The Painted Lady

by Edward Marston

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s odd how relationships subtly alter, isn’t it?’ said Sir Willard. ‘When we were children, Barbara was always the elder sister who kept me firmly in line. I was terrified of her.’

  Foxwell grinned. ‘How could you be?’

  ‘Compared to me, she was so big, strong and formidable.’

  ‘Yet she has such a sweet disposition.’

  Sir Willard laughed. ‘It wasn’t quite so sweet when we were growing up,’ he said. ‘I think I was fourteen before my sister realised that she could not order me around any more. That’s when the first subtle change occurred. Instead of bullying me, Barbara learned to get her way by the black art of female persuasion.’

  ‘I’ll listen to no more of this,’ said Foxwell, pleasantly. ‘My wife is the closest thing to perfection that I’ve ever met and I’ll not hear a word against her. I’m just grateful that when we ride home this afternoon, we’ll do so in our coach. I’d not have enjoyed a journey both ways in the saddle.’

  Foxwell’s wife had visited her brother for a few days and her husband had come to collect her. The irony was that she had seen far more of Lady Grail than of Sir Willard but she was habituated to that by now. Her brother did not spend a great deal of time at home.

  ‘You’ll not be joining us for dinner, then?’ said Foxwell.

  ‘I’ve business to attend to in the city.’

  ‘That’s a pity, Sir Willard. I’d have appreciated a talk with you.’

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘You always put me off.’

  ‘We have so little to say to each other, Cuthbert.’

  ‘I set that down to lack of practice.’

  ‘Different interests are bound to keep us apart.’

  ‘Yet you knew I was coming to dinner today.’

  ‘Yes,’ lied Sir Willard, ‘and I’d intended to join you but I’ve been called away unexpectedly. You’ll have a splendid time with the ladies and you can sample the skills of our new cook.’

  ‘I look forward to that.’

  Cuthbert Foxwell wanted to administer a mild rebuke but he felt unable to do so. Though Sir Willard was younger than him, he always found him faintly intimidating. Much as he disapproved of the way that he neglected his wife, Foxwell was unable to even broach the subject. The contrast between the two families was stark. In the ten years of their marriage, Foxwell and his wife had grown steadily closer and disliked being apart. Sir Willard and Lady Grail, however, were rarely together for any length of time, even though their marriage was of much shorter duration. His brother-in-law had his suspicions about the business in the city that always took Sir Willard away but he did not dare to voice them to the ladies.

  ‘Incidentally,’ he said, using a handkerchief to mop up the last of the sweat, ‘do you, by any chance, remember that gardener of mine who was stolen away from me?’

  ‘Gardener?’

  ‘Fellow by the name of Abel Paskins.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to know the names of gardeners, Cuthbert,’ said Sir Willard, scornfully. ‘Underlings are underlings. If you give them the dignity of a name, they tend to get above themselves.’

  ‘Your friend did not think so.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Mr Kidbrooke.’

  ‘Ah, now I’m with you,’ said the other with a chuckle. ‘It was that time I called in with Jocelyn. You kindly showed us around your garden.’

  ‘Had I known that I’d lose a good man in the process, I’d not have bothered. Paskins had vision. He knew how to make the best of a garden. He designed and built that rockery for me.’

  ‘That’s what impressed Jocelyn so much.’

  ‘Did he have to take the fellow away from me?’

  ‘It was force of habit, Cuthbert.’

  ‘Does he make a habit of collecting other people’s gardeners?’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Willard, ‘but he acts decisively when he sees something that he wants. Jocelyn Kidbrooke is known for it.’

  ‘I found him rather disagreeable.’

  ‘He’s a good man at heart.’

  ‘I take your word for it,’ said Foxwell, ‘for I saw no evidence of it. But the reason I mention Paskins is this – did you know that he used to work for Sir Martin Culthorpe?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Sir Willard, nonchalantly, ‘and I’m not sure that I care.’ He concealed his interest behind a lazy smile. ‘Were you aware of that when you first employed him?’

