The Painted Lady cr-6

by Edward Marston

  ‘I am sorry, Christopher. Is my fault.’

  ‘I survived.’

  ‘What about Lady Lingoe?’ asked the other with sudden fear. ‘I hope that she will not suffer.’

  Bale was blunt. ‘She took in a fugitive from justice.’

  ‘Unwittingly, I think,’ said Christopher, ‘and that makes all the difference. I see no reason to mention her name at all and I’m sure that Jonathan agrees with me.’ The constable gave a reluctant nod. ‘Your friend is quite safe, Monsieur.’

  The Frenchman was grateful. ‘Thank you, Christopher.’

  ‘What we have to do is to prove your innocence.’

  ‘I will tell them. I will explain that it was not me.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ said Christopher. ‘There’s evidence against you. The fact is that you were seen near Sir Martin’s house around the time of the murder. And you were very excitable when you returned to your studio. I was there, remember. You were extremely rude to me.’

  ‘I know. I came to make my peace with you. I apologise.’

  ‘It will take much more than an apology to satisfy the court. It may well be that only one thing will persuade a judge that you were not guilty of the crime.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘We have to catch the man who did stab Sir Martin to death.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We have no idea at the moment,’ admitted Christopher, ‘but we won’t rest until we find out. It’s not the first time that Jonathan and I have saved someone from the gallows.’

  ‘True enough, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale.

  ‘Rely on us, Monsieur.’

  ‘If you’re really innocent, we’ll help you cheat the hangman.’

  As the trio walked on, Villemot ran a hand around his throat.

  Emile was horrified by the turn of events. When he heard that his master had been imprisoned in Newgate, he tried to visit him but was turned away and told to come back the following day. Returning to the rooms in Covent Garden, he reflected on how completely things had changed in such a short space of time. Instead of being the valet of the most famous artist in London, he was employed by a man accused of a heinous crime. Instead of having a job for life, he faced the threat of summary dismissal. Instead of looking forward to moving to the new house, he might have to sneak home to Paris in disgrace.

  Villemot had not committed murder. Of that Emile was certain. But he was equally certain that his master would not be the first innocent man to be hanged by mistake. As an artist, his nationality was in his favour, suggesting a flair and passion felt to be lacking in the more reserved English. As a prisoner, however, his French manners and accent would be a serious disadvantage, attracting scorn from the turnkeys and other prisoners, and prejudicing the jury against what they would perceive as a wicked foreigner.

  The problem had all started with Araminta Culthorpe. She was not the first beautiful woman to sit for her portrait but she had a quality that the others had lacked, a purity that set her apart and lent her face its spiritual glow. Emile went over to the easel and threw back the piece of cloth, staring in wonder at Araminta’s face, neck and shoulders. She was truly captivating. Even with his long experience of painting young and gorgeous ladies, Villemot had been deeply moved by her presence in the studio.

  It was late before Emile retired to bed, having tried to console himself with several glasses of wine. Once his eyes closed, he was dead to the world. The studio was unguarded.

  The intruder came with great stealth, entering the house by means of a window at the rear and climbing the stairs with furtive steps. When he reached the rooms rented by Villemot, he first made certain that the valet was asleep then went into the studio and closed the door soundlessly behind him. Knowing that the floor was littered with objects, he took the precaution of lighting a candle. It enabled him to step between the scattered items and reach the easel without colliding with anything.

  Here was the moment for which he had been waiting, the act of revelation that would deliver his beloved Araminta into his hands. Taking hold of the cloth, he threw it back and held the candle close to illumine the painting. His eyes widened in amazement and his heart began to pound. What he beheld was quite beyond belief.

  Chapter Six

  Work began early on the site of the new house. Oblivious to the fact that the person who had commissioned it was now in custody, Samuel Littlejohn was there to supervise his men and to help them unload the building materials that arrived by cart. He understood the importance of setting a good example for the others. Instead of standing apart and barking orders at them, therefore, he was quite ready to get his hands dirty from time to time by working alongside them. His combination of industry and cordiality won him the respect of his men and none of them tried to slack in his employ.

