The Painted Lady (7 page)

‘That’s the first civilised thing you’ve said.’

‘Meanwhile, however, there remains the question of the portrait.’

‘What of it?’

‘Only that Villemot is known for the speed and excellence of his work. The chances are that her portrait has already taken on enough shape for her to be recognised.’

‘It has,’ conceded Christopher. ‘I saw it this very afternoon.’

‘And?’

‘It’s a truly astonishing likeness.’

‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Buy it for me.’

His brother gaped. ‘
Buy
it?’

‘Yes, Christopher – make an offer. Araminta will have no need of it now and she will certainly not want it finished. I will buy it in its present state and give it pride of place in my bedchamber. Buy it for me,’ he urged. ‘Villemot would never sell it to me but he would part with it to a friend like you. Purchase it on my behalf.’

‘That’s a disgusting idea, Henry.’

‘Do you not want to make me the happiest of men?’

‘I prefer to save Lady Culthorpe from being ogled by my brother. How could you even think of such a thing?’

‘It’s an important first step in getting closer to Araminta.’

‘Then I’ll advise Monsieur Villemot to destroy the portrait. It must never be in your possession,’ said Christopher, thinking of the powerful effect that it had had on him when he had peeped at it. ‘By rights, the decision about its future lies with Lady Culthorpe. My feeling is that she may well want it burned.’

‘I’ll not see Araminta go up in flames,’ wailed Henry. ‘Let the portrait go to someone who will cherish it. Let me feast my eyes on her day after wonderful day.’

‘No, Henry – that would only feed your lust. Apart from anything else, you have no money to buy such a painting. Even in its present form, it would be expensive. How would you raise the capital?’

‘I was hoping that you might help me there, Christopher.’

‘Me?’

‘Never forget that it was I who introduced you to your first client and set you off on your glittering career.’

‘I accept that and have repeatedly expressed my gratitude.’

‘Do so in a more pecuniary way.’

‘I’ve loaned you money time and again, Henry.’

‘And I mean to repay it,’ said the other, indignantly. ‘You know that you can rely on your brother. One good night at the card table and I can discharge all my debts to you – including the money you lend me to buy that portrait.’ Henry brightened.
‘I’d be able to refund that when I win the wager.’

‘What wager?’

‘The one that I’ve made with three like-minded friends of mine.’

His brother was sickened. ‘If they are like-minded, they must be seasoned voluptuaries in the mould of Henry Redmayne. That being the case,’ he said with repugnance, ‘this wager will doubtless pertain to the very person whom we’ve been discussing. True or false?’

‘True, Christopher.’

‘Then you are even more mired in corruption than I feared. Not content with harbouring designs on the lady’s virtue, you place bets upon the outcome with your fellow rakehells.’ Crossing to the door, he pulled it wide open. ‘I’d like you to leave now, please.’

Henry was wounded. ‘There’ll be no loan?’

‘Not a brass farthing.’

‘What about the portrait?’

‘To keep it away from you,’ said Christopher with determination in his eyes, ‘I’d be prepared to stand guard over it day and night with a loaded musket.’

‘A regiment of soldiers would not be able to ensure its safety,’ boasted Henry, taking up the challenge. ‘I spurn you, Christopher Redmayne. Instead of a brother, I have a mealy mouthed parson.’

‘I only seek to save you from your own wickedness.’

‘Here endeth the lesson!’ taunted Henry.

‘You would do well to mark it.’

‘I prefer to enjoy my time on this earth.’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, sadly. ‘I’ve seen the trail of victims you leave behind you after you’ve enjoyed them and I’m resolved that Lady Culthorpe will not be the next one.’

Henry was outraged. ‘Araminta is not my victim!’ he roared. ‘She is my salvation. Until I can make her mine, I’ll have that portrait of her on my wall. Mark
this
lesson, if you will,’ he
continued, arm aloft. ‘The portrait belongs to me. It’s destined to hang in my house and woe betide anyone who tries to stop me from getting it.’

Storming out, he left the air charged with his passion.

Word of the crime provoked a varied response among members of the Society. When three of them met at a tavern that evening, it was only Elkannah Prout who showed any real compassion.

‘The wager must be cancelled,’ he said. ‘It’s unsporting – like hunting an animal that is already badly wounded.’

