The Painted Lady (8 page)

‘There are two officers at the door, sir,’ he said.

‘What do they want?’ asked Christopher.

‘They say that they have a warrant for the arrest of…’ Jacob looked with dismay at Villemot.

Christopher was mystified. ‘On what possible grounds?’

‘The murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘But that is ludicrous!’

‘I did not kill him!’ said Villemot, trembling.

‘Shall I show them in, Mr Redmayne?’ asked the servant.

‘No, Jacob. I want to see this so-called warrant for myself.’

Gesturing for Villemot to stay where he was, Christopher went out of the room and marched purposefully down the passageway to the front door. Two burly men in uniform stood on the threshold.

‘My name is Christopher Redmayne, gentleman,’ he said, ‘and I own this house. May I help you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the older of the two men, gruffly. ‘We are given to believe that Jean-Paul Villemot might be here.’

‘He called on me to discuss business.’

‘So his valet told us.’

‘What’s this nonsense about a warrant of arrest?’

The man was offended. ‘It’s not nonsense, Mr Redmayne,’ he said, pulling a scroll from his pocket and unrolling it for Christopher to see. ‘Read it for yourself. He’s being arrested for stabbing Sir Martin Culthorpe to death yesterday afternoon.’

‘That’s preposterous! Monsieur Villemot is no killer.’

‘Let the court decide that, sir.’

‘Sir Martin was employing him. Why on earth should he murder a client who had paid him a large fee? It does not make sense.’

‘The only thing that makes sense to us is a name on a warrant. We’ll have to ask you to stand aside so that we can take the gentleman into custody.’

‘Where will he be held?’

‘That’s for the magistrate to determine.’

‘There’s been a grotesque mistake here,’ protested Christopher.

‘Mr Villemot is the person who made it,’ said the man, grimly. ‘Now, will you invite us in or do we have to force an entry?’

Christopher stepped back. ‘No force will be needed,’ he said. ‘You can come in.’ The officers walked quickly past him. ‘It’s the last door on the right.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The two men went along the passageway and into the study. Christopher was about to follow them when the older man rounded on him angrily.

‘Is this some kind of jest, sir?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s nobody here.’

‘There must be,’ said Christopher, easing him aside so that he could go into the study. ‘This is where I left him.’

Jean-Paul Villemot was not in the study now. Since there was only one door, his method of departure was clear. He had lifted the window and fled. Christopher’s stomach heaved. He felt compromised. The older of the two officers nudged his companion.

‘After him, Peter,’ he ordered. ‘Search the garden.’

Peter did not stand on ceremony. Cocking a leg over the windowsill, he pulled the other behind him and trotted down the garden, looking in all directions for the fugitive. Until that moment, Christopher could not believe that Villemot had had anything to do with Sir Martin Culthorpe’s death, but his sudden flight was hardly the action of an innocent man. And Christopher was well aware that the Frenchman possessed a dagger.

‘You’ll have to come with us,’ said the officer, taking him roughly by the arm. ‘I’m placing you under arrest.’

Christopher was scandalised. ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong!’

‘You helped a wanted man to get away from us.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Yes, you did,’ said the man, tightening his grip. ‘You kept us
talking at the door so that he’d have time to climb out of that window. That’s what I’d call aiding and abetting an escape.’

‘But I didn’t know that he was
going
to escape.’

‘Tell that to the magistrate, sir.’

‘I know my rights,’ yelled Christopher. ‘Let go of me.’

‘Not until we have you safely locked up, Mr Redmayne. You obstructed two officers in the execution of their duty.’

‘That’s an absurd accusation!’

‘Yes, you did,’ said the man, officiously, ‘and the law does not take kindly to that. You may have saved your friend for a little while but it will cost you a spell in prison.’

Christopher reeled as if from a blow. He was a criminal.

Henry Redmayne was as good as his word. Having set his heart on acquiring the portrait of Araminta Culthorpe by whatever means necessary, he first went to see where it was kept. The rooms that Villemot rented were in a house in Covent Garden within easy walking distance of Henry’s own home in Bedford Street. He sauntered past the house on the other side of the street and gave it only a cursory glance. When he paused at the corner, however, he turned to take a closer look at the dwelling, noting that there was an alleyway that led to the rear. He was still trying to assess the easiest way of getting into the house when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun round to look into the fleshy face of Jocelyn Kidbrooke.

