The Painted Lady (12 page)

‘You shall have it – along with that of Sir Willard Grail.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because he must be suspected as well,’ said Henry. ‘They are both men in the grip of an obsession with Araminta. Neither of them would hesitate to steal the portrait. Am I right, Elkannah?’

‘They would both dearly love to possess it,’ confirmed Prout.

‘So I am in the clear. I require an apology, Christopher.’

‘You’ll not get one until the truth of the matter has been established,’ said his brother. ‘And there is still the question of why you inveigled yourself into that studio.’

‘But that was not me. Nor could it have been Jocelyn, for he’s too fat and misshapen. Sir Willard, on the other hand,’ he said, ‘is a very different proposition. He’s younger than me but – to the eyes of some ignorant little maid – he could pass for Henry Redmayne, especially in bad light. Elkannah?’

‘Yes,’ said Prout, thinking it over. ‘He could do so.’

‘He even apes some of my gestures.’

‘That he does, to be sure.’

‘There you are, Christopher. Now stop looking at me as if I had just stolen His Majesty’s entire art collection. Jocelyn and Sir Willard are the true suspects here.’ He pulled himself up to his full height. ‘I am vindicated.’

‘Not yet, Henry,’ warned his brother. ‘There’s a lot more to come out about this little adventure and I’m sure that you will be implicated in the crime in some way or other.’

‘But I’m the victim of it. I coveted that portrait.’

‘So did we all,’ murmured Prout.

‘Araminta must be found. I’ll join forces with you to recover her.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Christopher. ‘I choose to work with Jonathan Bale. His integrity is not in doubt.’

‘That sour-faced imbecile has no place in this search.’

‘He most certainly does, Henry. We are not just looking for someone who stole a painting. We are hunting the killer of Sir Martin Culthorpe. The two crimes are inextricably linked. I have an interest here,’ he declared. ‘Lady Culthorpe lost a husband and, as a result, I have been deprived of a client. Sir Martin, alas, is beyond recall but Jean-Paul Villemot is not. I mean to prove his innocence and recover the portrait he painted. Jonathan has volunteered to help me.’

‘Who is the fellow?’ asked Prout.

‘A dull-witted constable with a Puritan conscience,’ said Henry with a sneer. ‘He’s an odious creature.’

‘I like him,’ said Christopher.

‘There’s nothing remotely likeable about the ugly devil.’

‘There are many things, Henry. For a start, I like his essential goodness. After dealing with you, I find it uplifting. Jonathan would never trick his way into someone’s lodging by pretending to have left a handkerchief there.’ His gaze was cold and unwavering. ‘Couldn’t you have invented a better excuse than that?’

Until he was imprisoned, Jean-Paul Villemot had never known that such squalor and degradation existed. He had seen poverty in the back streets of Paris where women sold their bodies to feed their children, and where there was a pervading stink of despair. None of it compared with the sustained nightmare that was Newgate. It seemed as if the most violent, foul-mouthed, desolate, God-forsaken human beings on earth had been gathered there. The noise was deafening, the stench unbearable and the food inedible. Everyone inside the prison was filthy and depraved. He could not decide if the prisoners or the turnkeys were the more corrupt.

Villemot had important concessions. In return for payment, he was given a single cell and that isolated him from attack. But it did not rescue him from the jeering of his captors or from the pandemonium in the nearby cells. He was kept awake all night
by the howls of pain, the forlorn pleas, the screams of violated women and the sound of bruising fights. He had paid for wine but it tasted like vinegar. He had asked for visitors but he was told to wait until the next day. Sympathy was nowhere to be found. Villemot was treated less like someone whose guilt was uncertain than a condemned man biding his time before he ascended the gallows.

His cell gave him neither comfort nor privacy. It was small, fetid and covered in dank straw. When Villemot was shoved into it, a rat had scurried out. Through the iron bars of the gate, the turnkeys could keep him under constant surveillance. He was horror-struck at the thought of relieving himself in a wooden pail that was pitted by age and stained by long usage. For a man of the artist’s delicate sensibilities, Newgate Prison was pure torture.

Morning brought the same sickening reek and the same unceasing tumult but it also brought his first visitor. When he saw Emile being led along the corridor by a turnkey, Villemot flung himself at the bars.

‘
Emile
!’ he exclaimed. ‘
Enfin
!’

