The Painted Lady (6 page)

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘We arranged to meet, Monsieur Villemot,’ said Christopher, rising to his feet. ‘If it’s inconvenient, I can come again another time.’

The artist glared at him. He seemed to be angry, confused and
upset. Christopher noticed that the sleeve of his coat was torn. Turning to the door of the adjoining room, Villemot barked a name.

‘Emile!’

The valet materialised at his elbow. ‘
Oui, Monsieur
?’

Villemot was brusque. ‘I’ve told you before, Emile,’ he chided. ‘When we have the guest, you must always talk in English. You understand, no?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Emile, apologetically.

‘Did I say I would meet Mr Redmayne this afternoon?’

‘You did.’

Breathing heavily through his nose, Villemot stood there for a few seconds as if only half-believing his valet. At length, he took off his hat and tossed it carelessly on to the chair where Clemence was fast asleep. With a squeal of protest, the cat awoke, leapt from the chair, shedding the hat as she did so, and fled to a corner of the room. Emile went across to comfort her by stroking her fur.

‘Leave her alone,’ snapped Villemot. ‘Away!’

It was an abrupt dismissal but Emile seemed accustomed to it. Without hesitation, he went off into the next room and closed the door behind him. Villemot made an effort to be hospitable.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I forget.’

‘No apology is needed,’ Christopher assured him.

‘We were going to talk about the payment?’

‘Only if you wish to do so, Monsieur Villemot,’ said the other. ‘I have the feeling that this is not the ideal time for you.’

‘Why not?’

‘You seem distressed.’

‘No, no, that is not true. There is nothing wrong with me.’

Christopher had already made an alternative diagnosis. The artist was flushed and perspiration was trickling down his face. He was unsteady on his feet yet, judging by sound of his voice, had not been drinking. Christopher had never seen his client in
such a state before. Villemot resented his scrutiny.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, truculently.

‘I wondered if you were altogether well, Monsieur.’

‘I am as well as any man, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Well, I’m bound to say that you do not look it.’

‘How I look is nothing to do with you,’ said Villemot, pushing past him to walk to the other end of the room. ‘You are not the doctor. I do not ask for your opinion.’

‘Then I withdraw it at once,’ said Christopher, raising both hands in a calming gesture. ‘I did not intend to annoy you. I simply came here to talk business.’

‘You came for money, Mr Redmyane.’

‘That’s why you invited me.’

‘You English are all the same. Money must always come first. You think of nothing else.’

‘On the contrary, Monsieur Villemot,’ said Christopher, eager to correct a misapprehension. ‘I’m always more interested in a project itself than in any payment. It’s the initial design that preoccupies me and I provided that without asking for a penny from you. It was your idea to include a schedule of payments in the contract.’

‘It was yours,’ insisted the artist.

‘I beg to differ.’

‘You have chased me for money from the start.’

‘All that I’ve received to date is the small advance that you gave me and most of that went to Jonathan Bale for building that model. The person who now needs money is Mr Littlejohn because he has to buy building materials and pay wages to his men. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.’

‘No,’ said Villemot, thinking it through. ‘It is not.’

‘Then we need to put the details in writing.’

The Frenchman bridled. ‘Why – don’t you trust me?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s because I am the foreigner. You think I will not pay. You believe that we are not like you but we always honour our
debts.’ He became more agitated. ‘It is an insult for you to come here like this and ask for money when we already have the contract.’ He walked across to confront Christopher. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘Do you now
what
I am?’

‘Everyone knows that.’

‘I am the best portrait painter in the whole country,’ said the artist, tapping his chest with pride. ‘I am rich enough to buy ten houses and still have money left over, so you do not need to have the worries about Jean-Paul Villemot. He is a man of his word. I hoped that you knew that,’ he continued, his voice rising in fury. ‘I cannot work with someone who does not respect me.’

The tirade continued for a couple of minutes and Christopher was unable to say a word. He stood in silence as Villemot lost his temper and delivered a series of stinging and undeserved rebukes. At the peak of his attack, he stopped, looked around in dismay, realised what he had been saying and produced a smile of appeasement.

