Eleanor crossed to the window and looked out at the garden. Even under a leaden sky, it looked full of colour and blossom. A stray thought floated into her brain like a dry leaf blown by the wind. It produced an immediate reaction. Leaving the room, she went down the backstairs and out into the garden, following a path that twisted its way between trees, shrubs and flowerbeds. Eventually, she came to the shaded grotto where Sir Martin Culthorpe had been murdered. There, dressed in black, sitting on a bench, dwelling on memories that brought a faraway smile to her face, was Araminta Culthorpe.
‘I wondered where you were, m’lady,’ said Eleanor.
‘What?’ Araminta came out of her reverie. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘I felt drawn back to this place, Eleanor.’
‘But it has such unhappy memories for you, m’lady.’
‘That’s not what I found. It’s an odd word to use perhaps, but I feel renewed. Being able to come here has dispelled some of my gloom. It was almost as if my husband beckoned me back to this spot. He wanted me to conquer any fears I have of this grotto, to remember the many happy moments he and I spent in this garden.’
‘It’s good that you can feel like that.’
‘I have to, Eleanor, or there’s no point in going on.’
‘You must go on, m’lady.’
‘I know — and I will. Sir Martin would expect it of me. I’ll tend this garden with the same love that he showed.’ She gave the maid a shrewd look. ‘Do you have something to tell me?’
‘No, no.’
‘I can see it in your eyes. What’s happened, Eleanor?’
‘Nothing, m’lady.’
‘Come on, I insist on knowing.’
‘Wait until after the funeral,’ said Eleanor. ‘That’s the only thing that matters now. Forget everything else.’
Araminta was persistent. ‘Is it something to do with Monsieur Villemot?’ The maid pursed her lips. ‘Well — is it?’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mr Redmayne — Christopher Redmayne — is more certain than ever that Mr Villemot was not the murderer. To prove it beyond doubt, he asked for some help from us.’
‘What sort of help?’
‘He wanted to borrow a key to the garden gate.’
Jonathan Bale did not enjoy the wait. Left alone in Christopher’s house, he was restless and uncomfortable. When Jacob offered him refreshment, the constable was even more ill at ease. Having no servant of his own, he could not bring himself to allow someone else to fetch and carry for him, unless it was his wife. Nigel eventually rode back to Fetter Lane and handed over the key. Bale went off on his mission at once.
If Abel Paskins had indeed borrowed the key, he reasoned, the man would have wanted the duplicate made as quickly as possible. The gardener would therefore have chosen a locksmith nearby so that the key was not missing from the house in Westminster for long. Bale set off at a brisk pace and maintained it all the way. The first locksmith he found had never seen the key before but he gave the constable the name of a rival whose workshop was only streets away. Bale soon made the acquaintance of Elijah Sayers.
‘What do you want?’ asked Sayers, bluntly.
‘I want you to look at this key.’
‘I don’t have the time.’
Bale was assertive. ‘Make some time, Mr Sayers.’
‘I’m too busy. If you want a duplicate, you’ll have to wait at least a fortnight before I could take on more work. Find someone else.’
‘I don’t want a duplicate,’ said Bale, ‘I want information.’
After introducing himself, Bale explained why he was there. Elijah Sayers did not appear to be listening to him. He continued to use a file on a large key and did not even look at his visitor. Sayers was a short, wiry man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair sprouting on both sides of his balding head like a pair of supplementary ears. He wore a leather apron over his filthy working clothes. Filled with smoke from the little forge, the workshop was a long, low, narrow room that was never swept, with keys of all sizes hanging from the rafters. Locks were arranged haphazardly on a rough wooden table. The place was so filled with shadow that Bale wondered how the locksmith could see well enough to practise his trade.
Sayers glanced up, eyes gleaming in the half-dark. He thrust out a hand and took the key from Bale. After a brief examination, he handed it back and returned to his work.
‘Do you recognise it?’ said Bale.
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Do you recognise people you once arrested?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s the same with me and my keys, Mr Bale,’ said the other, turning to spit into the forge. ‘They’re like humans to me — each one has a different face and character. I’d know that anywhere.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I made a tidy profit out of it.’
‘Who brought it in?’
‘A man in a hurry,’ said Sayers. ‘He wanted me to make another key while he waited. I told him I had other customers waiting for their locks and keys. He’d have to take his turn.’
‘What was his reply?’
‘He said it was urgent. The gentleman who’d sent him had to have a duplicate that day. Money was no object. He’d pay whatever was asked. I took him at his word.’
‘You made the key?’
‘Yes, I did — and I charged him four times what I would have done. He paid up without any argument then watched me do my work. Afterwards, he rushed off.’
‘Did he give his name?’
‘No, Mr Bale.’
‘What about the gentleman who sent him?’
