The Painted Lady cr-6 Read online

  Christopher gaped in wonder but Bale was so shocked that he began to splutter, turning his head away from the painting in sheer embarrassment. It was Christopher who recovered first.

  ‘I think that we had better visit the lady,’ he said.

  Chapter Five

  Araminta was still in a daze. Twenty-four hours after the murder of her husband, she sat in the window of her bedchamber and gazed with mingled pain and curiosity at the garden where she had found his body. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, she could not accept that he was gone. Araminta tried to keep up her spirits by pretending that he was simply unwell and that, once treated by his physician, he would recover and return to her. She clung with pitiful desperation to a false hope even though she knew that Sir Martin’s body had been taken to the coroner for examination.

  Since the moment of discovery in the grotto, she had not slept a wink. Araminta had insisted on keeping a vigil. Fatigue had rounded her shoulders and made her head droop. It had also put dark rings under her eyes but she refused to yield up to sleep. She told herself that she had to be ready to welcome her husband back home again. So preoccupied was she is staring through the window that she did not hear the door open, nor see her maid slip into the room. Eleanor Ryle was carrying a wooden tray bearing food and drink. Setting it down on the table beside the bed, she came across to her mistress.

  ‘How do you feel now, m’lady?’ she enquired, gently.

  ‘I’ll be fine when Sir Martin returns.’

  ‘The cook has made you some breakfast.’

  ‘I want nothing.’

  ‘But you haven’t eaten a morsel since yesterday morning.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, Eleanor.’

  ‘You must be.’

  ‘Take the food away, please.’

  ‘Why don’t I leave it beside the bed?’ said the other, coaxingly. ‘You might want to have it in a little while.’

  Eleanor knew that it was unlikely. It was the fourth tray of food she had brought into the bedchamber and, like the first three she feared that it would remain untouched. She understood why. For several hours after the murder, she had lost her own appetite but the pangs of hunger had eventually overcome her resistance. Eleanor knelt solicitously beside her mistress.

  ‘You need some sleep, m’lady,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not tired.’

  ‘You must be.’

  ‘No, Eleanor.’

  ‘At least, lie down on the bed,’ the maid recommended. ‘Then you can have a proper rest.’

  ‘I don’t want a rest.’

  ‘You can’t sit in that chair all the time. You’re exhausted.’

  ‘Just leave me be.’

  ‘But I hate to see you in this state, m’lady.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘You’re punishing yourself in vain.’

  ‘I have to wait for my husband. He’d expect it of me.’

  ‘But he’s not coming back,’ said Eleanor, softly.

  Araminta looked at her properly for the first time. She was fond of Eleanor. They had been together for years and she had come to place great trust in the maid. Eleanor was capable, obedient and loyal. She had devoted herself to the service of her mistress, sharing her woes and celebrating her moments of joy. When she had told them of her marriage to Sir Martin Culthorpe, some of Araminta’s friends believed that she had made a gross mistake she would soon regret. Their reaction had disturbed her. It was Eleanor who had comforted her, assuring her that she had made the right decision and telling her that she had never seen her mistress so happy. It had brought Araminta and her maid even closer together.

  ‘What did you say, Eleanor?’

  ‘It’s wrong to pretend that it never happened, m’lady.’

  ‘I’m not pretending.’

  ‘You are,’ whispered the maid. ‘Sir Martin is dead and you know it. He was murdered in the garden. You found his body.’

  Araminta was befuddled. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? The doctor came to verify the cause of death, then he spoke to you. He said that you must rest. He offered to give you something to help you sleep but you refused to take it.’

  ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘When did this all happen?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘My husband is dead?’

  ‘They took his body away,’ explained Eleanor. ‘There’s no point in sitting here like this because he will never come back.’ Araminta was still not persuaded. ‘There are lots of things to do, m’lady. There are so many people to be told — friends and relations. There are funeral arrangements to discuss. None of these things can be done if you just sit there in the window all the time.’

  Araminta gave a pale smile, then, as if hearing of the murder for the first time, she suddenly burst into tears. Getting to her feet, Eleanor hugged her and let her cry her fill, rocking her to and fro like a mother with a child. At length, Araminta made an effort to control herself, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe the rivulets from her cheeks. She looked up at the maid.

  ‘Who killed him, Eleanor?’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself about that, m’lady.’

  ‘I want to know. Tell me.’

  ‘Nothing is certain as yet,’ said the other. ‘An officer called at the house earlier today and spoke to the butler.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘It’s perhaps best if you don’t know. I don’t want you upset any more. Let the law deal with the killer.’

  ‘But who is he?’ demanded Araminta. ‘Give me his name.’

  ‘What use will that be?’

  ‘It will make me understand. It will help me to fit my mind to this horror. Who was the devil who took my husband away from me?’

  ‘They are out searching for him, m’lady.’

  ‘Tell me his name. I can see that you know it.’

