The Painted Lady Read online

  ‘Don’t you dare mention Susan’s name in this context,’ said Christopher, pulsing with fury as he grabbed his brother by the shoulders to shake him hard. ‘Keep her out of it.’

  In the interests of safety, Henry stepped back out of his brother’s reach, smoothing the wrinkles in his coat and adjusting the wig that had been shaken down over one eye. Seeing how irate his brother was, he measured his words.

  ‘You have just proved my point, Christopher,’ he said.

  ‘What point?’

  ‘Love is a ruthless emotion. When once it gets hold of us, we are driven to extremes by violent passion. I only had to mention your beloved and you flew at me.’

  ‘You deserved it, Henry.’

  ‘I also deserve a fair hearing. The Society was conceived during a drinking bout in a tavern, and I subscribed too hastily to its rules. As soon as I began to court Araminta Jewell, as she then was, I shed my lustful feelings and became instead madly in love.’

  ‘But still in pursuit of that purse.’

  ‘It was a foolish game, played out among friends.’

  ‘Four confirmed rakes, stalking their prey.’

  ‘Not in my case,’ argued Henry. ‘I felt about Araminta as you feel about Susan.’ He jumped back smartly as Christopher threatened him with a bunched fist. ‘As you wish,’ he added, quickly. ‘If the comparison offends you, I’ll keep her name out of it. I simply ask you to admit one thing. Is it not true that someone in the grip of passion will do anything to secure the favours of his inamorata?’

  ‘No, Henry, respect and gentlemanly restraint hold him back.’

  ‘Well, it was not so with me. I was desperate to see that portrait of Araminta. The thought that it was only a few streets away burned into my brain like a hot iron.’

  ‘So you decided to steal it.’

  ‘I only wanted to look at it.’

  ‘So that you’d be able to find it in the dark later that night.’

  ‘The thought never occurred to me.’

  ‘Be honest,’ said Christopher, advancing on him. ‘You cannot hide behind the excuse of blind passion then claim you were able to control it. If it took you as far as the house, it would have made you want to possess that portrait.’ Henry began to jabber. ‘Give me a straight answer, man. This is important. Lady Culthorpe has lost a husband. Why did you set out to increase her misery by taking that portrait of her from the studio?’

  ‘That was not my intention,’ said Henry.

  ‘Then what was it?’ Christopher grabbed him again. ‘We are trying to solve a murder and vindicate an innocent man. That portrait holds great significance so I need to know what happened to it. Now, will you tell me or do I have to beat the truth of you?’

  ‘You’re crumpling my new coat!’ protested Henry.

  ‘If you don’t tell me what happened, I’ll tear everything in your wardrobe to shreds. Now, speak. For the sake of Lady Culthorpe, I must recover that portrait. Where, in God’s name, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying again.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ repeated Henry. ‘It was not there.’

  Christopher released him. ‘So you did go back at night?’

  ‘Yes – but only to look at it.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘I’d lit a candle. I was a true votary. I had an overpowering desire to worship at her altar. That was all. I wanted to gaze lovingly upon Araminta’s beauty.’

  ‘Then bring it back here as a trophy. Is this what it’s come to, Henry?’ asked his brother with revulsion. ‘A man is brutally killed and the only way you try to console the widow you profess to love is to break into a house and steal her portrait.’

  ‘It was not there, Christopher,’ said the other, meekly. ‘Araminta has disappeared. When I saw it earlier, the portrait was standing on the easel beside the window.’

  ‘And that’s exactly where I caught a glimpse of it.’

  ‘It had been replaced.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘I blush to tell you.’

  ‘By what, Henry?’

  ‘A portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe.’

  Chapter Eight

  Henry Redmayne collapsed into a chair. He cut a sorry figure. Dressed in his finery for an evening with friends, he was now totally deflated. His body drooped and his shoulders sagged. With his long, thin, sad face hollowed by despair and framed by his wig, he looked like a giant spaniel bemoaning the death of its master. Notwithstanding his rage, Christopher felt some sympathy for him. He had bullied the truth out of his brother and left him in disarray.

