The Painted Lady Page 10

  ‘I choose my friends with extreme care,’ she said, pointedly.

  ‘Monsieur Villemot is lucky to be one of them.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘The butler will show you out. You’ll have no need to call again.’

  ‘None at all,’ he agreed. ‘Forgive this intrusion. I can see that it was a mistake to assume that he would come here. As a good friend, he would not dare to cause you such embarrassment. At least we are united on one thing, Lady Lingoe?’

  She was icily cold. ‘Are we?’

  ‘Yes – we both have Monsieur Villemot’s well-being at heart.’

  Henry Redmayne was annoyed. Having brought what he believed was the latest news regarding the crime he was dismayed to hear that Sir Willard Grail had already heard it.

  ‘From whom?’ he demanded, peevishly.

  ‘I have my sources,’ said Sir Willard.

  ‘Well, you might have had the grace to pass on the tidings to the rest of us. Villemot’s guilt changes everything.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Willard, it does. It opens up the possibility of collusion. If Araminta was drawn into a romantic entanglement with the artist, it may be that she actually encouraged him to remove her husband so that they could in time be together.’

  ‘Given her character, I think that highly unlikely.’

  ‘Love has the power to corrupt a saint.’

  ‘But it would not drive her to the point of condoning a vile murder, Henry. If she had developed an attachment – and it seems beyond the bounds of possibility to me – then she and the Frenchman could have had clandestine assignations to satisfy their lust. In plotting the death of Sir Martin,’ he pointed out, ‘they would be ensuring that they were pushed apart.’

  Henry Redmayne had called at his friend’s house and the two of them were now conversing in an arbour in the garden. It was a tranquil place with a feeling of privacy that was only disturbed by birdsong and the buzzing of insects. Sir Willard waved a hand.

  ‘It was in such a place as this that Sir Martin was killed,’ he said. ‘One is entitled to feel secure in one’s own garden. He must have been taken completely by surprise.’

  ‘How did Villemot gain entry to the garden?’

  ‘The gate was left unlocked, it transpires.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I like to keep well-informed.’

  ‘What other details are you hiding from us, Sir Willard?’

  ‘That’s for you to find out.’

  ‘If it’s true that the gate was unlocked,’ said Henry, ‘then my contention that Araminta was a confederate may still hold.’

  ‘Only in your mind,’ Sir Willard told him. ‘I spoke to the doctor who attended her after the murder. She was overwhelmed with grief and Araminta is not given to dissembling.’

  ‘You knew about the garden gate? You talked to the doctor? You seem to have done everything but arrest Villemot for the crime.’

  ‘He is still at large, Henry.’

  ‘But I daresay you know where he’s hiding.’

  ‘I could hazard a guess or two.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m not so foolish as to tell you,’ said Sir Willard, patting his friend’s knee. ‘If I can track down Villemot on my own account, it would endear me to Araminta. Only the capture of her husband’s killer would soften her bereavement.’

  ‘We need to declare a moratorium on our pursuit of her,’ said Henry, piously. ‘I would suggest a period of three months.’

  ‘Elkannah urged that we call off the chase altogether.’

  ‘That’s far too precipitate.’

  ‘He wants no more of the business.’

  ‘Then he can withdraw of his own accord. That still leaves three of us in the hunt. Jocelyn will certainly not pull out.’

  ‘He does not even believe in giving Araminta any time to mourn the loss of her husband,’ said Sir Willard, ‘and he has a point. As soon as the funeral is over, she is there for the taking.’

  ‘Surely not!’ Henry’s finer feelings asserted themselves for once. ‘By all the laws of decency, we must allow her a long respite.’

  ‘You may do so, Henry – we will follow our own inclination.’

  ‘Must it be left to the two bachelors – Elkannah and me – to teach the pair of you the basic courtesies?’

  ‘Marriage blunts the appetite for such things. While you are being virtuous, Jocelyn and I will dedicate ourselves to vice, especially as he has offered a delicious enticement.’