  ‘No, it came as a complete surprise.’

  ‘When did you learn about this?’

  ‘Only yesterday,’ said Foxwell. ‘I had a visit from a young man whom I think you may know – Christopher Redmayne.’

  ‘I know and like his brother much better.’

  ‘He was trying to find out where Abel Paskins was.’

  ‘Why on earth should he do that?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, Sir Willard.’

  ‘You can tell me, surely.’

  ‘Before he left, Mr Redmayne asked me to treat everything he had told me in the strictest confidence and I gave him my word.’

  ‘I’m your brother-in-law, Cuthbert. There should be no secrets between us. Why is he so interested in a gardener?’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ said Foxwell. ‘What I will tell you, however, is that, no matter how long it takes, he’ll track the man down. Mr Redmayne is very determined.’

  ‘That was only one of his faults,’ complained Sir Willard.

  ‘He’s set himself a difficult task – I hope he succeeds.’

  ‘Since you won’t tell me what that task is, I can make no comment. Go on in and meet the ladies, Cuthbert. My business will not wait.’ He walked towards the horse that was saddled and waiting for him then he stopped. ‘What was that gardener’s name again?’

  ‘Abel Paskins.’

  Intending to do some work that afternoon, Henry Redmayne dined at home for a change and allowed himself only one glass of wine. In the days when Sir William Batten had been Surveyor to the Navy, tippling was the order of the day and Henry had joined in the merriment with gusto, if only to hear Sir William’s ripe language booming across the tavern like a broadside. Things were somewhat different now. He was expected to have a degree of sobriety when he was at the Navy Office.

  He was still eating his meal when his brother arrived. As Christopher was shown into the dining room, Henry almost choked on a piece of chicken.

  ‘You’ve no cause to upbraid me,’ he said, spluttering. ‘I did what you commanded, Christopher. I gave that moon-faced maid a basket of flowers and soothed her ruffled feathers with an apology.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Henry.’

  ‘What’s more, I’ve resolved to stay away from the funeral.’

  ‘A commendable decision.’

  ‘You’ve no need to harry me further.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ said Christopher. ‘I need to talk to you about your friends.’ He sat down at the table and helped himself to a slice of pie. ‘How well do you know them?’

  ‘As well as any man can know his boon companions.’

  ‘Could there be a killer among them?’

  ‘Unthinkable!’

  ‘I’m forced to explore the realms of the unthinkable.’ He chewed then swallowed the pie. ‘This is good, Henry.’ He cut himself another slice. ‘I think I’ll have some more.’

  ‘I didn’t know that you were coming to dinner.’

  ‘I didn’t know I’d have the good fortune to find you at home.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Information. Tell me about Sir Willard Grail.’

  ‘You’ve met the fellow.’

  ‘He kept me very much at arm’s length. What is he really like?’

  ‘He’s like so many of my acquaintances – he’s an impecunious aristocrat who married for money and who chose a wife who would not be too inquisitive about the way he spent his time. In character, Sir Willard is a younger version of Henry Redmayne.�
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  ‘Another strutting peacock, you mean?’

  ‘An urbane, intelligent, harmless fellow of good breeding who has a fondness for the luxuries of life.’

  ‘Some of those luxuries being the favours of Lady Culthorpe.’

  ‘That would be the ultimate indulgence.’

  ‘Would Sir Willard kill to achieve it?’

  ‘No,’ said Henry with emphasis, ‘and I’m absolutely certain that he did not murder Sir Martin.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘At the time when the crime was committed, Sir Willard was dining at Locket’s with Elkannah and me. You can eliminate all three of us, Christopher.’

  ‘What about Jocelyn Kidbrooke?’

  ‘He didn’t turn up that day.’

  ‘Was he supposed to?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Henry, nibbling a piece of bread. ‘When we formed our Society, we agreed to dine together once a week to compare the progress each of us had made with regard to Araminta. Jocelyn let us down.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He claimed that he dined with his wife.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Not for one second,’ said Henry. ‘Jocelyn spends as little time at home as possible. He leaves early and gets back late. Take last night, for instance,’ he added. ‘It would have been almost one in the morning when he went back to the house. His coach dropped me off here well past midnight. And there’s another thing…’

  ‘Go on.’

