The Painted Lady (22 page)

Occupied by these thoughts, Araminta sat in her bedchamber and tried to summon up the strength to face the ordeal on the morrow. All eyes would be on her. She would be tested to the limit.

Eleanor Ryle was seated beside her, watching her mistress’s face gradually darken. She tried to lighten the mood of despondency with some light conversation.

‘Mr Rushton says that everything is under control.’

‘Good.’

‘All that you need worry about is getting through the service,’ said the maid. ‘It’s bound to be harrowing, m’lady, but I know you’ll keep your composure somehow.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘You’ll be surrounded by people who love you.’

‘That will bring comfort,’ said Araminta. After a pause, she sat bolt upright to announce an important decision. ‘I’ve been thinking about the portrait.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘It hasn’t upset me, Eleanor. It did at first, I admit, because it had such painful associations. Then I tried to look at it from Monsieur Villemot’s point of view. He was so excited by the commission. He brought such relish to his work.’ A look of bewilderment came over her face. ‘Monsieur Villemot wanted more than anything to finish that portrait. He told me that it would be his finest work since coming to England. Why should he do anything that might prevent him from completing it? That would be nonsensical.’

‘I agree, m’lady.’

‘He stood to gain nothing whatsoever by committing the crime,’ said Araminta, ‘yet he risked losing everything. Once I’d dwelt on that fact, I realised that I need no longer shun the
portrait. It was not, after all, the work of a man who killed my husband.’

‘Other people feel the same,’ said Eleanor, thinking of her visit to Christopher Redmayne. ‘I’m sure that they are doing whatever they can to prove his innocence.’

‘It was as if a curse had suddenly been lifted off the portrait.’

‘I’m glad you see it that way.’

‘Since it was commissioned by Sir Martin, it ought to be here in our house. In time – God willing – Monsieur Villemot may even be in a position to finish it, though I can understand that he might want to have nothing more to do with it.’

‘All that he wants at the moment is to be set free.’

‘If he’s truly innocent, that will surely happen.’

‘What do you want me to do about the portrait, m’lady?’

‘Go and fetch it.’

‘Today?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Araminta, decisively. ‘Take the carriage to the studio and collect what is rightly mine.’

Christopher Redmayne was impatient. The evening was wearing on yet there was no sign of his brother. He feared that Henry might have forgotten his assignment and drifted off to a tavern with his friends. As he paced up and down the drawing room of his house, Christopher reprimanded himself for trusting so important a task to a person who was noted for his unreliability. Valuable time had been lost. Until they had more detail about Abel Paskins, neither Christopher nor Jonathan Bale could press ahead with their investigation into the murder and the theft of the portrait.

There was the additional problem of Jean-Paul Villemot. To a man of such pride and sensitivity, being under lock and key in Newgate was like being stretched on a rack of humiliation. He would not be able to withstand it indefinitely. His threat of suicide had not been an idle one. If he carried it out, his name would be added to the long list of prisoners who had taken their
own lives to escape the shame of being thrown into Newgate.

Christopher did not want the artist’s death on his conscience but the only way to avoid that was to establish his innocence. If he put his mind to it, Henry could play a crucial role in getting Villemot out of prison, but it appeared that he had once again been distracted by the more immediate pleasures of the city. His brother’s first impulse was to visit Henry’s favourite haunts and drag him out of the one into which he had selfishly rolled that evening. Christopher drew back from that course of action because he knew how quickly Henry could drink himself into incomprehensibility. An inebriated brother would be no use to him at all.

He was just about to give up all hope of seeing Henry that evening when he heard the clatter of hooves in the street. Someone pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. When the doorbell rang, Jacob went to answer it. Leaving his horse in the care of the old servant, Henry Redmayne swept into the drawing room and took off his hat before giving a low bow. Christopher was astounded. He did not at first recognise his brother for he wore a peach-coloured suit of the finest silk and the most elaborate sartorial accessories. What confused Christopher was that his visitor’s face was covered in white powder and marked with a large beauty spot.

‘Is that
you
, Henry?’ asked his brother, tentatively.

‘As large as life, Christopher.’

‘Why have you dressed like this?’

‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ said Henry. ‘Meanwhile, prepare yourself for a disappointment.’

‘You forgot all about speaking to Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘On the contrary, I rode to his house as soon as I’d finished at the Navy Office. But he was not there. He spent the day in Richmond.’

‘Did you enquire about Abel Paskins?’

