The Painted Lady (9 page)

‘Only if he is innocent,’ warned Bale.

‘Quite so.’

‘Where do we start looking, Mr Redmayne?’

‘At the obvious place,’ said Christopher. ‘His lodgings.’

Elkannah Prout stared at him in utter disbelief. He was bemused.

‘Are you
serious
, Henry?’

‘Deadly serious.’

‘You saw this happen with your own eyes?’

‘I can call on a second witness,’ said Henry Redmayne, ‘for Jocelyn was standing beside me. Two officers banged on the door of the house then went inside. When they came out again, I asked them what was afoot and they told me they were hunting Villemot.’

‘Do they really think he was the killer?’

‘Yes, Elkannah.’

‘But he’d have no reason to murder Sir Martin.’

‘He’d have the best reason in the world,’ said Henry. ‘He’s infatuated with Araminta.’

‘He’s only known her for a few days,’ argued Prout.

‘I only saw her for a few minutes before I was ensnared, and the same goes for the rest of us. We all saw her from afar. Think how it must have been for someone who was allowed to look upon her at close range for long periods of time. The most telling thing of all, Elkannah, is that Villemot is a Frenchman.’

‘So?’

‘He comes from a nation of uncontrollable lechers.’

Prout blinked. ‘You think this crime was driven by lust, then?’

‘The only way he could possess her is by getting rid of her husband,’ said Henry. ‘That’s another aspect of the French. They are prone to impetuous action.’

They were in a coffee house in Holborn, oblivious to the stream of chatter all around them. Henry was still amazed by what he had learned, eager to accept Villemot’s guilt because it served his purpose. If the artist were arrested, he would not be able to mount guard over the portrait of Araminta. The holy grail of art was suddenly within Henry’s reach. Elkannah Prout seemed less ready to believe in the artist’s guilt. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

‘No,’ he decided, putting down his cup, ‘it would be madness. Who could possibly expect to endear himself to a woman by killing her husband? That’s sheer lunacy.’

‘Villemot expected to get away with it. In time, he must have hoped, Araminta would turn to him for comfort and wed him.’

‘But the fellow is already married.’

‘So is Jocelyn,’ said Henry, ‘but that hasn’t stopped him from having wild thoughts about a future with Araminta. The same goes for Sir Willard. It was less than two years ago that we attended his wedding yet he already behaves as if the ceremony never took place.’

‘My only interest at the moment is in Villemot.’

‘So is mine, Elkannah.’

‘How could he imagine that he would escape detection?’

‘The French are a peculiar breed.’

‘Even they do not think they can murder at will, Henry.’

‘A warrant is out for his arrest, that’s all I know. Unless there was strong evidence against him, he would not be being pursued with such vigour. The law does not often make mistakes.’

Prout smiled. ‘I wonder that
you
should say that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were once wrongfully arrested and
imprisoned
.’

‘Do not remind me,’ said Henry with a shiver. ‘There’s no more harmless creature on this planet than me, yet I was accused of foul murder. But for my brother, I’d have been hanged for the crime.’

‘I was just thinking about your brother.’

‘What put Christopher into your mind?’

‘Has he not designed a new house for the artist?’

‘Indeed, he has,’ said Henry, snapping his fingers. ‘I’d forgotten that. It was a lucrative commission. Poor Christopher! When his client is convicted, my brother will lose a large amount of money.’

‘You must be able to tell us
something
,’ said Christopher, urgently. ‘We’re trying to help your master, Emile, but we can’t do that unless we can find him.’

The valet looked beleaguered. ‘I know nothing.’

‘What did you tell the two officers?’

‘It’s a crime to hold back information,’ warned Bale. ‘It may be different in your country but, in England, you have to tell the truth to any law officers. Do you understand?

‘I’m sure that he does, Jonathan. Don’t frighten him with veiled threats or we won’t get a single word out of him.’

They were in Villemot’s studio and the visitors were attempting to question Emile. It was proving difficult and not only because his grasp of English was uncertain. The valet was frightened. For the second time that morning, two officers had come to the house to demand to know the whereabouts of his master. In their wake, two more people wanted to interrogate him. Clemence was equally scared. Sensing danger, she stood on the chair with her back arched and her fur bristling. She took particular exception to Bale and hissed every time that the constable looked in her direction.