  Littlejohn had just unloaded the last of the bricks when Christopher Redmayne came into view, riding his horse at a trot. The builder gave him a cheery wave then removed his hat and ran his sleeve across a perspiring brow.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Redmayne!’ he said.

  ‘And to you, Sam.’

  ‘There’s precious little for you to see, I fear. Give us a week and we’ll have made some real progress.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I can’t do that,’ said Christopher, dismounting from his horse. ‘I’ve come to call a halt to any work on the house.’

  Littlejohn was wounded. ‘A halt?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘Aren’t you satisfied with what we are doing?’

  ‘I’m eminently satisfied. The fault lies elsewhere.’

  There was no point in shilly-shallying. The builder deserved the truth and Christopher gave it to him as quickly and concisely as he could. Littlejohn was shocked to hear what had happened. He broke off to order his men to stop work then he searched for more detail.

  ‘You say that Mr Villemot is not guilty?’

  ‘He swears it, Sam, and I believe him.’

  ‘Then why was he arrested?’

  ‘It seems that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’ asked Littlejohn.

  ‘Monsieur Villemot claims that it was pure accident that he was in the vicinity of Sir Martin’s residence. Two witnesses saw him at the rear of the house,’ said Christopher, ‘and that was where the killer gained access to the garden. Apparently, the gate was unlocked.’

  ‘Was that usual, sir?’

  ‘It was very unusual, Sam. Like any wealthy man, Sir Martin Culthorpe was careful to protect his property. A high wall encloses the garden and that gate is invariably locked.’

  ‘Yet you still think that Mr Villemot is innocent?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence,’ said Littlejohn, doubtfully, ‘but I don’t like the sound of what I’ve heard. A warrant would not be issued unless there was other evidence that we don’t yet know about. I admire your loyalty to Mr Villemot but I choose to keep an open mind.’

  ‘That’s fair enough, Sam.’

  ‘I did warn you something might go awry with this contract.’

  ‘Nobody could have foreseen that our client would be accused of murder,’ said Christopher. ‘I know that you look askance at the French but even you must concede that they are not, by nature, inclined to stab people to death.’

  ‘I never suggested that they were, sir.’

  ‘But you were worried.’

  ‘Foreign clients always worry me,’ confessed the builder.

  ‘This one may give you a pleasant surprise. When he’s released from prison, work can begin at once on the house.’

  Littlejohn was philosophical. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ he said with quiet resignation. ‘Thank you, Mr Redmayne — it was good of you to come. I’d better go and pass on the sad news to the men.’

  ‘Tell them not to lose hope.’

  ‘I’ll tell them to prepare for the worst. It’s more honest.’

&n
bsp; Putting his hat on again, the builder moved away. Christopher was about to mount his horse when he saw a rider approaching. He did not at first recognise the diminutive figure. It was only when the man pulled his mount to a halt that Christopher realised that it was Emile, the French valet.

  ‘I am glad to find you, M’sieur,’ said Emile, anxiously. ‘I go to your house. The old man, he say you come here.’

  ‘That would be Jacob, my servant.’

  ‘I do not know who else to tell.’

  ‘Tell what?’

  ‘Is very bad.’

  ‘You’re not making much sense, Emile,’ said Christopher. ‘I can see that you’re upset. Why not try to calm down before you speak? If there’s a problem, I’ll be glad to help.’ Emile nodded gratefully. ‘Now, let’s go through it very slowly, shall we? What is so very bad?’

  ‘I am afraid to tell him.’

  ‘Who — Monsieur Villemot?’

  ‘Oui, m’sieur. C’est terrible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The portrait he paint…’

  ‘The one of Lady Culthorpe?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emile in despair. ‘It was stolen.’

  * * *

  Henry Redmayne was not accustomed to being up so early in the morning and he was decidedly liverish. Still in his garish dressing gown, a garment that swept the floor as he moved, he was unshaven and without his wig. He regarded his visitor through a bleary eye.