  ‘I only know what Mr Rushton — what the butler told me. A warrant has been issued for the arrest of the man they suspect.’

  ‘And?’ Araminta was impatient. ‘Come on, girl — speak!’

  ‘It’s the French artist, m’lady.’

  ‘Monsieur Villemot?’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  Araminta was aghast. Someone she considered to be a friend had stabbed her husband to death. Bringing both hands up, she buried her face in her palms. Her body trembled, shook, then went into a series of convulsions as she tried to cope with the dire news. Enfolding her once more in her arms, Eleanor stroked her hair to soothe her.

  ‘I told you that it was better if you didn’t know, m’lady.’

  As Jonathan Bale approached the house, he had grave reservations.

  ‘We do not know if the gentleman is there,’ he complained.

  ‘I agree,’ said Christopher, ‘but, by the same token, we do not know that he is not there. In view of what Emile told us, we should at least look into the matter.’

  ‘I think it will be a wasted journey, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘Have more faith, Jonathan. You heard what his valet told us. Monsieur Villemot became very friendly with Lady Lingoe.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bale, disapprovingly. ‘Having seen that portrait of her, I shudder to think what kind of friendship it was.’

  Christopher laughed. ‘This is no time for maiden modesty.’

  ‘That painting was indecent.’

  ‘It was unexpected, I’ll admit that.’

  ‘A woman, disporting herself like that — it was lewd.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Christopher. ‘It had great artistic merit. It was firmly in the Classical tradition.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If you want to see lewdness and bad taste of the worst kind, you should look at some of the paintings in my brother’s house.’

  ‘I’ve seen them, sir. They are coarse and immoral.’

  ‘That, alas, is why Henry bought them.’

  By keeping up a good pace, they finally reached
Piccadilly, a wide thoroughfare that took its name from a tailor who had made his fortune by selling picadils, a high, stiff collar much in vogue at Court earlier in the century. Open fields were still in view but more and more houses were being built in the area, and Christopher had designed one of them. Emile had given them the address and it did not take them long to find the Lingoe residence, an imposing abode of white stone with a Classical facade that the architect stopped to admire. He marvelled at its beauty.

  It only served to unsettle Bale. He was never at ease in the presence of wealth and privilege, and the house symbolised both. Its sheer opulence revolted him. Understanding his reluctance to enter the building, Christopher had a solution to the problem.

  ‘If he’s there,’ he predicted, ‘he will not give himself up. My guess is that he will try to sneak away again.’

  ‘Shall I cover the garden, sir?’

  ‘Please do, Jonathan. Cut off his escape.’

  ‘Only if he’s inside,’ said the constable, dubiously.

  ‘There’s one way to find out.’

  After giving his friend plenty of time to walk to the rear of the house, Christopher rang the bell. The butler who opened the door was a tall, stately man in his forties with a searching gaze. It took him a second to establish that his visitor was a gentleman. Christopher’s elegance, respectability and air of wholesomeness impressed him.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said the other.

  ‘Is she expecting you, sir?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Lady Lingoe is not in the habit of receiving chance visitors,’ said the butler, ‘especially while her husband is out of the country.’

  ‘I have a feeling that she’ll agree to see me. Tell her that it concerns a portrait that she recently had painted.’

  ‘May I give her your name, sir?’

  ‘Christopher Redmayne.’

  The butler invited him in, closed the front door and disappeared down a corridor. Christopher had the opportunity to look around and he was intrigued. Marble predominated. Statues of classical heroes stood everywhere, all of them armed and most of them naked. It was like being back in Rome, a city that Christopher had once visited when deciding to follow architecture as a profession. The gilt-framed art also had a classical theme. He was still studying a dramatic painting of Leda and the Swan when he heard footsteps clacking down the corridor. He looked up to see Lady Hester Lingo sailing gracefully towards him.

  She was a full-bodied woman of medium height with bright red hair dressed in broad plaits in the style of a Roman matron. Her long tunic with its wide flounce was fastened along the upper arm by some gold brooches. An outer garment of silk was wrapped around her like a shawl. Christopher was irresistibly reminded of an illustration he had once seen of a Roman priestess. Though she was nearing thirty, her face had a sculptural splendour and seemed to be totally unlined. When she got closer, however, he saw how artfully Lady Lingoe had used cosmetics to conceal any signs of aging. The lady in the painting at the studio was indeed a painted lady.

  ‘Mr Redmayne?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher.

  ‘You must be Henry’s younger brother.’

  ‘Do you know Henry?’

  ‘We are acquainted,’ she said with a noncommittal smile. ‘He mentioned to me that his sibling was a brilliant architect.’

  ‘My brilliance has yet to be proven,’ said Christopher, ‘but I revel in my work. I am in awe of your house,’ he went on, looking around the hall. ‘It’s taken my breath away. I am pleased that you favour the Ionic Order. The shaft is more slender in proportion than the Doric and the capitals more intricate. The cornice-mouldings are small masterpieces.’

