Bale smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, I did, sir.’
‘I thought so,’ said Christopher with a grin. ‘Who else would build his children a New Model Army?’
‘I served under Oliver Cromwell and I’m proud of the fact.’
‘You’ve a right to be so, Jonathan. You were on the winning side at the battle of Worcester and that’s a memory you’ll cherish. But,’ he went on, ‘that’s all past. We are subjects of a King once more.’
‘You know my views where His Majesty is concerned,’ said Bale, ‘so I’ll not spoil our friendship by giving them to you again. Something has happened, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes – the portrait of Lady Culthorpe has been stolen.’
Bale started. ‘Who took it?’
‘That’s for us to find out.’
‘Did you have anyone in mind?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, thinking of his brother but determined to keep his name out of the discussion. ‘There are two people who might bear close examination. We must recover that portrait.’
‘Does the lady herself know that it’s been stolen?’
‘No, Jonathan, and she must never find out. It would distress her even more if she realised that her likeness was in the hands of a thief. Lady Culthorpe doesn’t know what occurred and neither does Monsieur Villemot.’
‘Why?’ asked Bale. ‘The artist ought to be told.’
‘His valet is terrified of the way he would respond,’ said Christopher. ‘His master has a temper – I’ve seen him flare up with my own eyes. While he’s away, Emile is in charge of the studio. It’s his responsibility to protect the paintings.’
‘Especially the one of Lady Culthorpe.’
‘Emile told me that he would rather have lost all the other paintings in the studio.’
‘Does that include the portrait of Lady Lingoe?’
‘It does, Jonathan. I know that you’d be saddened if that had been stolen,’ he teased. ‘The portrait had a special meaning for you.’
Bale sniffed. ‘It made me wonder what goes on in an artist’s studio,’ he said, dourly.
‘You’ll have to put that question to Lady Lingoe herself.’
‘No, thank you, sir – I’d rather not meet her at all.’
‘You’d be quite safe. She dresses as a Roman priestess.’
‘I’ll keep my distance from her, dressed or undressed.’
‘One thing is certain,’ said Christopher. ‘Whoever stole that other portrait, it was not Lady Lingoe. I begin to think that it may be the same person who killed Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘He could have stolen it without resorting to murder.’
‘That depends on his motive. If he was spellbound by Lady Culthorpe’s beauty, he could have been driven to kill the husband in order to get closer to her.’
‘She’s in mourning.’
‘That’s why he has to be patient,’ said Christopher. ‘Since he can’t even see her while she’s brooding on her loss, he would have wanted to look upon her in some way.’
‘The portrait.’
‘Why else would he take it?’
Bale fell silent, deep in contemplation. His brow was rutted, his lips pursed, his eyes staring into space. Christopher looked down at the toy soldiers. They had been made with love for Bale’s two sons so that they could play out various battles. Each soldier had been carved and painted with precision. To a doting father, the soldiers were every bit as important as Villemot’s portraits were to the artist. Christopher could see how deeply wounded Bale would be by the theft of his handiwork. Over the time he had worked on the miniature figures, he would have built up a close relationship with them.
‘I wonder if we are mistaken,’ said Bale, suddenly.
‘Mistaken?’
‘I very much doubt if the thief was also the killer.’
‘You reason?’
‘I deal with crime every day, Mr Redmayne. In my experience, a man who commits murder has only one thought in mind and that is to get far away from the place where the deed was done. I do not think that he would stay in London so that he could steal a portrait.’
‘If he’d taken flight,’ said Christopher, ‘he’d have given himself away. Better to stay here and keep out of sight. A city as large as London has many hiding places.’
‘I still say the thief is not the killer.’
‘But the two must be connected in some way.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Bale, ‘but it may not be the case at all. For the sake of argument, suppose that Lady Culthorpe has nothing to do with what happened to her husband.’
‘Lust is a powerful motive, Jonathan.’
