The Painted Lady (13 page)

‘I need more time to think,’ she said, conscious that he was waiting for her to speak. ‘I’ll be in touch, Emile.’

‘Thank you, m’lady.’

‘When will you be seeing Monsieur Villemot again?’

‘Soon.’

‘Tell him that he is in my thoughts.’

‘I will,’ said Emile with a smile. ‘My master will like that.’

Sarah Bale was delighted to see him again and she became almost girlish. Christopher Redmayne always had that effect on her. For his part, he was pleased to be given the customary warm welcome and to answer the battery of questions that she fired at him. After making some polite enquiries after her children, Christopher was rescued by Bale. The constable eased his wife into the kitchen.

‘Mr Redmayne came to see me, my love,’ he told her, gently, ‘and not to listen to your gossip.’

‘Is he going to ask you to make another model?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Offer to do so, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘Don’t hold back.’

‘We’ve other things to talk about, Sarah.’

After kissing her on the forehead, he went out and closed the kitchen door behind him. He and Christopher went into the little parlour. Bale moved some toy soldiers from a chair so that his visitor could sit down. He put the soldiers on a table. Christopher peered at them with interest.

‘Did you make those?’

Bale smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, I did, sir.’

‘I thought so,’ said Christopher with a grin. ‘Who else would build his children a New Model Army?’

‘I served under Oliver Cromwell and I’m proud of the fact.’

‘You’ve a right to be so, Jonathan. You were on the winning side at the battle of Worcester and that’s a memory you’ll cherish. But,’ he went on, ‘that’s all past. We are subjects of a King once more.’

‘You know my views where His Majesty is concerned,’ said Bale, ‘so I’ll not spoil our friendship by giving them to you again. Something has happened, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes – the portrait of Lady Culthorpe has been stolen.’

Bale started. ‘Who took it?’

‘That’s for us to find out.’

‘Did you have anyone in mind?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, thinking of his brother but determined to keep his name out of the discussion. ‘There are two people who might bear close examination. We must recover that portrait.’

‘Does the lady herself know that it’s been stolen?’

‘No, Jonathan, and she must never find out. It would distress her even more if she realised that her likeness was in the hands of a thief. Lady Culthorpe doesn’t know what occurred and neither does Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Why?’ asked Bale. ‘The artist ought to be told.’

‘His valet is terrified of the way he would respond,’ said Christopher. ‘His master has a temper – I’ve seen him flare up with my own eyes. While he’s away, Emile is in charge of the studio. It’s his responsibility to protect the paintings.’

‘Especially the one of Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Emile told me that he would rather have lost all the other paintings in the studio.’

‘Does that include the portrait of Lady Lingoe?’

‘It does, Jonathan. I know that you’d be saddened if that had been stolen,’ he teased. ‘The portrait had a special meaning for you.’

Bale sniffed. ‘It made me wonder what goes on in an artist’s studio,’ he said, dourly.

‘You’ll have to put that question to Lady Lingoe herself.’

‘No, thank you, sir – I’d rather not meet her at all.’

‘You’d be quite safe. She dresses as a Roman priestess.’

‘I’ll keep my distance from her, dressed or undressed.’

‘One thing is certain,’ said Christopher. ‘Whoever stole that other portrait, it was not Lady Lingoe. I begin to think that it may be the same person who killed Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘He could have stolen it without resorting to murder.’

‘That depends on his motive. If he was spellbound by Lady Culthorpe’s beauty, he could have been driven to kill the husband in order to get closer to her.’

‘She’s in mourning.’

‘That’s why he has to be patient,’ said Christopher. ‘Since he can’t even see her while she’s brooding on her loss, he would have wanted to look upon her in some way.’

‘The portrait.’

‘Why else would he take it?’

Bale fell silent, deep in contemplation. His brow was rutted, his lips pursed, his eyes staring into space. Christopher looked down at the toy soldiers. They had been made with love for Bale’s two sons so that they could play out various battles. Each soldier had been carved and painted with precision. To a doting father, the soldiers were every bit as important as Villemot’s portraits were to the artist. Christopher could see how deeply wounded Bale would be by the theft of his handiwork. Over the time he had worked on the miniature figures, he would have built up a close relationship with them.

