The Painted Lady Read online

  Araminta was so glad that she had elected to say nothing about her occasional moments of disquiet at the studio. Now that she was back in her lovely house, wearing a different dress and taking on the role of a doting wife once more, she could forget all about Jean-Paul Villemot. Memories of their exchanges could not reach her there. She felt safe and secure in a marriage that had changed her life for the better in every way. To most people, Sir Martin Culthorpe would have seemed an unlikely choice for someone who could have had the pick of society but she knew that she had accepted the right husband. He gave her love, protection and social standing. His greater age did not deter her in the least because it brought with it wisdom and experience. Sharing his religious conviction and having the same charitable disposition, she looked forward to helping him in his work and developing a true partnership with him. Meanwhile, Araminta needed to find her husband and take him in to dinner.

  ‘Martin!’ she called. ‘Where are you?’

  When there was no reply, she walked as far as the fountain at the very heart of the garden then raised her voice above the noise of the falling water.

  ‘Martin – I’m back!’

  Still, there was no response. Araminta followed the main path between the avenue of maple trees, looking to left and right as she did so in case he had turned down one of the side paths. There was no trace of him. Quickening her step, she walked on until she reached the end of the little avenue. She went around the angle of the rhododendrons and into the secret grotto beyond. Araminta let out a sigh of relief. Her search was finally over.

  Apparently asleep, Sir Martin Culthorpe was seated on a bench with the sun slanting across his face. He looked somehow older but that did not worry his wife. Feeling an upsurge of love, she ran across to him, intending to wake him up by kissing him on the forehead, but she felt something hard beneath her foot. She looked down to see that it was his clay pipe, broken in two and lying on the path.

  Araminta was suddenly apprehensive. Now that she looked at him more closely, she could see that her husband was sitting in a most unnatural position. She felt alarmed. Wanting to reach out to him, she was somehow held back from doing so. Instead, in trepidation, she took an involuntary step backwards. Mouth dry and heart pounding, she stared at him with growing anxiety.

  ‘Are you unwell, Martin?’ she whispered.

  As if in response to her question, he suddenly pitched forward and landed headfirst on the path. It was only then that she saw the huge bloodstain from the wound in his back.

  Christopher Redmayne had promised to call at the studio that afternoon to discuss with Jean-Paul Villemot the schedule of payments during the building of the new house, and to retrieve the model made by Jonathan Bale. As his horse trotted along the road, he smiled at the memory of his encounter with Samuel Littlejohn. The builder clearly had a jaundiced view of foreigners, suspecting them of being universally difficult, volatile and unpredictable. That had not been Christopher’s experience. He had designed houses for a Frenchman, a Dutchman, two Germans and a Swede. None of them had given him the slightest trouble. The only clients of his who had been obstinate and argumentative were native-born Englishmen. Chief among them, he was forced to admit, was Sir Julius Cheever, Member of Parliament and father of the woman he loved. It was a sobering thought.

  Jean-Paul Villemot had so far been the perfect employer, recognising, in Christopher, a fellow-artist and trusting his instincts. Whatever advice the architect gave had been readily accepted. Once the general principles of the design had been agreed upon, Christopher had been allowed a free hand. Littlejohn might fear the tantrums of an excitable foreigner but Christopher did not share his unease. He firmly believed that there would be no problems of that nature ahead.

  Arriving at the house, he dismounted, tethered his horse and rang the bell. The door was soon opened by a maid who showed him upstairs to the suite of rooms rented by Villemot. In response to his knock, it was Emile who invited him into the studio, explaining that his master was out but that he would soon return.

  ‘Voulez-vous l’attendre?’ he asked.

  ‘Oui,’ replied Christopher.

  ‘Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plait.’

  ‘Merci, Emile.’

  When Christopher sat down, the Frenchman excused himself and left the room. Evidently, he was much more than a valet. Emile was also Villemot’s cook, butler, book keeper, companion and general assistant, performing all his functions with quiet efficiency. His English was not yet as fluent as that of his master but Christopher guessed that it would be in due course. Emile struck him as the kind of man who could do anything to which he addressed his mind.

  Glancing around, Christopher decided to take a closer look at the studio. When he got to his feet, however, he realised that he was not alone. Clemence was regarding him with a degree of suspicion through one open eye. Like the valet, the black cat exuded a deep sense of loyalty to her master. When Villemot left the studio, Clemence remained on guard. Christopher did not know what test he was being subjected to but he seemed to pass it because the cat eventually closed her eye, curled up and went back to sleep.

  Christopher felt at home. The studio had the same amiable clutter as his study in Fetter Lane and the same accumulation of recent projects, either abandoned or awaiting completion. What drew his attention was the easel on which the portrait of Lady Araminta Culthorpe was resting. It was covered by a piece of cloth and he could not resist lifting it up so that he could take a peep at the painting. What he saw astounded him.

  Aware of Villemot’s reputation for speed, Christopher could not believe the artist had done so much in such a short period of time. The background still needed to be sketched in, and the dress required a lot more work on it, but the head and shoulders of his subject were almost finished. The verisimilitude was amazing. Villemot had not merely caught her beauty and her serenity, he had brought out Araminta’s character in the portrait. She looked exactly like the quiet, serious, thoughtful, intelligent young woman that Christopher had met in that very studio. On the canvas before him was an image of pure contentment and he was duly moved.

  It pained him to recall that his brother posed a threat to her, and he knew that Henry was not discouraged by the fact that she was now married. Some of his other conquests had had husbands. Henry regarded holy matrimony as nothing more than a further hurdle to be cleared before he seized his prize. Looking at Araminta’s face and reminded of her rare qualities, Christopher promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep his brother away from her. Nothing would be permitted to spoil her radiant happiness.

  Unable to take his eyes off her, he stood there for several minutes in admiration of her unequivocal loveliness and of the artist’s skill in capturing it. It was only when he heard the front door open below that he came to his senses. Pulling the cloth back over the portrait, Christopher resumed his seat. Feet pounded audibly up the stairs then the door was flung open and Jean-Paul Villemot burst in. When he saw the visitor, he came to a halt and pointed an accusatory finger at him.

  ‘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 t
ossed 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.