‘I concur,’ said Sir Willard Grail. ‘She needs time a long time to recover – months, at the very least.’

‘I think we should call off the chase altogether.’

‘Oh, I don’t agree with that, Elkannah.’

‘We should forget all about our wager.’

‘You were the one who advocated the creation of the Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood. You cannot back out now.’

‘Her maidenhood has been surrendered, Sir Willard.’

‘A mere detail.’

‘And so has our
raison d’etre
.’ Prout was decisive. ‘The game is not worth the candle,’ he said. ‘We had the excitement of pursuing the lady hotfoot but we must now let her go free. I’m sure that Jocelyn agrees with me.’

Jocelyn Kidbrooke had made no contribution to the debate thus far but he had not missed a single word of it. Toying with his wine glass, he gave his opinion.

‘I do not agree with either of you,’ he said, bluntly.

‘You must take one side or the other,’ argued Prout.

‘No, Elkannah. You call for the whole project to be abandoned. Have we come so far and invested so much to back out now? That would be madness and I’ll not hear of it.’

‘Then you must take my part,’ said Sir Willard.

‘Hold off our assault for months on end? That’s ludicrous.’

‘It’s seemly, Jocelyn.’

‘And that’s precisely what I have against it,’ said Kidbrooke, slapping the table with a flabby hand for emphasis. ‘Since when have we espoused seemliness and respectability? They are the sworn enemies of real pleasure. You may have been converted to propriety, Sir Willard, but I have not – nor, I dare venture, has Henry. He and I will think alike. The race is still on.’

Prout blenched. ‘You’d allow Araminta
no
period of grace?’

‘A week is more than adequate. That will give her time to bury her husband and embrace the notion of widowhood.’

‘She needs to mourn, Jocelyn.’

‘What she needs is solace,’ Kidbrooke declared, ‘and I intend to offer it to her. If the two of you prefer to stand aside out of a false sense of sympathy, you leave the field clear for Henry and me.’

‘So be it,’ said Prout. ‘I resign from the Society. I’ll happily forfeit my stake in the enterprise.’

‘Well, I’ll not do so,’ said Sir Willard, forcefully. ‘I’ve put in too much money to quit the contest now. Jocelyn is right. What place has morality in the deflowering of a virgin? We do but follow the natural impulse of our sex.’

‘Araminta is no longer what she was when I devised the Society and you would do well to bear it in mind, Sir Willard. A virgin cannot be deflowered twice. Sir Martin Culthorpe has already performed the office that we all aspired to.’

‘We do not know that,’ said Kidbrooke.

‘Of course, we do. They were married for weeks.’

‘Some wives have been married for years before they discovered the delights of the flesh. Some husbands simply do not know what they are about in the bedchamber. Culthorpe may be one of them.’

‘Who could possibly resist Araminta?’ asked Prout.

‘A husband who respected her too much,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘A man who led a celibate and God-fearing life for over forty years
before he even thought about marriage – in short, Sir Martin Culthorpe. I doubt if they even shared a bed on their wedding night and, if they did, it was surely occupied by two virgins. That’s what irks me most,’ he added through gritted teeth. ‘Culthorpe had that jewel of womanhood in his grasp yet he had no idea what to do with her.’

‘Jocelyn makes a telling point,’ said Sir Willard, his interest renewed. ‘Araminta may still be untouched.’

‘I’m certain of it. She still has that wondrous bloom on her.’

‘You’ve
seen
her?’

‘Only from a distance.’

‘When?’

‘Recently.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s my business,’ said Kidbrooke, evasively. ‘The point is this. One of us may still be able to fulfil the original aim of the Society. Now that good fortune has removed her odious husband, Araminta is there for the taking, gentlemen.’

‘Not by me,’ said Prout.

‘What about you, Sir Willard?’

‘All my senses have been revived,’ said the other with a wolfish grin. ‘So beautiful yet still a maid? No husband left to safeguard her? The lure is irresistible. I’m with you, Jocelyn. I begin to drool already. Araminta is fair game.’

Jean-Paul Villemot had worked on the portrait until fading light made him stop. He had never been so inspired by any woman who had sat for him before. Araminta Culthorpe was a positive gift to an artist. He set up candles around his easel so that she remained in view as the paint slowly dried. Long into the evening, he kept returning to look at her, relishing her beauty afresh on each occasion as if seeing it for the first time. As he watched, he drank wine and it made him increasingly maudlin. When he had emptied one bottle, he opened another. He went back to the portrait again and lifted
his glass in honour to Lady Culthorpe before taking another sip of wine.

