The Painted Lady (18 page)

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.’