‘How can one be miserable in a coffee house?’
Prout relaxed slightly and even managed a ghost of a smile. He had chosen the wrong place to broach such a solemn subject but he did not give up. After gritting his teeth, he tried once more.
‘It’s a simple request, Jocelyn,’ he said. ‘In two days’ time, Sir Martin Culthorpe is to be buried. Will you consent to stay away from the funeral?’
‘No, Elkannah.’
‘You have no place there and neither do the rest of us.’
‘I neither consent to stay away nor to go,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘I’ll make the decision on the day itself and not have it made for me. If you and Henry shy away like frightened horses, that’s your affair.’
‘Sir Willard will also see sense in the pact.’
‘Then let him accept it. I’ll have no rival at the graveside.’
‘It would be a cruelty to Araminta to go.’
‘How else can I get close to her?’
‘You would not be wanted.’
‘Stop browbeating me,’ complained Kidbrooke. ‘You’re the second person to snap at my heels about Araminta and I’ll not endure it. First, I am accused of stealing that portrait of her and now you try to force me to sign a pact. I’ll have none of it.’
Prout was interested. ‘What’s this about the portrait?’
‘An oafish constable named Bale stopped me at the door and had the effrontery to ask me if I was a thief.’
‘According to Henry, you did offer to buy it.’
‘I would have thought that was proof of my good intentions,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘Why offer money for something if I intended to take it by stealth?’
‘Was the constable persuaded?’
‘I don’t think he had brain enough to comprehend logic. When such men are in charge of law and order, how can we wonder that London is awash with crime?’
‘Who did steal that portrait of Araminta?’
‘I wish I knew, Elkannah. Were you the thief in the night?’
‘No,’ replied the other, indignantly. ‘I told you – I’ve withdrawn from the Society so I am no longer at the mercy of the same imperatives.’
‘Are you saying that you’ve lost interest in Araminta?’
‘No man who has seen her could do that. I just respect her right to mourn her husband without being bothered by any of us.’
‘Would you like to own that portrait?’
‘That’s neither here nor there.’
‘You’re prevaricating,’ said Kidbrooke, digging his ribs with a finger. ‘Be honest, man. Did you or did you not covet it?’
‘I did,’ conceded Prout.
‘There you are – you’re as bad as the rest of us.’
‘No, Jocelyn, I’m not. I wanted it but knew that I could never have it. The portrait belongs to Araminta and it would be an act of cruelty to take it away from her.’
‘Who would do such a thing – Henry?’
‘He vehemently denies the charge.’
‘Sir Willard?’
‘I’d not put it past him.’
‘A few days ago, I’d not have put it past Elkannah Prout. You were always in the forefront of the chase. But now,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘you’ve lost your nerve.’
‘I’ve lost nothing. What I did was to gain a moral sense.’
‘Has it robbed you of your love of coffee?’
‘No,’ said Prout, inhaling the aroma with a smile. ‘I’ll join you in a cup or two this minute. As for our pact…’
‘Your pact, Elkannah,’ said the other, slipping a companionable arm around his shoulders. ‘It has no power to restrain me. Stay away from the funeral, if you wish. I answer to my own desires.’
* * *
When Jonathan Bale arrived at the house, Christopher took him into the study and first listened to his report before giving one of his own. They agreed that neither Sir Willard Grail nor Jocelyn Kidbrooke had stolen the portrait, but that both would be likely to pay handsomely for it were the painting to be offered to them. Bale grew quite excited when he heard about the visit of Eleanor Ryle. It was an unexpected bonus to get such valuable information from someone inside the Culthorpe household. He was shaken by the revelation that Villemot had been seen leaving the garden around the time when the crime was committed, but he rallied when he heard about Abel Paskins.
‘We must find him, sir,’ said Bale.
‘That’s my office, Jonathan. I’ll save your legs by riding there. Not that I have a horse at present,’ he added, ‘but I will before too long.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers from the table. ‘Take a look at these sketches and tell me who the subject is.’
