The Painted Lady (26 page)

‘It’s a bad one this time, Jonathan,’ she said as she finished bandaging his head. ‘What did he use to hit you?’

‘I think it was a spade,’ he replied, ‘though it felt more like a giant anvil. He was a strong man.’

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘I can stand the pain, Sarah. It’s the folly of it that stings me.’

‘Whose folly?’

‘Mine, of course,’ he said. ‘I never let someone creep up on me like that. If I’m being followed, I usually know at once. Not this time, I fear. My mind was on other things.’

‘At least, you’re still in one piece.’

She kissed him gently on the cheek then stood back to admire her handiwork. Encircling his head, the bandage hid the wound itself but it could not conceal the dark bruise that spread down the side of his face. He looked battered and faintly sinister. She could tell that the injury was still smarting but she knew that he would never admit it. Bale had a stoical attitude towards pain. It was something that had to be mastered so that it could be ignored.

When someone knocked on the front door, Bale tried to rise from his chair. Sarah pushed him back into it with a firm hand before going out of the kitchen. She soon returned with a visitor.

‘There you are, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘I told you there was no need to struggle over to Mr Redmayne’s house. He’s here in person.’

‘Whatever happened?’ asked Christopher, looking at his friend in dismay. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Much better now that Sarah’s seen to me,’ said Bale. ‘The main thing is that I found that locksmith. I know who wanted the key.’

‘Forget the key, Jonathan. Your welfare comes first. When
you didn’t come back to my house, I knew that something untoward must have occurred. Tell me all.’

Because his wife was there, Bale gave only a terse account of the attack, trying to make it sound less threatening than it had been. Christopher felt guilty for having sent his friend on an errand that had put him in such danger. Bale brushed aside his apologies.

‘I got what I went there for, sir,’ he said, taking the key out of his pocket. ‘I showed this to a locksmith named Elijah Sayers.’

‘Did he recognise it?’

‘Straight away, Mr Redmayne.’

‘That was lucky. There must be hundreds of similar keys.’

‘They’re all different to Mr Sayers and he remembers this one.’ Bale handed it to Christopher. ‘He described the man who brought it in and it sounds as if it might have been that gardener.’

‘Abel Paskins.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Bale. ‘And I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that it was the same Abel Paskins who tried to do some gardening on my head. He knew how to handle a spade.’

‘You’re lucky to be alive, Jonathan,’ said his wife.

‘It’ll take more than a tap on the head to stop me, Sarah.’

She snorted. ‘A tap! Is that what you call it?’

‘That’s all it felt like.’

‘Nonsense! The kind man who brought you back home on that cart said that you were unconscious on the ground. When he first saw you, he thought you were dead.’

‘Don’t fret about that,’ said Bale.

‘Did the customer give his name?’ said Christopher.

‘No, Mr Redmayne, but he told the locksmith the name of the gentleman who wanted the duplicate made so quickly. I think you can guess who it was.’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke, by any chance?’

‘That’s him, sir.’

‘But you were told that Paskins no longer works for him.’

‘If he committed a murder on Mr Kidbrooke’s behalf, he’d have been well-paid for his work. He might not need to go on gardening, sir.’ He put a hand gingerly to his head. ‘I’ve a feeling that Paskins is still working for Mr Kidbrooke. We both need to be careful.’

‘I’ll take over from now on, Jonathan. You deserve a rest.’

‘Not until we’ve caught the pair of them,’ said Bale, struggling to his feet. ‘I’ve a score to settle with Paskins.’

‘And I’ve one to settle with Jocelyn Kidbrooke,’ said Christopher. ‘By plotting the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe, he almost robbed me of a commission to build a new house here in Baynard’s Castle Ward.’

‘Which one do we arrest first, sir – Paskins or Mr Kidbrooke?’

‘I think we’ll start with Kidbrooke.’

‘The truth of it is that I’m still dithering,’ said Sir Willard Grail.

‘You’ll have to make a decision fairly soon,’ warned Jocelyn Kidbrooke. ‘The funeral will be in less than two hours.’

‘I’m not sure that I wish to go.’

‘Elkannah has been at you again.’

‘He knew he’d be wasting his time.’

‘Then why these last-minute doubts?’