‘So is greed, so is envy, so is hatred. Sir Martin was known for his kindness but even the kindest of men have enemies. Someone may have wanted to strike him down out of sheer malice. Remember this,’ he went on. ‘The murder was planned. It was no accident. The killer must have known that Sir Martin went for a stroll in his garden at certain times of the day. He must have contrived a means of getting the key to the garden gate.’
‘I realise that,’ said Christopher. ‘The problem is that the person who could help us most is the one who is out of our reach.’
‘Lady Araminta Culthorpe.’
‘She would know about Sir Martin’s habits and be able to tell us who had the keys to that gate. Without realising it, Lady Culthorpe probably has lots of information that would be useful to us but we could not possibly approach her at a time like this.’
‘When is the funeral?’
‘Very soon, I should imagine.’
‘Then we must wait until it’s over.’
‘There’s one way we might ensure her assistance.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘By finding that portrait,’ said Christopher. ‘Because Sir Martin commissioned it, it’s a last memento of her husband. If we tell her that we recovered it from the thief, she’ll be extremely grateful.’
‘How do we track it down?’
‘I’m not entirely sure.’
‘You told me you had two suspects in mind, sir.’
‘I hoped that we might question one each.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re friends of my brother.’ Bale sniffed again. ‘Yes, yes, I know you think they’re Henry’s fellow libertines and that may turn out to be true. What we have to decide is whether or not one of them is also a thief and a killer.’
‘He’ll not be both, Mr Redmayne, mark my words.’
‘I bow to your superior instincts.’
‘Who are these gentlemen?’
‘One is Sir Willard Grail and the other, Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
‘I do not like the sound of that title,’ said Bale, curling a lip, ‘unless, of course, it was awarded by the Lord Protector.’
‘Sir Willard comes from Cavalier stock.’
‘Then I’ll take the other gentleman, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke made his money in trade,’ said Christopher, ‘and bought his way into society. My brother describes him as serious-minded but amiable. That might just mean that he loaned Henry some money. Kidbrooke fell in with my brother in order to secure an introduction to His Majesty’s circle.’
‘What am I to ask him, Mr Redmayne?’
‘You might begin by saying that you know he made a substantial offer for that portrait. His interest in it is clear.’
‘Did your brother think him capable of stealing it?’
‘Not in person, perhaps, but he might hire someone to do it.’ Taking a piece of paper from his pocket, Christopher handed it over. ‘This is Kidbrooke’s address,’ he said. ‘Like so many men – Henry, alas, among them – he’s besotted with Lady Culthorpe. That’s why I need to warn you about something.’
‘And what’s that, sir?’
‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke is married.’
Bale stiffened. ‘He has a wife yet pursues another woman?’
‘So it appears.’
‘That’s
a betrayal of his marriage vows.’
‘It’s something else you might raise with him,’ said Christopher.
Despair came in waves. Though she immersed herself in work, there were times when Araminta Culthorpe simply could not keep dejection at bay. Coming when she least expected it, it washed over her and left her drenched with misery as she was forcibly reminded of the gruesome discovery she had made in the garden. With one thrust of a dagger, her husband had been murdered and her happiness taken away. The future looked bleak and empty. Araminta did not know if she would have the courage to face it.
‘Bear up, m’lady,’ said Eleanor Ryle.
‘I’ve no strength left to do it.’
‘Then you need to rest. You’ve not had a proper sleep since the day it happened. Go to bed, m’lady. Things may not look so daunting when you’ve had a good, long sleep.’
‘I’ve tried to sleep,’ said Araminta, ‘but my mind is too full of phantoms when I lie down. I remember what I saw in the garden and the horror starts all over again. The only way I can block it out is by keeping myself busy.’
‘But you’re close to exhaustion, m’lady.’
‘So are you, Eleanor. You’ve hardly left my side for days. It’s a terrible strain on you. I can see how weary you are.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘Every ounce of energy has been drained out of us.’