‘I wonder if we are mistaken,’ said Bale, suddenly.

‘Mistaken?’

‘I very much doubt if the thief was also the killer.’

‘You reason?’

‘I deal with crime every day, Mr Redmayne. In my experience, a man who commits murder has only one thought in mind and that is to get far away from the place where the deed was done. I do not think that he would stay in London so that he could steal a portrait.’

‘If he’d taken flight,’ said Christopher, ‘he’d have given himself away. Better to stay here and keep out of sight. A city as large as London has many hiding places.’

‘I still say the thief is not the killer.’

‘But the two must be connected in some way.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Bale, ‘but it may not be the case at all. For the sake of argument, suppose that Lady Culthorpe has nothing
to do with what happened to her husband.’

‘Lust is a powerful motive, Jonathan.’

‘So is greed, so is envy, so is hatred. Sir Martin was known for his kindness but even the kindest of men have enemies. Someone may have wanted to strike him down out of sheer malice. Remember this,’ he went on. ‘The murder was planned. It was no accident. The killer must have known that Sir Martin went for a stroll in his garden at certain times of the day. He must have contrived a means of getting the key to the garden gate.’

‘I realise that,’ said Christopher. ‘The problem is that the person who could help us most is the one who is out of our reach.’

‘Lady Araminta Culthorpe.’

‘She would know about Sir Martin’s habits and be able to tell us who had the keys to that gate. Without realising it, Lady Culthorpe probably has lots of information that would be useful to us but we could not possibly approach her at a time like this.’

‘When is the funeral?’

‘Very soon, I should imagine.’

‘Then we must wait until it’s over.’

‘There’s one way we might ensure her assistance.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘By finding that portrait,’ said Christopher. ‘Because Sir Martin commissioned it, it’s a last memento of her husband. If we tell her that we recovered it from the thief, she’ll be extremely grateful.’

‘How do we track it down?’

‘I’m not entirely sure.’

‘You told me you had two suspects in mind, sir.’

‘I hoped that we might question one each.’

‘Who are they?’

‘They’re friends of my brother.’ Bale sniffed again. ‘Yes, yes, I know you think they’re Henry’s fellow libertines and that may turn out to be true. What we have to decide is
whether or not one of them is also a thief and a killer.’

‘He’ll not be both, Mr Redmayne, mark my words.’

‘I bow to your superior instincts.’

‘Who are these gentlemen?’

‘One is Sir Willard Grail and the other, Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘I do not like the sound of that title,’ said Bale, curling a lip, ‘unless, of course, it was awarded by the Lord Protector.’

‘Sir Willard comes from Cavalier stock.’

‘Then I’ll take the other gentleman, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke made his money in trade,’ said Christopher, ‘and bought his way into society. My brother describes him as serious-minded but amiable. That might just mean that he loaned Henry some money. Kidbrooke fell in with my brother in order to secure an introduction to His Majesty’s circle.’

‘What am I to ask him, Mr Redmayne?’

‘You might begin by saying that you know he made a substantial offer for that portrait. His interest in it is clear.’

‘Did your brother think him capable of stealing it?’

‘Not in person, perhaps, but he might hire someone to do it.’ Taking a piece of paper from his pocket, Christopher handed it over. ‘This is Kidbrooke’s address,’ he said. ‘Like so many men – Henry, alas, among them – he’s besotted with Lady Culthorpe. That’s why I need to warn you about something.’

‘And what’s that, sir?’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke is married.’

Bale stiffened. ‘He has a wife yet pursues another woman?’

‘So it appears.’

‘That’s a betrayal of his marriage vows.’

‘It’s something else you might raise with him,’ said Christopher.