‘Oh, he told me what he was called.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Mr Kidbrooke — Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
Chapter Eleven
Henry Redmayne was racked by indecision. As a rule, he made up his mind about his social calendar with remarkable speed but not in this case. Should he or should he not attend the funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe? It was a dilemma that vexed him for hours on end. If he went, would his presence be noted and appreciated by Araminta or would it alarm her? If he stayed away, could his absence please or disappoint her? More to the point, would it simply hand an advantage to his rivals? Elkannah Prout might avoid the occasion but Jocelyn Kidbrooke would definitely be there and, Henry suspected, so would Sir Willard Grail. Both might attract favourable attention from Araminta and it worried him.
After lengthy cogitation and much soul-searching, he made a provisional decision to go to the funeral but that only pitched him headfirst into another frothing pool of uncertainty. What should he wear? Henry needed something appropriate yet individual, muted apparel that showed his respect for the deceased yet somehow caught the eye of the widow. He began to work his way through his wardrobe, trying on and discarding item after item. He was preening himself before the mirror in his bedchamber when someone rapped on his door.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Christopher,’ replied his brother, opening the door to walk in. ‘I was told that you were dressing.’
‘Dressing and undressing,’ said Henry, turning at a slight angle to admire the cut of his long waistcoat in the mirror. ‘What I really need is a tailor to provide me with a new suit for the occasion.’
‘What occasion?’
‘Nothing that need concern you.’
‘What occasion, Henry?’
‘It does not matter.’
Christopher looked at the clothing scattered over the huge bed and draped over every available chair. Evidently, the occasion mattered a great deal to Henry. It was therefore easy to identify.
‘You are surely not going to the funeral?’ said Christopher with a blend of disapproval and disbelief. ‘How could you even conceive of the idea, Henry? You are not wanted there.’
‘I might be missed by Araminta.’
‘Grateful
ly.’
‘You don’t know that, Christopher.’
‘I know that she’d prefer the event to be a private affair, involving only family and close friends.’
‘I see myself as Araminta’s closest friend.’
‘You’d only be intruding.’
‘I want to help her through her bereavement.’
‘I’ve told you before,’ said his brother, ‘that the best way to do that is to fade out of her sight. If you want to ingratiate yourself with Lady Culthorpe, assist me in solving the crime.’
Henry adjusted his wig in the mirror. ‘I’ve already solved one crime for you,’ he said with a touch of arrogance. ‘I found the stolen portrait. That should endear me to Araminta.’
‘There’s no reason that she should ever hear about it — and I certainly wouldn’t tell her about the way in which she is revered at the Molly House. If she knew that Emile had impersonated her in front of Samson Dinley and his like, she’d be deeply offended.’
‘Do you mean that I get no credit for what I did?’
‘You get an immense amount of credit from me, Henry.’
‘That doesn’t count. I want to impress Araminta.’
‘Then I’ll give you a chance to do so.’
Christopher told him about Villemot’s failed attempt at suicide and his refusal to see Lady Hester Lingoe when she visited Newgate. Henry was interested to hear that the artist had been hounded out of France because of his love for a married woman, but he refused to believe that she could have matched Araminta for beauty.
‘Araminta has no peer,’ he insisted, ‘and certainly no twin.’
‘I’m only repeating what Monsieur Villemot said.’
‘No Frenchwoman could compete with a true-born English lady.’
‘You’ll have to take up the issue with him,’ said Christopher, ‘and you can only manage that if we prove his innocence. What I need you to do for me is to find out exactly what happened to him after he left the garden of Lady Culthorpe’s house.’
Henry was baffled. ‘How could I possibly do that?’
‘Because you know her much better than I do.’
‘Who?’
‘Lady Lingoe.’
‘Is that where he went?’
‘It must be,’ said Christopher, ‘though he won’t admit it. A man like Monsieur Villemot would only hold back information in order to protect a woman. He has a sense of chivalry.’
‘Why should he want to protect her?’
‘That’s what you must discover. The fact is that he was very excited when he returned to his studio that day — why?’
‘I can think of one explanation,’ said Henry with a sly grin. ‘He was invited to take full advantage of Lord Lingoe’s absence, then he was forced to listen to Hester, reading Juvenal to him in bed afterwards.’
‘Make discreet enquiries.’
‘Leave it to me.’
‘How well do you know Lady Lingoe?’
‘Not as well as I’d like, Christopher — though I’ve come to admire her much more since I saw that portrait of her at the studio. If Hester wishes to be a naked huntress, I’d gladly be her quarry.’
‘You are on a mission to save Monsieur Villemot’s life,’ said his brother, tartly, ‘not to pursue your own questionable ends. If, as I believe, he did go to her house from Westminster, what sort of state was he in? That evidence could be significant. If Villemot had killed Sir Martin Culthorpe, he would probably have been nervous, distracted or triumphant. Only Lady Lingoe can tell us the truth.’
‘I’ll call on her later.’
‘Go now, Henry.’
‘But I’ve not chosen what to wear.’
‘The fate of an imprisoned man is much more important than your choice of attire,’ scolded Christopher. ‘Think back to the time when you languished behind bars at Newgate. How would you have felt if I’d spent hours going through my wardrobe instead of doing all I could to secure your release?’
