The Painted Lady

by Edward Marston

  Lowering the cloth, he lifted the portrait to the ground.

  ‘While I’m here,’ she said, ‘I’ll take the opportunity to peep at the painting of Lady Culthorpe. Where is it?’

  Emile became uneasy. ‘You not want to see that.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Monsieur Villemot, maybe he not like it.’

  ‘Of course he would. We were friends. He let me see whatever I wanted of his work. I’m sure that he wouldn’t have the slightest objection to my looking at his latest portrait.’

  ‘Is not finished.’

  ‘Then let me see how far he managed to get.’

  ‘Bad idea.’

  ‘It’s not an idea, Emile,’ she said, asserting herself. ‘It’s a direct request. I intend to see that picture of Araminta Culthorpe and I’ll not let a mere valet stand in my way. Now stop prevaricating and show me which one it is.’

  ‘Is not here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The lady, she take it away.’

  ‘You’re lying to me,’ she decided. ‘She’s in mourning. When a husband has been murdered, the last thing a wife would do is to worry about a portrait that is not even finished. Tell me the truth,’ she demanded, imperiously. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Is not here – that is the truth.’

  ‘Then where have you put it?’

  Emile licked dry lips. ‘The portrait, it was stolen.’

  ‘Stolen!’

  ‘Monsieur Redmayne, he try to get it back.’

  ‘Who took it?’

  ‘He not know yet.’

  ‘I’m glad I decided to retrieve my own portrait,’ she said. ‘The thought that it might have been stolen by a stranger so that he can gloat over it is quite outrageous.’

  ‘It is. I am very upset.’

  ‘What about the man who actually painted it? Your master will be mortified to hear what happened to it.’

  ‘That is why I not tell him.’

  ‘But he has a right to know, Emile.’

  ‘We find it,’ said the valet. ‘Before he come out of the prison, we find it for him. He not be told it was ever missing. That would hurt Monsieur Villemot like the sword through the heart. I love him too much to do that to him.’

  Sir Willard Grail considered the offer before giving a polite refusal.

  ‘Thank you, Elkannah,’ he said, ‘I can think of nothing I’d enjoy more than a visit to Newmarket. On any other day but tomorrow, I’d have been delighted to accompany you.’

  ‘But you have a funeral to attend.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t need to say it,’ said Prout, resignedly. ‘I should have guessed that nothing would tear you away from that. Well, I have one consolation, I suppose. At least, you didn’t laugh in my face.’

  ‘Why on earth should I do that?’

  ‘Henry assured me that you would.’

  ‘Did you put the same suggestion to him?’

  ‘Yes, I did, and I’ve been regretting it ever since.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘Was he contemptuous?’

  ‘His behaviour was inexcusable,’ said Prout, stiffly, ‘and I no longer list him among my close friends.’

  ‘Dear me! Was your conversation with him as bad as that?’

  ‘It was worse, Sir Willard.’

  They had met on their way to the coffee house and stepped into the anteroom so that they could talk in private. Like Henry Redmayne, Sir Willard had seen through the ruse immediately. The offer of a trip to Newmarket was a means of keeping him away from the funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe. Though he had not decided if he would attend the latter, he had graciously declined the invitation.

  ‘I daresay that you had the same response from Jocelyn,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He’s the one person determined to be at that church.’

  ‘I felt obliged to make the offer to him as well.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Prout. ‘When I called at his house, he was not there. His butler told me that he had business in Richmond and would be away all day.’

  Sir Willard was exasperated. ‘Confound it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was hoping to find him here. I need a word or two with Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

  ‘Have you fallen out with him?’

  ‘No, Elkannah – but it may come to that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a private matter regarding my brother-in-law.’

  ‘And it threatens your friendship with Jocelyn?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘What a turn of events!’ observed Prout, drily. ‘Not so long ago, all four of us were close companions, fellow pleasure-seekers and members of a Society whose very name defined our characters. Where has our warm friendship flown?’ he asked. ‘I have spurned Henry Redmayne. You are on the verge of a serious argument with Jocelyn Kidbrooke, and there’s no common ground left between us.’

  ‘All that will change once the funeral is over.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘It’s self-evident,’ said Sir Willard. ‘Until her husband is buried, Araminta cannot learn to live again and, until she does that, none of us can, in all conscience, make any overtures to her.’

  ‘That was not your opinion a couple of days ago.’

  ‘I’ve mellowed since then.’

  ‘If only Jocelyn could have done so as well,’ said Prout, ‘but there was no chance of that. Of the four of us, he was always the most rabid and uncompromising in his desires.’

  ‘That’s precisely why Araminta will reject him.’

  ‘Such over-eagerness would be very distressing to her.’

  ‘Almost as distressing as Henry’s crude attempts at poetry,’ said Sir Willard with a laugh. ‘When I read that sonnet of his, I began to wonder if English was his first tongue. He mangled the language.’

  ‘This morning, he mangled our friendship.’

  ‘Why are you so bitter about it, Elkannah?’

