The Painted Lady (24 page)

‘So?’

‘That points us firmly towards Abel Paskins, sir. While he was working there, he would have had the key in his possession from time to time. He could have taken it to a locksmith to be copied. If we could find that locksmith,’ suggested Bale, ‘we might get a description of the man who wanted the duplicate.’

‘Locksmiths are making spare keys all the time, Jonathan. How would one of them remember that particular
commission
?’

‘I’d show them a key to the garden gate. If someone made a duplicate recently, I think that he might remember it.’

‘But we do not have one of those,’ said Christopher.

‘Get one, sir,’ said Bale. ‘You have a friend in the house.’

It was something that Christopher had forgotten. Eleanor Ryle had cared enough about helping the investigation to slip away from her mistress and visit Fetter Lane. Since they were in the study, Christopher had pen and paper to hand. He dashed off a letter to the maid then summoned Jacob.

‘I want Nigel to deliver this immediately,’ he said, handing over the missive. ‘He knows the way to the house.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Tell him to await a reply.’

Before the servant could do so, the doorbell rang and he went off to answer the summons. The haughty voice of a woman was heard then Lady Lingoe was ushered into the study.

‘Good morning, Mr Redmayne,’ she said. ‘Forgive this intrusion but I come on a matter that will brook no delay. It concerns Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Then you’ll not mind if Jonathan stays,’ said Christopher, ‘for he is helping me to prove Monsieur Villemot’s innocence.’

After introducing Bale to his visitor, he offered her a seat. Lady Lingoe arranged herself on the couch and Christopher sat close to her. Cowed by her appearance and aristocratic mien,
Bale took the chair that was farthest away from her. He marvelled that his friend could be so at ease in the company of a high-born lady. Being in her presence only accentuated his feelings of social inferiority.

‘Let me go straight to it,’ said Lady Lingoe, ignoring the constable as if he were not there. ‘I’ve just come from Newgate.’

‘How is Monsieur Villemot?’ asked Christopher.

‘They would not let me see him.’

‘Why not?’

‘He tried to kill himself last night. He begged the prison sergeant not to allow me in. I regard myself as a friend of
Jean-Paul
,’ she went on with unconcealed affection. ‘Why did he have me turned away? The only explanation is that he’s come to the end of his tether. He’s set on taking his own life.’

‘What happened last night, Lady Lingoe?’

‘He attempted to hang himself. Can you think of anything more deplorable? A dear and gifted man like that is driven to suicide, and all because of a crime he did not commit. I was distressed beyond measure when I heard.’

Christopher was on his feet. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘I’ll visit the prison myself and insist on seeing him.’

‘That’s what I was hoping you’d do, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Keep me informed of what transpires.’

‘I will, Lady Lingoe.’

‘And give him…’ She smothered the words she was about to say. ‘And please pass on my warmest regards.’ She rose to her feet. ‘You know where to find me, Mr Redmayne.’

‘You’re welcome to stay here with Jonathan.’

‘No, I need the comfort of my own home. Goodbye, Mr Bale.’

‘Goodbye,’ he said, getting up awkwardly.

Christopher took her to the front door to see her off. When he came back into the study, he was carrying his hat.

‘I’ll go at once, Jonathan.’

‘What about me, sir?’

‘You have to stay here for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘Someone might bring you a key to that garden.’

The funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe was due to take place that evening and a pall hung over the whole house. Servants went about their duties in a respectful silence and guests spoke in hushed voices. Since her mistress had asked to be left alone in her bedchamber, Eleanor Ryle was able to retire to her own little room. Letters were still arriving from friends and well-wishers but she had never expected that one message would be addressed to her. The butler delivered it in person. Delighted to have a private moment with Mr Rushton, she opened the letter in his presence and read it.

‘What does it say, Eleanor?’ he asked.

She looked up. ‘I have to ask you a favour, Mr Rushton.’