‘That’s the other disappointment.’

‘Why?’

‘The gardener left Jocelyn’s staff days ago,’ said Henry. ‘Nobody at the house has any idea where Paskins might have gone. But do not worry,’ he continued. ‘As one trail goes cold, we pick up a scent elsewhere. Get changed, Christopher. Put on the most gaudy apparel that you possess.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘It will help us to blend in. Samson Dinley is a distant acquaintance of mine, though anyone less like the Biblical Samson it would be impossible to find. He’s no strong man brought down by a woman, but a puny, prancing,
pigeon-chested
fellow. However,’ said Henry, magnanimously, ‘despicable as he is in many ways, Samson gave me the most valuable piece of information.’

‘About what?’

‘The missing portrait.’

‘He knows where it is?’

‘Samson saw it for himself.’

‘Where?’

‘At the place I’m about to take you, Christopher. But you’d not be admitted in that dull and workaday attire. Seek out the brightest thing in your wardrobe,’ he urged, pushing his brother out of the room. ‘You are about to have an experience that will set your mind racing. Araminta awaits us – dress up accordingly for her.’

Jean-Paul Villemot dreaded the approach of night. The day had been a trial but visits from Emile and Christopher Redmayne had acted as a welcome distraction and left him with the minor comforts of clean clothing and edible food. Natural light had also filtered into his cell. Although the narrow slit in the wall was too high for him to look out through, he was grateful for the sunshine that poked in and for the additional benediction of a whiff of fresh air that came in its wake. At night, one of them disappeared.

Newgate was plunged into darkness. Villemot had a candle in his cell but its flickering flame created only a small circle of light. He was lost in shadow, a hunched figure sitting against the wall as he listened to the nocturnal howls of the crazed, the sick and the violent. Noise was more intrusive at night, bruising his ears, battering on the iron bars and pressing in upon him with almost physical force. As the din built to a crescendo, he put his hands to his face in sheer dejection.

There was no way out. He admired Christopher Redmayne but he simply could not believe that the architect – albeit with the aid of a constable – would be able to secure his release from prison. There were strict limits to what Emile could do for him and even Lady Lingoe was only able to make his imprisonment marginally less hideous. Villemot was on his own, a renowned French artist who discovered that his fame, his nationality and
his choice of profession only provoked derision in Newgate. Charged with murder, he was treated like the lowest criminal. It was degrading.

He was not only obsessed with his own suffering. His thoughts frequently turned to Araminta and to the torment that she was undergoing. Her pain would be intensified beyond endurance by the belief that the artist had stabbed her husband to death. Wanting her to think well of him, he was horrified that he was seen as the agent of her grief. Young, vulnerable and forlorn, Araminta would be locked in a prison of anguish. She had her own Newgate.

The notion of suicide had at first been too frightening to contemplate but it began to take on a seductive appeal. It would liberate him from his woes and save him from the strong possibility of being hanged in front of a jeering mob. The problem lay in deciding on a means of committing suicide that would be swift and effective. A razor was the obvious choice but he was not allowed to shave. The alternative was a dagger with a sharp blade. However, since a turnkey overheard every conversation he had, he could hardly instruct a friend to provide one for him.

Fire was a possibility, though a daunting one. Even if he managed to light the dank straw with his candle, it would be a slow, painful, lingering death. In any case, the smoke was likely to arouse suspicion before the fumes could take their effect on him. That left another potential way of departing the earth. Villemot could spurn one hangman by taking on the office himself. All that he needed was a ligature. In the gloom of his cell, he stripped to the waist and tore the sleeve off his shirt, looping it until it formed a noose. By way of experiment, he slipped it around his neck. It felt strong enough to dispatch him. He thought that it would be a merciful end.

Tearing the other sleeve from his shirt, he tied it to the noose then stood on tiptoe so that he could reach the highest point on the bars. With the noose around his neck, he slipped the end of
the other sleeve through the bars, intending to use his own weight to throttle himself. His hands were shaking and he had difficulty tying the knot. By the time he finally succeeded, his heart was racing and his whole body was running with sweat. After offering up a silent prayer for the salvation of his soul, he kicked his legs forward and let the noose bite into his neck. The sudden pain made him gasp.

The attempt was soon over. As the turnkey walked past on patrol, he held up his lantern and saw the figure squirming in the cell.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, unlocking the door and rushing in to cut Villemot down. ‘You can’t escape as easily as that, you French cur. You’ll be hanged proper and I’ll be there to cheer with the rest of ’em!’