‘As long as you want me, I’ll stay by you.’
‘Thank you.’
Seated beside each other, they were in Araminta’s bedchamber. The strain of a long day had told on both of them but it was Araminta who was drooping. She was fighting to stay awake. Eleanor offered the same advice once again.
‘Go to bed, m’lady,’ she urged. ‘Why suffer all this pain? Let me help you off with your clothes.’
‘No, Eleanor – you are the one who needs to sleep.’
‘How can I when I have to attend to you?’
‘Leave me,’ said Araminta, touching her hand in a gesture of gratitude. ‘You’ve done more than enough. I can manage without you now.’
‘I want to help you keep sad thoughts away, m’lady.’
‘They’ll come again and again, whatever you do.’
‘Then you must have someone to share your grief.’
‘It’s time for me to be on my own,’ decided Araminta, getting up and pulling Eleanor gently after her. She ushered the maid towards the door. ‘There are some things even you can’t share,’ she said. ‘I’ve imposed on you enough.’
‘You could never do that,’ said Eleanor, gravely.
‘Off you go now.’
‘No, m’lady – my place is here.’
Araminta was firm. ‘I’m telling you to leave,’ she said. ‘I may not be able to sleep but you certainly will. I can see the fatigue in your face. Go to bed, Eleanor. I do not wish to see you for hours.’
‘What if you should need me?’
‘I’ll have to manage without you.’ Araminta opened the door and waved her out. ‘Don’t try to slip back in again because I’ll lock the door. Away with you, girl – you’ve earned a rest.’
‘Will you promise me that—’
‘I’ll promise you nothing apart from this,’ said the other, cutting her off before she could finish her sentence. ‘I can manage by myself. I have to manage, Eleanor. That’s what my life will be about from now on.’ She forced a smile then closed the door. ‘Goodbye.’
Eleanor heard the key turn in the lock. She was both worried and relieved, sorry to leave her mistress alone but glad to be spared the constant stress of looking after her. While the prospect of rest was enticing, she was not ready to yield to it. The maid was prompted by a higher priority than her own comfort. Tripping along the corridor, she went down the backstairs until she came to her own room.
She let herself in, poured water from the jug into the china basin then gathered it up in her palms to sprinkle her face. It was cold but refreshing. After drying her face, she looked in the mirror and saw how gaunt she was. She hardly recognised herself. Eleanor did not worry about her appearance. Finding her cloak, she put it on before leaving the room and going along a passageway. Making sure that nobody saw her, she opened a side door, went out swiftly and hurried away from the house.
Chapter Seven
Christopher Redmayne had met several of his brother’s friends before and they tended to be as shameless and profligate as Henry. They also bore the indelible imprint of decadence. Expecting to see another unconscionable rake, Christopher was startled to find that Sir Willard Grail had none of the telltale signs of a sybarite. He was tall, well-favoured and looked remarkably wholesome. His boyish smile made him seem even younger than he really was. Sir Willard’s attire was flamboyant without being gaudy. He was affable and unaffected.
‘Henry’s brother, are you?’ he said, weighing his visitor up. ‘Nobody would ever guess it to look at you. I believe you’re a famous architect.’
‘No, Sir Willard – I’ve yet to rise in my profession.’
‘It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure. Having no inclination or capacity for hard work, I always admire those who do and you are obviously a Trojan in your chosen field.’
‘Work is never onerous when you enjoy it,’ said Christopher.
‘So I believe.’
They were in the hall of Sir Willard’s home near Shoreditch, an elegant house, designed by a disciple of Inigo Jones, which would have fitted into Covent Garden without a hint of incongruity. It was close enough to the city to allow easy access yet sufficiently distant to give it a sense of isolation. It was a place where Lady Grail could live in style and comfort while her husband pursued pleasures elsewhere.
‘I’m glad that we finally met,’ said Sir Willard, ‘though I’m bound to observe that you seem to have gone out of your way to make my acquaintance.’
