The Painted Lady cr-6

by Edward Marston

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ said Christopher, wondering how Araminta could possibly cope with such an ordeal. ‘It’s something she’ll never forget. It will prey on her mind forever.’

  ‘She’ll need comfort,’ said Henry, composing his features into an expression that fell well short of true compassion. ‘I mourn Sir Martin deeply. He was a good man.’

  ‘I never heard you say a kind word about him.’

  ‘In death, I appreciate his many virtues.’

  ‘What use is that?’

  ‘I grieve with his wife, Christopher,’ said Henry. ‘She’s too young and fragile to be a widow. My heart goes out to her.’

  ‘Your heart is always going out to one woman or another.’

  ‘This one is different.’

  ‘That could be your motto,’ said Christopher harshly. ‘Have it translated into Latin and set beneath a coat of arms. On second thoughts, let the motto be in French for that’s more suited to blighted romance.’

  ‘You mock me unjustly.’

  ‘Then do not lay yourself open to mockery. You are ever your worst enemy, Henry. Father pointed out the cure. You should have married and settled down years ago.’

  ‘I never listen to sermons from the old gentleman, whether delivered from the pulpit or from directly beside me. The simple fact is,’ said Henry, soulfully, ‘that I’ve never met a woman who could make me repent of my sins longer than a few short weeks. Until now, that is. Until I first set eyes on Araminta Jewell.’

  ‘Her name is Lady Culthorpe.’

  ‘But she lacks the husband who gave it to her.’

  ‘You surely do not imagine you could take his place, do you?’ said Christopher, shaken by the thought. ‘Heavens above, man — Sir Martin’s body is not yet cold and you are already trying to devise a way to get at his widow.’

  ‘I love her, Christopher.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you that your love is not requited. When I was introduced to the lady myself, she baulked at the very name of Redmayne because of the way you’d hounded her. You are the last person in the world to whom she would turn.’

  ‘At the moment, perhaps,’ Henry agreed, ‘but time heals all wounds. Araminta will come to see me in a new light. With your help, I will gradually get closer to my angel.’

  Christopher was acerbic. ‘Count on no assistance from me,’ he said, looking his brother in the eye. ‘I’d sooner see her carried off by a tribe of cannibals than fall into your clutches. The woman is suffering, Henry. Do you know what that means? Common decency alone should be enough to make you stay your hand.’

  ‘I’ll keep my distance from her yet nourish my hopes.’

  ‘You have no hopes.’

  ‘I do if you intercede on my behalf.’

  ‘I’ll oppose you every inch of the way, Henry.’

  ‘But you’ve not heard my request yet.’

  ‘I’ll not listen to any request made across the dead body of Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Christopher. ‘When he was alive, he could defend his wife’s honour. That duty falls to people like me now.’

  ‘You sound more and more like Father every day. Hear me out,’ said Henry, silencing his brother with a gesture. ‘Araminta deserves a decent interval in which she can bury her husband and mourn his passing. I accept that and undertake to stay well clear from her.’

  ‘That’s the first civilised thing you’ve said.’

  ‘Meanwhile, however, there remains the question of the portrait.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Only that Villemot is known for the speed and excellence of his work. The chances are that her portrait has already taken on enough shape for her to be recognised.’

  ‘It has,’ conceded Christopher. ‘I saw it this very afternoon.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s a truly astonishing likeness.’

  ‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Buy it for me.’

  His brother gaped. ‘Buy it?’

  ‘Yes, Christopher — make an offer. Araminta will have no need of it now and she will certainly not want it finished. I will buy it in its present state and give it pride of place in my bedchamber. Buy it for me,’ he urged. ‘Villemot would never sell it to me but he would part with it to a friend like you. Purchase it on my behalf.’

  ‘That’s a disgusting idea, Henry.’

  ‘Do you not want to make me the happiest of men?’

  ‘I prefer to save Lady Culthorpe from being ogled by my brother. How could you even think of such a thing?’

  ‘It’s an important first step in getting closer to Araminta.’