  ‘Death and hell and furies!’ he shouted. ‘What the devil has brought you here at this ungodly hour, Elkannah?’

  ‘I needed to speak with you.’

  ‘Could you not delay conversation until a more fitting time of day? This is most inconsiderate. I’m never fully awake until noon.’

  ‘My business will not brook delay,’ said Elkannah Prout.

  ‘What does it concern?’

  ‘Araminta.’

  ‘Ah!’ The name brought Henry to life. ‘Now she is the one person in the world for whom I would willingly drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn. I’d go without sleep for a month for Araminta.’

  ‘I’m glad that she arouses a philanthropic impulse.’

  ‘There’s nothing I would not do for her, Elkannah.’

  ‘Then bestow upon her the greatest gift you have to offer.’

  ‘I’ve already done that,’ said Henry, dreamily. ‘I’ve given her my exclusive and undivided love.’

  ‘Araminta would prefer your forbearance,’ said Prout. ‘At a time like this, she needs to be left alone to mourn in peace. I want you to join with me and stop your reckless courtship of her.’

  Henry was disdainful. ‘That’s a strange entreaty on the lips of the man who first devised the Society to which all four of us were willing signatories,’ he said. ‘I spy your intent here, Elkannah. Because you have no chance of enjoying Araminta’s charms, you want to prevent others from doing so.’

  ‘I merely want her protected from your unsavoury attentions.’

  ‘There’s nothing unsavoury about me,’ said Henry, pouting.

  ‘Sir Martin’s death weighs heavily with me,’ said Prout, head down and hands clasped tight. ‘It brought me to my senses. Like you, I disguised my licentiousness behind the many tokens of love I sent to Araminta. When she was single, such gifts were simply a nuisance to her. Now that she is a widow, they would be a source of torment.’ He grabbed his friend’s arm. ‘Leave her be, Henry!’

  ‘She needs me.’

  ‘She needs respect and freedom from this persecution.’

  ‘Nobody respects Araminta more than I do,’ said Henry, ‘and nobody has persecuted her less.’ He shook his arm to detach Prout’s hand from it. ‘You are being very noble and I applaud you for it, but there are two reasons why I am unable to follow your example.’

  Prout was critical. ‘The first is your desire to win that bet.’

  ‘No, Elkannah. I care nothing for the money. I’ll gladly give it away to the deserving poor, if, that is, I did not myself happen to qualify for membership of that group of needy recipients. The first reason is this — I adore Araminta. To step aside now,’ argued Henry, ‘would be a repudiation of my love and that would be an act of treachery. The second and more pressing reason is one that you can surely guess.’

  ‘If you do not go after her, others will.’

  ‘Jocelyn and Sir Willard are even now making their plans.’

  ‘I’ll speak to each one in turn and urge him to stop.’

  ‘You’ll get the same answer,’ warned Henry. ‘They’ll not budge an inch from their declared ambition — and neither will I.’ He crossed to the door and opened it. ‘I bid you good day, Elkannah.’

  ‘Think over what I told you,’ said Prout, crossing to the door.

  ‘My ears are deaf to such petitions.’

  They did, however, pick up the sound of the doorbell. It was rung with such vigour that that everyone in the house heard it. A servant opened the front door and Henry’s brother came into the hall without waiting for an invitation.

  ‘Christopher!’ he exclaimed. ‘What means this violent entry?’

  ‘Up at this time?’ said the other in surprise. ‘I thought I’d have to roust you out of your bed.’

  ‘Why — has something dreadful happened?’

  ‘It has indeed, Henry.’

  ‘Our father has died? The Tower of London has burned to the ground? Your beloved Susan Cheever has run off with a one-legged Spanish sailor?’

  ‘Spare me your drollery.’

  ‘Only a catastrophe of such proportions could make you try to burst our eardrums with the doorbell.’ He indicated his companion. ‘You know Elkannah, I believe.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ said Christopher, giving the man a respectful nod.

