The Painted Lady cr-6 Page 8

  ‘My wife requested me to dine with her.’

  ‘Since when have you ever listened to your wife?’

  ‘We had things to discuss.’

  ‘The only wife in whom you have any interest is the one who was married to Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Henry. ‘I think you went spying on her again through that telescope that you bought.’

  Kidbrooke shifted his feet uneasily. ‘Arrant nonsense!’

  ‘Then where were you?’

  ‘At home with my wife.’

  ‘I’m surprised that you remember where your house is,’ said Henry with heavy sarcasm. ‘You spend so little time there that you probably wouldn’t recognise your wife if she stood only inches away from you. Can you even recall her name?’

  ‘Cease this railing!’

  ‘No? I thought not. Araminta has eclipsed her completely.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ shouted Kidbrooke.

  He looked as if he was about to strike Henry but the blow never came. Instead, both men were diverted by the sound of someone ringing a bell and pounding on a door. They looked down the street to see two officers, standing outside the house where Jean-Paul Villemot lived and worked. Henry’s eyebrows arched inquisitively.

  ‘What’s going on here, I wonder?’ he said.

  Christopher Redmayne had never been so overjoyed to see his friend. Hauled before a magistrate, he had then been summarily locked in Newgate, kept in a noisome cell with a group of desperate prisoners and denied any right of appeal. It was only because he was able to bribe one of the turnkeys that his message was duly delivered. A couple of hours later, to his intense relief, he peered through the bars and saw Jonathan Bale being conducted down the stairs by the prison sergeant. Christopher could not believe his good fortune when the cell door was unlocked so that he could step through it. With the jeers of the other prisoners ringing in his ears, he walked away with Bale.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘I spoke to the magistrate,’ replied Bale, ‘and told him that it had all been a misunderstanding. I vouched for you, Mr Redmayne. Since the magistrate knows me well, he agreed to release you, pending further investigation.’

  ‘There’s nothing to investigate, Jonathan. I’m innocent.’

  ‘I know that, sir. I spoke to Jacob.’

  Christopher was taken aback. ‘You went to my house?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the other. ‘I needed to hear all the facts.’

  ‘Well, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you. I knew what a cesspool Newgate was because I visited my brother when he was held here, but I was on the right side of the bars then. When you’re locked up with those bickering ragamuffins,’ said Christopher, shuddering at the memory of what he had endured, ‘it’s like being in the seventh circle of hell. I don’t know which was worse, the stench, the noise or the random violence.’

  ‘Let’s get you out of here where we can talk properly.’

  Christopher had to go through the formalities of being signed out by the prison sergeant then taken through a series of doors. When he was finally allowed to leave the prison altogether, light rain was falling but it nevertheless seemed like a glorious spring day to him. Having lost it for two intolerable hours, he found that freedom was a heady experience. As they were standing near one of the main gates into the city, they were caught up in swirling traffic but Christopher didn’t mind in the least. He had been liberated.

  They slipped into one of the first taverns they came to and found a table in a quiet corner. Unlike Tom Warburton, Bale did not as a rule drink on duty, but he accepted the offer of a tankard of beer on this occasion. Christopher treated himself to a cup of Canary wine. Bale sampled the beer.

  ‘Strong stuff,’ he opined, ‘but not as good as the beer that my wife makes. Sarah has a real gift as a brewer.’

  ‘I know, I’ve tasted her beer.’ Christopher sipped his wine. ‘That tastes like nectar,’ he said. ‘All they served in prison was black, brackish water. It made me feel sick just to look at it.’

  ‘Let’s make sure that you don’t have to go into Newgate again, sir, nor into any other gaol.’

  ‘How do we do that, Jonathan?’

  ‘The first thing we have to do is to find Mr Villemot,’ said Bale. ‘It was him that got you into this trouble. If you were to be involved in catching him, it would stand you in good stead with the magistrate.’

  ‘There must be officers already out looking for him.’