  ‘Are you sure that Lady Culthorpe’s portrait was not there?’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Henry.

  ‘It could have been somewhere else in the studio.’

  ‘I searched, Christopher. I looked at every painting in the room and there was no sign of Araminta. Someone had got there before me. I only came to gaze in wonder. The rogue went there to steal.’

  ‘So did you,’ said Christopher. ‘You swore to me that you’d have that portrait as your own by whatever means were necessary.’

  ‘I did,’ admitted Henry, ‘and, at the time, I meant it. When I set out from here last night, I planned to spirit it away and hang it in my bedchamber. But when I got there, Christopher, when I entered the studio where Araminta had sat, when I thought how deeply wounded she would be by the disappearance of her portrait, I realised that I could simply not take it. I was overwhelmed with remorse.’

  ‘Ha! That must have been a novel sensation for you.’

  ‘Laugh at me, if you must. I deserve it. I know that my erratic way of life invites your sarcasm. But something good happened to me in that studio, something that surprised me as much as it would have surprised our dear father. I discovered that I had a conscience.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t make the startling discovery earlier,’ said Christopher. ‘It would have stopped you committing the crime.’

  ‘I’m not a thief. I lack the nerve and ruthlessness.’

  ‘You had enough of both to break into someone else’s property. You were trespassing, Henry. That, too, is against the law. The wonder is that you got in and out without being seen by anyone.’

  ‘I must thank the maid for that.’

  ‘Matilda?’ gasped Christopher. ‘She was your accomplice?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘without even realising it. If you’ve met her, you know what a plump, unlovely, slow-witted creature she is. Matilda had never before had a gentleman heap praise upon her.’

  ‘So you took advantage of her.’

  ‘All I had to do was to pay her a few pretty compliments and she surrendered to my charm. When she explained that the family she served were away from the house, I told her to leave a window open for me so that I could visit her at night.’

  ‘That was cruel, Henry.’

  ‘I made no promises. I only said that I would try to call on her.’

  ‘Without ever intending to do so.’

  ‘Do you blame me?’ said Henry, pompously. ‘Where assignations are concerned, I have the highest standards. She met none of them.’

  ‘But she lay in bed all night awaiting you. That’s a brutal way to treat any woman,’ Christopher admonished. ‘No wonder Matilda looked so crestfallen when I saw her earlier. You not only raised false hopes in her breast, you made her an unwitting accessory to a crime.’

  ‘I had to get into the house somehow.’

  ‘Yes – by cunning and duplicity.’

  ‘It was no more than a means to an end.’

  ‘A reprehensible means to an ignoble end. Really, Henry,’ said the other with consternation. ‘Each new revelation makes me wonder what kind of monster I have as a brother. Do you have no moral sense at all? The only honest course of action for me is to have you placed under arrest.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘I can think of three or four at least.’

  ‘I did not break into that house – t
he window was left open for me. And I stole nothing from that studio. I could not have done so. I felt the sharp prick of my conscience.’

  ‘I rejoice to hear that you have one,’ said Christopher. ‘Until now you’ve been governed by a sharp prick of another kind – the one you dangled in front of that gullible maid by way of enticement. I’ve heard enough,’ he added, moving to the door. ‘Tell the rest of the revolting story to a magistrate.’

  ‘No!’ yelled Henry, jumping to his feet and rushing to stop his brother. ‘Don’t do that, I beg you. I acknowledge that I did wrong and I’ve been haunted by guilt ever since. I want to repair my fault. Teach me how I can make amends.’

  ‘A ten-year penance would not be enough.’

  ‘I implore you, Christopher. Hold off out of brotherly love. Do you really want to see me branded as a criminal?’

  ‘That’s what you are, Henry.’

  ‘Could you write the letter that would tell our father so? Think how much sorrow it would bring him. The old gentlemen would be distraught. Spare him that agony.’

  It was a telling argument and it made Christopher pause. Unlike his brother, he kept up a regular correspondence with their father and he spent much of his letters trying to present any news about Henry in a favourable light. He did not want the venerable dean of Gloucester Cathedral to know just how wayward and unchristian an existence his elder son led. To confront him with the full horror of what Henry had done would cause him immense pain.