‘An easy question, sir,’ said Bale, glancing at them. ‘It’s your brother, Henry.’
‘You recognise him?’
‘Clearly.’
‘Then let’s see if someone else does as well,’ said Christopher, looking over his friend’s shoulder at the sketches. ‘I can conjure buildings out of the air and create a wonderful garden with deft strokes of my pencil, but I’m no Jean-Paul Villemot. He can distil the essence of a person. I can only capture a faint likeness.’
‘It’s more than a likeness, Mr Redmayne.’
‘I hope that’s enough.’
‘When did you do the drawings?’ asked Bale, handing them back so that Christopher could slip them into a portfolio. ‘And what did your brother think of them?’
‘I did them a year ago at Henry’s request. He picked out the best one to send to a lady with whom he’d become acquainted. My brother blamed me when it was returned in tiny pieces.’ He moved to the door. ‘Come, Jonathan – you are about to meet Matilda.’
‘Is she the lady who tore up the sketch?’
‘No, she’s the maid at Monsieur Villemot’s lodging.’
They set out together and maintained a good pace until they reached Covent Garden. When they got to the house, Emile saw them from the upstairs window and came down to open the door.
‘You bring good news?’ he asked, hopefully.
‘Not yet,’ said Christopher, ‘but we soon will.’
‘I see my master in the prison. Is terrible place.’
‘It’s intended to be,’ said Bale.
‘He ask me to tell Lady Lingoe where he was. She will help.’
‘So will we, Emile,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re here to speak to Matilda but there’s something I must ask you first.’
‘What is it?’
‘You told me that you went out for a walk yesterday evening. Someone must have seen you because that’s when he persuaded the maid to let him into the studio. How long were you away?’
Emile shrugged. ‘An hour?’
‘You walked for an hour in the dark?’ said Bale. ‘I should take more care, sir. It’s not safe to be on the streets at that time. London is a dangerous city.’
‘We learn that, my master and me.’
‘May we come inside?’ requested Christopher.
Emile stood back to let them into the passageway. ‘I fetch Matilda for you,’ he said.
He walked a few yards and tapped on a door. The maid’s head soon emerged. At the sight of the strapping constable, she drew back slightly. Christopher beckoned to her.
‘Could we have a moment of your time, Matilda?’ He held up the portfolio. ‘I want you to look at something.’
‘If you wish, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, coming towards him.
‘Do you remember that gentleman who called yesterday?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Did he look anything like this?’
He took out the sketches and handed them over. Matilda was a short, fat, young woman who was worried by the thought that she had mistakenly allowed the stranger to enter the house. At the time, he had seemed so friendly and plausible. She was less sure about him now. As she peered at the drawings with great concentration, Emile stood beside her. He was not impressed.
‘These are not by the good artist,’ he said.
Chr
istopher smiled. ‘I’m the first to admit that.’
‘Oh!’ cried Emile in embarrassment, ‘I did not know that they are yours, Mr Redmayne. I am sorry.’
‘You made an honest judgement. Stand by it.’ He turned to Matilda, who was gazing hard at one sketch. ‘Was that the man?’
‘I think so.’
‘Close to my height and a few years older?’
‘He kept moving his hands.’
‘Like this?’ said Christopher, gesticulating in a manner typical of his brother. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’
‘Look at all the sketches – be certain.’
‘I am certain,’ she said, holding two of the sketches side by side. ‘This is the man who called here yesterday.’
‘Thank you, Matilda.’
‘You know this man?’ asked Emile.
‘Yes,’ replied Christopher, putting the drawings back into the portfolio. ‘Unfortunately, I know him only too well.’
Since she was no horsewoman, the ride back to Westminster was both frightening and uncomfortable for Eleanor Ryle but it got her there much quicker than her own feet could have done so. Nigel, the fresh-faced young servant who had accompanied her, helped her down from the saddle. She thanked him profusely before running to the house. In her estimation, she had been away for the best part of two hours and feared that her mistress might have called for her in the interim.