‘Christopher,’ he said, embracing him. ‘Do not listen to me. I do not know what I am talking about.’ He kissed the architect on both cheeks. ‘We are still the good friends – no?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher without conviction. ‘We are still friends.’

‘Thank you,
mon ami
.’

‘But I suggest that we postpone this discussion.’

‘We will talk about it now. You must hear me.’

But the voice he heard in his ear was not that of Jean-Paul Villemot. It belonged to Samuel Littlejohn and it gave him a timely reminder. The French artist could be a problem, after all.

It took time for her to accept the truth. As she stared down at the motionless figure of her husband, Araminta kept expecting him to stir, to regain consciousness, to display visible signs of life. But he did not. He lay in a heap at her feet, exhibiting the
bloodstained coat as an explanation of what had happened. Sir Martin Culthorpe had been stabbed in the back and there was an ugly slit in the material where the dagger had gone in. It held a hideous fascination for her. Araminta could not turn her head away from it.

Then, finally, when every last shred of hope had been wrung from her, when she could no longer deceive herself, when the fervent prayers she had been sending up to heaven met with no answering reassurance, she accepted that her husband had been murdered. The moment she did that, she sought oblivion and went down in a faint. For some while, Araminta lay side by side with her husband, like marble statues of a married couple on a tomb, except that he was on his front while she rested on her back.

Several minutes passed. When her eyelids flickered open, she looked up to see the foliage of the grotto arching over her like a fretwork to shade her from the sun. She needed time to work out her bearings. Moving her hand, she touched another then drew it back in horror when she saw that she had just slipped her fingers into the palm of a dead man. Overcome with grief and convulsed with fear, she dragged herself to her feet and staggered back down the garden towards the house.

Araminta opened her mouth to scream for help but no words came out. Instead, she blundered on until she reached the door, opened it wide and stumbled through it. She met Eleanor Ryle in the hall. The maid was frightened at the state her mistress was in. Araminta’s hair was dishevelled, her dress was scuffed and there was a trickle of blood from her temple where it had struck the ground. Eleanor reached forward to grab her before Araminta collapsed.

‘’What’s the matter?’ she cried.

‘It’s my husband,’ gasped Araminta. ‘He’s been attacked.’

The alarm was raised and the butler took command. After ordering a servant to help the maid take the distraught wife upstairs, he rushed into the garden to search for his master.

When he saw that Sir Martin had been stabbed to death, he sent one servant to fetch a surgeon and another to bring a constable. He also called the rest of the domestic staff together to break the appalling news to them.

Araminta, meanwhile, was lying on her bed, sobbing quietly and dabbing at her tears with a lace handkerchief. She gave her maid a halting account of what she had seen. Eleanor sat beside her, grieving over the loss of Sir Martin while trying to offer succour to his widow. The maid was utterly bewildered.

‘Who could have done such a thing?’ she said.

‘I’ve lost him, Eleanor. I’ve lost my dear husband forever.’

‘How could anyone get into the garden?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you see anyone else there?’

‘No.’

‘Was the garden gate open?’

‘I didn’t look, Eleanor.’

‘This is terrible,’ said the other, vainly trying to discern all the implications of the crime. ‘You were so happy together and married for such a short time. It’s
cruel
, m’lady. That’s what it is – it’s downright cruel.’

‘He didn’t deserve this,’ said Araminta breathily, chest heaving as she spoke. ‘My husband was a kind, gentle, considerate man. He never did anyone any harm – yet
this
happens.’

‘It’s so unfair.’

They heard voices from the garden. Araminta sat up in bed.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

Eleanor went to the window to look out. ‘There are some men walking down the garden,’ she said. ‘One of them is a constable.’

‘Will he take the body away? Don’t let him do that.’

‘He won’t do anything you don’t want, m’lady.’

‘I need to see him again before…’

‘Maybe that’s not such a good idea,’ said the maid, coming
back to her and taking her hand. ‘You’ve already seen more than you can bear. You should not have to look at him again.’

‘I don’t want him taken.’

‘Sir Martin can hardly stay in the garden.’

‘I’m not ready for him to go yet.’