  ‘Because he betrayed me,’ said Prout, icily. ‘He agreed to my pact at first, then threw it back in my face. That was unpardonable. I will be supremely happy if I never see Henry Redmayne again.’

  The closer the funeral came, the more Araminta Culthorpe sank back into despair. Nothing could alleviate her suffering. The brevity of her marriage added a poignancy to the situation. Having been pursued and harassed by a number of suitors, she had found a decent, loving, caring man who neither pursued nor harassed her, offering her instead a respect and consideration that slowly drew her to him. Sir Martin Culthorpe was all that she had ever envisaged in a husband, and their life together had been blissful.

  Now he was gone and the brutal manner of his demise made his death more shocking. He could never be replaced. Araminta could never again know that joy of discovery. She and her husband had been enlarged with a vision of each other. Such delight only happened once in a lifetime. In its wake, came a form of oblivion.

  Occupied by these thoughts, Araminta sat in her bedchamber and tried to summon up the strength to face the ordeal on the morrow. All eyes would be on her. She would be tested to the limit.

  Eleanor Ryle was seated beside her, watching her mistress’s face gradually darken. She tried to lighten the mood of despondency with some light conversation.

  ‘Mr Rushton says that everything is under control.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘All that you need worry about is getting through the service,’ said the maid. ‘It’s bound to be harrowing, m’lady, but I know you’ll keep your composure somehow.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You’ll be surrounded by people who love you.’

  ‘That will bring comfort,’ said Araminta. After a pause, she sat bolt upright to announce an important decision. ‘I’ve been thinking about the portrait.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘It hasn’t upset me, Eleanor. It did at first, I admit, because it had such painful associations. Then I tried to look at it from Monsieur Ville
mot’s point of view. He was so excited by the commission. He brought such relish to his work.’ A look of bewilderment came over her face. ‘Monsieur Villemot wanted more than anything to finish that portrait. He told me that it would be his finest work since coming to England. Why should he do anything that might prevent him from completing it? That would be nonsensical.’

  ‘I agree, m’lady.’

  ‘He stood to gain nothing whatsoever by committing the crime,’ said Araminta, ‘yet he risked losing everything. Once I’d dwelt on that fact, I realised that I need no longer shun the portrait. It was not, after all, the work of a man who killed my husband.’

  ‘Other people feel the same,’ said Eleanor, thinking of her visit to Christopher Redmayne. ‘I’m sure that they are doing whatever they can to prove his innocence.’

  ‘It was as if a curse had suddenly been lifted off the portrait.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way.’

  ‘Since it was commissioned by Sir Martin, it ought to be here in our house. In time – God willing – Monsieur Villemot may even be in a position to finish it, though I can understand that he might want to have nothing more to do with it.’

  ‘All that he wants at the moment is to be set free.’

  ‘If he’s truly innocent, that will surely happen.’

  ‘What do you want me to do about the portrait, m’lady?’

  ‘Go and fetch it.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Araminta, decisively. ‘Take the carriage to the studio and collect what is rightly mine.’

  Christopher Redmayne was impatient. The evening was wearing on yet there was no sign of his brother. He feared that Henry might have forgotten his assignment and drifted off to a tavern with his friends. As he paced up and down the drawing room of his house, Christopher reprimanded himself for trusting so important a task to a person who was noted for his unreliability. Valuable time had been lost. Until they had more detail about Abel Paskins, neither Christopher nor Jonathan Bale could press ahead with their investigation into the murder and the theft of the portrait.

  There was the additional problem of Jean-Paul Villemot. To a man of such pride and sensitivity, being under lock and key in Newgate was like being stretched on a rack of humiliation. He would not be able to withstand it indefinitely. His threat of suicide had not been an idle one. If he carried it out, his name would be added to the long list of prisoners who had taken their own lives to escape the shame of being thrown into Newgate.

  Christopher did not want the artist’s death on his conscience but the only way to avoid that was to establish his innocence. If he put his mind to it, Henry could play a crucial role in getting Villemot out of prison, but it appeared that he had once again been distracted by the more immediate pleasures of the city. His brother’s first impulse was to visit Henry’s favourite haunts and drag him out of the one into which he had selfishly rolled that evening. Christopher drew back from that course of action because he knew how quickly Henry could drink himself into incomprehensibility. An inebriated brother would be no use to him at all.

  He was just about to give up all hope of seeing Henry that evening when he heard the clatter of hooves in the street. Someone pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. When the doorbell rang, Jacob went to answer it. Leaving his horse in the care of the old servant, Henry Redmayne swept into the drawing room and took off his hat before giving a low bow. Christopher was astounded. He did not at first recognise his brother for he wore a peach-coloured suit of the finest silk and the most elaborate sartorial accessories. What confused Christopher was that his visitor’s face was covered in white powder and marked with a large beauty spot.

  ‘Is that you, Henry?’ asked his brother, tentatively.

  ‘As large as life, Christopher.’

  ‘Why have you dressed like this?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ said Henry. ‘Meanwhile, prepare yourself for a disappointment.’

  ‘You forgot all about speaking to Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

  ‘On the contrary, I rode to his house as soon as I’d finished at the Navy Office. But he was not there. He spent the day in Richmond.’

