‘Why?’
‘I speak the language.’
‘Is this a foreign establishment?’ said Christopher.
Henry laughed. ‘Entirely foreign to you,’ he replied. ‘Brace yourself for a surprise, dear brother. You are about to enter Mother Pilgrim’s domain.’
‘What exactly is this place?’
‘It’s a Molly House.’
Christopher was alarmed. He had heard about such haunts of effeminate young men and sodomites, and could not imagine why he had been brought there. He had no time to protest. Henry had already pulled the bell-rope and the front door swung open. Dressed in ornate livery, a black boy, no more than three feet in height, beckoned them in. They went into a large hall that was lit by candelabra and charged with a sweet perfume.
Fanny Pilgrim glided towards them. Tall, stately and with a blonde wig of enormous dimensions on her head, she wore a dress of such regal magnificence that it dazzled their eyes. She held an ivory fan in one hand and waved it beneath her chin. Henry beamed at her with unassailable confidence but Christopher felt far less comfortable. Though their hostess appeared to be a shapely woman, encrusted with jewellery of all kinds, the architect was certain that he was, in fact, looking at a man.
‘Welcome, darlings,’ said Fanny, her deep, rich voice confirming Christopher’s diagnosis. ‘What brought you to my house tonight?’
‘A kind word from a friend,’ said Henry.
‘And who might that friend be?’
‘Samson Dinley.’
‘Ah, yes – dear Samson, our very own Delilah. You’ll find her in one of our rooms. If you are recommended by Samson, you are doubly welcome.’
‘Thank you, Mother Pilgrim.’
‘To my friends, I am known as Fanny.’
‘Then Fanny it shall be.’
She extended a gloved hand and, to Christopher’s chagrin, his brother actually kissed it. The visitors had clearly passed some kind of test. Fanny Pilgrim’s house provided a form of entertainment that was highly illegal, so any strangers had to be subjected to intense scrutiny before being allowed in. Henry’s foppish manner and his friendship with a regular denizen of the house had got them admitted. Christopher found himself wishing that they had been turned away.
They were taken across the hall to a room that was dimly lit and filled with the excited babble of a dozen or more men and women. Some of the men were so garishly attired that they made Henry’s suit look rather subdued. Their hair was brushed back from their forehead and combed into the high, curling waves of a woman’s coiffure. They had made heavy use of cosmetics to paint their faces. The women were even more decorative, wearing beautiful dresses, exaggerated wigs, glittering jewellery and an abundance of powder and perfume. It took Christopher only a second to determine that all the occupants of the room were men.
‘Why have we come?’ he said, nudging his brother.
‘To broaden your education.’
‘We do not belong here, Henry.’
‘Pretend to and all will soon be explained.’
A slim young woman in a scarlet gown came across to them and sized up Christopher with a roguish eye. She turned to Henry.
‘You never told me how handsome your brother was,’ said Samson Dinley with a titter. ‘Has he been to a Molly House before?’
‘No,’ answered Henry.
‘Then I’ll take good care of him.’
Dinley’s short, slight build and delicate features allowed him to assume the mantle of womanhood with comparative ease. His stance and gestures were genteel and ladylike. His voice was light and teasing. In the normal course of events, Christopher would have taken care to avoid such a person. That was not an option now – Samson Dinley was in a position to help them.
‘Henry tells me you know where Lady Culthorpe’s portrait is.’
‘I do,’ said Samson.
‘Is it still here?’
‘It will be on view upstairs any moment.’
‘How did it come to be here?’
‘What an inquisitive man you are, Christopher! I like that.’
‘Are you sure that it’s her?’
Dinley giggled. ‘Darling,’ he replied, arching an eyebrow, ‘do you think any of us would ever make a mistake about Araminta? She is our goddess. We worship her. We love, honour and reverence her. She has the beauty to which we all aspire.’
‘Araminta is an icon here,’ explained Henry. ‘Unbeknown to her, she has many acolytes in Fanny Pilgrim’s house. Araminta is a true emblem of womanhood in all its glories. She’s incomparable.’
‘She carries all before her.’
‘Did someone from here steal the portrait?’ said Christopher.
‘We have something far better than a portrait,’ said Dinley, taking Christopher by the arm. ‘We have Araminta in the flesh, a painting that moves and breathes as much as she herself. Come – let me show you.’
In spite of his misgivings, Christopher allowed himself to be led into the hall and up the wide staircase. Henry followed behind them. As they walked along the passageway, it was obvious from the noises emanating from every doorway that the rooms were occupied. Music was being played in one of them and Christopher caught a glimpse of two men dancing together. Samson Dinley stopped outside the room at the end of the passageway and rapped on it with his knuckles. It inched open.
‘I’ve brought some friends to see Araminta,’ he said.
An eye was applied to the crack between door and frame, and the visitors were subjected to a close inspection. Christopher was glad that the light from the candles was dim. He shrunk back slightly. Henry, on the other hand, took a bold step forward and grinned at the unseen gatekeeper. It seemed to impress the man because he opened the door and waved the three of them in.