Admitted through the side door by one of the kitchen maids, she scampered up the backstairs and along the corridor to Lady Culthorpe’s bedchamber. Eleanor was relieved to see that the door was firmly shut. Leaning against the wall opposite, she tried to catch her breath. She did not regret what she had done. Like her mistress, she had lingering doubts about Jean-Paul Villemot’s guilt and she felt a frisson of pleasure when she recalled the artist’s suggestion that she should wear the exquisite blue dress at a sitting in place of Lady Culthorpe. He had noticed her. During the few seconds they had met, Villemot had observed that her figure and deportment were similar to those of her mistress. That simple act of recognition meant so much to Eleanor. It made her want him to be innocent of the crime.
The door of the bedchamber suddenly opened and Araminta stood before her. With a squeal of surprise, Eleanor stood away from the wall and gave an obedient smile.
‘I hope you haven’t been waiting there all this time,’ said Araminta with concern.
‘No, m’lady.’
‘What have you been doing?’
‘I went for a little walk,’ said the maid. ‘We’ve been trapped in the house so long that I felt the need of some fresh air.’
‘An excellent idea – there’s no need to entomb ourselves here.’
‘Did you get any sleep, m’lady?’
‘Yes, I did, for an hour or so.’
‘Oh, I’m so pleased.’
‘It’s left me feeling drowsier than ever.’
‘Perhaps you should go back to bed.’
‘No,’ said Araminta, ‘I feel the need to stretch my legs. Fresh air will do me good. Let’s take a turn around the garden.’
‘The garden?’
‘Yes, Eleanor.’
‘Are you sure that you’re ready for that, m’lady?’ said the other, thinking about Lady Culthorpe’s last venture into the garden. ‘I don’t want you to upset yourself.’
‘I need to go,’ decided Araminta. ‘A dreadful event may have taken place there but I’ll not bar myself on that account. My husband adored his garden and he’d want me to enjoy it to the full. In any case, I have another reason for wanting to see it.’
‘What was that, m’lady?’
‘It was where Sir Martin proposed to me,’ confided the other, a distant smile touching her face. ‘So it will always be a very special place to me. Come, Eleanor. The garden will revive happier memories.’
‘As long as it does not trouble you in any way.’
‘We will soon find out,’ said Araminta.
The ritual of dressing to go out was a long and laborious one for Henry Redmayne. Every detail had to be right, every colour had to match, every article of clothing had to blend into a dazzling whole. After a final ten minutes spent on choosing the best hat, he was ready to depart but, when he opened the front door, his brother was bearing down on the house with Jonathan Bale beside him. Henry shivered with apprehension. Recovering quickly, he sought a means of escape.
‘I’m sorry, Christopher,’ he said, holding up a hand. ‘I can see that you’ve come on urgent business. Whatever it is, it will have to wait until the morrow. I have an appointment with His Majesty at the palace and he must not be kept waiting.’
Christopher was direct. ‘I don’t think the King would be pleased to know that he was consorting with a thief.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That portrait.’
‘I did not steal it,’ said Henry. ‘I’d swear on the biggest Bible in Christendom. I’d even do so before our esteemed father and there’s no more solemn oath than that. Now, let me get on my way.’
‘No, sir,’ said Bale, obstructing him.
‘You’ve no right to stop me.’
‘And you’ve no right to tell us lies, Mr Redmayne. I am not as close to King Charles as you but I do hear gossip about him from time to time, and I am certain that he’s not even in London.’
‘That’s true,’ said Christopher. ‘I read it in the newspaper. His Majesty is visiting Oxford. No more flimsy excuses, Henry. Invite us in so that we may settle this matter.’
‘It already is settled – I’m not a thief.’