  ‘Give me a chance,’ pleaded Henry. ‘I’ll do absolutely anything to make up for my misdemeanours.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nominate it and it shall be done.’

  ‘The first thing you must do is offer recompense to Matilda.’

  Henry blanched. ‘Sleep with that plain-faced tub of flesh?’

  ‘No,’ said Christopher. ‘I’d not inflict that ordeal on any woman but an apology would not come amiss. And a gift of some sort might help to take away the bitter taste of your callous betrayal.’

  ‘Matilda shall have both with some honey-tongued flattery to make her feel like the Queen of the May.’

  ‘An apology and a gift will suffice.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Resolve to help Lady Culthorpe instead of hurting her. Send no more of your unwelcome poetry to her.’

  ‘But I slaved over those verses.’

  ‘To ill effect from what I hear,’ said Christopher. ‘Your poems offend her, Henry. She did not even read the last one you sent.’

  ‘I refuse to believe that.’

  ‘I had it from an impeccable source – her maid, Eleanor Ryle.’

  Henry’s face ignited. ‘You know her maid?’

  ‘She came to see me.’

  ‘How is Araminta? Is she bearing up? Has she mentioned me?’

  ‘Only with distaste,’ said Christopher. ‘Everything you’ve done so far has incurred her displeasure. If you want to win her approval, there are two simple ways.’

  ‘Tell me what they are and I’ll do both instantly.’

  ‘The chief one is to leave her alone, Henry – no more letters, no more verses, no more communication from you of any kind.’

  ‘But I want to express my condolences.’

  ‘I’ve just told you the most effective way to do it. The second thing you must do is to assist me. If we can prove that Monsieur Villemot is innocent, we’ll remove a whole dimension of Lady Culthorpe’s grief.’

  ‘What if he’s guilty?’

  ‘Then he’ll pay the penalty for his crime. But I’m convinced that he was not the killer and I’m not alone in that belief. Lady Lingoe also has complete faith in his innocence.’

  Henry laughed. ‘It’s the first time that Hester has been troubled by the concept of innocence,’ he said. ‘You should have seen the portrait for which she sat.’

  ‘I did see it, Henry. I thought it tastefully done.’

  ‘It was – I could taste her as soon as I looked at it.’

  ‘Even though you claim you’ve dedicated yourself elsewhere?’

  ‘Hester and Araminta cannot be mentioned in the same breath,’ said Henry, reprovingly. ‘One arouses carnal desire while the other attracts only the purest love.’

  ‘I don’t recall any mention of the purest love in the title of the infamous society of which you were a member.’ Henry was cowed. ‘But let’s not dwell on that. The person we must think of now is the one who’s wrongly imprisoned in Newgate. You know better than anyone how that feels. You were once wrongly accused of murder.’

  ‘It was a ghastly experience. The place is a common sewer.’

  ‘Then help to get Monsieur Villemot out of it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You are acquainted with more people than anyone else in London,’ said Christopher, ‘and those you’ve never met you somehow seem to know about.’

  ‘Only if they belong to the aristocracy or the gentry,’ said Henry with a lordly tilt of his chin. ‘I deal with the elite of society. I have no truck with the lower orders.’

  ‘Does the name of Foxwell mean anything to you?’

  ‘Partner it with another and it might. I could list half-a-dozen Foxwells and still not give you the fellow you want.’

  ‘This gentlemen is called Cuthbert Foxwell.’

  ‘Living in Chelsea?’

  ‘Yes, Henry – do you know him?’

  ‘Not in person but Sir Willard Grail knows him very well.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘He ought to – Cuthbert Foxwell is his brother-in-law.’

  Sir Willard Grail sipped his wine and gave a smile of satisfaction. He was seated at a table in the corner of a tavern. Elkannah Prout was beside him. He tasted his own wine before returning to the argument.

  ‘You must join us in this pact,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll not be dictated to by anybody, Elkannah.’

  ‘Keep away from that funeral.’