Overcoming his aversion to the prison, Christopher entered Newgate and asked to see Jean-Paul Villemot. The prison sergeant was at first dubious about allowing the visit but a handful of coins helped him to make up his mind. Christopher was taken to the Frenchman’s cell by one of the turnkeys. He knew immediately why the artist had refused to see Lady Lingoe. After his failed attempt at suicide, he had been stripped of most of his clothes and fettered to an iron ring in the wall of the cell. Embarrassed to be seen by Christopher, he would have felt utterly humiliated if Lady Lingoe had viewed him in that situation.

Crouching down low, the visitor spoke through the bars.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Not well.’

‘What made you do it, Monsieur Villemot?’

‘It was the only thing left to me.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Christopher, ‘and it’s a terrible indictment against the rest of us that you should have reached this point. You must know that taking one’s own life is a crime and a sin. It would leave a terrible stain on your reputation.’

Villemot groaned. ‘What reputation?’

‘The one you took such pains to build up over the years. Would you sacrifice that in a single moment of despair? You must have been brought up as a Roman Catholic. Were you never taught about the consequences of suicide?’ asked Christopher. ‘The Church would renounce you. By law, you’d be buried in unconsecrated ground.’ Villemot started. ‘Is that what you wanted?’

‘No, Christopher.’

‘Then why did you do it?’

‘I could not put up with the shame,’ said Villemot.

‘So you decided to let your family and friends live with an even greater shame. That’s what they would have had to do. The stigma would have stayed with them throughout their lives. People
care
for you, Monsieur Villemot,’ he said with feeling. ‘They love, respect and admire you for what you’ve become. Did you not stop to think of the pain you’d be inflicting on us all by doing what you tried to do?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Villemot, tears coursing down his face. ‘I have spent the whole night praying for forgiveness.’

‘Will you promise to do nothing like this again?’

‘Yes, Christopher.’

‘If I have anything to do with it,’ said the other, ‘you’ll not have the time. We’ll get you out of this place very soon.’

‘Do you
mean
that?’ pleaded the artist.

‘I give you my word.’

Sympathy welled up inside him. Villemot looked even worse than on his previous visit. Unshaven, unkempt, caked with filth and visibly aged by his ordeal, Villemot was forlorn.

‘You had another visitor,’ Christopher told him.

‘Hester?’

‘Yes. She was not permitted to see you.’

‘How could I let her?’ said Villemot, rattling his fetters. ‘What would she think of me if she saw me chained up like a wild animal?’

‘I think she’d feel as I do – grateful that you were still alive. Lady Lingoe sent her warmest regards,’ said Christopher. ‘I’m sure that Emile would do the same.’

‘Emile,’ sighed the other. ‘Poor little Emile – I forgot about him.’

‘In your dejection, you forgot about a lot of people. The worst thing is that you forgot about yourself, Monsieur. You forgot who you are and what you are.’

‘I’m a condemned man.’

‘You’ve not even been brought to trial yet.’

‘I’ve been charged. They tell me in here I will be convicted.’

‘They’re only baiting you,’ said Christopher. ‘
You
know that you didn’t commit that murder and so do we. All that we have to do is to work together and we’ll have the evidence to get you released.’

‘What evidence?’

‘It’s being gathered even as we speak, Monsieur Villemot. But I still need you to cooperate more with me.’

‘There’s nothing that I can do.’

‘Yes there is. You can explain why you lied to us.’

‘I tell you no lies.’

‘You did,’ said Christopher. ‘When you commissioned me to design a new house, you told me it was for you and your wife.’

‘That was true.’

‘Yet you are not married.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Emile.’

Villemot was hurt. ‘Emile betrayed me?’

‘No,’ replied Christopher, careful to correct him. ‘That’s the last thing he’d do. Emile is fiercely loyal. What he said slipped out by mistake. He refused to give me any details. All I know –
all that I suspect, at least – is that you are not married. Is that true?’