Christopher had seen the studio before but it was a revelation to his companion. Its combination of striking art and spectacular disarray was almost overwhelming for Bale, and he did not like the atmosphere of the place. The sense of excess repelled him. Nor did the little French valet reassure him. Neat, smart and wholesome he might be, but there was something about Emile that worried Bale. What puzzled him was that he could not work out what it was.

‘Let’s try again,’ said Christopher, patiently. ‘Do you believe that your master has committed this crime, Emile?’

‘
Non
!’ The answer was decisive.

‘Has he ever been in trouble before?’

‘
Non
!’ replied Emile, hurt by the suggestion.

‘So why did they want to arrest him?’ The valet looked blank.

‘We won’t leave until you tell us,’ said Christopher. ‘What did those officers say when they first called?’

‘They look for Monsieur Villemot,’ said Emile.

‘But why? They must have had cause to do so.’

‘A warrant would not be issued without evidence,’ said Bale. ‘Did they tell you what that evidence was, sir?’

Emile shook his head. Clemence gave her loudest hiss yet.

‘Where did Monsieur Villemot go?’ asked Christopher. ‘When I called to see him yesterday afternoon, he was not here. Where was he, Emile?’

‘He went out for the ride,’ said the other.

‘Where?’

‘I do not know.’

‘How long was he gone?’

‘A long time, Monsieur Redmayne.’

‘An hour – two, perhaps?’

‘Two, I think.’

‘So he was away from this house when the crime took place?’ After a pause, Emile gave an affirmative nod. ‘I saw him when he came back,’ Christopher continued, ‘and he was very disturbed. He was perspiring and he looked ill. Also, the sleeve of his coat was torn.’

‘I mended that,’ said the valet, promptly.

‘Did
you
think he was in a strange mood?’

‘I work for Monsieur Villemot. His moods are not strange to me.’

‘Is he often in that state?’

‘There’s only one reason that would have brought those officers here,’ said Bale, ‘and that was evidence from a witness. Sir Martin Culthorpe lived in Westminster, Emile. Was your master seen in the vicinity of his house yesterday?’

The valet bit his lip. ‘Yes,’ he conceded.

‘Do you know why he went there?’

‘No.’

‘How many years have you worked for him?’

‘Three.’

‘Then you must have got to know him very well in that time. If you work so closely together, he’d trust and confide in you.’ Bale took a step closer to him. ‘What did he tell you yesterday afternoon when he got back?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What did he do?’

Emile glanced at the easel. ‘He worked on the portrait.’

‘The one of Lady Culthorpe?’

‘Yes. He painted until it got too dark.’

‘That does not sound like the behaviour of a man who had just killed someone,’ said Christopher, trying to win Emile’s confidence. ‘He would have been much more likely to disappear. Instead, he came back here to get on with his work. Is that correct?’

‘It is, Monsieur Redmayne.’

‘When your master spoke to me earlier, he told me that he first heard about Sir Martin’s death yesterday evening.’

‘Is true,’ said Emile. ‘A servant came from the house. He tell us Lady Culthorpe will not be here again.’

‘How did Monsieur Villemot react?’

‘He was upset.’

‘I’m sure he was. Listen, Emile,’ said Christopher, gently, ‘we are very anxious to help your master. Can you give us any idea where he might be?’

‘
Non
.’

‘Does he have friends in London?’

‘Yes – many friends.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ There was a long pause before Emile shook his head. ‘I think there was and you do Monsieur Villemot no favours by keeping the name from us. Where would he go, Emile? Who could he rely on to hide him?’

Emile backed away slightly, wrestling with his conscience. He was in a quandary. Wanting to protect his master, he knew that fleeing the law might look like a confirmation of guilt. Unless
his name was cleared, Jean-Paul Villemot would be hunted all over London. If anyone should find him, it was preferable that it was a friend like Christopher Redmayne and not two officers, annoyed at the way that he had eluded them in Fetter Lane. Emile bit his lip again.

‘I do not know where he is,’ he said with unmistakable honesty.

‘But you might have some idea?’

‘I could be wrong, Monsieur Redmayne.’

‘You know your master better than anyone,’ said Christopher.

‘There was a lady,’ admitted Emile. ‘She was his friend.’

Bale was suspicious. ‘What sort of friend?’

‘He was painting her portrait.’

‘Who was she and where does she live?’

‘Don’t press him, Jonathan,’ advised Christopher. ‘Let him tell us in his own good time.’

‘Her name was Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said Emile.