‘We are talking about the visit you paid to the house yesterday.’
‘That wasn’t me, Christopher.’
‘The maid believes that it was,’
Henry was incensed. ‘Do you accept the word of an ignorant slattern over mine?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, tapping the portfolio. ‘We showed Matilda those sketches I did of you. She recognised you.’
‘And she is no ignorant slattern, sir,’ said Bale. ‘The girl has good eyesight. Even by the light of a candle, you are very distinctive.’
‘If you still persist in denying it, Henry, there’s an easy solution. Now that you no longer have to rush off to the palace, you can step along to Monsieur Villemot’s lodging with us and let Matilda take a proper look at you.’ Christopher held out an arm. ‘Shall we do that?’
Henry Redmayne was like a trapped animal. Caught at the threshold, he could not get free. What made his discomfort more intense was that Bale was there to enjoy it. They had met before in the course of Henry’s previous indiscretions and the constable had always seized the chance to deliver a lecture at him on morality. Henry could not bear that. He looked for a compromise.
‘Very well,’ he said with a grandiloquent gesture, ‘perhaps my curiosity did get the better of me. There’s no harm in that.’
‘You entered that house under false pretences,’ said Bale.
‘I’m prepared to discuss this misunderstanding with my brother, Mr Bale, but not if you are party to the conversation. Your presence would inhibit me. This is an occasion for filial confidences.’
Bale looked at Christopher and they had a silent discussion. At length, and with reluctance, Bale agreed to withdraw, touching the brim of his hat in farewell. Henry took his brother into the house and guided him into the drawing room. Sweeping off his hat, he conjured up an expression of remorse.
‘I did visit the house,’ he confessed, ‘and it was wrong of me to do so. But I was desperate to see that portrait of Araminta and it seemed like the only way.’
‘Short of stealing it, that is,’ said Christopher.
‘I did not take the portrait and there’s an end to it.’
‘Far from it, Henry – I fancy we are just at the beginning. I spoke to Sir Willard Grail earlier and he mentioned an association to which you and he belong. What exactly is it?’
‘Harmless fun among friends,’
said Henry, airily.
‘I don’t think that wheedling your way into someone else’s property can be classed as harmless fun. Matilda has been blaming herself for letting you in ever since. I could see it in her face,’ said Christopher. ‘But for her, that portrait would not have been stolen.’
‘I told you – I had nothing to do with the theft.’
‘We’ll come back to that. First, tell me about this society.’
‘It was Elkannah’s notion,’ said Henry, trying to shift responsibility on to someone else. ‘I was against it from the start but the others cajoled me into it, and I was as entranced by Araminta as any of them. Under pressure from the others, I joined the group.’
‘And what was its purpose?’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Come along, Henry. I know that it pertained to Lady Culthorpe so you might as well be honest about it. What was its name?’
‘The Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood.’
Christopher was shocked. ‘That’s disgraceful!’
‘It was only meant in jest.’
‘Well, the jest has so far led to the murder of her husband and the theft of her portrait. What other amusement is your iniquitous society going to offer?’
‘Do not be so harsh on me, Christopher.’
‘A round of applause seems inappropriate.’
‘I expect you to appreciate your brother’s position.’
‘Allying yourself with your companions in corruption in a bid to deflower an innocent young woman!’ said Christopher. ‘That’s your position. I’m not surprised that you or Sir Willard were drawn into this hideous scheme, but I expected more of Mr Prout. He struck me as a man with some sense of honour.’
‘Yet he proposed that we set up the Society in the first place.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Elkannah even drew up the articles of association and nominated the amount of money that was to be involved.’
‘Money?’ Christopher’s voice was rich with disgust. ‘There was money at stake here? What sort of degenerates are you that you should gamble on the loss of a lady’s virtue?’
‘It was not like that, Christopher.’
‘What other construction can I put upon it?’
‘Think about Susan Cheever.’
The Painted Lady Page 15
