‘But Villemot does respect it,’ said Henry, irritably. ‘That’s why he wishes to make this lady his wife. Unfortunately, Monique Chaval is married to a member of the French government, a vindictive man with the ear of the King. He’s almost forty years older than his poor wife – even in France that must verge on indecency.’
‘They were married in a church,’ Bale reminded him.
‘A Roman Catholic church,’ rejoined Henry. ‘I’m surprised that an unrepentant Puritan like you considers that to be a proper union. It’s certainly a wretched one for his wife. Chaval bullies her, starves her of money and keeps her locked away in his mansion. It was only because he wanted to show her off to his friends that he decided to have her portrait painted.’
‘Choosing Monsieur Villemot as the artist,’ said Christopher.
‘You can guess the rest. He fell in love with Monique and, when he heard how cruelly she was treated, he was determined to flee the country with her. Unfortunately,’ said Henry, ‘the plot was discovered and Villemot was lucky to escape with his life.’
‘Yet he still nurses the ambition of marrying her.’
‘He does – and with good reason. Old age and too much wine have taken their toll of Chaval. He’s also been something of a roué.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Bale.
‘A French version of my brother,’ explained Christopher.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Chaval is in decline,’ said Henry, ignoring the censorious look he collected from the constable. ‘Villemot only has to wait until he passes away and he can claim his bride. According to Hester, the lady does look remarkably like Araminta.’
‘Did he go to Lady Lingoe’s house that day?’ said Christopher.
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Then why didn’t he admit it to me?’
‘For the obvious reason,’ said Henry. ‘He didn’t want you to make any unflattering assumptions about him and Hester. That’s what I did and she took me to task over it. Hester assures me that their friendship is essentially Platonic, and since she has a bust of Plato in her hall, I’m inclined to believe her.’
‘Something must have taken him there,’ argued Christopher.
‘It was fear.’
‘Of what?’
‘A vengeful husband, of course,’ said Henry. ‘Chaval knows that his wife is still coveted by Villemot because he was courageous enough to sneak back to France in order to see Monique. As a result, the love-struck artist received death threats from Chaval.’
‘But he’s perfectly safe in England.’
‘That’s what he hoped, Christopher.’
‘Does he have cause to believe otherwise?’
‘He thought that he did. Something happened at Sir Martin’s house to give him a real fright. It made him ride off at once. Hester said that he was shaking all over when he got to her house.’
‘What frightened him?’ said Bale.
‘Somebody was watching Villemot from behind a tree.’
‘Did he know who it was, sir?’
‘No, Mr Bale,’ said Henry. ‘Given the threats against his life, he was afraid that the man had been sent by Chaval. If he’d spoken to me, I could have put his mind at rest but I wasn’t there at the time.’
‘What could you have done, Henry?’ said Christopher.
‘I could have told him that the man was no assassin sent from France. He was an English gentleman whose sole interest in being there was Araminta.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because of what Villemot told Hester,’ said his brother. ‘What scared him was that the man was peering through a telescope. As Villemot came out of the garden, he saw the telescope glinting among the trees. He felt that he was being hunted and he fled.’
‘Who was the man with the telescope?’
‘The person you’re looking for, Christopher – Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
Drizzle had started to fall out of an overcast sky, making a sad occasion even more sombre. The first mourners had already started to arrive at the church and others soon came in their wake. Sir Martin Culthorpe had been a popular man with many friends who wanted to pay their last respects to him. It was not long before a ring of coaches besieged the church. Interested bystanders lurked nearby so that they could watch the funeral cortege appear.
Jocelyn Kidbrooke had been among the early arrivals but he had not taken up his seat inside the church. Positioning himself where he had an excellent view of the whole scene, he ran his telescope across the sea of faces and picked out a number that he knew. It was a curious instrument and it had taken him time to master it but it gave him a distinct advantage over his rivals. In order to see Araminta, they had to get close to her but Kidbrooke could watch her at will from a distance. Where they would get only a mere glimpse of her, he was rewarded with continuous surveillance.