‘What are you doing here, Jocelyn?’ he asked.

‘I happened to be passing,’ said Kidbrooke, blandly.

‘You live over a mile away. You’d not come to Covent Garden without a particular reason.’

‘I have one. I came to see you, Henry.’

‘Then why not call at my house?’

‘Because I knew that you’d come here sooner or later,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘You found out where Villemot has his studio because you know that there’s a portrait of Araminta inside.’

‘You misjudge me.’

‘I know you too well to do that. You want that portrait. I waited to see how long it would be before you came in search of it. If you’re thinking of trying to purchase it, save your breath.’

‘Why?’ Henry was alarmed. ‘You’ve not bought it already?’

‘I made a generous offer for it.’

‘Damn you, Jocelyn!’

‘This is a contest – each man for himself.’

‘Does that mean you
have
the painting?’

‘Alas, no,’ admitted Kidbrooke, sorrowfully. ‘My offer was refused. I didn’t speak to Villemot himself – he was out at the time. His valet assured me, however, that his master would not part with the portrait of Araminta for a king’s ransom.’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘I thanked the fellow politely and withdrew.’

‘But you did gain access to the house?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘It’s mine as well,’ said Henry, irritably, ‘so do not hold out on me. Where are his rooms – upstairs or downstairs? And which one is his studio? That’s what I’d really like to know.’

Kidbrooke was smug. ‘Then you’ll have to find out for yourself.’

‘I thought that we were friends.’

‘Not when there’s a lady in the case.’

‘We must all compete on equal terms, Jocelyn.’

‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ said the other with a derisive laugh. ‘I’ve never met anyone so ready to gain an advantage over his rivals. You’d stop at nothing, Henry. I’ll wager that you’ve already asked your brother to secure that portrait for you by trading on his friendship with the artist.’

‘That’s a vile accusation,’ said Henry, counterfeiting righteous anger. ‘Christopher has no part in this venture and I would never even think of involving him.’

‘In other words, he rebuffed your entreaty.’

‘There
was
no entreaty.’

‘You sneaked off to see him without telling us.’

‘I’ve not seen my brother for weeks,’ lied Henry, tossing his head and making his periwig flap. ‘As for sneaking off, Jocelyn, you are the one who did that. You agreed to dine with us at Locket’s yesterday but you never turned up.’

‘I had business elsewhere,’ said Kidbrooke.

‘Yes – you were pursuing Araminta, I dare swear, while the rest if us were eating our meal.’

‘My wife requested me to dine with her.’

‘Since when have you ever listened to your wife?’

‘We had things to discuss.’

‘The only wife in whom you have any interest is the one who was married to Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Henry. ‘I think you went spying on her again through that telescope that you bought.’

Kidbrooke shifted his feet uneasily. ‘Arrant nonsense!’

‘Then where were you?’

‘At home with my wife.’

‘I’m surprised that you remember where your house is,’ said Henry with heavy sarcasm. ‘You spend so little time there that you probably wouldn’t recognise your wife if she stood only inches away from you. Can you even recall her name?’

‘Cease this railing!’

‘No? I thought not. Araminta has eclipsed her completely.’

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Kidbrooke.

He looked as if he was about to strike Henry but the blow never came. Instead, both men were diverted by the sound of someone ringing a bell and pounding on a door. They looked down the street to see two officers, standing outside the house where Jean-Paul Villemot lived and worked. Henry’s eyebrows arched inquisitively.

‘What’s going on here, I wonder?’ he said.

Christopher Redmayne had never been so overjoyed to see his friend. Hauled before a magistrate, he had then been summarily locked in Newgate, kept in a noisome cell with a group of desperate prisoners and denied any right of appeal. It was only
because he was able to bribe one of the turnkeys that his message was duly delivered. A couple of hours later, to his intense relief, he peered through the bars and saw Jonathan Bale being conducted down the stairs by the prison sergeant. Christopher could not believe his good fortune when the cell door was unlocked so that he could step through it. With the jeers of the other prisoners ringing in his ears, he walked away with Bale.

‘What happened?’ asked Christopher.

‘I spoke to the magistrate,’ replied Bale, ‘and told him that it had all been a misunderstanding. I vouched for you, Mr Redmayne. Since the magistrate knows me well, he agreed to release you, pending further investigation.’