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ll tell them,’ she said, moving to the door. On the way she passed the wardrobe and cast a wistful glance at it. ‘Does this mean I won’t get a chance to wear that blue dress, m’lady?’

‘What?’

‘I was thinking about that portrait of you.’

‘Nothing is further from my mind, Eleanor.’

‘You might want it finished,’ suggested the other hopefully. ‘In memory of Sir Martin, I mean.’ She saw Araminta’s pained reaction and repented. ‘That was a silly idea. I’ll go and speak to them.’

She left the room quickly. Alone at last, the young widow of Sir Martin Culthorpe was able to give full vent to her anguish. Pulling back her head, she emitted a long, loud, high-pitched cry of agony.

The news spread like wildfire. By evening, hundreds of people had somehow got hold of the information that Sir Martin had been killed in the quiet of his garden. Henry Redmayne was among them. He immediately spotted an opportunity for personal gain. When his horse had been saddled, he rode swiftly to Fetter Lane to call on his brother. Christopher was stunned by what he was told.

‘Sir Martin is
dead
?’

‘According to all reports,’ said Henry.

‘What of his wife?’

‘She was unhurt – thank God!’

‘But how is she? The poor woman must be heart-broken.’

‘It seems that she actually found the body in the garden.’

‘That’s dreadful,’ said Christopher, wondering how Araminta
could possibly cope with such an ordeal. ‘It’s something she’ll never forget. It will prey on her mind forever.’

‘She’ll need comfort,’ said Henry, composing his features into an expression that fell well short of true compassion. ‘I mourn Sir Martin deeply. He was a good man.’

‘I never heard you say a kind word about him.’

‘In death, I appreciate his many virtues.’

‘What use is that?’

‘I grieve with his wife, Christopher,’ said Henry. ‘She’s too young and fragile to be a widow. My heart goes out to her.’

‘Your heart is always going out to one woman or another.’

‘This one is different.’

‘That could be your motto,’ said Christopher harshly. ‘Have it translated into Latin and set beneath a coat of arms. On second thoughts, let the motto be in French for that’s more suited to blighted romance.’

‘You mock me unjustly.’

‘Then do not lay yourself open to mockery. You are ever your worst enemy, Henry. Father pointed out the cure. You should have married and settled down years ago.’

‘I never listen to sermons from the old gentleman, whether delivered from the pulpit or from directly beside me. The simple fact is,’ said Henry, soulfully, ‘that I’ve never met a woman who could make me repent of my sins longer than a few short weeks. Until now, that is. Until I first set eyes on Araminta Jewell.’

‘Her name is Lady Culthorpe.’

‘But she lacks the husband who gave it to her.’

‘You surely do not imagine you could take his place, do you?’ said Christopher, shaken by the thought. ‘Heavens above, man – Sir Martin’s body is not yet cold and you are already trying to devise a way to get at his widow.’

‘I love her, Christopher.’

‘Well, I can assure you that your love is not requited. When I was introduced to the lady myself, she baulked at the very name of Redmayne because of the way you’d hounded her. You are
the last person in the world to whom she would turn.’

‘At the moment, perhaps,’ Henry agreed, ‘but time heals all wounds. Araminta will come to see me in a new light. With your help, I will gradually get closer to my angel.’

Christopher was acerbic. ‘Count on no assistance from me,’ he said, looking his brother in the eye. ‘I’d sooner see her carried off by a tribe of cannibals than fall into your clutches. The woman is suffering, Henry. Do you know what that means? Common decency alone should be enough to make you stay your hand.’

‘I’ll keep my distance from her yet nourish my hopes.’

‘You
have
no hopes.’

‘I do if you intercede on my behalf.’

‘I’ll oppose you every inch of the way, Henry.’

‘But you’ve not heard my request yet.’

‘I’ll not listen to any request made across the dead body of Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Christopher. ‘When he was alive, he could defend his wife’s honour. That duty falls to people like me now.’

‘You sound more and more like Father every day. Hear me out,’ said Henry, silencing his brother with a gesture. ‘Araminta deserves a decent interval in which she can bury her husband and mourn his passing. I accept that and undertake to stay well clear from her.’