  ‘Enticement?’

  ‘Araminta may still be in possession of her maidenhood,’ said the other with a confiding smirk. ‘By all external signs, Sir Martin reached middle age without once experiencing the joys of carnal knowledge. When he had not yet lost his own virginity, how could he, with any confidence, have claimed hers?’

  ‘A moot point, to be sure.’

  ‘Elkannah has already resigned from the Society he invented.’

  ‘That was very high-minded of him.’

  ‘What about you, Henry?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘Now that we may revert to our original intention and go in pursuit of Araminta’s maidenhood once again, will you stand aside in the name of morality?’ He gave a teasing grin. ‘Or will you join Jocelyn and me in the hunt?’

  Henry wavered. His finer feelings began to crumble.

  Nothing had happened to dispel Jonathan Bale’s doubts. In his opinion, he had been waiting at the rear of the house far too long. He turned a lugubrious face on Christopher Redmayne.

  ‘This is a waste of time, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve been standing at this spot for over half an hour.’

  ‘Tarry a little longer, Jonathan.’

  ‘The man is not inside the house.’

  ‘I believe that he is.’

  ‘I thought that Lady Lingoe told you otherwise.’

  ‘She could have been lying.’

  ‘Why should she do that, Mr Redmayne?’

  ‘I can think of only one reason,’ said Christopher, ‘and that is to help someone. She did not deny that she and Monsieur Villemot had become close friends.’

  ‘Too close,’ complained Bale, thinking of the nude portrait. ‘A married man should not be allowed to see his wife in that state, yet she allowed a stranger to view her body.’

  ‘That should tell you something about her, Jonathan.’

  ‘It tells me that Lady Lingoe is shameless.’

  ‘A kinder way of putting it is that she lacks the inhibitions that would keep most women from posing in such a way. She certainly has a more liberal cast of mind than I’ve encountered before among the aristocracy.’

  ‘Liberal or brazen?’

  Christopher laughed. ‘I can see that you’re unfamiliar with the tradition of nude painting,’ he said. ‘It has a long and honourable history.’ Bale snorted. ‘Yes – honourable. The greatest artists of the Renaissance showed what could be done with nude figures.’

  ‘Then I’m glad I’ve never seen their paintings,’ said Bale with frank displeasure, ‘and I’m sorry to hear you praise them.’

  ‘I praise artistic excellence wherever I find it. There were many examples of it inside the house.’

  ‘I’m more worried about Lady Lingoe.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Bale shuffled his feet. ‘Did you tell her you’d seen that painting of her at the studio?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She must have been mortified.’

  ‘Not for a second,’ said Christopher. ‘If anything, she seemed quite pleased. Lady Lingoe is not one to hide her light under a bushel.’

  ‘It’s not her light that needed to be kept hidden,’ grunted Bale.

  ‘I think that it’s just as well that I spoke to her and not you.’

  ‘I’d have been afraid to look her in the face.’

  ‘But she enjoys being looked at, Jonathan.’

  ‘Not by me,’ said Bale. ‘Neither of us would have got
what we came for in that house, sir. It’s clear to me that Mr Villemot is simply not there.’

  ‘I have a sneaking suspicion that he is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I felt I was being subtly deceived.’

  ‘How much longer must we stay?’

  ‘Until he comes out.’

  ‘But why here?’ said Bale. ‘He could leave by the front door.’

  ‘The stables are here at the rear, and I’m sure that Lady Lingoe would provide him with a horse. She might even advise him where to go. Be patient,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s only a question of time.’

  Jean-Paul Villemot was in a state of panic. Thinking that he was safe in the house, he had been alarmed to be tracked down so quickly. He and Lady Lingoe were in the library of her house.

  ‘How did he know that I’d be here?’ he asked.

  ‘Your valet gave him this address.’

  ‘Emile is an idiot!’

  ‘He could not be sure that you’d be here,’ said Lady Lingoe, ‘and he must have known that, even if you had come running to me, I’d never give you away.’