‘
Bonjour, M’sieur Villemot.
’

‘None of that,’ decreed the turnkey. ‘You speak English or you speak nothing. Talk in that turkey-gobble and, for all I know, you could be plotting an escape.’ He folded his arms. ‘English.’

He loomed over Emile who was plainly intimidated by his presence. Fastidious by nature, the valet was disgusted by everything he saw, heard and smelled. He was appalled to see his master in such a place and gave him an affectionate handshake through the bars.

‘How are you, sir?’ he enquired.

‘I am glad to see the friendly face at last, Emile.’

‘You do not belong.’

‘Then why did you help to put me here?’

‘M. Redmayne ask the question – I tell truth.’

‘Lie for me next time,’ said Villemot. ‘Protect your master.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘I could have got away.’

‘They look for you, sir. You not run forever.’

‘I’d do anything to keep out of this hell-hole.’

‘It’s cosy when you get used to it,’ said the turnkey with a snigger. ‘You’ll come to like it here in time.’

‘Never!’ Villemot turned to the valet. ‘It is so bad.’

‘I speak to Mr Redmayne this morning. He tell me he will get you out of here soon.’

‘What can he do?’

‘He want to help, sir.’

‘That’s what he says but can I trust him?’

‘I think so. He tell me he has the friend who is the constable.’

‘I met him.’ Villemot fingered the lump on the back of his head. ‘His name is Jonathan Bale. Because of him, I was almost killed when I was thrown from a horse. Why should he help me? Jean-Paul Villemot is nothing to him.’

‘You are, sir.’

‘Am I?’

‘The new house, it is in M’sieur Bale’s parish.’

‘It may never be built now.’

‘Do not say that. You will get out somehow.’

‘Yes,’ said the turnkey. ‘You’ll get out, Villymott. We’ll see to that. We’ll even provide the cart to take you to the hangman.’

‘It is no jest!’ snapped Villemot.

‘Don’t you shout at me, you lousy French dunghill!’

‘I want to talk to my friend.’

‘Two minutes – that is all.’

‘But I have a lot to tell him.’

The turnkey grinned provocatively at him. ‘You’ll have to speak fast, then, won’t you?’

‘What can I do, sir?’ said Emile.

‘Go to the lady.’

‘Mr Redmayne helps you.’

‘He has no power – the lady does. Tell her where I am.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go straight to the house.’

‘What do I say?’

Villemot was explicit. ‘Beg her to get me out of here!’

The response had been overwhelming. As word of the murder spread ever wider, letters of condolence, tributes and flowers were delivered in abundance to the house. Dozens of visitors came to pay their respects and offer their sympathy. Though it was very tiring to cope with it all, Araminta Culthorpe was glad to have something to occupy her mind. Having dealt with another batch of callers that morning, she settled down in the drawing room to go through the piles of letters that had accumulated.

Eleanor Ryle assisted her, noting each sender’s name before passing the missive over to her. She picked up another from the pile.

‘Mr Henry Redmayne,’ she announced.

‘Throw it away!’

‘But it’s a poem.’

‘It always is,’ sighed Araminta. ‘Destroy it.’

‘You don’t know what he’s written, m’lady.’

‘I know exactly what he’s written and I’ve no wish to read a word of it. Anything that bears his execrable name must be torn up.’

‘Yet you read that letter sent by his brother.’

‘That was different,’ said Araminta, her voice softening at once. ‘Christopher Redmayne is a true gentleman. His commiserations were sincere and heart-felt. What he wrote touched me. Henry Redmayne, however,’ she said, sharply, ‘has sent a poem that contains the same flowery language and the same unsought declaration of love as all the others he’s written. It’s both hurtful and vexing. Tear up his letter.’

Eleanor obeyed her, putting the pieces of paper aside on the
table. She reached for the next letter and unfolded it.

‘Mr Elkannah Prout.’ At the sound of the name, her mistress hesitated. ‘Shall I tear up this one as well?’

‘No,’ decided Araminta. ‘I’ll read it.’ The letter was handed over to her. ‘And I’m glad that I did,’ she went on as she scanned the neat calligraphy. ‘Mr Prout is very kind. His words bring real comfort. He’s also apologised for any earlier correspondence he sent me and done so handsomely. Elkannah Prout was acquainted with my husband and says kind things about him.’ She put the letter aside. ‘Next?’