‘I fancy I’ve heard my brother mention her.’ Bale shot him a knowing glance. ‘Believe it or not, some of Henry’s friends are quite respectable. Let’s not rush to judgement on this lady.’ He turned to Emile. ‘What can you tell us about her?’

‘They were friends, this lady and my master.’

‘Go on,’ encouraged Christopher.

‘Is all I know. The painting is still here.’

‘Could we see it, please?’

‘If you wish.’

‘We do, Emile. Show us the portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe.’

The valet went across to a framed portrait that stood against the wall with a cloth over it. Picking it up, he had second thoughts and hesitated. The visitors waited in silence. Emile eventually decided that there was no point in hiding something that might lead them to his master. He pulled the cloth away to reveal the nude portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe, posing as Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the moon.

Christopher gaped in wonder but Bale was so shocked that he began to splutter, turning his head away from the painting in sheer embarrassment. It was Christopher who recovered first.

‘I think that we had better visit the lady,’ he said.

Araminta was still in a daze. Twenty-four hours after the murder of her husband, she sat in the window of her bedchamber and gazed with mingled pain and curiosity at the garden where she had found his body. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, she could not accept that he was gone. Araminta tried to keep up her spirits by pretending that he was simply unwell and that, once treated by his physician, he would recover and return to her. She clung with pitiful desperation to a false hope even though she knew that Sir Martin’s body had been taken to the coroner for examination.

Since the moment of discovery in the grotto, she had not slept a wink. Araminta had insisted on keeping a vigil. Fatigue had rounded her shoulders and made her head droop. It had also put dark rings under her eyes but she refused to yield up to sleep. She told herself that she had to be ready to welcome her husband back home again. So preoccupied was she is staring through the window that she did not hear the door open, nor see her maid slip into the room. Eleanor Ryle was carrying a wooden tray bearing food and drink. Setting it down on the table beside the bed, she came across to her mistress.

‘How do you feel now, m’lady?’ she enquired, gently.

‘I’ll be fine when Sir Martin returns.’

‘The cook has made you some breakfast.’

‘I want nothing.’

‘But you haven’t eaten a morsel since yesterday morning.’

‘I’m not hungry, Eleanor.’

‘You must be.’

‘Take the food away, please.’

‘Why don’t I leave it beside the bed?’ said the other, coaxingly. ‘You might want to have it in a little while.’

Eleanor knew that it was unlikely. It was the fourth tray of food she had brought into the bedchamber and, like the first three she feared that it would remain untouched. She understood why. For several hours after the murder, she had lost her own appetite but the pangs of hunger had eventually overcome her resistance. Eleanor knelt solicitously beside her mistress.

‘You need some sleep, m’lady,’ she said.

‘I’m not tired.’

‘You must be.’

‘No, Eleanor.’

‘At least, lie down on the bed,’ the maid recommended. ‘Then you can have a proper rest.’

‘I don’t want a rest.’

‘You can’t sit in that chair all the time. You’re exhausted.’

‘Just leave me be.’

‘But I hate to see you in this state, m’lady.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘You’re punishing yourself in vain.’

‘I have to wait for my husband. He’d expect it of me.’

‘But he’s not coming back,’ said Eleanor, softly.

Araminta looked at her properly for the first time. She was fond of Eleanor. They had been together for years and she had come to place great trust in the maid. Eleanor was capable, obedient and loyal. She had devoted herself to the service of her mistress, sharing her woes and celebrating her moments of joy. When she had told them of her marriage to Sir Martin Culthorpe, some of Araminta’s friends believed that she had made a gross mistake she would soon regret. Their reaction had
disturbed her. It was Eleanor who had comforted her, assuring her that she had made the right decision and telling her that she had never seen her mistress so happy. It had brought Araminta and her maid even closer together.

‘What did you say, Eleanor?’

‘It’s wrong to pretend that it never happened, m’lady.’

‘I’m not pretending.’

‘You are,’ whispered the maid. ‘Sir Martin is dead and you know it. He was murdered in the garden. You found his body.’

Araminta was befuddled. ‘Did I?’

‘Don’t you remember? The doctor came to verify the cause of death, then he spoke to you. He said that you must rest. He offered to give you something to help you sleep but you refused to take it.’

‘Is this true?’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

‘When did this all happen?’

‘Yesterday afternoon.’

‘My husband is
dead
?’

‘They took his body away,’ explained Eleanor. ‘There’s no point in sitting here like this because he will never come back.’ Araminta was still not persuaded. ‘There are lots of things to do, m’lady. There are so many people to be told – friends and relations. There are funeral arrangements to discuss. None of these things can be done if you just sit there in the window all the time.’