  ‘I’d intended to until you tried to make it mandatory. My instinct now is to go. In a congregation of that size, I’d hardly be noticed.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Sir Willard.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You should stay away as a mark of respect.’

  ‘Araminta will not know if I’m there or not,’ said Sir Willard, ‘so she will be quite unaware of any supposed respect I’m showing.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to be so obstinate,’ said Prout, irritably. ‘When I put the idea of a pact to him, Henry agreed to it immediately.’

  ‘What of Jocelyn?’

  Prout scowled. ‘He was less forthcoming.’

  ‘I’ll wager that he dismissed the notion out of hand. Jocelyn Kidbrooke and I are cut from the same cloth. We are free agents. We do not like being told what to do.’

  ‘You both subscribed willingly enough the articles of the Society and they imposed certain restrictions on you.’

  ‘We were united by a common purpose – to court Araminta and win the ultimate favour from her. Her marriage made that aim more ambiguous,’ said Sir Willard, drinking his wine. ‘The murder of her husband removed what might have proved a fatal handicap.’

  ‘It left me with no stomach for the contest,’ said Prout.

  ‘Then stop trying to influence those of us still engaged in it.’

  ‘Attending that funeral would be wrong, Sir Willard.’

  ‘That’s a judgement each of us must make for himself.’

  ‘Can you be so heartless?’

  ‘Yes, Elkannah,’ said the other. ‘I can and so could you a week ago. You may have been converted on the road to Damascus but the rest of us remain committed to our common objective. There was a time when you were the most pitiless and cold-blooded member of the Society. We took our lead from you.’

  ‘I confess it freely and am deeply ashamed.’

  ‘Shame is not an emotion with which I am familiar, and nor is Jocelyn. From what I know of him, he’ll not only be at that funeral, he’ll probably contrive to
act as a pallbearer.’

  ‘At least, Henry Redmayne has scruples.’

  ‘They may lose him the prize,’ said Sir Willard. ‘By the way, did I tell you that I was accosted by his brother earlier today?’

  ‘Christopher?’

  ‘He seemed to think that I might have stolen that portrait.’

  ‘You are not the only suspect,’ said Prout. ‘I was there when he accused Henry of the theft. Jocelyn, too, has been questioned.’

  ‘What – by Christopher Redmayne?’

  ‘A parish constable lay in wait for him at the coffee house – a boorish fellow who demanded to know if Jocelyn had the portrait.’

  ‘Who was this constable?’

  ‘He’s a friend of Henry’s brother. They’ve worked together before to solve various crimes and had a measure of success. Christopher is tenacious and so is Bale.’

  ‘Is that his name?’

  ‘So I hear – Jonathan Bale. His heavy-handed questioning really upset Jocelyn and it takes a lot to do that. Christopher Redmayne and this constable are clearly determined to recover that portrait.’

  ‘To be honest, I thought it had been taken by Jocelyn.’

  ‘He denies it hotly.’

  ‘What about Henry?’

  ‘His denials were even more fervent. Since none of we four has that portrait of Araminta,’ said Prout, thoughtfully, ‘then only one conclusion can be drawn. Someone else stole it.’

  Sir Willard’s envy glowed. ‘Who the devil is he?’

  Wearing the blue dress and reclining on the couch, Araminta Culthorpe did not seem to have a care in the world. She looked happy, composed and thoroughly at ease with herself. The portrait was a study in unimpaired beauty and contentment. Though he had looked at it many times, the man never tired of his scrutiny. When he set the painting up on the table once more, he examined every last detail of Araminta’s face, hair and shoulders. Her soft, white, delicate arms held him in thrall. Her dainty hands had their own delight for him. It was over an hour before he had seen his fill. Pulling the cloth down over the portrait, he put it back carefully in its hiding place.

  Araminta had lapsed back into melancholy. She sat beside the table in the drawing room and stared in silence at the paper in front of her. It contained the provisional list of mourners who would attend the funeral but she saw none of the names. Her mind was on the life that lay ahead and it was not appealing. When her husband was lowered into his grave, Araminta’s high hopes and bold plans for their marriage would go with him. It was depressing.