The Painted Lady

by Edward Marston

  ‘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.

  ‘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.’