‘Lady Lingoe.’

Araminta was checked. ‘Lady
Hester
Lingoe?’

‘Yes,’ said Eleanor. ‘She has a fine hand.’

‘But she hardly knew Sir Martin. Her husband, on the other hand, certainly did – he’s an ambassador who travels all over Europe.’ She took the letter and glanced at it. ‘Wait,’ said Araminta, looking up. ‘I’ve just realised why she may have felt impelled to write.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lady Lingoe and I have something in common – we both had our portraits painted by Monsieur Villemot. I remember my husband remarking on it.’

‘Did he see the portrait of Lady Lingoe?’

‘Sir Martin forbade me to do so.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He said that it was not a suitable example of the artist’s work. Besides, I was there to sit for my own portrait, not to look at what Monsieur Villemot had done for his other ladies.’

Eleanor was curious. ‘Does he only paint ladies?’

‘For the most part,’ said Araminta. ‘That’s how he made his name. His excellence is not in question. He has done portraits of members of the French royal family and was feted in his own country, yet he preferred to live and work here.’

‘I wonder why, m’lady.’

‘He told me that he adores England.’

‘But he has a wife in Paris, does he not?’

‘Yes, Eleanor – I’d rather forgotten about her.’

‘It seems that
he
forgot about her as well,’ said the maid.

‘I’m mightily afraid that he did.’

‘How will she feel when she hears about her husband?’

‘Poor thing!’ said Araminta with a surge of compassion. ‘I’ve been so bound up in my own misery that I’ve not spared a thought for anyone else’s suffering. Madame Villemot will be horrified. What the husband did was utterly detestable,’ she continued, grimacing at the memory, ‘but I can still feel sympathy for the wife. She was not to blame. Madame Villemot is another victim of this tragedy.’

‘It may be some time before the news reaches her.’

‘Yes, Eleanor – it will tear her life apart as it has sundered mine. No matter for that,’ she said, holding back tears. ‘We must make an effort to carry on as best we may.’ She looked down at the letter. ‘Let me see what Lady Lingoe has to say.’ Her face soon crumpled. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Eleanor.

‘It’s what Lady Lingoe has written in her letter. According to her,’ said Araminta, upset and bewildered, ‘Monsieur Villemot did not commit the crime at all. She claims that he’s innocent.’

Lady Hester Lingoe had always liked Emile. She found him attentive and amusing. He was an educated man. To relieve the boredom she inevitably felt while sitting for long periods in the studio, Emile had read the poems of Catullus to her in the original Latin, and he had found other ways to stave off tedium. She was less pleased with what he said to her now. His account of what had happened made her roam around the library of her house like a restless animal.

‘I had no idea that he had been arrested,’ she said in dismay. ‘I ordered a horse to be saddled for him. Nobody told me that the animal had been returned to the stable. It’s my fault,’ she admitted, slapping her thigh. ‘I should have known that
Christopher Redmayne did not believe me. He was too astute. When I allowed Monsieur Villemot to leave the house, I let him fall straight into Mr Redmayne’s hands.’

‘He wants to help, Lady Lingoe.’

‘Locking up your master in prison is not my idea of help.’

‘He help you as well,’ Emile reminded her.

‘All that he did to me was to pester me with questions.’

‘You were hiding my master. That is against law. Monsieur Redmayne, he does not get his friend, the constable, to arrest you.’

‘That’s a small mercy, I suppose,’ she conceded. ‘It would have been humiliating to be hauled before a magistrate even though he would never have dared to impose a sentence on me. My husband is an important man. We have friends in high places.’

‘What can they do for my master?’

‘We shall see, Emile. To begin with, I’ll appoint a lawyer to defend him and to make sure that he’s treated properly in Newgate.’

‘He wants to get out
now
.’

‘That’s more difficult to arrange.’

‘Is frightening in there.’

‘I can imagine.’

She stopped to consider the situation and Emile had his first opportunity to look around the library. He loved its classical style and its array of leather-bound books. He also liked the attire of a Roman priestess that she was wearing. It gave her allure and distinction. Most of the English ladies whose portraits had been painted by his master had been either shy and reticent or haughty and garrulous. Lady Hester Lingoe fitted neither of these categories. She was unique. Shrewd, perceptive and friendly, she was a woman of real character.