  ‘Thank you, Hester – I had nowhere else to go.’

  She smiled. ‘I was touched that you thought of me.’

  ‘I think of you often.’

  ‘Good.’

  They gazed at each other for a few moments and he reached out to squeeze her hand. Lady Lingoe soon put affection aside in favour of practicality.

  ‘It’s not safe for you to stay here, Jean-Paul,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Others may come looking for you. Mr Redmayne was sent on his way but it will be more difficult for me to fend off any officers. You must get away as soon as possible – otherwise both of us will be in trouble.’

  ‘I would not put you in the danger,’ he said, considerately. ‘You are my good friend, Hester.’

  ‘And I’m happy to remain so.’

  ‘Where will I go?’

  ‘To our country house near St Albans,’ she decided. ‘They’ll know nothing of this affair there. You can bear a letter to the steward. He’ll look after you.’

  ‘If I am to leave London, I will need the horse.’

  ‘A servant is saddling one for you even as we speak.’

  ‘Merci beaucoup! You think of everything, Hester.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for, Jean-Paul. You gave me your word that you did not kill Sir Martin Culthorpe and I accept it without question. That being the case,’ she went on, sitting at a table so that she could write a letter. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to help you avoid arrest.’

  ‘I am sorry that Christopher suffered because of me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, he struck me as an admirable young man. An alert one, too,’ she recalled. ‘That’s why I tried to get rid of him before he had time to question me too closely.’ She began to write. ‘Ride to Lingoe Hall and you’ll be perfectly safe. Nobody would look for you there.’

  ‘What about you, Hester?’

  She looked up at him. ‘Oh, I’ll be joining you before very long, Jean-Paul. It will be the fulfilment of a dream,’ she confessed, touching his arm. ‘I’ll have you all to myself at last.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, ‘but I’m neglecting my duties in Baynard’s Castle Ward. I can’t stand around here all day.’

  ‘It would be unfair to keep you any longer,’ said Christopher. ‘You’ve already done me a huge favour today by securing my release from Newgate. To ask anything else of you would be an imposition.’

  ‘What about you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll linger for a short while.’

  ‘It will be in vain.’

  ‘You are probably right, Jonathan.’

  They were still lurking at the rear of the house in Piccadilly. After a farewell handshake, Bale walked back in the direction of the city. Sad to see him go, Christopher was loath to abandon his post. After his conversation with Lady Lingoe, he felt certain that Villemot was in the house, sheltered by a friend who would surely report to him that Christopher was on his trail. The information would alarm the Frenchman and make him anxious to get away.

  He could easily understand why the artist had been drawn to Lady Lingoe. She was a handsome woman and, though the portrait of her was nominally for her husband, she did not have the look of a wife who moped in his absence or prayed for his early return. The age gap between the couple was significant. Knowing that she was attractive to men, she had given Christopher the impression that she liked exerting that attraction, albeit with carefully chosen targets. Even at a casual meeting, the architect had felt her power. In the more intimate setting of an artist’s studio, that power could be overwhelming. Resting against a tree, Christopher stood up when he heard the clatter of hooves from the other side of the wall. He rushed to stand beside the door that led to the garden and the stables. Unlocked from the other side, it swung open to allow Jean-Paul Villemot to bring a bay mare out into the street. Before the artist could mount, Christopher leapt out to stop him.

  ‘Stay here, Monsieur Villemot,’ he pleaded. ‘Running away will only get you into more trouble.’

  ‘Leave me alone, Christopher.’

  ‘But I’ve come to help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  Villemot pushed him firmly in the chest and sent him reeling backwards. The artist was in the saddle immediately, kicking the mare into a canter. He did not get far. Jonathan Bale stepped out from behind a clump of bushes some thirty yards away and waved his hat wildly at the horse. Frightened by the obstruction, the animal came to a halt and reared. Villemot was hurled from the saddle and hit the ground with a thud.