Araminta gave a pale smile, then, as if hearing of the murder for the first time, she suddenly burst into tears. Getting to her feet, Eleanor hugged her and let her cry her fill, rocking her to and fro like a mother with a child. At length, Araminta made an effort to control herself, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe the rivulets from her cheeks. She looked up at the maid.

‘Who killed him, Eleanor?’

‘Don’t worry yourself about that, m’lady.’

‘I want to know. Tell me.’

‘Nothing is certain as yet,’ said the other. ‘An officer called at the house earlier today and spoke to the butler.’

‘What did he say?’

‘It’s perhaps best if you don’t know. I don’t want you upset any more. Let the law deal with the killer.’

‘But who is he?’ demanded Araminta. ‘Give me his name.’

‘What use will that be?’

‘It will make me understand. It will help me to fit my mind to this horror. Who was the devil who took my husband away from me?’

‘They are out searching for him, m’lady.’

‘Tell me his name. I can see that you know it.’

‘I only know what Mr Rushton – what the butler told me. A warrant has been issued for the arrest of the man they suspect.’

‘
And
?’ Araminta was impatient. ‘Come on, girl – speak!’

‘It’s the French artist, m’lady.’

‘Monsieur Villemot?’

‘That’s what I heard.’

Araminta was aghast. Someone she considered to be a friend had stabbed her husband to death. Bringing both hands up, she buried her face in her palms. Her body trembled, shook, then went into a series of convulsions as she tried to cope with the dire news. Enfolding her once more in her arms, Eleanor stroked her hair to soothe her.

‘I told you that it was better if you didn’t know, m’lady.’

As Jonathan Bale approached the house, he had grave reservations.

‘We do not know if the gentleman is there,’ he complained.

‘I agree,’ said Christopher, ‘but, by the same token, we do not know that he is
not
there. In view of what Emile told us, we should at least look into the matter.’

‘I think it will be a wasted journey, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Have more faith, Jonathan. You heard what his valet told us. Monsieur Villemot became very friendly with Lady Lingoe.’

‘Yes,’ said Bale, disapprovingly. ‘Having seen that portrait of her, I shudder to think what kind of friendship it was.’

Christopher laughed. ‘This is no time for maiden modesty.’

‘That painting was indecent.’

‘It was unexpected, I’ll admit that.’

‘A woman, disporting herself like that – it was lewd.’

‘Not at all,’ said Christopher. ‘It had great artistic merit. It was firmly in the Classical tradition.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If you want to see lewdness and bad taste of the worst kind, you should look at some of the paintings in my brother’s house.’

‘I’ve seen them, sir. They are coarse and immoral.’

‘That, alas, is why Henry bought them.’

By keeping up a good pace, they finally reached Piccadilly, a wide thoroughfare that took its name from a tailor who had made his fortune by selling picadils, a high, stiff collar much in vogue at Court earlier in the century. Open fields were still in view but more and more houses were being built in the area, and Christopher had designed one of them. Emile had given them the address and it did not take them long to find the Lingoe residence, an imposing abode of white stone with a Classical façade that the architect stopped to admire. He marvelled at its beauty.

It only served to unsettle Bale. He was never at ease in the presence of wealth and privilege, and the house symbolised both. Its sheer opulence revolted him. Understanding his reluctance to enter the building, Christopher had a solution to the problem.

‘If he’s there,’ he predicted, ‘he will not give himself up. My guess is that he will try to sneak away again.’

‘Shall I cover the garden, sir?’

‘Please do, Jonathan. Cut off his escape.’

‘Only if he’s inside,’ said the constable, dubiously.

‘There’s one way to find out.’

After giving his friend plenty of time to walk to the rear of the house, Christopher rang the bell. The butler who opened
the door was a tall, stately man in his forties with a searching gaze. It took him a second to establish that his visitor was a gentleman. Christopher’s elegance, respectability and air of wholesomeness impressed him.

‘Yes, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’d like to speak to Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said the other.

‘Is she expecting you, sir?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Lady Lingoe is not in the habit of receiving chance visitors,’ said the butler, ‘especially while her husband is out of the country.’

‘I have a feeling that she’ll agree to see me. Tell her that it concerns a portrait that she recently had painted.’

‘May I give her your name, sir?’

‘Christopher Redmayne.’