  ‘Then I’ll advise Monsieur Villemot to destroy the portrait. It must never be in your possession,’ said Christopher, thinking of the powerful effect that it had had on him when he had peeped at it. ‘By rights, the decision about its future lies with Lady Culthorpe. My feeling is that she may well want it burned.’

  ‘I’ll not see Araminta go up in flames,’ wailed Henry. ‘Let the portrait go to someone who will cherish it. Let me feast my eyes on her day after wonderful day.’

  ‘No, Henry — that would only feed your lust. Apart from anything else, you have no money to buy such a painting. Even in its present form, it would be expensive. How would you raise the capital?’

  ‘I was hoping that you might help me there, Christopher.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Never forget that it was I who introduced you to your first client and set you off on your glittering career.’

  ‘I accept that and have repeatedly expressed my gratitude.’

  ‘Do so in a more pecuniary way.’

  ‘I’ve loaned you money time and again, Henry.’

  ‘And I mean to repay it,’ said the other, indignantly. ‘You know that you can rely on your brother. One good night at the card table and I can discharge all my debts to you — including the money you lend me to buy that portrait.’ Henry brightened. ‘I’d be able to refund that when I win the wager.’

  ‘What wager?’

  ‘The one that I’ve made with three like-minded friends of mine.’

  His brother was sickened. ‘If they are like-minded, they must be seasoned voluptuaries in the mould of Henry Redmayne. That being the case,’ he said with repugnance, ‘this wager will doubtless pertain to the very person whom we’ve been discussing. True or false?’

  ‘True, Christopher.’

  ‘Then you are even more mired in corruption than I feared. Not content with harbouring designs on the lady’s virtue, you place bets upon the outcome with your fellow rakehells.’ Crossing to the door, he pulled it wide open. ‘I’d like you to leave now, please.’

  Henry was wounded. ‘There’ll be no loan?’

  ‘Not a brass farthing.’

  ‘What about the portrait?’

  ‘To keep it away from you,’ said Christopher with determination in his eyes, ‘I’d be prepared to stand guard over it day and night with a loaded musket.’

  ‘A regiment of soldiers would not be able to ensure its safety,’ boasted Henry, taking up the challenge. ‘I spurn you, Christopher Redmayne. Instead of a brother, I have a mealy mouthed parson.’

  ‘I only seek to save you from your own wickedness.’

  ‘Here endeth the lesson!’ taunted Henry.

  ‘You would do well to mark it.’

  ‘I prefer to enjoy my time on this earth.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher, sadly. ‘I’ve seen the trail of victims you leave behind you after you’ve enjoyed them and I’m resolved that Lady Culthorpe will not be the next one.’

  Henry was outraged. ‘Araminta is not my victim!’ he roared. ‘She is my salvation. Until I can make her mine, I’ll have that portrait of her on my wall. Mark this lesson, if you will,’ he continued, arm aloft. ‘The portrait belongs to me. It’s destined to hang in my house and woe betide anyone who tries to stop me from getting it.’

  Storming out, he left the air charged with his passion.

  Word of the crime provoked a varie
d response among members of the Society. When three of them met at a tavern that evening, it was only Elkannah Prout who showed any real compassion.

  ‘The wager must be cancelled,’ he said. ‘It’s unsporting — like hunting an animal that is already badly wounded.’

  ‘I concur,’ said Sir Willard Grail. ‘She needs time a long time to recover — months, at the very least.’

  ‘I think we should call off the chase altogether.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t agree with that, Elkannah.’

  ‘We should forget all about our wager.’

  ‘You were the one who advocated the creation of the Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood. You cannot back out now.’

  ‘Her maidenhood has been surrendered, Sir Willard.’

  ‘A mere detail.’

  ‘And so has our raison d’etre.’ Prout was decisive. ‘The game is not worth the candle,’ he said. ‘We had the excitement of pursuing the lady hotfoot but we must now let her go free. I’m sure that Jocelyn agrees with me.’

  Jocelyn Kidbrooke had made no contribution to the debate thus far but he had not missed a single word of it. Toying with his wine glass, he gave his opinion.