None of the others were there yet. Elkannah Prout had vowed to stay away from the funeral and Sir Willard Grail’s attendance was by no means certain. Kidbrooke fancied that Henry Redmayne would be unable to stay away and that he would do his best to get near to Araminta at some point. Kidbrooke was not worried that any of his rivals would have an edge over him. With his telescope in his hands, he felt that his position was unassailable.
The telescope did not stay in his hands for long. It was snatched away by Jonathan Bale. When its owner swung round to protest, he was staring into the face of Christopher Redmayne.
‘Give me back my telescope!’ demanded Kidbrooke.
‘We need to use it as evidence,’ said Christopher.
‘Of what?’
‘Your involvement in the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘But I had nothing whatsoever to do with it!’
‘You may not have stabbed him with that dagger, Mr Kidbrooke, but you paid the man who did. His name was Abel Paskins.’
‘And unless I’m mistaken,’ said Bale, whisking off his hat to reveal the bandaging, ‘you also instructed Paskins to attack me when I came to Westminster earlier.’
‘I haven’t seen Paskins for days,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘and I certainly wouldn’t pay him to commit a crime. He needed no incentive from me to do that. Abel Paskins was a deep-dyed villain. After he left my service, I learned that he’d stolen several things from my garden.’
‘Offer these excuses to the magistrate, sir.’
‘They’re not excuses, Mr Bale.’
‘On the day of the murder,’ said Christopher, taking control, ‘you were seen outside Sir Martin’s house.’
Kidbrooke blanched. ‘It was not me.’
‘How many people own a telescope like this one?’
‘Very few – it was highly expensive.’
‘You were seen with it in Westminster. And do not claim that you dined with your wife that day,’ Christopher added, ‘because we have it on good authority that Mrs Kidbrooke was in Hampshire. You were expected to dine at Locket’s with my brother, Henry, and some other friends, but you did not turn up. We know why.’
‘You were keeping watch for Abel Paskins,’ said Bale, grimly, ‘while he was stabbing Sir Martin in the back.’
‘You’ll have to come with us, Mr Kidbrooke.’
Bale took the man’s arm. ‘You’re under arrest, sir.’
‘I can’t leave now,’ yelled Kidbrooke, trying in vain to shake his arm free. ‘I haven’t seen Araminta yet.’
‘You disgust me,’ said Christopher, hotly. ‘How can you dare to come to her husband’s funeral when you were the agent of Lady Culthorpe’s distress? She’ll hate you for what you did.’
‘So will every decent human being,’ said Bale.
‘But I was not involved in the murder,’ protested Kidbrooke. ‘I’d swear that on the eyes of my children.’
‘Do you admit that you were at the house on that day?’
Kidbrooke was shamefaced. ‘Yes, Mr Bale.’
‘Then your guilt is clear.’
‘No,’ said the other with passion. ‘I’m o
nly guilty of wanting to see Araminta so much that I lay in waiting near her house for hours. I went there to look at her, not because I had murderous designs on her husband. I worship her,’ he went on, piteously. ‘I wouldn’t harm Araminta for the world. The last thing I’d even think of doing is to have Sir Martin killed. What could I hope to gain by such cruelty?’
The speech had such a ring of truth about it that Bale let go of his prisoner. Christopher had the same reaction. Much as he disliked the man and the Society of which he had been a sworn member, he had to accept that Jocelyn Kidbrooke’s argument was a strong one. Inciting someone to murder Araminta’s husband would not bring her any closer to him. She would retreat into mourning and be out of his reach. He remembered the gardener.
‘We thought that you poached Abel Paskins so that he could tell you about Sir Martin’s household,’ he said. ‘You knew that he’d once worked as a gardener there.’
‘I did,’ confessed Kidbrooke, ‘and I pumped him for every detail I could. But I wanted to learn about Araminta and not her husband. I also recognised that Paskins was an exceptional gardener.’
‘And a practised thief, by the sound of it.’