Despair came in waves. Though she immersed herself in work, there were times when Araminta Culthorpe simply could not keep dejection at bay. Coming when she least expected it, it washed over her and left her drenched with misery as she was
forcibly reminded of the gruesome discovery she had made in the garden. With one thrust of a dagger, her husband had been murdered and her happiness taken away. The future looked bleak and empty. Araminta did not know if she would have the courage to face it.

‘Bear up, m’lady,’ said Eleanor Ryle.

‘I’ve no strength left to do it.’

‘Then you need to rest. You’ve not had a proper sleep since the day it happened. Go to bed, m’lady. Things may not look so daunting when you’ve had a good, long sleep.’

‘I’ve tried to sleep,’ said Araminta, ‘but my mind is too full of phantoms when I lie down. I remember what I saw in the garden and the horror starts all over again. The only way I can block it out is by keeping myself busy.’

‘But you’re close to exhaustion, m’lady.’

‘So are you, Eleanor. You’ve hardly left my side for days. It’s a terrible strain on you. I can see how weary you are.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘Every ounce of energy has been drained out of us.’

‘As long as you want me, I’ll stay by you.’

‘Thank you.’

Seated beside each other, they were in Araminta’s bedchamber. The strain of a long day had told on both of them but it was Araminta who was drooping. She was fighting to stay awake. Eleanor offered the same advice once again.

‘Go to bed, m’lady,’ she urged. ‘Why suffer all this pain? Let me help you off with your clothes.’

‘No, Eleanor – you are the one who needs to sleep.’

‘How can I when I have to attend to you?’

‘Leave me,’ said Araminta, touching her hand in a gesture of gratitude. ‘You’ve done more than enough. I can manage without you now.’

‘I want to help you keep sad thoughts away, m’lady.’

‘They’ll come again and again, whatever you do.’

‘Then you must have someone to share your grief.’

‘It’s time for me to be on my own,’ decided Araminta, getting
up and pulling Eleanor gently after her. She ushered the maid towards the door. ‘There are some things even you can’t share,’ she said. ‘I’ve imposed on you enough.’

‘You could never do that,’ said Eleanor, gravely.

‘Off you go now.’

‘No, m’lady – my place is here.’

Araminta was firm. ‘I’m telling you to leave,’ she said. ‘I may not be able to sleep but you certainly will. I can see the fatigue in your face. Go to bed, Eleanor. I do not wish to see you for hours.’

‘What if you should need me?’

‘I’ll have to manage without you.’ Araminta opened the door and waved her out. ‘Don’t try to slip back in again because I’ll lock the door. Away with you, girl – you’ve earned a rest.’

‘Will you promise me that—’

‘I’ll promise you nothing apart from this,’ said the other, cutting her off before she could finish her sentence. ‘I can manage by myself. I
have
to manage, Eleanor. That’s what my life will be about from now on.’ She forced a smile then closed the door. ‘Goodbye.’

Eleanor heard the key turn in the lock. She was both worried and relieved, sorry to leave her mistress alone but glad to be spared the constant stress of looking after her. While the prospect of rest was enticing, she was not ready to yield to it. The maid was prompted by a higher priority than her own comfort. Tripping along the corridor, she went down the backstairs until she came to her own room.

She let herself in, poured water from the jug into the china basin then gathered it up in her palms to sprinkle her face. It was cold but refreshing. After drying her face, she looked in the mirror and saw how gaunt she was. She hardly recognised herself. Eleanor did not worry about her appearance. Finding her cloak, she put it on before leaving the room and going along a passageway. Making sure that nobody saw her, she opened a side door, went out swiftly and hurried away from the house.

Christopher Redmayne had met several of his brother’s friends before and they tended to be as shameless and profligate as Henry. They also bore the indelible imprint of decadence. Expecting to see another unconscionable rake, Christopher was startled to find that Sir Willard Grail had none of the telltale signs of a sybarite. He was tall,
well-favoured
and looked remarkably wholesome. His boyish smile made him seem even younger than he really was. Sir Willard’s attire was flamboyant without being gaudy. He was affable and unaffected.

‘Henry’s brother, are you?’ he said, weighing his visitor up. ‘Nobody would ever guess it to look at you. I believe you’re a famous architect.’