‘They’re not really doubts, Jocelyn. I suppose that they are best described as faint rustlings at the back of my mind.’

‘That’s an affliction from which I’ve never suffered.’

‘No conscience?’

‘Not in this case, Sir Willard,’ said the other, happily. ‘It makes life so much easier when you don’t have to consider the rights and wrongs of your actions. Morality can be such a nuisance.’

They were in the coffee house, seated in the corner so that they were not drawn into the general discussion at the common table. Sir Willard was in his customary flamboyant attire but Kidbrooke had dressed to attend the funeral. They made an incongruous pairing.

‘When did Elkannah first stumble upon it?’ said Kidbrooke.

‘Upon what?’

‘Morality.’

‘Very recently,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He’s gone through the best part of forty years without realising that such a thing existed. That’s why his conversion has been so surprising.’

‘Is it a conversion or a form of madness?’

‘Both, I fancy.’

‘What sane man would renounce his interest in Araminta?’

‘And why did he break off his friendship with Henry simply because they had a disagreement? I’m
always
having disagreements with Henry Redmayne,’ disclosed Sir Willard. ‘He invites argument. It’s one of his few virtues that he never bears grudges when I best him in debate. It’s just as well because I do it so frequently.’

‘Henry is a fool but an extremely likeable one.’

‘How would you characterise Elkannah Prout?’

‘Until recently,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘I’d have described him as one of the most amiable, wicked, depraved, heartless men in London. In short, inspiring company for thorough-going libertines like us. All that changed when Sir Martin was killed,’ he went on. ‘Elkannah had a sudden attack of religious principles and the vile disease warped his mind.’

‘I hope that I don’t catch it when I reach his age.’

‘The only thing we are likely to catch is the French disease.’

Sir Willard laughed. ‘That’s why I choose my ladies with such care,’ he said. ‘Their purity is part of their charm.’

‘As it is with Araminta, the princess of purity.’

‘You never said a truer word, Jocelyn.’

Kidbrooke got up. ‘I’ll leave you to dither, Sir Willard,’ he said. ‘I have a funeral to attend. You’d be wise to go to it as well.’

‘I’ll think it over.’

They exchanged farewells. Kidbrooke left the coffee house but his friend remained to consider his own position. Sir Willard wondered if there was a positive gain in going to the funeral. He
would have little chance of getting anywhere near Araminta. On the other hand, a list of mourners would eventually reach her and she might be touched by the fact that he was there. After several minutes of rumination, he decided to go to the church. Before doing that, he would need to change into something more suitable.

Getting up, he hurried towards the exit. The moment he stepped through the door, however, he found two figures barring his way. He recognised Christopher Redmayne as one of them.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said, brusquely. ‘I’ve no time to speak to you now as I have an important appointment.’

‘Our appointment is also important,’ said Christopher. ‘We’ve come to make an arrest in connection with the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’ He looked past him into the coffee house. ‘I understand that Mr Kidbrooke may be here.’

Sir Willard was astounded. ‘You’re going to arrest Jocelyn?’

‘Is he still inside?’ asked Jonathan Bale.

‘No, he left a short while ago.’

‘Do you have any idea where we could find him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Sir Willard. ‘At a funeral.’

Araminta Culthorpe looked out of the portrait with the steady gaze of a woman who was sublimely happy. Still unfinished, the painting had been reclaimed from the studio and now stood beside the dressing table in Araminta’s bedchamber. After looking at the portrait, she let her gaze shift to the mirror and she saw a very different face from the one that graced the canvas. Whitened by grief and lined by anxiety, it was thrown into sharp relief by her widow’s weeds.

Eleanor Ryle, also in black, hovered behind her mistress.

‘How do you feel now, m’lady?’ she asked, softly.

‘I feel as if I’ll never get through the service,’ said Araminta, ‘but I know that I must. I’ll find the strength from somewhere.’

‘Everyone is waiting downstairs.’

‘There’s plenty of time yet before we need leave.’

‘I thought it might help to be with your family,’ said Eleanor.

‘I just want to be alone at the moment.’

‘Do you want me to leave?’

‘Please, Eleanor – and take the portrait with you.’

The maid was surprised. ‘Take it away?’

