’

‘Yes, Henry!’ His stern expression melted into a smile. ‘But if you do help me and Jonathan to find the killer, I’ll sing your praises to Lady Culthorpe and wipe away her painful memory of those mawkish verses you felt moved to write.’

Henry was wounded. ‘I put my heart and soul into every line,’ he said, piteously. ‘I expected Araminta to swoon at the sheer magic of my words. I discern a small flaw in her character at last — Araminta has no appreciation of a master poet’s craft.’

Christopher was tactful. ‘Then send her no more examples of it.’

Emile was stroking the cat when he heard the coach rumble to a halt in the street below. Going to the window, he looked down to see Lady Lingoe being helped out of the vehicle by her footman. Clemence did not like being tossed on to a chair and she screeched her disapproval but Emile was already out of the room and descending the stairs. He opened the front door to admit his visitor, greeted her warmly then escorted her up to the studio. Lady Lingoe stood in the doorway and surveyed the room with a nostalgic smile.

‘I spent so much time in here,’ she said, fondly.

‘It was the honour to see you here.’

‘Things have changed for the worse since then, Emile. What I admired most about your master was that he was a free spirit, an artistic vagabond. He lived his life exactly as he chose.’

‘Is very true.’

‘Monsieur Villemot had such a healthy disdain for the pointless restraints that society imposes upon the rest of us. It was a joy to be in his company.’ Her face clouded. ‘The free spirit has now been caged. I went to see him in Newgate.’

‘He tell me, Lady Lingoe. He thank you.’

‘It was disheartening to see him in such a squalid place.’

‘He is hurting very much.’

‘Can you blame him? He’s locked up with the sweepings of London. It’s like Bedlam in there.’

‘I know. I tell Monsieur Redmayne.’

‘Christopher Redmayne?’

‘Yes. He say that he will go to the prison himself.’

‘He’d be better employed trying to get your master out of there. The atmosphere in Newgate is so foul. When I got home, I had to change out of my clothes to get ride of the smell.’

‘I do the same,’ said Emile, fastidiously.

‘When you spoke to Christopher Redmayne, did he give you any reason for hope?’

‘A little — he say he has the suspect.’

‘Did he tell you who it was?’

‘No, Lady Lingoe, he give me no name.’

‘At least, it sounds as if he’s picked up a scent. I wonder who the man could be and how he managed to get away with the murder.’

‘We will know one day.’

‘Let it be one day soon,’ she said with feeling. ‘I do not think that Monsieur Villemot can stand those unspeakable conditions for much longer. I only got as far as the sergeant’s office but that was enough to make me feel crushed. It must be soul-destroying to be locked away in one of the cells.’

‘When I come out of there,’ said Emile, ‘I cry for my master.’

‘I can well believe it. However,’ she went on, looking around, ‘I did not only come here to tell you about my visit to Newgate. I wanted to collect my portrait and take it back with me.’

‘But you ask us to keep it here until Lord Lingoe come.’

‘The case is altered, Emile. I was perfectly happy for it to remain here while Monsieur Villemot was able to look after it for me, but he’s not able to do that now. I’d prefer to have it where I can see it.’

‘Very well.’

‘Could you find it for me, please?’

‘Is here,’ said Emile, crossing to the easel. ‘You like to see?’

‘Yes, please.’ He lifted the cloth so that she could see the portrait and she viewed herself with a mixture of pleasure and regret. The circumstances in which it had been painted no longer existed and that clearly saddened her. ‘Thank you, Emile.’

Lowering the cloth, he lifted the portrait to the ground.

‘While I’m here,’ she said, ‘I’ll take the opportunity to peep at the painting of Lady Culthorpe. Where is it?’

Emile became uneasy. ‘You not want to see that.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Monsieur Villemot, maybe he not like it.’

‘Of course he would. We were friends. He let me see whatever I wanted of his work. I’m sure that he wouldn’t have the slightest objection to my looking at his latest portrait.’

‘Is not finished.’

‘Then let me see how far he managed to get.’

‘Bad idea.’

‘It’s not an idea, Emile,’ she said, asserting herself. ‘It’s a direct request. I intend to see that picture of Araminta Culthorpe and I’ll not let a mere valet stand in my way. Now stop prevaricating and show me which one it is.’

‘Is not here.’

‘Why not?’

‘The lady, she take it away.’

‘You’re lying to me,’ she decided. ‘She’s in mourning. When a husband has been murdered, the last thing a wife would do is to worry about a portrait that is not even finished. Tell me the truth,’ she demanded, imperiously. ‘Where is it?’

‘Is not here — that is the truth.’

‘Then where have you put it?’

Emile licked dry lips. ‘The portrait, it was stolen.’

‘Stolen!’

‘Monsieur Redmayne, he try to get it back.’

‘Who took it?’

‘He not know yet.’