  ‘But they don’t know him, sir — you do. You’ll have a much better idea of where he’s gone to ground.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ confessed Christopher. ‘Besides, I’m not at all convinced that Monsieur Villemot had anything to do with the murder. What could he possibly hope to gain by killing Sir Martin Culthorpe?’

  ‘That’s not the way to look at it, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Innocent or guilty,’ said Bale, solemnly, ‘the gentleman avoided arrest by taking to his heels. That’s a crime in itself and he’ll have to answer for it. The longer he’s on the loose, the worse it is for him.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘The only place where the truth will come out is in court.’

  Christopher was rueful. ‘I beg leave to doubt that,’ he said. ‘Nobody showed much interest in the truth when I was arrested. The magistrate had the nerve to call me deceitful.’

  ‘Be that as it may, sir, Mr Villemot must be found.’

  ‘Oh, I agree, Jonathan. We need this whole matter sorted out as quickly as possible or a lot of people are going to be hurt.’

  Bale frowned. ‘A lot of people?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher, ‘and you’re one of them. Do you want to spend all that time making a model of house that will never be built? I certainly don’t want to design one that stays on a piece of paper. If Monsieur Villemot is convicted, we all stand to lose — you, me and Sam Littlejohn, not to mention all his men.’ Christopher shook his head in dismay. ‘Because it was in the French style, Sam was really looking forward to building this house.’

  ‘I know, sir. I spoke to him this morning.’

  ‘Did you meet him on the site?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bale, ‘he was very pleased to have got this contract. It will be a terrible shock if he suddenly loses it.’

  ‘Then let’s try to ensure that never happens.

  ‘It’s bound to, if Mr Villemot is guilty of the murder.’

  ‘I still believe he’s innocent,’ said Christopher, loyally.

  ‘Then why did he run away from the officers?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Jonathan. We have to remember that he’s French and, as such, viewed with suspicion by people who are unable to see beyond their own prejudices. If I were in a foreign country,’ he reasoned, ‘and were accused of a crime I did not commit, I fancy that my first instinct would be to do exactly what Monsieur Villemot has done. That’s not to excuse it, mark you,’ he emphasised. ‘What he did was wrong and he must be held to account for it. Our job is to help him clear his name.’

  ‘Only if he is innocent,’ warned Bale.

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Where do we start looking, Mr Redmayne?’

  ‘At the obvious place,’ said Christopher. ‘His lodgings.’

  Elkannah Prout stared at him in utter disbelief. He was bemused.

  ‘Are you serious, Henry?’

  ‘Deadly serious.’

  ‘You saw this happen with your own eyes?’

  ‘I can call on a second witness,’ said Henry Redmayne, ‘for Jocelyn was standing beside me. Two officers banged on the door of the house then went inside. When they came out again, I asked them what was afoot and they told me they were hunting Villemot.’

  ‘Do they really think he was the killer?’

  ‘Yes, Elkannah.’

  ‘But he’d have no reason to murder Sir Martin.’

  ‘He’d have the best reason in the world,’ said Henry.
‘He’s infatuated with Araminta.’

  ‘He’s only known her for a few days,’ argued Prout.

  ‘I only saw her for a few minutes before I was ensnared, and the same goes for the rest of us. We all saw her from afar. Think how it must have been for someone who was allowed to look upon her at close range for long periods of time. The most telling thing of all, Elkannah, is that Villemot is a Frenchman.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He comes from a nation of uncontrollable lechers.’

  Prout blinked. ‘You think this crime was driven by lust, then?’

  ‘The only way he could possess her is by getting rid of her husband,’ said Henry. ‘That’s another aspect of the French. They are prone to impetuous action.’

  They were in a coffee house in Holborn, oblivious to the stream of chatter all around them. Henry was still amazed by what he had learned, eager to accept Villemot’s guilt because it served his purpose. If the artist were arrested, he would not be able to mount guard over the portrait of Araminta. The holy grail of art was suddenly within Henry’s reach. Elkannah Prout seemed less ready to believe in the artist’s guilt. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

  ‘No,’ he decided, putting down his cup, ‘it would be madness. Who could possibly expect to endear himself to a woman by killing her husband? That’s sheer lunacy.’