‘There’s nothing to investigate, Jonathan. I’m innocent.’

‘I know that, sir. I spoke to Jacob.’

Christopher was taken aback. ‘You went to my house?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the other. ‘I needed to hear all the facts.’

‘Well, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you. I knew what a cesspool Newgate was because I visited my brother when he was held here, but I was on the right side of the bars then. When you’re locked up with those bickering ragamuffins,’ said Christopher, shuddering at the memory of what he had endured, ‘it’s like being in the seventh circle of hell. I don’t know which was worse, the stench, the noise or the random violence.’

‘Let’s get you out of here where we can talk properly.’

Christopher had to go through the formalities of being signed out by the prison sergeant then taken through a series of doors. When he was finally allowed to leave the prison altogether, light rain was falling but it nevertheless seemed like a glorious spring day to him. Having lost it for two intolerable hours, he found that freedom was a heady experience. As they were standing near one of the main gates into the city, they were caught up in swirling traffic but Christopher didn’t mind in the least. He had been liberated.

They slipped into one of the first taverns they came to and found a table in a quiet corner. Unlike Tom Warburton, Bale did not as a rule drink on duty, but he accepted the offer of a tankard of beer on this occasion. Christopher treated himself to a cup of Canary wine. Bale sampled the beer.

‘Strong stuff,’ he opined, ‘but not as good as the beer that my wife makes. Sarah has a real gift as a brewer.’

‘I know, I’ve tasted her beer.’ Christopher sipped his wine. ‘That tastes like nectar,’ he said. ‘All they served in prison was black, brackish water. It made me feel sick just to look at it.’

‘Let’s make sure that you don’t have to go into Newgate again, sir, nor into any other gaol.’

‘How do we do that, Jonathan?’

‘The first thing we have to do is to find Mr Villemot,’ said Bale. ‘It was him that got you into this trouble. If you were to be involved in catching him, it would stand you in good stead with the magistrate.’

‘There must be officers already out looking for him.’

‘But they don’t know him, sir – you do. You’ll have a much better idea of where he’s gone to ground.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ confessed Christopher. ‘Besides, I’m not at all convinced that Monsieur Villemot had anything to do with the murder. What could he possibly hope to gain by killing Sir Martin Culthorpe?’

‘That’s not the way to look at it, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Why not?’

‘Innocent or guilty,’ said Bale, solemnly, ‘the gentleman avoided arrest by taking to his heels. That’s a crime in itself and he’ll have to answer for it. The longer he’s on the loose, the worse it is for him.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The only place where the truth will come out is in court.’

Christopher was rueful. ‘I beg leave to doubt that,’ he said. ‘Nobody showed much interest in the truth when I was arrested. The magistrate had the nerve to call me deceitful.’

‘Be that as it may, sir, Mr Villemot must be found.’

‘Oh, I agree, Jonathan. We need this whole matter sorted out as quickly as possible or a lot of people are going to be hurt.’

Bale frowned. ‘A lot of people?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, ‘and you’re one of them. Do you want to spend all that time making a model of house that will never be built? I certainly don’t want to design one that stays on a piece of paper. If Monsieur Villemot is convicted, we all stand to lose – you, me and Sam Littlejohn, not to mention all his men.’ Christopher shook his head in dismay. ‘Because it was in the French style, Sam was really looking forward to building this house.’

‘I know, sir. I spoke to him this morning.’

‘Did you meet him on the site?’

‘Yes,’ said Bale, ‘he was very pleased to have got this contract. It will be a terrible shock if he suddenly loses it.’

‘Then let’s try to ensure that never happens.

‘It’s bound to, if Mr Villemot is guilty of the murder.’

‘I still believe he’s innocent,’ said Christopher, loyally.

‘Then why did he run away from the officers?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that, Jonathan. We have to remember that he’s French and, as such, viewed with suspicion by people who are unable to see beyond their own prejudices. If I were in a foreign country,’ he reasoned, ‘and were accused of a crime I did not commit, I fancy that my first instinct would be to do exactly what Monsieur Villemot has done. That’s not to excuse it, mark you,’ he emphasised. ‘What he did was wrong and he must be held to account for it. Our job is to help him clear his name.’