Nothing had prepared the two brothers for what they were about to see and they were rendered speechless. The room was half-full of people who stood in a semi-circle around a large, gilded picture frame. Inside the frame, lolling on a couch and wearing a blue dress that shimmered in the candlelight, was a beautiful woman. She looked so much like the figure Christopher had seen in the portrait at the studio that he thought, for one startling instant, that it was Araminta. The resemblance was quite uncanny.
Henry felt it, too, craning his neck and blowing her a kiss. As they had been told, it was no mere painted likeness of Araminta but a creature of flesh and blood, capable of movement. As she adopted another pose, Christopher eased himself forward to get closer. The mirage before him slowly began to change. He could not only see the thick powder that had been used on the face, he realised that this woman was much older than Araminta. When their eyes locked for an instant, he realised something else as well and it sent him back to Henry’s side. He spoke in his brother’s ear.
‘I’m leaving, Henry.’
‘Why? Look on Araminta and understand why I love her.’
‘That’s not her,’ said Christopher.
‘It’s close enough to persuade me.’
There was a collective cry of disappointment as Araminta got up from the couch and withdrew into a dressing room. Christopher pulled his brother out by the sleeve.
‘We need to catch him when he leaves,’ he said.
‘Who?’ asked Henry. ‘All I saw was a vision of Araminta. She looks exactly as she did in that portrait at the studio.’
‘Now we know who stole it.’
‘Do we?’
‘I got near enough to recognise her – it was Emile.’
Sir Willard Grail was carousing in the tavern with some friends when he saw Jocelyn Kidbrooke enter. Excusing himself from the table, he went across to confront him.
‘I’ve been looking for you all day, Jocelyn,’ he said.
‘I had to go to Richmond.’
‘So I was told.’
‘What did you want me for?’ said Kidbrooke. ‘If you’re after more money, Sir Willard, you’re out of luck. I have none on me.’
‘It’s not your money I’m interest
ed in – it’s your garden.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you.’
He took Kidbrooke to a vacant table and they sat down. A waiter came to take the order. When the man had gone, Sir Willard let his anger show.
‘Did you poach a gardener from my brother-in-law?’
‘That’s a private matter,’ said Kidbrooke.
‘If it involved Araminta, it’s a very public matter. I spoke to Cuthbert earlier today. What you did to him still rankles. He adores his garden almost as much as he does his library.’
‘He has every right to, Sir Willard – it’s very impressive.’
‘It was until you lured away one of his best gardeners.’
‘I, too, have a garden.’
‘That wasn’t the reason you wanted Abel Paskins, was it?’ said Sir Willard, accusingly. ‘You discovered that the fellow once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘Really? He never mentioned that to me.’
‘He had no need to, Jocelyn – you already knew.’
‘I did nothing of the kind.’
‘You wanted Paskins because he could tell you things about Araminta and her husband that only someone who had worked at the house would know. You didn’t employ a gardener – you were buying information.’
Kidbrooke smiled defiantly. ‘What if I was?’
‘It was a breach of the Society’s articles.’
‘There was no reference to a gardener in them.’
‘We made a solemn agreement that we wouldn’t try to bribe members of Araminta’s household to act as spies,’ said Sir Willard. ‘Yet that’s exactly what you did.’
‘I deny that.’
‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’
‘Perhaps you should take another look at those articles that Elkannah drew up for us. Specific mention was only made of Araminta’s household, not of Sir Martin’s. At the time when we formed the Society,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘she was not married and was living with her cousin here in London.’
‘Don’t try to wriggle out of this, Jocelyn. You violated the spirit of the articles and should forfeit your right to the purse.’
‘It’s not the purse I’m after, Sir Willard.’
‘No, it’s that poor, wounded, defenceless, grieving widow.’
‘As for the spirit of the articles,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘that does not apply here. I did not try to bribe one of Sir Martin’s gardeners. Abel Paskins had already left his employ.’
‘Yes – he was working for my brother-in-law.’
‘I made him a more attractive offer.’
‘Then pumped him for intelligence about Araminta.’
‘I may have asked him if he was aware of the way that the romance between Sir Martin and her had first developed, but I also wanted him to build a rockery in my garden. The one he constructed for Mr Foxwell,’ he went on, ‘was what first drew my attention to him.’
‘You cheated, Jocelyn.’
‘I simply made the most of my chances.’
‘You broke the rules.’
‘What would you have done in my place, Sir Willard?’
‘Behaved more honourably.’
‘I beg leave to question that,’ said Kidbrooke, roundly. ‘Had you known that Paskins had once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe, you’d have whisked him away from under your brother-in-law’s nose without a second thought. Am I correct?’
Sir Willard was spared the awkwardness of a reply by the return of the waiter with a bottle of wine. When he had poured it into the two glasses, he withdrew again. Kidbrooke lifted his glass.
‘Let’s drink as friends,’ he encouraged.
‘Very well,’ said the other, picking up his glass. ‘But I’ll not forgive you for what you did, Jocelyn. You tried to gain an advantage over the rest of us by using corrupt means.’
‘I admit that I tried.’
‘And what did you learn?’
‘That Sir Martin was right to dismiss Abel Paskins.’
‘Why?’