  Christopher had to wait until Henry had finished the last mouthful. His brother washed it down with a sip of wine, then surveyed the table to see if anything else tempted him.

  ‘According to Sir Willard – and he’s always unnervingly well-informed about such matters – Jocelyn’s wife is not even in London at the moment. She’s visiting her family in Hampshire.’

  ‘So why did he lie to you?’

  ‘Why else but to go peering at Araminta through his telescope?’

  ‘He has a telescope?’

  ‘He bought it for that sole purpose. All that the rest of us have had to sustain us are distant glimpses of her. Jocelyn has been able to bring her much nearer through his infernal instrument.’

  ‘So at the time of the murder,’ said Christopher, eager to confirm the fact, ‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke missed an opportunity to dine with friends because of a more urgent appointment?’

  ‘Yes, Christopher.’

  ‘That appointment could have been in Sir Martin’s garden.’

  ‘It could but I doubt very much that it was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wait until you meet him,’ said Henry. ‘He’s too fat and slow to be a likely assassin – though strangely enough, Elkannah did make a comment to that effect,’ he continued as a memory surfaced. ‘It was over that meal we had in Locket’s.’

  ‘What did Mr Prout say?’

  ‘Only that Jocelyn was so bedazzled by Araminta’s charms that he would kill to make her his own.’ He flapped a hand. ‘Elkannah was only speaking metaphorically. He knew as well as I did that Jocelyn would be incapable of such a deed.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Christopher.

  ‘His passions run deep but they would not provoke him to commit a murder. To begin with, Jocelyn would have had no means of getting inside that garden.’

  ‘Abel Paskins might have helped him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The gardener who was dismissed by Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

  Christopher told him how he had first heard about the man and how he had driven to Chelsea in the hope of meeting him. The news that Kidbrooke had blatantly poached the gardener from his last employer made Henry forget all about his dinner. He began to revise his opinion of his friend.

  ‘Paskins could have told him everything he needed to know.’

  ‘Especially how to get into that garden.’

  ‘Jocelyn – the killer?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Why was he so keen to engage Abel Paskins? Why did he fail to turn up for dinner that day? What use did he put that telescope to?’ asked Christopher. ‘Is he simply a man in the grip of an obsession or was he driven by uncontrollable jealousy to stab the husband of the woman he pursued? I need you to find out, Henry.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re an intimate of his. If you make casual enquiries, he’ll give you some answers. If I try to approach him, Mr Kidbrooke will be curt and defensive. That’s what happened when Jonathan Bale talked to him.’

  ‘Bale would make anyone curt and defensive.’

  ‘Find out what he was really doing on the day of the murder.’

  ‘He’s unlikely to volunteer the information.’

  ‘Then dig it out of him by more devious means,’ said his brother. ‘As long as you don’t alert him to the fact that we have the gravest suspicions about him.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’m equal to the task, Christopher.’

  ‘You have to be. You still have much to do to make amends for the way you tried to steal that portrait. Any magistrate who heard what you did would clap you in prison at once.’

  ‘Not prison again, please – it so disagrees with my complexion.’

  ‘It’s driven Monsieur Villemot to thoughts of suicide.’

  ‘That could be a sign of guilt,’ said Henry, pensively. ‘He’d rather take his own life than face the hangman in front of a baying crowd. Perhaps you are wrong about Jocelyn. What if the real killer is the man they have already arrested for the crime?’

  ‘Monsieur Villemot is innocent – I swear it.’

  ‘I feel the same about Jocelyn. ’Sdeath, I spent the whole evening with him yesterday. I cannot get my brain to accept that I was revelling with a cold-blooded killer.’