  Christopher ran up to join them, grabbing the reins to bring the horse under control. Bale, meanwhile, stood over the fallen figure.

  ‘I thought you’d gone,’ said Christopher.

  Bale smiled. ‘I had a feeling you might need some help, sir.’

  Having been compelled to accept the truth of the situation, Araminta Culthorpe threw herself into a frenzy of activity. Instead of sitting in her bedchamber and staring out at the garden, she came downstairs to the drawing room to write a series of letters, make decisions and give orders to the servants. She even consented to eat some food at last. Delighted by the signs of improvement in her mistress, Eleanor Ryle was nevertheless worried that she might overtax herself.

  ‘You must try to rest, m’lady,’ she advised.

  ‘There are too many things to do, Eleanor.’

  ‘Let someone else do them for you.’

  ‘That’s out of the question,’ said Araminta. ‘Who else could write to Sir Martin’s brothers but me? Who else could pass on the tidings to his sister in Kent? They deserve to hear from me in person. While he was alive, I tried to be a good wife to my husband. Now that he’s dead, I’ll not shirk my duty.’

  ‘What about your own family, m’lady?’

  ‘I’ve sent word. It should reach them by this evening.’

  ‘They will want to comfort you.’

  ‘That’s why I ordered rooms to be prepared for them and food to be ordered. In a day or two, the house will be full. We must be ready for them, Eleanor.’

  ‘If you take to your bed, everyone will understand.’

  ‘My place is here, acting as mistress of the house.’

  ‘At least, let me do something,’ implored the maid. ‘I want to take the burden off your shoulders, m’lady.’

  ‘You do that simply by being here, Eleanor.’

  Araminta got up from her chair to give her a hug of gratitude. She suddenly became aware of how tired she was. Her eyelids were heavy, her body aching and her legs unsteady. Making a conscious effort to shake off her fatigue, she reached for a sheet of paper on the table and handed it to Eleanor.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘See if there’s anything I’ve missed.’

  ‘It’s such a long list,’ noted the maid, running her eye down the names and the items. ‘You’ve been so bu
sy these past few hours.’

  ‘There’s still a lot more to be done.’

  ‘I don’t think so, m’lady.’

  ‘My brain is addled. I’m sure I’ve missed things out.’

  ‘Only one thing, as far as I can see.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The portrait.’

  Araminta was perplexed. ‘Portrait?’

  ‘The one that Mr Villemot was painting of you.’

  ‘Oh, that – I’ve tried to forget it, Eleanor. That portrait was the start of all our woes. If I hadn’t become acquainted with Monsieur Villemot, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain.’

  ‘I do,’ said Araminta, sadly. ‘I feel it in my bones. When you first told me that Monsieur Villemot was the killer, I could not believe it. He would never do anything to cause me so much pain. But, as I wrote those letters,’ she continued, ‘I became more and more convinced that I was wrong. There were moments when I felt profoundly uneasy in his company. I was never sure what was going through his mind.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Now, alas, we know.’

  ‘There is still the portrait to be considered.’

  ‘He can never finish it if he is convicted of the murder.’

  ‘Another artist might do so in his place, m’lady.’

  ‘That’s inconceivable,’ said Araminta.

  ‘Then you might want it in its present condition,’ said Eleanor. ‘I know that Sir Martin paid for it even though Mr Villemot told him he should wait for it to be finished first.’

  Araminta was wistful. ‘That was my husband’s only fault. He was too trusting. He had such faith in Monsieur Villemot’s skill that he insisted on giving him the money before the first sitting.’

  ‘That means the portrait is your property.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a symbol, Eleanor. Whenever I look at it, I’ll remember the wonderful man who commissioned it, the loving husband who was snatched away from me before his time.’

  ‘Sir Martin would want you to keep it.’

  ‘The decision is out of his hands,’ said Araminta with a sigh. ‘As for me, I’ve no use for it. To tell you the truth, Eleanor, I never want to set eyes on that accursed portrait again!’