  ‘I’m glad that you approve, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, ‘but you did not come here to show your appreciation of my house. I believe that you came to talk about a portrait for which I sat.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Lingoe.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s rather a delicate subject,’ said Christopher, feeling that the hall was too large, cold and echoing a place for a private conversation. ‘Is there somewhere else we might go?’

  She kept him waiting for an answer. ‘Very well,’ she replied after long cogitation. ‘Follow me.’

  Lady Lingoe opened a door and took him into the library, a sizeable room with shelves of books against two walls, topped by a series of marble busts of Greek and Roman poets. When he was waved to a chair, Christopher sat in the shadow of Catullus.

  ‘What is this about a delicate subject?’ she said.

  ‘It concerns the artist, Monsieur Villemot. I believe that he befriended you while painting your portrait.’

  ‘Do you have any objection to that?’

  ‘None at all, Lady Lingoe.’

  ‘Have you seen the portrait?’

  ‘Briefly,’ he said with evident discomfort.

  She gave a brittle laugh. ‘There’s no need to be quite so coy, Mr Redmayne,’ she said. ‘As an architect, you must be accustomed to nude figures, if only carved in marble. Why feel ashamed — I certainly am not? The portrait is a present for my dear husband on his fiftieth birthday. Lord Lingoe is in Holland at the moment, attending to his ambassadorial duties. I wanted to surprise him with the gift.’

  ‘I’m sure that he will be delighted with it.’

  ‘We share a common passion for classical antiquity.’

  ‘I gathered that, Lady Lingoe.’

  She sat opposite him. ‘I’m still waiting to hear what brought you to my door, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘The death of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

  ‘Really? I had no idea that he had passed away.’

  ‘He was murdered, Lady Lingoe — stabbed in his garden.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Has the killer been apprehended?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘These are dreadful tidings. I did not know Sir Martin well but I nevertheless grieve for him. Murdered in his garden — how frightful! That young wife of his must be in torment.’

  ‘She is, Lady Lingoe.’

  ‘I’m full of sympathy for her,’ she said with unfeigned sincerity, ‘though I fail to see what connection my portrait can have with the crime.’

  ‘It’s not your portrait that’s relevant here,’ said Christopher, ‘but the one Monsieur Villemot was painting of Lady Culthorpe. For reasons I don’t fully understand, he is suspected of committing the crime and a warrant has been issued for his arrest.’

  ‘Jean-Paul, a killer?’ she cried, incredulously. ‘That’s an absurd suggestion. I know the man and can vouch for his character.’

  ‘So can I, Lady Lingoe. I’ve designed a house for him and it has meant our spending a lot of time together. Like you, I hold him in high esteem. I do not believe he’s guilty. However,’ added Christopher, ‘he has, unfortunately, behaved like a guilty man.’

  He told her about the attempted arrest of Villemot at his home and how, in the wake of the artist’s escape, he had been imprisoned. Since he had still not been fully exonerated, Christopher wanted to dispel any doubts about his own innocence by persuading Villemot to give himself up so that he could confront the charge against him and clear his name. Lady Lingoe was very attentive.

  ‘M. Villemot has a good friend in Christopher Redmayne.’

  ‘He needs help. Our judicial system is foreign to him.’

  ‘It’s no wonder he fled from it,’ she said, levelly. ‘Fascinating as all this may be, however, I still do not see how I am involved.’

  ‘It was Emile who suggested your name, Lady Lingoe.’

  ‘The valet?’

  ‘He was aware of the warm friendship between you and his master. If he would turn to anyone for assistance, Emile surmised, Monsieur Villemot would probably come here.’

  ‘Well, he has not done so.’

  ‘How would you respond if he
did?’

  ‘I find that question impertinent, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, curtly, ‘and I think less of you for asking it.’

  ‘My apologies, Lady Lingoe — I only sought to warn you.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The consequences.’

  ‘I am not unaware of those, sir.’

  ‘Harbouring a fugitive is a crime,’ said Christopher, ‘even though you may be — as I am — convinced of his innocence. All that I did was to talk to two officers for a short while and I was locked in a cell in Newgate.’

  ‘That would never happen to someone like me,’ she said with disdain. ‘Not that the situation would arrive, I can assure you. Jean-Paul would simply never come here.’

  ‘But he does know where you live.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And he has probably been here before.’

  ‘You are lapsing into impertinence again, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘Then I’ll tender my apologies once more,’ he said, getting up from his seat, ‘and bid you farewell. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘I was grateful to hear the news.’

  Christopher smiled disarmingly. ‘I was grateful to have the opportunity to see inside this remarkable house,’ he said. He looked over his shoulder at Catullus. ‘You keep good company, Lady Lingoe.’

  ‘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.