The butler invited him in, closed the front door and disappeared down a corridor. Christopher had the opportunity to look around and he was intrigued. Marble predominated. Statues of classical heroes stood everywhere, all of them armed and most of them naked. It was like being back in Rome, a city that Christopher had once visited when deciding to follow architecture as a profession. The gilt-framed art also had a classical theme. He was still studying a dramatic painting of Leda and the Swan when he heard footsteps clacking down the corridor. He looked up to see Lady Hester Lingo sailing gracefully towards him.

She was a full-bodied woman of medium height with bright red hair dressed in broad plaits in the style of a Roman matron. Her long tunic with its wide flounce was fastened along the upper arm by some gold brooches. An outer garment of silk was wrapped around her like a shawl. Christopher was irresistibly reminded of an illustration he had once seen of a Roman priestess. Though she was nearing thirty, her face had a sculptural splendour and seemed to be totally unlined. When she got closer, however, he saw how artfully Lady Lingoe had
used cosmetics to conceal any signs of aging. The lady in the painting at the studio was indeed a painted lady.

‘Mr Redmayne?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher.

‘You must be Henry’s younger brother.’

‘Do you know Henry?’

‘We are acquainted,’ she said with a noncommittal smile. ‘He mentioned to me that his sibling was a brilliant architect.’

‘My brilliance has yet to be proven,’ said Christopher, ‘but I revel in my work. I am in awe of your house,’ he went on, looking around the hall. ‘It’s taken my breath away. I am pleased that you favour the Ionic Order. The shaft is more slender in proportion than the Doric and the capitals more intricate. The cornice-mouldings are small masterpieces.’

‘I’m glad that you approve, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, ‘but you did not come here to show your appreciation of my house. I believe that you came to talk about a portrait for which I sat.’

‘Yes, Lady Lingoe.’

‘Well?’

‘It’s rather a delicate subject,’ said Christopher, feeling that the hall was too large, cold and echoing a place for a private conversation. ‘Is there somewhere else we might go?’

She kept him waiting for an answer. ‘Very well,’ she replied after long cogitation. ‘Follow me.’

Lady Lingoe opened a door and took him into the library, a sizeable room with shelves of books against two walls, topped by a series of marble busts of Greek and Roman poets. When he was waved to a chair, Christopher sat in the shadow of Catullus.

‘What is this about a delicate subject?’ she said.

‘It concerns the artist, Monsieur Villemot. I believe that he befriended you while painting your portrait.’

‘Do you have any objection to that?’

‘None at all, Lady Lingoe.’

‘Have you
seen
the portrait?’

‘Briefly,’ he said with evident discomfort.

She gave a brittle laugh. ‘There’s no need to be quite so coy, Mr Redmayne,’ she said. ‘As an architect, you must be accustomed to nude figures, if only carved in marble. Why feel ashamed – I certainly am not? The portrait is a present for my dear husband on his fiftieth birthday. Lord Lingoe is in Holland at the moment, attending to his ambassadorial duties. I wanted to surprise him with the gift.’

‘I’m sure that he will be delighted with it.’

‘We share a common passion for classical antiquity.’

‘I gathered that, Lady Lingoe.’

She sat opposite him. ‘I’m still waiting to hear what brought you to my door, Mr Redmayne.’

‘The death of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Really? I had no idea that he had passed away.’

‘He was murdered, Lady Lingoe – stabbed in his garden.’

‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Has the killer been apprehended?’

‘Not yet.’

‘These are dreadful tidings. I did not know Sir Martin well but I nevertheless grieve for him. Murdered in his garden – how frightful! That young wife of his must be in torment.’

‘She is, Lady Lingoe.’

‘I’m full of sympathy for her,’ she said with unfeigned sincerity, ‘though I fail to see what connection my portrait can have with the crime.’

‘It’s not
your
portrait that’s relevant here,’ said Christopher, ‘but the one Monsieur Villemot was painting of Lady Culthorpe. For reasons I don’t fully understand, he is suspected of committing the crime and a warrant has been issued for his arrest.’

‘Jean-Paul, a killer?’ she cried, incredulously. ‘That’s an absurd suggestion. I know the man and can vouch for his character.’

‘So can I, Lady Lingoe. I’ve designed a house for him and it
has meant our spending a lot of time together. Like you, I hold him in high esteem. I do not believe he’s guilty. However,’ added Christopher, ‘he has, unfortunately, behaved like a guilty man.’