Villemot set the glass aside. Taking hold of the painting with both hands, he brought it gently towards him until it was only inches from his face. His face was aglow, his eyes moist.

‘
Ma cherie
!’ he sighed.

Jonathan Bale looked after his parish with an almost paternal care. Whenever a serious crime was committed on what he saw as his territory, he took it as a personal affront and bent all his energies to solving it. He hated to see Baynard’s Castle Ward soiled in any way but even he could not keep pace with the petty theft, drunkenness, domestic violence, prostitution, fraud and tavern brawls that were regular events there. Bale was fettered by mathematics. There were too many villains and too few constables.

While one pickpocket was being arrested, others were plying their trade nearby. If he felt obliged to part one angry husband and wife, Bale knew that other married couples would be having similar squabbles behind closed doors. He could not be everywhere at the same time but he liked to think that his presence had some impact. The local inhabitants admired and respected him. Because he had won their trust, they were much more likely to report incidents to Bale than to any other constable. Some of the others who patrolled the streets were too old, too wayward or too inept to be of much use to anyone. They lacked Bale’s fierce civic pride and commitment. None of them – Tom Warburton, especially – had his stamina.

‘I’m thirsty, Jonathan,’ he said.

‘You always are at this time of the day, Tom.’

‘I think I’ll step into the Blue Dolphin.’

‘Off you go,’ said Bale, tolerantly. ‘You know where to find me.’

‘I won’t tarry.’

Warburton hurried across the road to the tavern with his dog bounding along beside him. He was a tall, stringy, humourless man in his forties with a tendency to try to beat confessions out of supposed malefactors. In an affray, Warburton was a good man to have at one’s side but he was far too reckless at times and Bale had often had to restrain him, reminding him that they were appointed to quell violence and not to initiate it. Bale did not mind being left alone. It gave him the opportunity to meet up with an old friend.

Following his established route, he went round the next corner and strode briskly along the street until he came to a large gap between two tall new houses. Under the supervision of their employer, workmen were busy digging on the plot of land.

‘Good morning, Mr Littlejohn,’ greeted the constable.

‘Mr Bale!’ rejoined the builder, turning to see him. ‘I was hoping that I might bump into you now that I’m back in your ward.’

Bale sized him up. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

‘Blame my wife for that. She feeds me too well.’

‘You are keeping busy, I hope.’

‘Busier than ever, my friend.’

The two men had been brought together when Christopher Redmayne had designed his first house. Since it was being built in Baynard’s Castle Ward, the constable noticed it when out on his rounds but he paid it no attention. It was simply one more house, rising out of the ashes. Dozens of others were being constructed in every street. The situation soon changed. When the murder had occurred on the site of the new house, Bale was drawn into the investigation and had therefore met Samuel Littlejohn. They had got on well together and their paths had crossed a few times since then.

‘I hear that we are partners,’ said Littlejohn, genially.

‘Partners?’

‘According to Mr Redmayne, you built a model for this house.’

‘I tried to,’ said Bale, unassumingly.

‘I’m told it was very good. If the architect and the client approved of it, it must have been. Mr Redmayne promised to show it to me when he gets it back from Mr Villemot.’

‘I hope you like it, Mr Littlejohn.’

The builder grinned. ‘If I do, I might be offering you a job as a carpenter. Have you never thought of taking up your old trade?’

‘Never – I’m happy watching over the streets here.’

‘You’d earn a tidy wage from me.’

‘But I’d have to give up being a constable.’

‘Do you like the work that much?’

Bale shrugged. ‘It suits me, Mr Littlejohn.’

‘Then I’ll not try to entice you away.’ He glanced around. ‘Things seem to be quite peaceful in this part of the city.’

‘Wait till this evening when the taverns start to fill up.’

‘Do you have a lot of trouble?’

‘Anyone who works near the river has trouble,’ explained Bale. ‘This part of the district is safe enough but there are some tough characters along Thames Street. Sailors, fishermen and those who work in the docks seem to need a good fight at least once a week. What’s even worse,’ he added, scornfully, ‘is that they also need the company of loose women.’