  ‘I do not agree with either of you,’ he said, bluntly.

  ‘You must take one side or the other,’ argued Prout.

  ‘No, Elkannah. You call for the whole project to be abandoned. Have we come so far and invested so much to back out now? That would be madness and I’ll not hear of it.’

  ‘Then you must take my part,’ said Sir Willard.

  ‘Hold off our assault for months on end? That’s ludicrous.’

  ‘It’s seemly, Jocelyn.’

  ‘And that’s precisely what I have against it,’ said Kidbrooke, slapping the table with a flabby hand for emphasis. ‘Since when have we espoused seemliness and respectability? They are the sworn enemies of real pleasure. You may have been converted to propriety, Sir Willard, but I have not — nor, I dare venture, has Henry. He and I will think alike. The race is still on.’

  Prout blenched. ‘You’d allow Araminta no period of grace?’

  ‘A week is more than adequate. That will give her time to bury her husband and embrace the notion of widowhood.’

  ‘She needs to mourn, Jocelyn.’

  ‘What she needs is solace,’ Kidbrooke declared, ‘and I intend to offer it to her. If the two of you prefer to stand aside out of a false sense of sympathy, you leave the field clear for Henry and me.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Prout. ‘I resign from the Society. I’ll happily forfeit my stake in the enterprise.’

  ‘Well, I’ll not do so,’ said Sir Willard, forcefully. ‘I’ve put in too much money to quit the contest now. Jocelyn is right. What place has morality in the deflowering of a virgin? We do but follow the natural impulse of our sex.’

  ‘Araminta is no longer what she was when I devised the Society and you would do well to bear it in mind, Sir Willard. A virgin cannot be deflowered twice. Sir Martin Culthorpe has already performed the office that we all aspired to.’

  ‘We do not know that,’ said Kidbrooke.

  ‘Of course, we do. They were married for weeks.’

  ‘Some wives have been married for years before they discovered the delights of the flesh. Some husbands simply do not know what they are about in the bedchamber. Culthorpe may be one of them.’

  ‘Who could possibly resist Araminta?’ asked Prout.

  ‘A husband who respected her too much,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘A man who led a celibate and God-fearing life for over forty years before he even thought about marriage — in short, Sir Martin Culthorpe. I doubt if they even shared a bed on their wedding night and, if they did, it was surely occupied by two virgins. That’s what irks me most,’ he added through gritted teeth. ‘Culthorpe had that jewel of womanhood in his grasp yet he had no idea what to do with her.’

  ‘Jocelyn makes a telling point,’ said Sir Willard, his interest renewed. ‘Araminta may still be untouched.’

  ‘I’m certain of it. She still has that wondrous bloom on her.’

  ‘You’ve seen her?’

  ‘Only from a distance.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Recently.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ said Kidbrooke, evasively. ‘The point is this. One of us may still be able to fulfil the original aim of the Society. Now that good fortune has removed her odious husband, Araminta is there for the taking, gentlemen.’

  ‘Not by me,’ said Prout.

  ‘What about you, Sir Willard?’

  ‘All my senses have been revived,’ said the other with a wolfish grin. ‘So beautiful yet still a maid? No husband left to safeguard her? The lure is irresistible. I’m with you, Jocelyn. I begin to drool already. Araminta is fair game.’

  Jean-Paul Villemot had worked on the portrait until fading light made him stop. He had never been so inspired by any woman who had sat for him before. Araminta Culthorpe was a positive gift to an artist. He set up candles around his easel so that she remained in view as the paint slowly dried. Long into the evening, he kept returning to look at her, relishing her beauty afresh on each occasion as if seeing it for the first time. As he watched, he drank wine and it made him increasingly maudlin. When he had emptied one bottle, he opened another. He went back to the portrait again and lifted his glass in honour to Lady Culthorpe before taking another sip of wine.

  Villemot set the glass aside. Taking hold of the painting with both hands, he brought it gently towards him until it was only inches from his face. His face was aglow, his eyes moist.

  ‘Ma cherie!’ he sighed.