  ‘Your servant,’ replied Prout.

  ‘Forgive my intemperance, sir, but I need to speak to my brother as a matter of urgency. He knows only too well why I must do that.’

  ‘For the life of me,’ said Henry, ‘I do not. Enlighten me.’

  ‘I am talking about a portrait of Lady Culthorpe.’

  Prout’s ears pricked up. ‘Araminta?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘I must discuss it with Henry.’

  ‘It’s a subject in which I, too, have an interest.’

  ‘Then you must stay, Elkannah,’ said Henry, glad to have a shield between himself and his brother’s anger. ‘Let us go back into the drawing room where we can talk quietly.’

  He led the way out of the hall, then closed the door behind his guests. Christopher did not mince his words. Taking off his hat, he confronted his brother with a blunt accusation.

  ‘The portrait has been stolen and I am looking at the thief,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been so ashamed of you in all my life, Henry, and given your long career of drunkenness and debauchery, that’s a bold claim. I’m revolted by the thought that my brother is nothing more than a common criminal.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked Prout. ‘You stole that portrait?’

  ‘No!’ retorted Henry. ‘Until this very moment, I did not even know that it had been taken. Where did you glean this intelligence, Christopher?’

  ‘I spoke with Monsieur Villemot’s valet.’

  ‘Is he certain the portrait is missing?’

  ‘Emile would not make a mistake like that,’ said Christopher, keeping his brother under close scrutiny. ‘As soon as he went into the studio this morning, he saw that it was gone.’

  ‘Where was it kept?’

  ‘On an easel near the window.’

  Henry gulped. ‘Who would dare to steal it?’

  ‘You are the prime suspect, Henry. The last time we met, you swore that you’d acquire that portrait of Lady Culthorpe by whatever means were necessary. Now I know what those means were.’

  ‘This is unpardonable of you,’ said Prout.

  ‘By rights, you should be arrested,’ added Christopher.

  ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong,’ bleated Henry, flapping his ha
nds. ‘Do you really think I’m capable of such a dastardly act?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the two men in unison.

  ‘Then you cut me to the quick. My life has not been without its occasional irregularity — what gentleman’s has not? — but I would never stoop to theft or any other crime.’ He thrust out his chest. ‘I am a model of a law-abiding citizen.’

  ‘If you had no designs on the portrait,’ said Christopher, ‘why did you bother to go to the house yesterday?’

  Henry gulped again. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve just come from there. According to the maid, someone who fits your description to the last detail called at the house yesterday evening and claimed that he had left something in Monsieur Villemot’s studio by mistake.’ Henry’s eyelids flickered. ‘Since nobody was there, the maid obligingly showed the visitor into the studio. Luckily, she had the sense to stay with him.’

  ‘What did you do then, Henry?’ Prout challenged.

  ‘I was not even there!’ cried Henry.

  ‘The maid got a close look at you,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Then I must have a double.’

  ‘Your double did not stay long in the studio. Once he had reclaimed what he said was a handkerchief that had fallen from his sleeve, he took a peep under the cloth on the easel. Your motive was crystal clear,’ said Christopher, sombrely. ‘It was a reconnaissance expedition. You contrived to get inside the house in order to take your bearings, and you checked to see where the portrait was so that you could return at night and spirit it away.’

  ‘Where is it?’ demanded Prout.

  ‘Return it immediately or face arrest,’ Christopher put in.

  ‘I’ll have you arrested in any case. This is abominable.’

  ‘But I do not have that portrait!’ bellowed Henry. ‘How many times must I tell you? Search the house, if you do not believe me. Turn the whole place upside down and look in every corner. You are quite correct, Christopher,’ he said, displaying both palms in an attempt at mollifying him. ‘I did make some foolish boasts with regard to that painting of Araminta, and I did hope that I might somehow purchase it from the artist. Wiser counsels prevailed and I backed off.’