Littlejohn was broad-minded. ‘We might feel the same urges if we’d been away at sea for months on end.’

‘Speak for yourself, sir.’

‘I’m not condoning it, Mr Bale, just trying to understand it.’

‘It’s against the law and a sin before God.’

‘When enough drink is taken,’ said the builder, ‘people seem to forget all about God. My men certainly do. Because they work hard, they expect to drink hard. Try to preach a sermon at
them when they’ve downed their beer and you’d hear language that would burn your ears off.’

Bale seized his cue. ‘Drinking, whoring, fighting, cursing – it’s all one, Mr Littlejohn,’ he said, sternly. ‘It’s part of the penalty we pay for having a dissolute King who revels in every vice of the city, and courtiers who fornicate openly and try to drag everyone down to their own bestial level.’

‘Things are not as bad as that.’

‘I see it happening every day. Corruption starts at the top and trickles down. In the last ten years, London has become a sink of iniquity. It was never like this under the Lord Protector.’

‘You may be right,’ said Littlejohn, tactfully suppressing his monarchist sympathies in the interests of friendship. ‘I leave crime and corruption to you, Mr Bale. All that I can do is to help rebuild this city to its former glory.’ His cheeks glowed with pride. ‘They say that Paris is more beautiful, Madrid more ornate, and Venice finer than both. But, to me, London is better than all three and always will be.’

‘I’d say the same, Mr Littlejohn. For all its faults, there’s no place on earth like this city. Well,’ said Bale, looking at the plot beside them, ‘that’s why so many foreigners come to live here.’

‘Jean-Paul Villemot among them.’

‘Have you met the gentleman?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Mr Redmayne has nothing but good to say of him.’

‘Then I’m content. Mr Redmayne is a good judge of character.’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘He must be if he chose the both of us.’

‘Oh, I did very little,’ said Bale.

‘You built the house in miniature and won the client over. That’s half the battle in this trade. All we have to do is to turn your wooden model into a splendid brick house that will make Mr Villemot glad he decided to move from Paris to London.’

Christopher Redmayne was working in his study when he had an unexpected visitor. It was his servant, Jacob, still spry in spite of his advanced age, who gave his master the warning.

‘The French gentleman is coming to see you, sir.’

Christopher was surprised. ‘Monsieur Villemot?’

‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Are you, sure, Jacob?’

‘I saw him through the window,’ said the old man, ‘so I sent the lad out to take care of his horse.’

When he had first moved into the house in Fetter Lane, Christopher had only employed one servant, responsible for everything in the house. Now that he had made his mark in his profession, the architect had taken on a youth to do the more menial tasks. It spared Jacob a lot of work and gave him someone he could instruct, cajole and generally order about.

‘You’d better show Monsieur Villemot in,’ said Christopher.

‘I will, sir.’

Jacob went out to invite the Frenchman into the house, guiding him to the study before fading out of sight. Christopher offered his hand to his visitor but Villemot wanted a more demonstrative greeting. Embracing the other as if he had just discovered a long-lost friend, he kissed him on both cheeks. He was extravagantly contrite.

‘Have you forgiven me, Christopher?’ he asked.

‘For what?’

‘The way I behave to you yesterday.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ said Christopher.

‘I was in the bad mood and I spoke with anger.’

‘That’s not true at all.’

‘It is,’ said Villemot. ‘I raise my voice. I am ashamed.’

‘The whole matter is best forgotten,’ said Christopher with a smile of pardon. ‘I certainly won’t let it come between us. We all have bad moods from time to time.’

‘I am better now, Christopher. It will not happen again.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But that is not the only reason I come here today,’ said the other, his face darkening. ‘You have heard the awful news?’

‘Yes, my brother told me.’

‘How did he know?’

‘Henry has a way of finding out these things,’ said Christopher.

‘I was only told yesterday evening,’ said Villemot. ‘It made me so sad. I liked Sir Martin. He was a good man – and a very lucky one to be married to Araminta – to Lady Culthorpe.’ He hunched his shoulders in despair. ‘It is the tragedy, Christopher.’

‘I know. I feel so sorry for his wife.’

‘Who could do such a thing?’

‘I hope that we soon find out. But I’d hate you to think that this is what usually happens in London, because it does not. Most of us are perfectly safe in our own homes,’ said Christopher, ‘especially in the part of Westminster where Sir Martin lived. Aristocrats and politicians inhabit that area. There’s comparatively little crime.’