  ‘I’ve no proof that Mr Kidbrooke is guilty,’ said Christopher, ‘or that Abel Paskins is in any way involved in the crime. It may be that they are not. But it’s an avenue I must explore for the sake of Monsieur Villemot. About it, Henry.’

  ‘I’m working at the Navy Office this afternoon.’

  ‘Seek out your friend at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘I need to think this over.’

  Christopher was authoritative. ‘I’ve thought it over for you. Do as you’re told or there’ll be repercussions.’

  ‘Would you really turn me over to the law?’

  ‘Yes, Henry!’ His stern expression melted into a smile. ‘But if you do help me and Jonathan to find the killer, I’ll sing your praises to Lady Culthorpe and wipe away her painful memory of those mawkish verses you felt moved to write.’

  Henry was wounded. ‘I put my heart and soul into every line,’ he said, piteously. ‘I expected Araminta to swoon at the sheer magic of my words. I discern a small flaw in her character at last – Araminta has no appreciation of a master poet’s craft.’

  Christopher was tactful. ‘Then send her no more examples of it.’

  Emile was stroking the cat when he heard the coach rumble to a halt in the street below. Going to the window, he looked down to see Lady Lingoe being helped out of the vehicle by her footman. Clemence did not like being tossed on to a chair and she screeched her disapproval but Emile was already out of the room and descending the stairs. He opened the front door to admit his visitor, greeted her warmly then escorted her up to the studio. Lady Lingoe stood in the doorway and surveyed the room with a nostalgic smile.

  ‘I spent so much time in here,’ she said, fondly.

  ‘It was the honour to see you here.’

  ‘Things have changed for the worse since then, Emile. What I admired most about your master was that he was a free spirit, an artistic vagabond. He lived his life exactly as he chose.’

  ‘Is very true.’

  ‘Monsieur Villemot had such a healthy disdain for the pointless restraints that society imposes upon the rest of us. It was a joy to be in his company.’ Her face clouded. ‘The free spirit has now been caged. I went to see him in Newgate.’

  ‘He tel
l me, Lady Lingoe. He thank you.’

  ‘It was disheartening to see him in such a squalid place.’

  ‘He is hurting very much.’

  ‘Can you blame him? He’s locked up with the sweepings of London. It’s like Bedlam in there.’

  ‘I know. I tell Monsieur Redmayne.’

  ‘Christopher Redmayne?’

  ‘Yes. He say that he will go to the prison himself.’

  ‘He’d be better employed trying to get your master out of there. The atmosphere in Newgate is so foul. When I got home, I had to change out of my clothes to get ride of the smell.’

  ‘I do the same,’ said Emile, fastidiously.

  ‘When you spoke to Christopher Redmayne, did he give you any reason for hope?’

  ‘A little – he say he has the suspect.’

  ‘Did he tell you who it was?’

  ‘No, Lady Lingoe, he give me no name.’

  ‘At least, it sounds as if he’s picked up a scent. I wonder who the man could be and how he managed to get away with the murder.’

  ‘We will know one day.’

  ‘Let it be one day soon,’ she said with feeling. ‘I do not think that Monsieur Villemot can stand those unspeakable conditions for much longer. I only got as far as the sergeant’s office but that was enough to make me feel crushed. It must be soul-destroying to be locked away in one of the cells.’

  ‘When I come out of there,’ said Emile, ‘I cry for my master.’

  ‘I can well believe it. However,’ she went on, looking around, ‘I did not only come here to tell you about my visit to Newgate. I wanted to collect my portrait and take it back with me.’

  ‘But you ask us to keep it here until Lord Lingoe come.’

  ‘The case is altered, Emile. I was perfectly happy for it to remain here while Monsieur Villemot was able to look after it for me, but he’s not able to do that now. I’d prefer to have it where I can see it.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Could you find it for me, please?’

  ‘Is here,’ said Emile, crossing to the easel. ‘You like to see?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He lifted the cloth so that she could see the portrait and she viewed herself with a mixture of pleasure and regret. The circumstances in which it had been painted no longer existed and that clearly saddened her. ‘Thank you, Emile.’