‘Yes,’ admitted the other, head on his chest.

‘Then why tell me that you were?’

‘It is private.’

‘I took you for an honest man, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘And that is what I am,’ retorted the other, looking up. ‘The house will take time to build. When it is finished, I was hoping to move into it with my wife.’

‘Monique?’

‘That’s her.’

‘But you are not married to her at the moment?’

‘No, Christopher.’

‘Why not?’

‘She already has a husband.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Villemot. ‘Why do you think I leave my own country? Paris is a finer city than London – they would not have thrown me into prison there.’

‘But you had to leave for some reason?’ guessed Christopher. ‘Was that reason connected with Monique?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘But you still nurtured hopes of being together one day.’

‘I did until last night – not even she could keep me alive then.’

‘Monsieur Villemot,’ said Christopher, ‘this may seem like prying but, given the situation, I feel that I have to ask the question.’

‘Ask me anything – I am not afraid.’

‘You admitted that you went to Lady Culthorpe’s house that day and that you went into the garden out of curiosity.’

‘That is so.’

‘I put it to you that you were not curious about the garden but about the lady who lived in the house. That’s what took you through that gate. You were enchanted by her.’

After agonising for a full minute, Jean-Paul Villemot nodded.

‘You see my dilemma here?’ said Christopher. ‘I am asked to believe that you love someone enough to want to marry her and have a house built for her – and yet you pursue someone else.’

‘I did not pursue Lady Culthorpe,’ snapped the other.

‘I’m not making any moral judgement here, Monsieur Villemot. I can understand how you could be drawn to someone like her when you are able to spend so much time alone, and when your work allows you to gaze upon her so intently.’

‘What are you trying to say to me?’

‘That you are infatuated with Lady Culthorpe.’

‘No!’

‘Then what took you to her house that day?’

‘She interested me.’

‘I think it was much more than interest.’

‘It was,’ confessed Villemot, blurting out the words. ‘It was like a passion. She is a very beautiful lady, so young, so perfect. I could not believe the coincidence.’

‘Coincidence?’

‘Araminta could almost be her twin.’

‘Who?’

‘Monique. She and Araminta, they look so alike.’

‘And you were bewitched by the similarity between the two?’

‘It was a miracle,’ said Villemot, smiling for the first time. ‘Every time I see Araminta, I am looking at my Monique. Every time I put the paint on the canvas, I am touching the woman I love. That is why it is the most important portrait that I paint in England. When I work on it, I’m able to be with Monique once again.’

Christopher understood for the first time what had impelled the artist to go to Araminta’s house. Since she would no longer be sitting for the portrait, Villemot would be losing touch with her physical presence. He wanted to see her in her own home. He had followed her carriage and lingered outside the house. One mystery had been solved but another remained.

‘You said you were in that garden for a couple of minutes,’
said Christopher. ‘Where did you go
afterwards
?’

Villemot jerked backwards as if he had just been jabbed in the ribs by the point of a dagger. He sounded hurt and defensive.

‘I cannot tell you,’ he said.

Eleanor Ryle was starting to worry. Hours had passed and there had been no summons for her mistress. She hoped that Lady Culthorpe had been asleep, gathering her strength to meet the demands of the funeral, but she knew that was unlikely. Since the murder of her husband, Araminta had enjoyed very little sleep and much of her slumber had been filled with disturbing dreams. Deciding to check on her, Eleanor went swiftly upstairs and tapped on the door of her bedchamber. There was no response. She opened the door slightly and peeped through the gap, only to discover that the room was empty.

The maid went into the bedchamber and looked around in dismay. Her mistress had not stirred from the room before without calling for her. Eleanor was like a human walking stick, something to offer unquestioning support. Now, it seemed, she had been cast aside and that troubled her. She wondered where Lady Culthorpe could possibly be. There were family members staying at the house but they had respected the widow’s request to be left on her own. It was highly improbable that she would have sought company.

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.