‘No, Sir Willard – I’ve yet to rise in my profession.’

‘It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure. Having no inclination or capacity for hard work, I always admire those who do and you are obviously a Trojan in your chosen field.’

‘Work is never onerous when you enjoy it,’ said Christopher.

‘So I believe.’

They were in the hall of Sir Willard’s home near Shoreditch, an elegant house, designed by a disciple of Inigo Jones, which would have fitted into Covent Garden without a hint of incongruity. It was close enough to the city to allow easy access yet sufficiently distant to give it a sense of isolation. It was a
place where Lady Grail could live in style and comfort while her husband pursued pleasures elsewhere.

‘I’m glad that we finally met,’ said Sir Willard, ‘though I’m bound to observe that you seem to have gone out of your way to make my acquaintance.’

‘I came on private business, Sir Willard. Given its nature, you might wish to discuss it somewhere other than in your hall.’

‘To what does it relate?’

‘Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Perhaps we’d better step in here,’ said the other, smoothly, taking Christopher into the drawing room before closing the door firmly behind them. ‘You know Araminta?’

‘I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her.’

‘Then you must be as enthralled as the rest of us.’

‘She’s a very beautiful lady, Sir Willard.’

‘Araminta is quite incomparable. But you do not need to be told that. We all worship her. Your brother has been sending poems to her for months.’

Christopher stared. ‘Henry has no talent for poetry.’

‘That might explain why he met with such a cold response. He once showed me a sonnet he penned in praise of her,’ said Sir Willard with a laugh. ‘It beggared description. Shakespeare has no rival in the Navy Office, I do assure you.’ He met Christopher’s gaze. ‘Now, then, what exactly has brought you to my door?’

‘The theft of Lady Culthorpe’s portrait.’

Sir Willard’s eyes narrowed. ‘The
theft
?’

‘It was stolen some time during last night.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Monsieur Villemot’s valet sought me out to tell me,’ explained Christopher. ‘Since his master is at present in Newgate, it fell to Emile to guard his property. The loss of the portrait has struck him like a thunderbolt.’

‘Why did the valet turn to you, Mr Redmayne?’

‘I’ve designed a house for Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Of course,’ said Sir Willard. ‘I should have remembered that. What a pity the house will never be built!’

‘I’m confident that it will.’

‘Even though its owner will soon be dangling from the gallows?’

‘I don’t accept that he committed the murder,’ said Christopher, resolutely, ‘and I’ll strain every nerve to prove his innocence.’

Sir Willard grinned. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was much mistaken in you. There is a resemblance to your brother, after all. You have Henry’s boldness, his wild-eyed passion and his readiness to pursue a lost cause.’

‘Trying to rescue Monsieur Villemot is not a lost cause.’

‘The man is patently guilty.’

‘Not in my eyes, Sir Willard.’

‘Then perhaps it’s time to buy some spectacles.’

‘I’ve been in this position before,’ said Christopher, ‘and on that occasion I also saved someone who had been judged guilty before he was even brought to trial. His name was Henry Redmayne. I’m sure that he’s told you the story of how he evaded the noose.’

‘Many times,’ replied Sir Willard, ‘though he’s never mentioned your name in his account. He prefers to claim all the credit for himself, but that’s ever his way.’

He gave a dismissive gesture with his hand that Christopher recognised as belonging to his brother, and there were other indications – a shrug, a nod, a facial expression – that Sir Willard had picked up some of Henry’s characteristic actions. What Christopher could not believe was that, even by candlelight, Sir Willard could be mistaken for Henry. He was of similar height and build but his age, fair complexion and handsome features set him clearly apart.

‘I’m sad to hear that Araminta’s portrait has gone astray,’ said Sir Willard, ‘and I’m grateful that you rode all this way to tell me.’

‘I’m not here merely to impart news.’

‘No?’

‘I came in search of your help,’ said Christopher. ‘I wondered if you could suggest the name of anyone who would covet that portrait enough to steal it.’