Christopher Redmayne had been past the house hundreds of times without ever once asking himself what lay behind its front door. It was a large, high, nondescript building, only five minutes’ walk from Fetter Lane, and they could see light blazing in some of the windows. He was relieved that it was night. Henry loved to disport himself in public but his younger brother felt far too conspicuous in the red doublet and matching petticoat breeches that he had put on. They belonged to his younger days when he was a more adventurous dresser. Christopher was pleased when they reached their destination.

‘Let me do the talking,’ suggested Henry.

‘Why?’

‘I speak the language.’

‘Is this a foreign establishment?’ said Christopher.

Henry laughed. ‘Entirely foreign to you,’ he replied. ‘Brace yourself for a surprise, dear brother. You are about to enter Mother Pilgrim’s domain.’

‘What exactly is this place?’

‘It’s a Molly House.’

Christopher was alarmed. He had heard about such haunts of
effeminate young men and sodomites, and could not imagine why he had been brought there. He had no time to protest. Henry had already pulled the bell-rope and the front door swung open. Dressed in ornate livery, a black boy, no more than three feet in height, beckoned them in. They went into a large hall that was lit by candelabra and charged with a sweet perfume.

Fanny Pilgrim glided towards them. Tall, stately and with a blonde wig of enormous dimensions on her head, she wore a dress of such regal magnificence that it dazzled their eyes. She held an ivory fan in one hand and waved it beneath her chin. Henry beamed at her with unassailable confidence but Christopher felt far less comfortable. Though their hostess appeared to be a shapely woman, encrusted with jewellery of all kinds, the architect was certain that he was, in fact, looking at a man.

‘Welcome, darlings,’ said Fanny, her deep, rich voice confirming Christopher’s diagnosis. ‘What brought you to my house tonight?’

‘A kind word from a friend,’ said Henry.

‘And who might that friend be?’

‘Samson Dinley.’

‘Ah, yes – dear Samson, our very own Delilah. You’ll find her in one of our rooms. If you are recommended by Samson, you are doubly welcome.’

‘Thank you, Mother Pilgrim.’

‘To my friends, I am known as Fanny.’

‘Then Fanny it shall be.’

She extended a gloved hand and, to Christopher’s chagrin, his brother actually kissed it. The visitors had clearly passed some kind of test. Fanny Pilgrim’s house provided a form of entertainment that was highly illegal, so any strangers had to be subjected to intense scrutiny before being allowed in. Henry’s foppish manner and his friendship with a regular denizen of the house had got them admitted. Christopher found himself wishing that they had been turned away.

They were taken across the hall to a room that was dimly lit and filled with the excited babble of a dozen or more men and women. Some of the men were so garishly attired that they made Henry’s suit look rather subdued. Their hair was brushed back from their forehead and combed into the high, curling waves of a woman’s coiffure. They had made heavy use of cosmetics to paint their faces. The women were even more decorative, wearing beautiful dresses, exaggerated wigs, glittering jewellery and an abundance of powder and perfume. It took Christopher only a second to determine that all the occupants of the room were men.

‘Why have we come?’ he said, nudging his brother.

‘To broaden your education.’

‘We do not belong here, Henry.’

‘Pretend to and all will soon be explained.’

A slim young woman in a scarlet gown came across to them and sized up Christopher with a roguish eye. She turned to Henry.

‘You never told me how handsome your brother was,’ said Samson Dinley with a titter. ‘Has he been to a Molly House before?’

‘No,’ answered Henry.

‘Then I’ll take good care of him.’

Dinley’s short, slight build and delicate features allowed him to assume the mantle of womanhood with comparative ease. His stance and gestures were genteel and ladylike. His voice was light and teasing. In the normal course of events, Christopher would have taken care to avoid such a person. That was not an option now – Samson Dinley was in a position to help them.

‘Henry tells me you know where Lady Culthorpe’s portrait is.’

‘I do,’ said Samson.

‘Is it still here?’

‘It will be on view upstairs any moment.’

‘How did it come to be here?’

‘What an inquisitive man you are, Christopher! I like that.’

‘Are you sure that it’s her?’

Dinley giggled. ‘Darling,’ he replied, arching an eyebrow, ‘do you think any of us would ever make a mistake about Araminta? She is our goddess. We worship her. We love, honour and reverence her. She has the beauty to which we all aspire.’