‘This is more than a crime,’ said Villemot. ‘It is the calamity.’

‘I agree.’

‘That’s why I need your advice.’

‘Advice?’

‘About what to do, Christopher,’ he explained. ‘I do not know the rules in this country. I know what I
want
to do but it may not be the right thing. I would like to go to the house to tell Lady Culthorpe that I have the great sympathy.’

‘That might not be wise,’ cautioned Christopher.

‘I want her to know that she can call on me for any help.’

‘Lots of people will feel the same, Monsieur Villemot, but I don’t think that Lady Culthorpe would want anyone to intrude on her grief. She’s probably still dazed by what’s happened. It would be a kindness to leave her alone until she has recovered from the shock.’

‘But there is the portrait to think about.’

‘It won’t even enter her mind, I fear. You may have to accept
the inevitable. The portrait will never be completed.’

‘Yes, it will,’ asserted Villemot with a flash of spirit. ‘I will finish it as a matter of honour.’

‘Lady Culthorpe will certainly not be able to sit for you again.’

‘Her husband paid me handsomely for the painting of his wife. Jean-Paul Villemot, he does not let the customer down.’

‘But the commission has been revoked by his death.’

‘I do not agree.’

‘You can hardly complete the portrait without Lady Culthorpe’s permission,’ said Christopher, worriedly. ‘In the circumstances, she may want it destroyed.’

‘Never!’ cried Villemot. ‘I’ll not allow it.’

‘Strictly speaking, the portrait belongs to her.’

‘It belongs to me, as the artist, until I am ready to hand it over. If Lady Culthorpe, she no longer wants it, I will give her back the money that her husband paid me.’

‘I don’t think that would be necessary.’

‘It is necessary for
me
, Christopher,’ insisted the other. ‘I have the conscience. I could not keep the fee I did not earn.’

‘But you
have
earned it. If you complete the portrait, you’ll have done exactly what Sir Martin asked of you.’

‘I do not see it that way.’

‘Ultimately,’ said Christopher, ‘the decision lies with Lady Culthorpe and she won’t be in a position to make it for a long while. I hope that the portrait will be kept safe in the meantime.’

‘I would guard it with my life – so would Emile.’

‘We don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.’

‘The wrong hands?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher with his brother in mind. ‘Lady Culthorpe is a very beautiful woman. If it were known that a famous artist had painted her portrait, there might be any number of her admirers who would like to acquire it.’ He remembered Henry’s plea for a loan. ‘They might even try to buy it from you.’

‘It is not for sale.’

‘What if you were offered a large amount of money?’

‘I would throw it back in the face of the man who holds it out to me,’ snapped Villemot. ‘No money on earth could buy that portrait from me. Araminta – Lady Culthorpe – will be treasured.’

‘I’m relieved to hear you say it.’

‘Why is that, Christopher?’

‘Lady Culthorpe may not want it herself,’ said the architect, ‘but she would be very distressed if it went astray. Beauty like that will not have gone unnoticed. She will have had many suitors and was only able to shake them off by getting married. Now that Sir Martin is no longer able to shield her,’ he went on, ‘there may be some who are unscrupulous enough to try to take advantage of her.’

‘I’ll not allow it!’ howled the artist. ‘I’ll protect Araminta.’

‘You’d help her best by protecting that portrait of her.’

Villemot snatched his dagger from its sheath. ‘I’d kill the man who tried to take it from me!’ he threatened, brandishing the weapon. ‘I’d cut him into shreds.’

There was a long, uncomfortable, embarrassed silence. Villemot was shamefaced at his outburst and Christopher was startled by his visitor’s explosive rage. The dagger glinted in the light from the window. Before the Frenchman could put it back in its sheath, there was a thunderous knocking at the front door.

‘See who that is, please, Jacob!’ called Christopher.

‘I’m on my way, sir,’ replied the servant from the passageway.

‘Thank you.’ He looked at the dagger. ‘I suggest that you put that away, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the other, sheathing the weapon. ‘I did not mean to pull it out like that, Christopher.’

But the architect was not listening to him. His attention was diverted by the sound of raised voices at the front door. Shortly afterwards, Jacob put his head into the room and licked his lips nervously before speaking.