‘I’m glad I decided to retrieve my own portrait,’ she said. ‘The thought that it might have been stolen by a stranger so that he can gloat over it is quite outrageous.’

‘It is. I am very upset.’

‘What about the man who actually painted it? Your master will be mortified to hear what happened to it.’

‘That is why I not tell him.’

‘But he has a right to know, Emile.’

‘We find it,’ said the valet. ‘Before he come out of the prison, we find it for him. He not be told it was ever missing. That would hurt Monsieur Villemot like the sword through the heart. I love him too much to do that to him.’

Sir Willard Grail considered the offer before giving a polite refusal.

‘Thank you, Elkannah,’ he said, ‘I can think of nothing I’d enjoy more than a visit to Newmarket. On any other day but tomorrow, I’d have been delighted to accompany you.’

‘But you have a funeral to attend.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You didn’t need to say it,’ said Prout, resignedly. ‘I should have guessed that nothing would tear you away from that. Well, I have one consolation, I suppose. At least, you didn’t laugh in my face.’

‘Why on earth should I do that?’

‘Henry assured me that you would.’

‘Did you put the same suggestion to him?’

‘Yes, I did, and I’ve been regretting it ever since.’

‘Why?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘Was he contemptuous?’

‘His behaviour was inexcusable,’ said Prout, stiffly, ‘and I no longer list him among my close friends.’

‘Dear me! Was your conversation with him as bad as that?’

‘It was worse, Sir Willard.’

They had met on their way to the coffee house and stepped into the anteroom so that they could talk in private. Like Henry Redmayne, Sir Willard had seen through the ruse immediately. The offer of a trip to Newmarket was a means of keeping him away from the funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe. Though he had not decided if he would attend the latter, he had graciously declined the invitation.

‘I daresay that you had the same response from Jocelyn,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He’s the one person determined to be at that church.’

‘I felt obliged to make the offer to him as well.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Prout. ‘When I called at his house, he was not there. His butler told me that he had business in Richmond and would be away all day.’

Sir Willard was exasperated. ‘Confound it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was hoping to find him here. I need a word or two with Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘Have you fallen out with him?’

‘No, Elkannah — but it may come to that.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a private matter regarding my brother-in-law.’

‘And it threatens your friendship with Jocelyn?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What a turn of events!’ observed Prout, drily. ‘Not so long ago, all four of us were close companions, fellow pleasure-seekers and members of a Society whose very name defined our characters. Where has our warm friendship flown?’ he asked. ‘I have spurned Henry Redmayne. You are on the verge of a serious argument with Jocelyn Kidbrooke, and there’s no common ground left between us.’

‘All that will change once the funeral is over.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘It’s self-evident,’ said Sir Willard. ‘Until her husband is buried, Araminta cannot learn to live again and, until she does that, none of us can, in all conscience, make any overtures to her.’

‘That was not your opinion a couple of days ago.’

‘I’ve mellowed since then.’

‘If only Jocelyn could have done so as well,’ said Prout, ‘but there was no chance of that. Of the four of us, he was always the most rabid and uncompromising in his desires.’

‘That’s precisely why Araminta will reject him.’

‘Such over-eagerness would be very distressing to her.’

‘Almost as distressing as Henry’s crude attempts at poetry,’ said Sir Willard with a laugh. ‘When I read that sonnet of his, I began to wonder if English was his first tongue. He mangled the language.’

‘This morning, he mangled our friendship.’

‘Why are you so bitter about it, Elkannah?’

‘Because he betrayed me,’ said Prout, icily. ‘He agreed to my pact at first, then threw it back in my face. That was unpardonable. I will be supremely happy if I never see Henry Redmayne again.’

The closer the funeral came, the more Araminta Culthorpe sank back into despair. Nothing could alleviate her suffering. The brevity of her marriage added a poignancy to the situation. Having been pursued and harassed by a number of suitors, she had found a decent, loving, caring man who neither pursued nor harassed her, offering her instead a respect and consideration that slowly drew her to him. Sir Martin Culthorpe was all that she had ever envisaged in a husband, and their life together had been blissful.

Now he was gone and the brutal manner of his demise made his death more shocking. He could never be replaced. Araminta could never again know that joy of discovery. She and her husband had been enlarged with a vision of each other. Such delight only happened once in a lifetime. In its wake, came a form of oblivion.

Occupied by these thoughts, Araminta sat in her bedchamber and tried to summon up the strength to face the ordeal on the morrow. All eyes would be on her. She would be tested to the limit.

Eleanor Ryle was seated beside her, watching her mistress’s face gradually darken. She tried to lighten the mood of despondency with some light conversation.

‘Mr Rushton says that everything is under control.’

‘Good.’

‘All that you need worry about is getting through the service,’ said the maid. ‘It’s bound to be harrowing, m’lady, but I know you’ll keep your composure somehow.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘You’ll be surrounded by people who love you.’