‘Araminta is an icon here,’ explained Henry. ‘Unbeknown to her, she has many acolytes in Fanny Pilgrim’s house. Araminta is a true emblem of womanhood in all its glories. She’s incomparable.’

‘She carries all before her.’

‘Did someone from here steal the portrait?’ said Christopher.

‘We have something far better than a portrait,’ said Dinley, taking Christopher by the arm. ‘We have Araminta in the flesh, a painting that moves and breathes as much as she herself. Come – let me show you.’

In spite of his misgivings, Christopher allowed himself to be led into the hall and up the wide staircase. Henry followed behind them. As they walked along the passageway, it was obvious from the noises emanating from every doorway that the rooms were occupied. Music was being played in one of them and Christopher caught a glimpse of two men dancing together. Samson Dinley stopped outside the room at the end of the passageway and rapped on it with his knuckles. It inched open.

‘I’ve brought some friends to see Araminta,’ he said.

An eye was applied to the crack between door and frame, and the visitors were subjected to a close inspection. Christopher was glad that the light from the candles was dim. He shrunk back slightly. Henry, on the other hand, took a bold step forward and grinned at the unseen gatekeeper. It seemed to impress the man because he opened the door and waved the three of them in.

Nothing had prepared the two brothers for what they were about to see and they were rendered speechless. The room was
half-full of people who stood in a semi-circle around a large, gilded picture frame. Inside the frame, lolling on a couch and wearing a blue dress that shimmered in the candlelight, was a beautiful woman. She looked so much like the figure Christopher had seen in the portrait at the studio that he thought, for one startling instant, that it was Araminta. The resemblance was quite uncanny.

Henry felt it, too, craning his neck and blowing her a kiss. As they had been told, it was no mere painted likeness of Araminta but a creature of flesh and blood, capable of movement. As she adopted another pose, Christopher eased himself forward to get closer. The mirage before him slowly began to change. He could not only see the thick powder that had been used on the face, he realised that this woman was much older than Araminta. When their eyes locked for an instant, he realised something else as well and it sent him back to Henry’s side. He spoke in his brother’s ear.

‘I’m leaving, Henry.’

‘Why? Look on Araminta and understand why I love her.’

‘That’s not her,’ said Christopher.

‘It’s close enough to persuade me.’

There was a collective cry of disappointment as Araminta got up from the couch and withdrew into a dressing room. Christopher pulled his brother out by the sleeve.

‘We need to catch him when he leaves,’ he said.

‘Who?’ asked Henry. ‘All I saw was a vision of Araminta. She looks exactly as she did in that portrait at the studio.’

‘Now we know who stole it.’

‘Do we?’

‘I got near enough to recognise her – it was Emile.’

Sir Willard Grail was carousing in the tavern with some friends when he saw Jocelyn Kidbrooke enter. Excusing himself from the table, he went across to confront him.

‘I’ve been looking for you all day, Jocelyn,’ he said.

‘I had to go to Richmond.’

‘So I was told.’

‘What did you want me for?’ said Kidbrooke. ‘If you’re after more money, Sir Willard, you’re out of luck. I have none on me.’

‘It’s not your money I’m interested in – it’s your garden.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you.’

He took Kidbrooke to a vacant table and they sat down. A waiter came to take the order. When the man had gone, Sir Willard let his anger show.

‘Did you poach a gardener from my brother-in-law?’

‘That’s a private matter,’ said Kidbrooke.

‘If it involved Araminta, it’s a very public matter. I spoke to Cuthbert earlier today. What you did to him still rankles. He adores his garden almost as much as he does his library.’

‘He has every right to, Sir Willard – it’s very impressive.’

‘It was until you lured away one of his best gardeners.’

‘I, too, have a garden.’

‘That wasn’t the reason you wanted Abel Paskins, was it?’ said Sir Willard, accusingly. ‘You discovered that the fellow once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Really? He never mentioned that to me.’

‘He had no need to, Jocelyn – you already knew.’

‘I did nothing of the kind.’

‘You wanted Paskins because he could tell you things about Araminta and her husband that only someone who had worked at the house would know. You didn’t employ a gardener – you were buying information.’

Kidbrooke smiled defiantly. ‘What if I was?’

‘It was a breach of the Society’s articles.’

‘There was no reference to a gardener in them.’

‘We made a solemn agreement that we wouldn’t try to bribe members of Araminta’s household to act as spies,’ said Sir Willard. ‘Yet that’s exactly what you did.’

‘I deny that.’

‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’