The Painted Lady (21 page)

‘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.