Sir Willard laughed again. ‘That’s a very naïve question,’ he pointed out. ‘I can suggest the names of at least a hundred men who would yearn for that painting. I’m one of them and, since you saw Araminta in the flesh, your name could probably be added to that list.’

‘Very few people even knew that the portrait was in hand.’

‘Then that cuts down the number appreciably.’

‘Does anyone come to mind, Sir Willard?’

‘Yes,’ said the other.

‘I’ve already taxed Henry with regard to the matter.’

‘It’s just the sort of madcap thing he’d do. Jocelyn Kidbrooke is another potential art thief, and you’d have to bring Elkannah Prout into the reckoning.’

‘I’d discount him,’ said Christopher.

‘Why?’

‘As it happens, I met Mr Prout earlier today at my brother’s house. He did not strike me as the kind of man who would lower himself to such an act.’

‘Nevertheless, he was a member of the Society.’

‘Society?’

‘I’ll leave your brother to divulge any details of it,’ said Sir Willard, discreetly, ‘if he so decides, that is. By the way, what made you tax Henry with the crime?’

‘Someone called at the studio the previous evening,’ said Christopher. ‘My guess is that he watched the house until the valet left – Emile told me that he went out for a time – then he tricked the maid into letting him in so that he could see the premises from the inside. He also took the opportunity to have a sly look at Lady Culthorpe’s portrait.’

‘Did the maid give you a description of the man?’

‘It was her description that sent me haring off to Bedford Street.’

‘Then your brother must be the thief.’ He snapped his fingers in a way that was reminiscent of Henry yet again. ‘The crime is solved. Have him arrested and repossess the painting.’

‘He does not have it, Sir Willard.’

‘Then a confederate is hiding it for him.’

‘No,’ said Christopher, ‘there are rare moments in his life when Henry actually tells the truth – or, at least, enough of it to give the semblance of truth. He did not steal that portrait. Of that I have not the slightest doubt.’

‘He could still have visited the house yesterday.’

‘I mean to look into that more closely.’

‘Take the maid to Bedford Street to identify your brother.’

‘I’ve thought of an easier way than that,’ said Christopher. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already. You’ve already answered the question I was bound to ask.’

‘You thought that
I
might have been the thief, didn’t you?’

‘It did cross my mind.’

‘Well, don’t let it do so again,’ said Sir Willard, testily. ‘Much as I’d love to own that portrait, I have a distinct handicap – there’s nowhere that I could safely keep it. I could hardly suggest to my wife that I hang it in the library to encourage me to read more.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘Stay away from my house in future, Mr Redmayne.’

‘I’ll gladly do so unless I have cause to return.’

‘There
is
no cause. Now continue on your way and catch him. Catch the villain who stole Araminta from that studio and send him off to prison where he belongs.’

‘Henry is no culprit, nor is Mr Prout. I absolve both of them.’

‘Then turn your gaze elsewhere.’

‘To whom?’

‘The most obvious suspect, man – Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

Jonathan Bale was spared the prospect of a long walk across London. Thanks to information passed on by Christopher from his brother, the constable knew where to find Jocelyn Kidbrooke at a certain time of the day. He would be in his habitual coffee house. It was not a place that Bale entered willingly. In his view, coffee houses were either gambling dens or places where idle, over-dressed, wealthy individuals met to drink coffee, smoke, talk, argue, discuss political matters or boast of their latest conquests. He was alarmed by the spread of these exclusively male institutions. The first coffee house had been opened in Holborn in 1650. Now, some twenty years later, there were well over a hundred of them in the capital. Bale regretted the fact.

He got there early and lurked in the anteroom so that he could intercept Kidbrooke on his arrival. Finding his way blocked, the newcomer was resentful.

‘Out of my way, fellow,’ he ordered.

‘Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Jonathan Bale and I crave a few words with you.’

‘I’ve no time for chatter, Mr Bale,’ said Kidbrooke, trying to brush past him. He felt a strong hand on his arm. ‘Let me go, damn you!’