  ‘Did you enquire about Abel Paskins?’

  ‘That’s the other disappointment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The gardener left Jocelyn’s staff days ago,’ said Henry. ‘Nobody at the house has any idea where Paskins might have gone. But do not worry,’ he continued. ‘As one trail goes cold, we pick up a scent elsewhere. Get changed, Christopher. Put on the most gaudy apparel that you possess.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It will help us to blend in. Samson Dinley is a distant acquaintance of mine, though anyone less like the Biblical Samson it would be impossible to find. He’s no strong man brought down by a woman, but a puny, prancing, pigeon-chested fellow. However,’ said Henry, magnanimously, ‘despicable as he is in many ways, Samson gave me the most valuable piece of information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The missing portrait.’

  ‘He knows where it is?’

  ‘Samson saw it for himself.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the place I’m about to take you, Christopher. But you’d not be admitted in that dull and workaday attire. Seek out the brightest thing in your wardrobe,’ he urged, pushing his brother out of the room. ‘You are about to have an experience that will set your mind racing. Araminta awaits us – dress up accordingly for her.’

  Chapter Ten

  Jean-Paul Villemot dreaded the approach of night. The day had been a trial but visits from Emile and Christopher Redmayne had acted as a welcome distraction and left him with the minor comforts of clean clothing and edible food. Natural light had also filtered into his cell. Although the narrow slit in the wall was too high for him to look out through, he was grateful for the sunshine that poked in and for the additional benediction of a whiff of fresh air that came in its wake. At night, one of them disappeared.

  Newgate was plunged into darkness. Villemot had a candle in his cell but its flickering flame created only a small circle of light. He was lost in shadow, a hunched figure sitting against the wall as he listened to the nocturnal howls of the crazed, the sick and the violent. Noise was more intrusive at night, bruising his ears, battering on the iron bars and pressing in upon him with almost physical force. As the din built to a crescendo, he put his hands to his face in sheer dejection.

  There was no way out. He admired Christopher Redmayne but he simply could not believe that the architect – albeit with the aid of a constable – would be able to secure his release from prison. There were strict limits to what Emile could do for him and even Lady Lingoe was only able to make his imprisonment marginally less hideous. Villemot was on his own, a renowned French artist who discovered that his fame, his nationality and his choice of profession only provoked derision in Newgate. Charged with murder, he was treated like the lowest criminal. It was degrading.

  He was not only obsessed with his own suffering. His thoughts frequently turned to Araminta and to the torment that she was undergoing. Her pain would be intensified beyond endurance by the belief that the artist had stabbed her husband to death. Wanting her to think well of him, he was horrified that he was seen as the agent of her grief. Young, vulnerable and forlorn, Araminta would be locked in a prison of anguish. She had her own Newgate.

  The notion of suicide had at first been too frightening to contemplate but it began to take on a seductive appeal. It would liberate him from his woes and save him from the strong possibility of being hanged in front of a jeering mob. The problem lay in deciding on a means of committing suicide that would be swift and effective. A razor was the obvious choice but he was not allowed to shave. The alternative was a dagger with a sharp blade. However, since a turnkey overheard every conversation he had, he could hardly instruct a friend to provide one for him.

  Fire was a possibility, though a daunting one. Even if he managed to light the
dank straw with his candle, it would be a slow, painful, lingering death. In any case, the smoke was likely to arouse suspicion before the fumes could take their effect on him. That left another potential way of departing the earth. Villemot could spurn one hangman by taking on the office himself. All that he needed was a ligature. In the gloom of his cell, he stripped to the waist and tore the sleeve off his shirt, looping it until it formed a noose. By way of experiment, he slipped it around his neck. It felt strong enough to dispatch him. He thought that it would be a merciful end.

  Tearing the other sleeve from his shirt, he tied it to the noose then stood on tiptoe so that he could reach the highest point on the bars. With the noose around his neck, he slipped the end of the other sleeve through the bars, intending to use his own weight to throttle himself. His hands were shaking and he had difficulty tying the knot. By the time he finally succeeded, his heart was racing and his whole body was running with sweat. After offering up a silent prayer for the salvation of his soul, he kicked his legs forward and let the noose bite into his neck. The sudden pain made him gasp.

  The attempt was soon over. As the turnkey walked past on patrol, he held up his lantern and saw the figure squirming in the cell.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, unlocking the door and rushing in to cut Villemot down. ‘You can’t escape as easily as that, you French cur. You’ll be hanged proper and I’ll be there to cheer with the rest of ’em!’

  Christopher Redmayne had been past the house hundreds of times without ever once asking himself what lay behind its front door. It was a large, high, nondescript building, only five minutes’ walk from Fetter Lane, and they could see light blazing in some of the windows. He was relieved that it was night. Henry loved to disport himself in public but his younger brother felt far too conspicuous in the red doublet and matching petticoat breeches that he had put on. They belonged to his younger days when he was a more adventurous dresser. Christopher was pleased when they reached their destination.

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ suggested Henry.