  ‘Villemot expected to get away with it. In time, he must have hoped, Araminta would turn to him for comfort and wed him.’

  ‘But the fellow is already married.’

  ‘So is Jocelyn,’ said Henry, ‘but that hasn’t stopped him from having wild thoughts about a future with Araminta. The same goes for Sir Willard. It was less than two years ago that we attended his wedding yet he already behaves as if the ceremony never took place.’

  ‘My only interest at the moment is in Villemot.’

  ‘So is mine, Elkannah.’

  ‘How could he imagine that he would escape detection?’

  ‘The French are a peculiar breed.’

  ‘Even they do not think they can murder at will, Henry.’

  ‘A warrant is out for his arrest, that’s all I know. Unless there was strong evidence against him, he would not be being pursued with such vigour. The law does not often make mistakes.’

  Prout smiled. ‘I wonder that you should say that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you were once wrongfully arrested and imprisoned.’

  ‘Do not remind me,’ said Henry with a shiver. ‘There’s no more harmless creature on this planet than me, yet I was accused of foul murder. But for my brother, I’d have been hanged for the crime.’

  ‘I was just thinking about your brother.’

  ‘What put Christopher into your mind?’

  ‘Has he not designed a new house for the artist?’

  ‘Indeed, he has,’ said Henry, snapping his fingers. ‘I’d forgotten that. It was a lucrative commission. Poor Christopher! When his client is convicted, my brother will lose a large amount of money.’

  * * *

  ‘You must be able to tell us something,’ said Christopher, urgently. ‘We’re trying to help your master, Emile, but we can’t do that unless we can find him.’

  The valet looked beleaguered. ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘What did you tell the two officers?’

  ‘It’s a crime to hold back information,’ warned Bale. ‘It may be different in your country but, in England, you have to tell the truth to any law officers. Do you understand?

  ‘I’m sure that he does, Jonathan. Don’t frighten him with veiled threats or we won’t get a single word out of him.’

  They were in Villemot’s studio and the visitors were attempting to question Emile. It was proving difficult and not only because his grasp of English was uncertain. The valet was frightened. For the second time that morning, two officers had come to the house to demand to know the whereabouts of his master. In their wake, two more people wanted to interrogate him. Clemence was equally scared. Sensing danger, she stood on the chair with her back arched and her fur bristling. She took particular exception to Bale and hissed every time that the constable looked in her direction.

  Christopher had seen the studio before but it was a revelation to his companion. Its combination of striking art and spectacular disarray was almost overwhelming for Bale, and he did not like the atmosphere of the place. The sense of excess repelled him. Nor did the little French valet reassure him. Neat, smart and wholesome he might be, but there was something about Emile that worried Bale. What puzzled him was that he could not work out what it was.

  ‘Let’s try again,’ said Christopher, patiently. ‘Do you believe that your master has committed this crime, Emile?’

  ‘Non!’ The answer was decisive.

  ‘Has he ever been in trouble before?’

  ‘Non!’ replied Emile, hurt by the suggestion.

  ‘So why did they want to arrest him?’ The valet looked blank.

  ‘We won’t leave until you tell us,’ said Christopher. ‘What did those officers say when they first called?’

  ‘They look for Monsieur Villemot,’ said Emile.

  ‘But why? They must have had cause to do so.’

  ‘A warrant would not be issued without evidence,’ said Bale. ‘Did they tell you what that evidence was, sir?’

  Emile shook his head. Clemence gave her loudest hiss yet.

  ‘Where did Monsieur Villemot go?’ asked Christopher. ‘When I called to see him yesterday afternoon, he was not here. Where was he, Emile?’

  ‘He went out for the ride,’ said the other.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘How long was he gone?’

  ‘A long time, Monsieur Redmayne.’