‘That will bring comfort,’ said Araminta. After a pause, she sat bolt upright to announce an important decision. ‘I’ve been thinking about the portrait.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘It hasn’t upset me, Eleanor. It did at first, I admit, because it had such painful associations. Then I tried to look at it from Monsieur Villemot’s point of view. He was so excited by the commission. He brought such relish to his work.’ A look of bewilderment came over her face. ‘Monsieur Villemot wanted more than anything to finish that portrait. He told me that it would be his finest work since coming to England. Why should he do anything that might prevent him from completing it? That would be nonsensical.’

‘I agree, m’lady.’

‘He stood to gain nothing whatsoever by committing the crime,’ said Araminta, ‘yet he risked losing everything. Once I’d dwelt on that fact, I realised that I need no longer shun the portrait. It was not, after all, the work of a man who killed my husband.’

‘Other people feel the same,’ said Eleanor, thinking of her visit to Christopher Redmayne. ‘I’m sure that they are doing whatever they can to prove his innocence.’

‘It was as if a curse had suddenly been lifted off the portrait.’

‘I’m glad you see it that way.’

‘Since it was commissioned by Sir Martin, it ought to be here in our house. In time — God willing — Monsieur Villemot may even be in a position to finish it, though I can understand that he might want to have nothing more to do with it.’

‘All that he wants at the moment is to be set free.’

‘If he’s truly innocent, that will surely happen.’

‘What do you want me to do about the portrait, m’lady?’

‘Go and fetch it.’

‘Today?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Araminta, decisively. ‘Take the carriage to the studio and collect what is rightly mine.’

Christopher Redmayne was impatient. The evening was wearing on yet there was no sign of his brother. He feared that Henry might have forgotten his assignment and drifted off to a tavern with his friends. As he paced up and down the drawing room of his house, Christopher reprimanded himself for trusting so important a task to a person who was noted for his unreliability. Valuable time had been lost. Until they had more detail about Abel Paskins, neither Christopher nor Jonathan Bale could press ahead with their investigation into the murder and the theft of the portrait.

There was the additional problem of Jean-Paul Villemot. To a man of such pride and sensitivity, being under lock and key in Newgate was like being stretched on a rack of humiliation. He would not be able to withstand it indefinitely. His threat of suicide had not been an idle one. If he carried it out, his name would be added to the long list of prisoners who had taken their own lives to escape the shame of being thrown into Newgate.

Christopher did not want the artist’s death on his conscience but the only way to avoid that was to establish his innocence. If he put his mind to it, Henry could play a crucial role in getting Villemot out of prison, but it appeared that he had once again been distracted by the more immediate pleasures of the city. His brother’s first impulse was to visit Henry’s favourite haunts and drag him out of the one into which he had selfishly rolled that evening. Christopher drew back from that course of action because he knew how quickly Henry could drink himself into incomprehensibility. An inebriated brother would be no use to him at all.

He was just about to give up all hope of seeing Henry that evening when he heard the clatter of hooves in the street. Someone pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. When the doorbell rang, Jacob went to answer it. Leaving his horse in the care of the old servant, Henry Redmayne swept into the drawing room and took off his hat before giving a low bow. Christopher was astounded. He did not at first recognise his brother for he wore a peach-coloured suit of the finest silk and the most elaborate sartorial accessories. What confused Christopher was that his visitor’s face was covered in white powder and marked with a large beauty spot.

‘Is that you, Henry?’ asked his brother, tentatively.

‘As large as life, Christopher.’

‘Why have you dressed like this?’

‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ said Henry. ‘Meanwhile, prepare yourself for a disappointment.’

‘You forgot all about speaking to Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘On the contrary, I rode to his house as soon as I’d finished at the Navy Office. But he was not there. He spent the day in Richmond.’

‘Did you enquire about Abel Paskins?’

‘That’s the other disappointment.’

‘Why?’

‘The gardener left Jocelyn’s staff days ago,’ said Henry. ‘Nobody at the house has any idea where Paskins might have gone. But do not worry,’ he continued. ‘As one trail goes cold, we pick up a scent elsewhere. Get changed, Christopher. Put on the most gaudy apparel that you possess.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘It will help us to blend in. Samson Dinley is a distant acquaintance of mine, though anyone less like the Biblical Samson it would be impossible to find. He’s no strong man brought down by a woman, but a puny, prancing, pigeon-chested fellow. However,’ said Henry, magnanimously, ‘despicable as he is in many ways, Samson gave me the most valuable piece of information.’

‘About what?’

‘The missing portrait.’

‘He knows where it is?’

‘Samson saw it for himself.’

‘Where?’

‘At the place I’m about to take you, Christopher. But you’d not be admitted in that dull and workaday attire. Seek out the brightest thing in your wardrobe,’ he urged, pushing his brother out of the room. ‘You are about to have an experience that will set your mind racing. Araminta awaits us — dress up accordingly for her.’