‘Yes,’ said Araminta. ‘It reminds me of Monsieur Villemot.’

Instead of sinking further into despair, Jean-Paul Villemot made an effort to control his feelings. He even dared to embrace a distant hope. In trying to commit suicide, he had shocked himself and he was deeply grateful that he had been stopped in time. He thought of all the people who would have been rocked by the news that he had ended his life at the end of a noose in a London prison. It would have been an appalling epitaph. The very notion now made him shudder.

When his visitor arrived, he was relieved to see Emile again, even if they were prevented from speaking their native language. The valet had brought food, wine, unlimited sympathy and news from the outside world. Knowing how fragile his master was, Emile did not upset him by mentioning that the portrait of Araminta Culthorpe was no longer at the studio. Nor did he reprove him for attempting to take his own life. He sensed that Villemot had already castigated himself mercilessly.

‘How are you?’ asked Emile.

‘I’m a little better today.’

‘Good.’

‘I was at my lowest point a day or so ago. Now,’ said Villemot with a brave smile, ‘I know I have something to live for.’

‘You do, you do.’

‘How are you managing without me?’

‘The studio, it is very empty.’

‘What about Clemence?’

‘She misses you – we both miss you.’

Emile reached through the bars to squeeze his master’s hand.
It felt cold and damp. Yet there was a hint of spirit about Villemot and that was gratifying. He tried to offer encouragement.

‘You will not be here long,’ he said.

‘I feel as if I’ve been here forever, Emile.’

‘They will get you out. They are very clever.’

‘Who?’

‘Monsieur Redmayne and his brother, Henry,’ said the other. ‘They are good men. They will save you.’

Henry Redmayne disliked seeing Jonathan Bale at the best of times. When the constable’s head was swathed in bandaging, and when the bruise made his face even more ugly, he was a daunting presence. Henry shot a look of dismay at his brother.

‘Did you have to bring this walking gargoyle with you?’

‘Jonathan has a right to be here,’ said Christopher. ‘He discovered a valuable clue for us. A duplicate key to the garden of Sir Martin’s house was made on the instructions of a certain gentleman.’

‘A friend of yours, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, solemnly.

Henry was startled. ‘A friend of mine?’

‘Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

‘Never!’

Christopher explained how the information had come to light and how Bale had been assaulted as a result. Henry was forced to congratulate the constable and he even offered a token of sympathy. The three of them were in the hall of the Bedford Street house. Dressed for the funeral, Henry was descended upon before he could leave. He was glad to see his brother but wished that he had come alone.

‘What did Lady Lingoe say?’ asked Christopher. Henry glanced uneasily at Bale. ‘You can speak in front of Jonathan. I told him about my visit to Monsieur Villemot. He’s aware that it was the resemblance between Lady Culthorpe and his beloved that took Villemot to Westminster on that fateful day.’

‘Does he know that Villemot’s beloved is already married?’

‘Yes, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale. ‘I’m sorry to hear that there are people in France – as well as here – who do not respect the institution of holy matrimony.’

‘But Villemot
does
respect it,’ said Henry, irritably. ‘That’s why he wishes to make this lady his wife. Unfortunately, Monique Chaval is married to a member of the French government, a vindictive man with the ear of the King. He’s almost forty years older than his poor wife – even in France that must verge on indecency.’

‘They were married in a church,’ Bale reminded him.

‘A Roman Catholic church,’ rejoined Henry. ‘I’m surprised that an unrepentant Puritan like you considers that to be a proper union. It’s certainly a wretched one for his wife. Chaval bullies her, starves her of money and keeps her locked away in his mansion. It was only because he wanted to show her off to his friends that he decided to have her portrait painted.’

‘Choosing Monsieur Villemot as the artist,’ said Christopher.

‘You can guess the rest. He fell in love with Monique and, when he heard how cruelly she was treated, he was determined to flee the country with her. Unfortunately,’ said Henry, ‘the plot was discovered and Villemot was lucky to escape with his life.’

‘Yet he still nurses the ambition of marrying her.’

‘He does – and with good reason. Old age and too much wine have taken their toll of Chaval. He’s also been something of a roué.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Bale.

‘A French version of my brother,’ explained Christopher.