  ‘An hour — two, perhaps?’

  ‘Two, I think.’

  ‘So he was away from this house when the crime took place?’ After a pause, Emile gave an affirmative nod. ‘I saw him when he came back,’ Christopher continued, ‘and he was very disturbed. He was perspiring and he looked ill. Also, the sleeve of his coat was torn.’

  ‘I mended that,’ said the valet, promptly.

  ‘Did you think he was in a strange mood?’

  ‘I work for Monsieur Villemot. His moods are not strange to me.’

  ‘Is he often in that state?’

  ‘There’s only one reason that would have brought those officers here,’ said Bale, ‘and that was evidence from a witness. Sir Martin Culthorpe lived in Westminster, Emile. Was your master seen in the vicinity of his house yesterday?’

  The valet bit his lip. ‘Yes,’ he conceded.

  ‘Do you know why he went there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many years have you worked for him?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Then you must have got to know him very well in that time. If you work so closely together, he’d trust and confide in you.’ Bale took a step closer to him. ‘What did he tell you yesterday afternoon when he got back?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  Emile glanced at the easel. ‘He worked on the portrait.’

  ‘The one of Lady Culthorpe?’

  ‘Yes. He painted until it got too dark.’

  ‘That does not sound like the behaviour of a man who had just killed someone,’ said Christopher, trying to win Emile’s confidence. ‘He would have been much more likely to disappear. Instead, he came back here to get on with his work. Is that correct?’

  ‘It is, Monsieur Redmayne.’

  ‘When your master spoke to me earlier, he told me that he first heard about Sir Martin’s death yesterday evening.’

  ‘Is true,’ said Emile. ‘A servant came from the house. He tell us Lady Culthorpe will not be here again.’

  ‘How did Monsieur Villemot react?’

  ‘He was upset.’

  ‘I’m sure he was. Listen, Emile,’ said Christopher, gently, ‘we are very anxious to help your master. Can you giv
e us any idea where he might be?’

  ‘Non.’

  ‘Does he have friends in London?’

  ‘Yes — many friends.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ There was a long pause before Emile shook his head. ‘I think there was and you do Monsieur Villemot no favours by keeping the name from us. Where would he go, Emile? Who could he rely on to hide him?’

  Emile backed away slightly, wrestling with his conscience. He was in a quandary. Wanting to protect his master, he knew that fleeing the law might look like a confirmation of guilt. Unless his name was cleared, Jean-Paul Villemot would be hunted all over London. If anyone should find him, it was preferable that it was a friend like Christopher Redmayne and not two officers, annoyed at the way that he had eluded them in Fetter Lane. Emile bit his lip again.

  ‘I do not know where he is,’ he said with unmistakable honesty.

  ‘But you might have some idea?’

  ‘I could be wrong, Monsieur Redmayne.’

  ‘You know your master better than anyone,’ said Christopher.

  ‘There was a lady,’ admitted Emile. ‘She was his friend.’

  Bale was suspicious. ‘What sort of friend?’

  ‘He was painting her portrait.’

  ‘Who was she and where does she live?’

  ‘Don’t press him, Jonathan,’ advised Christopher. ‘Let him tell us in his own good time.’

  ‘Her name was Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said Emile.

  ‘I fancy I’ve heard my brother mention her.’ Bale shot him a knowing glance. ‘Believe it or not, some of Henry’s friends are quite respectable. Let’s not rush to judgement on this lady.’ He turned to Emile. ‘What can you tell us about her?’

  ‘They were friends, this lady and my master.’

  ‘Go on,’ encouraged Christopher.

  ‘Is all I know. The painting is still here.’

  ‘Could we see it, please?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘We do, Emile. Show us the portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe.’

  The valet went across to a framed portrait that stood against the wall with a cloth over it. Picking it up, he had second thoughts and hesitated. The visitors waited in silence. Emile eventually decided that there was no point in hiding something that might lead them to his master. He pulled the cloth away to reveal the nude portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe, posing as Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the moon.