‘Not until you agree to talk to me, sir.’

‘We’ve nothing to say to each other.’

‘It concerns Lady Culthorpe.’

Kidbrooke’s resistance weakened. Through the open door of the coffee house, he could see his friends and hear their merry banter as they sat around the large common table at the heart of the room. Eager to join them, he was held back by curiosity.

‘You have news of Araminta?’ he asked.

‘I have sad tidings of her portrait,’ said Bale, releasing him. ‘It was stolen last night from the artist’s studio.’

Kidbrooke was impassive. ‘Really?’

‘You do not seem surprised.’

‘Very little surprises me, Mr Bale.’

‘Did you expect the portrait to be taken?’

‘It was the only means of acquiring it,’ said Kidbrooke, flatly. ‘I tried to buy it but my generous offer was turned down.’

‘Why did you want to buy a painting that was unfinished?’

‘I can see that you have never laid eyes on Araminta.’

‘True,’ said Bale.

‘Then you’ve missed one of the wonders of the world.’

‘I’m a married man, sir.’

‘For a smile from Araminta, you’d divorce your wife.’

‘Is that how you feel about the lady, sir?’

‘My feelings are my business.’

‘Did you steal her portrait?’

‘No,’ said Kidbrooke, reacting angrily to the bluntness of the question. ‘How dare you have the audacity even to ask that!’

‘You admit that you wanted it.’

‘That does not mean I was ready to steal it.’

‘May I ask where you were when the crime was committed?’

‘You may ask, Mr Bale, but I’ve no intention of telling you. I came here to commune with friends, not to be accused of a crime.’

‘Where would you have kept it, sir?’

‘What?’

‘The portrait,’ said Bale. ‘If you’d been able to buy it, where would you have hidden it? Your wife would hardly approve. Do you have such little care of Mrs Kidbrooke that you’d smuggle a painting of a beautiful woman into your house?’

Kidbrooke was infuriated. ‘I’ll not be censored by you!’

‘You face a higher critic than me, sir.’ Bale looked upwards. ‘You entered holy matrimony in His sight. Does that mean nothing to you?’

‘My private life does not concern you.’

‘It does when a crime is committed.’

‘But I was not the thief, you insolent dog!’

‘You might have hired one to do the business for you.’

‘That’s a slanderous suggestion!’

‘I have to look at every possibility, sir.’

‘Then look elsewhere,’ snarled Kidbrooke, ‘and let me go to enjoy some civilised company in place of this brash
interrogation
.’ When he tried to move, Bale’s hand held him fast again. ‘Unhand me, sir!’

‘We are not done yet, Mr Kidbrooke,’ said Bale, steadfastly. ‘I have something important to put to you. The thief will surely know how many people would like to own that portrait.’

‘So?’

‘Supposing that he offered to sell it to you?’

‘You’re hurting my arm.’

Bale let him go. ‘Would you buy it from him?’ he pressed. ‘Knowing that you’d be receiving stolen goods, would you pay to have that painting of Lady Culthorpe?’

Jocelyn Kidbrooke was silent but a shifty look had come into his eyes. It was time to go. Bale had his answer.

Christopher Redmayne rode back to his house in Fetter Lane where he expected to meet with Jonathan Bale so they could trade information about their respective visits. But it was not his friend who had called to see the architect. Jacob passed on the news.

‘A young lady is waiting for you, Mr Redmayne,’ he said.

‘Did she give her name?’

‘She refused to do so, sir.’

‘What does she want?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jacob, ‘but she insisted on seeing you. The young lady is in the drawing room. She’s very pretty.’

There was the faintest touch of reproach in his voice. Knowing how close his master was to Susan Cheever, the old man felt it improper for him to be entertaining another young lady in her absence. Christopher quashed his suspicions at once.

‘She is not here by invitation, Jacob, I promise you.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Walking past the servant, he opened the door to the drawing room and went in. The young woman leapt to her feet at once. Though extremely pretty, she was also tense and uncertain.

‘Mr Redmayne?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘
Christopher
Redmayne?’