‘I found that out to my cost.’
Bale was confused. ‘If you didn’t instruct Paskins to commit the murder,’ he said, running a hand across his jaw, ‘then who did?’
Elkannah Prout arrived on horseback and reined in the animal not far from the church. As he dismounted and tethered his horse, he found that Abel Paskins was waiting for him. The gardener stepped out from behind a tree and touched the brim of his hat in deference.
‘Did you do as you were told?’ said Prout.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Paskins with a smirk. ‘I hit him with a spade.’
‘Good man.’
‘That’s one of them you don’t have to worry about, Mr Prout.’
‘Bale was only the assistant,’ said the other. ‘The person who troubles me is Christopher Redmayne. He’s much more acute and he’s the kind of gallant fool who never gives up.’
‘I’ll take care of him, sir.’
‘It’s the one sure way to stop him,’ said Prout. ‘It’s a pity – I rather liked the fellow. But we can’t have anyone finding out the truth. Christopher Redmayne is all yours.’
‘How much will I earn?’
‘The same as I paid you for Sir Martin’s death.’
‘I’d have killed him for the pleasure of it,’ said Paskins with a curl of his lip. ‘Sir Martin was a tyrant in the garden. Everybody thinks he was such a fine man but he could be vicious if you crossed him. He was always picking on me and making me look like a fool in front of the other gardeners. I loathed him.’
‘I was grateful to be able to harness that loathing.’
‘What happens next?’
Prout silenced him with a gesture. The funeral cortege was approaching and he craned his neck along with the other bystanders. First in line was the funeral cart, draped in black, pulled by black horses and containing the coffin that held the body of Sir Martin Culthorpe. Hats were doffed on both sides of the road. It was the carriage bearing the chief mourners that interested Prout. He could just see Araminta through the window as the vehicle rolled past and the sight made him sigh with a mingled sadness and joy. Grieving with her now, he hoped one day to be sharing her happiness.
‘What happens next?’ repeated Paskins.
‘I want you to kill Christopher Redmayne.’
Christopher waited until the cortege had gone past and until the coffin had been carried into the church. Replacing his hat, he used the telescope to look along the line of people on the other side of the street. When a familiar face came into view, Christopher paused.
‘That looks like Mr Prout,’ he said.
‘Impossible,’ declared Jocelyn Kidbrooke, standing beside him. ‘Elkannah went to Newmarket to watch the races. He swore that he would not come anywhere near the funeral.’
‘Then he must have changed his mind.’ He handed the telescope to its owner. ‘I’m certain that’s him.’
‘Let me see.’ Kidbrooke peered through the instrument. ‘By thunder,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is Elkannah! And do you know who the man beside him is?’
‘No,’ said Christopher.
‘It’s Abel Paskins.’
‘Paskins?’ echoed Bale with interest. ‘Where?’
It was his turn to look through the telescope. When he picked out the gardener, he studied him for a long time. His head began to pound at the memory of the fearsome blow it had received.
‘Well?’ asked Christopher. ‘Is that the man who attacked you?’
‘I don’t know, sir – it could be.’
* * *
As befitted the solemn occasion, everything moved at a slow pace. Mourners arriving in the cortege entered the church sedately. Those who had gathered outside now began to file in. Elkannah Prout decided to follow them. He had seen Sir Willard Grail join the queue of mourners but Jocelyn Kidbrooke was nowhere to be seen. Prout surmised that his friend must already be in the church. Of Henry Redmayne, there was also no sign at all. It appeared that he had elected to stay away altogether.
Prout intended to sit at the rear of the nave where none of his friends could see him. As far as they were concerned, he was at the races in Newmarket. It was a ruse that had to be maintained. Prout shuffled on behind the others. Before he got anywhere near the church door, however, he saw Christopher Redmayne bearing down purposefully on him. The moment their eyes met, he knew that his villainy had been discovered. Prout had to get away at once. While everyone else was moving forward with an unhurried tread, he broke into a trot in the opposite direction.