‘A sound argument,’ conceded Henry. ‘Urgency is in request. I’ll go to her house at once. It’s a pity I’ll not be able to dress the part,’ he went on, surveying the wide array of clothing. ‘If I’m calling on Hester, I should really do so in the toga of a Roman Emperor.’
After his visit to the locksmith, Jonathan Bale began the long walk back to Fetter Lane. He prided himself on having obtained a vital clue from Elijah Sayers and could not wait to pass it on. Lengthening his stride, he headed in the direction of the Strand and reflected on the way that his friendship with Christopher Redmayne had widened his sphere of activity and given him an insight into the higher levels of society. Those insights only served to confirm his prejudices and reinforce his republican leanings but he was nevertheless grateful to the young architect. One way or another, Christopher had provided him with an education.
Bale liked to believe that his friend had learned a great deal from him in return. Christopher had been taught how onerous and wide-ranging the duties of a constable were, and he had also seen how a family of four with a very modest income managed to get by. Bale was so preoccupied with this thoughts that he did not realise he was being followed. The man stayed well back. Wearing rough garb and with a hat pulled down over his forehead, he was a sturdy individual of middle height, around the same age as Bale. Over his shoulder, he carried a spade and looked as if he was going off to work in a garden.
There was too much traffic about at first and far too many pedestrians who might act as witnesses. The man therefore bided his time. When Bale eventually turned down a side street, his shadow saw his chance and began to gain on the constable. A horseman was approaching and there were a couple of people talking on a corner, but there was nobody to stop the attacker or to overpower him after the assault. It was the moment to strike.
Breaking into a run at the last moment, he took hold of the spade in both hands. Bale heard the footsteps and turned on his heel to see who was behind him. The man swung the flat of the blade at his head, intending to crack his skull open and knock him unconscious. Bale had a split-second to react. Pulling his head sharply back, he ducked instinctively and turned his face away from the oncoming spade. The implement caught him on the side of the head. It was only a glancing blow but it was enough to knock him from his feet and open up a gash on the side of his skull.
The man did not stop to assess his victim’s injuries. His only concern was to get away from the scene of the crime as swiftly as possible. Running fast, he dived down the first lane he came to and raced on until he was certain that he was not being followed. When he saw that nobody was behind him, he joined the main road and sauntered along with the spade over his shoulder. A hundred yards behind him, Jonathan Bale lay motionless on the ground.
* * *
Lady Hester Lingoe took her visitor into the library and offered him a chair. She was dressed once more as a Roman priestess though there was nothing at all spiritual about her manner. Henry Redmayne was given no time to take stock of his surroundings.
‘Why did your brother send you, Henry?’ she asked.
‘I came of my own accord.’
‘You lost interest in me when I married so let’s not pretend that this is anything more than a search for information.’
‘You malign me,’ said Henry with a grin of admiration. ‘I never lost interest in you, Hester. I merely thought it proper to liberate you from my attentions when you took your marriage vows. In any case, my interest was soon revived when I saw that portrait of you at Villemot’s studio.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m rather proud of that.’
‘Did you enjoy sitting for it?’
‘Immensely.’
‘Villemot would have enjoyed working on the painting, that much is beyond doubt. Any man with the privilege of gazing upon your beauty day after day was bound to be enthralled by it.’
‘Jean-Paul is an artist. He was not there to gloat.’
‘I’m not for a moment suggesting that he was,’ said Henry, wondering if every Ro
man priestess had worn quite so much powder on her face. ‘All I mean is that, in those circumstances, an artist and his model are inevitably drawn close.’
‘So?’
‘You must have got to know him very well.’
‘What are you implying?’ she asked, sitting opposite him and subjecting him to a long, challenging stare. ‘I hope you’ve not been sent to pry into my personal life.’
‘Only insofar as it affects Villemot,’ he said, his tone emollient. ‘Since you twice went to Newgate to see him, it’s reasonable to assume that you and he are more than passing acquaintances. I speculate no farther than that.’
‘Thank you, Henry.’
‘When he saw Villemot in prison today, Christopher found him in a miserable condition. He’s overcome with shame at what he did and promises that he’ll never try to take his own life again.’
‘That’s comforting to hear.’
‘Villemot was also more honest about his past.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he admitted that he was not actually married — even though he’s talked frequently of his wife and employed my brother to build a house for the two of them.’ He paused for her to comment but she said nothing. ‘It seems that he was compelled to leave France because of his romance with a married woman. This lady — Monique, I believe she’s called — apparently bears some resemblance to Araminta Culthorpe, though it can only be of the faintest kind.’ He stopped again but she maintained a watchful silence. ‘Did you know all this?’
‘Some of it,’ she acknowledged.
‘Is there anything you’d care to add, Hester?’
‘Only that I’d be glad if you told me precisely why you’re here.’
‘Then let’s abandon all the formalities,’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘On the day that Sir Martin was killed in his garden, did Villemot come here?’
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