‘I came on private business, Sir Willard. Given its nature, you might wish to discuss it somewhere other than in your hall.’
‘To what does it relate?’
‘Lady Culthorpe.’
‘Perhaps we’d better step in here,’ said the other, smoothly, taking Christopher into the drawing room before closing the door firmly behind them. ‘You know Araminta?’
‘I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her.’
‘Then you must be as enthralled as the rest of us.’
‘She’s a very beautiful lady, Sir Willard.’
‘Araminta is quite incomparable. But you do not need to be told that. We all worship her. Your brother has been sending poems to her for months.’
Christopher stared. ‘Henry has no talent for poetry.’
‘That might explain why he met with such a cold response. He once showed me a sonnet he penned in praise of her,’ said Sir Willard with a laugh. ‘It beggared description. Shakespeare has no rival in the Navy Office, I do assure you.’ He met Christopher’s gaze. ‘Now, then, what exactly has brought you to my door?’
‘The theft of Lady Culthorpe’s portrait.’
Sir Willard’s eyes narrowed. ‘The theft?’
‘It was stolen some time during last night.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Monsieur Villemot’s valet sought me out to tell me,’ explained Christopher. ‘Since his master is at present in Newgate, it fell to Emile to guard his property. The loss of the portrait has struck him like a thunderbolt.’
‘Why did the valet turn to you, Mr Redmayne?’
‘I’ve designed a house for Monsieur Villemot.’
‘Of course,’ said Sir Willard. ‘I should have remembered that. What a pity the house will never be built!’
‘I’m confident that it will.’
‘Even though its owner will soon be dangling from the gallows?’
‘I don’t accept that he committed the murder,’ said Christopher, resolutely, ‘and I’ll strain every nerve to prove his innocence.’
Sir Willard grinned. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was much mistaken in you. There is a resemblance to your brother, aft
er all. You have Henry’s boldness, his wild-eyed passion and his readiness to pursue a lost cause.’
‘Trying to rescue Monsieur Villemot is not a lost cause.’
‘The man is patently guilty.’
‘Not in my eyes, Sir Willard.’
‘Then perhaps it’s time to buy some spectacles.’
‘I’ve been in this position before,’ said Christopher, ‘and on that occasion I also saved someone who had been judged guilty before he was even brought to trial. His name was Henry Redmayne. I’m sure that he’s told you the story of how he evaded the noose.’
‘Many times,’ replied Sir Willard, ‘though he’s never mentioned your name in his account. He prefers to claim all the credit for himself, but that’s ever his way.’
He gave a dismissive gesture with his hand that Christopher recognised as belonging to his brother, and there were other indications – a shrug, a nod, a facial expression – that Sir Willard had picked up some of Henry’s characteristic actions. What Christopher could not believe was that, even by candlelight, Sir Willard could be mistaken for Henry. He was of similar height and build but his age, fair complexion and handsome features set him clearly apart.
‘I’m sad to hear that Araminta’s portrait has gone astray,’ said Sir Willard, ‘and I’m grateful that you rode all this way to tell me.’
‘I’m not here merely to impart news.’
‘No?’
‘I came in search of your help,’ said Christopher. ‘I wondered if you could suggest the name of anyone who would covet that portrait enough to steal it.’
Sir Willard laughed again. ‘That’s a very naïve question,’ he pointed out. ‘I can suggest the names of at least a hundred men who would yearn for that painting. I’m one of them and, since you saw Araminta in the flesh, your name could probably be added to that list.’
‘Very few people even knew that the portrait was in hand.’
‘Then that cuts down the number appreciably.’
‘Does anyone come to mind, Sir Willard?’
‘Yes,’ said the other.
‘I’ve already taxed Henry with regard to the matter.’
‘It’s just the sort of madcap thing he’d do. Jocelyn Kidbrooke is another potential art thief, and you’d have to bring Elkannah Prout into the reckoning.’
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