‘The fellow was surly and ungovernable. Left to himself, he worked well and hard but he insisted on having his own way. Also, he was forever complaining.’
‘About what?’
‘Whatever took his fancy – he thrived on argument.’
‘Cuthbert had no trouble from the fellow.’
‘Then he would have been welcome to have him back because I soon regretted tempting him away from Mr Foxwell.’
‘When I called at your house, they said Paskins was not there.’
‘That’s quite true, Sir Willard.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Kidbrooke, resentfully. ‘He left earlier this week without a word of explanation. Paskins has flown the coop.’
As soon as they got back to Christopher’s house, he asked Jacob to pour three large glasses of brandy. The old man was perturbed when he saw his master return with his two companions but he masked his concern with his usual aplomb. Jacob was used to seeing Henry in flamboyant clothing but not with a painted face. It worried him. What really disturbed him was the sight of the little French valet with a powdered features and a woman’s wig on his head. He was, however, spared the blue dress. Emile had changed out of that before leaving Mother Pilgrim’s Molly House.
Left alone with their brandy, Christopher fired off a question.
‘Why did you steal that portrait, Emile?’ he challenged. ‘Did you want to show it off to your friends at Fanny Pilgrim’s?’
‘I no steal it,’ insisted Emile.
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I hide it so that nobody could take it away. Matilda, she warn me that this man go to the studio when I was not there. He look at the painting of Lady Culthorpe. He want it.’
‘You can hardly blame the fellow,’ said Henry, blithely, giving no hint that he was the man in question. ‘Any portrait of Araminta would be like spun gold.’
‘I was scared,’ said the valet. ‘I know what Monsieur Villemot would say if anyone steal it. So I hide it.’
‘Where?’
‘Under my bed.’
‘In other words,’ said Christopher, ‘it’s still in the house.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why did you tell us it was stolen?’
‘Because I want everyone to think that,’ said Emile, tasting the brandy with gratitude. ‘If they believe the portrait is not there, they will not come to the house.’
‘That was very clever of you but it did mean that we were searching for a stolen painting that never actually went missing. You wasted our time, Emile, time that could have been devoted to helping to get Monsieur Villemot released from prison.’
‘I sorry.’
‘What made you decide to be Araminta?’ said Henry.
‘I look at the painting every day. She is so lovely.’
‘You achieved a remarkable verisimilitude.’ He saw that he had strayed beyond the bounds of the valet’s English vocabulary. ‘You looked just like her, Emile.’
‘It was the tribute. I like her.’
‘How long have you been going to Fanny Pilgrim?’
‘Since we move to London.’
‘Does your master know about this?’ said Christopher.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Emile as if the question was unnecessary. ‘Of course, he did. I hide nothing from him.’
‘And he didn’t mind?’
‘Monsieur Villemot is an artist. He believe in freedom.’
‘I can think of better ways to exercise it.’
Henry sipped his drink. ‘You take too narrow a view of the world, Christopher,’ he said, ‘and fail to appreciate its teeming variety. I’d not care to spend an evening among the catamites in a Molly House but I refuse to condemn those that do. Well, you met Samson,’ he added. ‘Have you ever seen a more feeble, confused, innocuous creature? I dislike his sin but pardon the sinner.’
‘I’d prefer to put tonight’s little escapa
de behind us, Henry,’ said his brother. ‘Now that we know the portrait is safe, one problem is solved. We can turn to the more pressing one of Monsieur Villemot’s imprisonment.’
‘We must get him out,’ pleaded Emile, ‘or he die.’
‘I hate to say this but he’s his own worst enemy. Instead of telling me what I need to know to mount his defence, he keeps holding back salient facts.’
‘What sort of facts?’ said Henry.
‘He won’t tell me where he went on the day of the murder.’
‘You already know that. He went to Araminta’s house.’
‘But where did he go afterwards?’ asked Christopher. ‘He did not come back to the studio for two hours or more, and when he did, he was in a state of excitement.’
‘If I’d been to her house, I’d be in a state of delirium.’
‘He’s hiding something from me, Henry, something that might prove his innocence. It’s perverse,’ said Christopher in exasperation. ‘How can I help someone who keeps telling me lies?’
‘What sort of lies?’
‘To begin with, he told me that he was married and that he wanted the house built for him and his wife. But it turns out that there is no wife back in Paris.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Emile told me.’
The two brothers looked at the valet. Shifting in his seat, he took a long sip of his brandy. The resemblance to Araminta Culthorpe had vanished completely now. He was a weary, aging, bewildered, frightened little man.
‘Why did he mislead me, Emile?’ said Christopher. ‘Why did he tell me that he has a wife in France?’
Emile looked hunted. He rolled the glass between his palms.
‘I not tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Ask him,’ said Emile.
Elkannah Prout knew that his invitation would, in all probability, be declined but he nevertheless decided to offer. He called early at the house in the hope of catching his friend before he went out. Jocelyn Kidbrooke was less than welcoming but he agreed to speak to his visitor. They adjourned to the drawing room.
‘Why did you come here?’ asked Kidbrooke.
‘If we talk in your home, you’ll be reminded that you have a wife and children. I think that’s an important factor.’
The Painted Lady Page 22