  Chapter Four

  Jonathan Bale looked after his parish with an almost paternal care. Whenever a serious crime was committed on what he saw as his territory, he took it as a personal affront and bent all his energies to solving it. He hated to see Baynard’s Castle Ward soiled in any way but even he could not keep pace with the petty theft, drunkenness, domestic violence, prostitution, fraud and tavern brawls that were regular events there. Bale was fettered by mathematics. There were too many villains and too few constables.

  While one pickpocket was being arrested, others were plying their trade nearby. If he felt obliged to part one angry husband and wife, Bale knew that other married couples would be having similar squabbles behind closed doors. He could not be everywhere at the same time but he liked to think that his presence had some impact. The local inhabitants admired and respected him. Because he had won their trust, they were much more likely to report incidents to Bale than to any other constable. Some of the others who patrolled the streets were too old, too wayward or too inept to be of much use to anyone. They lacked Bale’s fierce civic pride and commitment. None of them — Tom Warburton, especially — had his stamina.

  ‘I’m thirsty, Jonathan,’ he said.

  ‘You always are at this time of the day, Tom.’

  ‘I think I’ll step into the Blue Dolphin.’

  ‘Off you go,’ said Bale, tolerantly. ‘You know where to find me.’

  ‘I won’t tarry.’

  Warburton hurried across the road to the tavern with his dog bounding along beside him. He was a tall, stringy, humourless man in his forties with a tendency to try to beat confessions out of supposed malefactors. In an affray, Warburton was a good man to have at one’s side but he was far too reckless at times and Bale had often had to restrain him, reminding him that they were appointed to quell violence and not to initiate it. Bale did not mind being left alone. It gave him the opportunity to meet up with an old friend.

  Following his established route, he went round the next corner and strode briskly along the street until he came to a large gap between two tall new houses. Under the supervision of their employer, workmen were busy digging on the plot of land.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Littlejohn,’ greeted the constable.

  ‘Mr Bale!’ rejoined the builder, turning to see him. ‘I was hoping that I might bump into yo
u now that I’m back in your ward.’

  Bale sized him up. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

  ‘Blame my wife for that. She feeds me too well.’

  ‘You are keeping busy, I hope.’

  ‘Busier than ever, my friend.’

  The two men had been brought together when Christopher Redmayne had designed his first house. Since it was being built in Baynard’s Castle Ward, the constable noticed it when out on his rounds but he paid it no attention. It was simply one more house, rising out of the ashes. Dozens of others were being constructed in every street. The situation soon changed. When the murder had occurred on the site of the new house, Bale was drawn into the investigation and had therefore met Samuel Littlejohn. They had got on well together and their paths had crossed a few times since then.

  ‘I hear that we are partners,’ said Littlejohn, genially.

  ‘Partners?’

  ‘According to Mr Redmayne, you built a model for this house.’

  ‘I tried to,’ said Bale, unassumingly.

  ‘I’m told it was very good. If the architect and the client approved of it, it must have been. Mr Redmayne promised to show it to me when he gets it back from Mr Villemot.’

  ‘I hope you like it, Mr Littlejohn.’

  The builder grinned. ‘If I do, I might be offering you a job as a carpenter. Have you never thought of taking up your old trade?’

  ‘Never — I’m happy watching over the streets here.’

  ‘You’d earn a tidy wage from me.’

  ‘But I’d have to give up being a constable.’

  ‘Do you like the work that much?’

  Bale shrugged. ‘It suits me, Mr Littlejohn.’

  ‘Then I’ll not try to entice you away.’ He glanced around. ‘Things seem to be quite peaceful in this part of the city.’

  ‘Wait till this evening when the taverns start to fill up.’

  ‘Do you have a lot of trouble?’

  ‘Anyone who works near the river has trouble,’ explained Bale. ‘This part of the district is safe enough but there are some tough characters along Thames Street. Sailors, fishermen and those who work in the docks seem to need a good fight at least once a week. What’s even worse,’ he added, scornfully, ‘is that they also need the company of loose women.’