Christopher went after him, his youth and superior fitness allowing him to make ground easily on the other man. Prout, however, had his accomplice. Abel Paskins was still standing near the horse.
‘Stop him!’ yelled Prout. ‘This is Christopher Redmayne.’
‘I’ll handle him, sir,’ said the gardener.
Pulling out his dagger, he brandished it at the oncoming figure, forcing him to slow down. Paskins advanced on Christopher, intent on using his weapon, but he was suddenly deprived of it. Jonathan Bale came up behind him, felled him with a blow to the neck then kicked the dagger out of his hand. Paskins rolled on the ground.
‘Remember me?’ said Bale, removing his hat. ‘This is what you did when my back was turned. It’s not turned now,’ he went on, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him to his feet. ‘Let’s see what you can do in a fair fight.’
Paskins roared with anger and threw a punch at him. Blocking it with ease, Bale plunged his fist hard into the man’s midriff, knocking the breath out of him and making him squeal in pain. The gardener soon recovered and grappled with his opponent, getting in some sly punches to the ribs and trying to crack Bale’s nose open with a jerk of his forehead. The constable had quelled too many tavern brawls to be caught by the manoeuvre. Pulling his head back, he took the blow on the chin before pushing Paskins away from him.
The gardener responded by aiming a kick at his groin but Bale was too quick for him. Moving adroitly sideways, he caught hold of the flailing foot and yanked Paskins off his feet. The man hit the ground with a thud. Before he could move, he had Bale on top of him, using his weight to subdue him and punching away with both fists. The gardener’s face was soon running with blood and his strength was draining fast. Nothing he could do could get his opponent off him. Fired by the need for vengeance, Bale pounded on remorselessly until resistance finally stopped.
Elkannah Prout had watched it all with horror. Seeing that his accomplice had been overpowered, he mounted his horse and tried to ride off. Christopher stood in his way. He remembered how Bale had unsaddled Villemot when the artist had tried to ride off from Lady Lingoe’s house. Whisking off his hat, the architect waved it wildly in the horse’s face. It reared up on its hind legs and flung its rider backwards. Prout was badly dazed by the fall. When he had caught the rei
ns and calmed the horse, Christopher tethered the animal before moving to stand over Prout.
‘You should have gone to Newmarket.’
‘I had to be here,’ insisted Prout. ‘Araminta is mine.’
‘You’ll never get anywhere near her again,’ said Christopher, hauling him up. ‘Unless she decides to attend your execution, that is.’
It was several days before Araminta Culthorpe felt able to see them. In the aftermath of the funeral, she had shunned company of any kind and spent most of the time alone in her bedchamber or the garden. She had not even allowed Eleanor Ryle to stay with her for long. As the full facts about the murder began to emerge, however, she saw how indebted she was to the efforts of Christopher Redmayne and others. When she felt strong enough, she invited him to visit her at the house in Westminster. Henry was overjoyed when the invitation was extended to him.
The two brothers met her in the drawing room with its generous proportions and exquisite furniture. Rising from the table where she had been writing letters of thanks, Araminta did her best not to look so forlorn. When her visitors sat side by side on the couch, she took a chair opposite them.
‘I thought you had nothing whatsoever in common,’ she said, looking from one to the other, ‘but I see now that I was mistaken. You’ve both shown your mettle and I’m deeply grateful. So, I am sure, is Monsieur Villemot.’
‘We believed strongly in his innocence,’ said Christopher.
‘I never doubted it for an instant,’ added Henry.
‘Fortunately,’ she recalled, ‘someone else thought that he’d been wrongly accused – my maid. Eleanor is a wonderful companion. I never thought that she would help to solve a murder as well.’
‘Her assistance was invaluable,’ said Christopher. ‘She’s a young woman with initiative, Lady Culthorpe. But she’s not the only person who deserves plaudits here,’ he went on. ‘Thanks to my brother, Lady Lingoe was able to provide some useful information and the real hero was a parish constable, Jonathan Bale.’
The Painted Lady Page 26
