The Painted Lady cr-6

by Edward Marston

  ‘He does not have it, Sir Willard.’

  ‘Then a confederate is hiding it for him.’

  ‘No,’ said Christopher, ‘there are rare moments in his life when Henry actually tells the truth — or, at least, enough of it to give the semblance of truth. He did not steal that portrait. Of that I have not the slightest doubt.’

  ‘He could still have visited the house yesterday.’

  ‘I mean to look into that more closely.’

  ‘Take the maid to Bedford Street to identify your brother.’

  ‘I’ve thought of an easier way than that,’ said Christopher. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already. You’ve already answered the question I was bound to ask.’

  ‘You thought that I might have been the thief, didn’t you?’

  ‘It did cross my mind.’

  ‘Well, don’t let it do so again,’ said Sir Willard, testily. ‘Much as I’d love to own that portrait, I have a distinct handicap — there’s nowhere that I could safely keep it. I could hardly suggest to my wife that I hang it in the library to encourage me to read more.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘Stay away from my house in future, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘I’ll gladly do so unless I have cause to return.’

  ‘There is no cause. Now continue on your way and catch him. Catch the villain who stole Araminta from that studio and send him off to prison where he belongs.’

  ‘Henry is no culprit, nor is Mr Prout. I absolve both of them.’

  ‘Then turn your gaze elsewhere.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘The most obvious suspect, man — Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

  * * *

  Jonathan Bale was spared the prospect of a long walk across London. Thanks to information passed on by Christopher from his brother, the constable knew where to find Jocelyn Kidbrooke at a certain time of the day. He would be in his habitual coffee house. It was not a place that Bale entered willingly. In his view, coffee houses were either gambling dens or places where idle, over-dressed, wealthy individuals met to drink coffee, smoke, talk, argue, discuss political matters or boast of their latest conquests. He was alarmed by the spread of these exclusively male institutions. The first coffee house had been opened in Holborn in 1650. Now, some twenty years later, there were well over a hundred of them in the capital. Bale regretted the fact.

  He got there early and lurked in the anteroom so that he could intercept Kidbrooke on his arrival. Finding his way blocked, the newcomer was resentful.

  ‘Out of my way, fellow,’ he ordered.

  ‘Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘My name is Jonathan Bale and I crave a few words with you.’

  ‘I’ve no time for chatter, Mr Bale,’ said Kidbrooke, trying to brush past him. He felt a strong hand on his arm. ‘Let me go, damn you!’

  ‘Not until you agree to talk to me, sir.’

  ‘We’ve nothing to say to each other.’

  ‘It concerns Lady Culthorpe.’

  Kidbrooke’s resistance weakened. Through the open door of the coffee house, he could see his friends and hear their merry banter as they sat around the large common table at the heart of the room. Eager to join them, he was held back by curiosity.

  ‘You have news of Araminta?’ he asked.

  ‘I have sad tidings of her portrait,’ said Bale, releasing him. ‘It was stolen last night from the artist’s studio.’

  Kidbrooke was impassive. ‘Really?’

  ‘You do not seem surprised.’

  ‘Very little surprises me, Mr Bale.’

  ‘Did you expect the portrait to be taken?’

  ‘It was the only means of acquiring it,’ said Kidbrooke, flatly. ‘I tried to buy it but my generous offer was turned down.’

  ‘Why did you want to buy a painting that was unfinished?’

  ‘I can see that you have never laid eyes on Araminta.’

  ‘True,’ said Bale.

  ‘Then you’ve missed one of the wonders of the world.’

  ‘I’m a married man, sir.’

  ‘For a smile from Araminta, you’d divorce your wife.’

  ‘Is that how you feel about the lady, sir?’

  ‘My feelings are my business.’

  ‘Did you steal her portrait?’

  ‘No,’ said Kidbrooke, reacting angrily to the bluntness of the question. ‘How dare you have the audacity even to ask that!’

  ‘You admit that you wanted it.’

  ‘That does not mean I was ready to steal it.’

  ‘May I ask where you were when the crime was committed?’

  ‘You may ask, Mr Bale, but I’ve no intention of telling you. I came here to commune with friends, not to be accused of a crime.’

  ‘Where would you have kept it, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The portrait,’ said Bale. ‘If you’d been able to buy it, where would you have hidden it? Your wife would hardly approve. Do you have such little care of Mrs Kidbrooke that you’d smuggle a painting of a beautiful woman into your house?’

  Kidbrooke was infuriated. ‘I’ll not be censored by you!’

  ‘You face a higher critic than me, sir.’ Bale looked upwards. ‘You entered holy matrimony in His sight. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  ‘My private life does not concern you.’

  ‘It does when a crime is committed.’

  ‘But I was not the thief, you insolent dog!’

  ‘You might have hired one to do the business for you.’

  ‘That’s a slanderous suggestion!’

  ‘I have to look at every possibility, sir.’

  ‘Then look elsewhere,’ snarled Kidbrooke, ‘and let me go to enjoy some civilised company in place of this brash interrogation.’ When he tried to move, Bale’s hand held him fast again. ‘Unhand me, sir!’

  ‘We are not done yet, Mr Kidbrooke,’ said Bale, steadfastly. ‘I have something important to put to you. The thief will surely know how many people would like to own that portrait.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Supposing that he offered to sell it to you?’

  ‘You’re hurting my arm.’

  Bale let him go. ‘Would you buy it from him?’ he pressed. ‘Knowing that you’d be receiving stolen goods, would you pay to have that painting of Lady Culthorpe?’

  Jocelyn Kidbrooke was silent but a shifty look had come into his eyes. It was time to go. Bale had his answer.

  Christopher Redmayne rode back to his house in Fetter Lane where he expected to meet with Jonathan Bale so they could trade information about their respective visits. But it was not his friend who had called to see the architect. Jacob passed on the news.

  ‘A young lady is waiting for you, Mr Redmayne,’ he said.

  ‘Did she give her name?’

  ‘She refused to do so, sir.’

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jacob, ‘but she insisted on seeing you. The young lady is in the drawing room. She’s very pretty.’

  There was the faintest touch of reproach in his voice. Knowing how close his master was to Susan Cheever, the old man felt it improper for him to be entertaining another young lady in her absence. Christopher quashed his suspicions at once.

  ‘She is not here by invitation, Jacob, I promise you.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Walking past the servant, he opened the door to the drawing room and went in. The young woman leapt to her feet at once. Though extremely pretty, she was also tense and uncertain.

  ‘Mr Redmayne?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Christopher Redmayne?’

  ‘The very same,’ he said, appraising her. ‘May I ask your name?’

  ‘Eleanor Ryle, sir,’ she said. ‘I work for Lady Culthorpe.’

  He was taken aback. ‘Lady Culthorpe sent you here?’

  ‘No, Mr Redmayne — I came of my own accord. She doesn’t even know that I’m here and she might be very cross wit
h me if she did. I can’t stay, sir. I have to be back in case Lady Culthorpe needs me, but I felt that I had to come.’ Having gabbled the words, she paused for breath. ‘I hope I’ve done the right thing.’

  ‘At least, sit down while you’re here, Miss Ryle,’ he offered. When she resumed her seat, he took the chair opposite her. ‘Why exactly did you want to see me?’

  ‘It was because of your letter, sir — the one you wrote to Lady Culthorpe. She found it very moving. I took the trouble to read it myself and that was how I got your address.’ She chewed her lip. ‘I was touched by what you wrote. I felt you were a person I could trust. That’s not true of some of the men who sent letters of condolence.’

  ‘Are you referring to my brother?’

  ‘Lady Culthorpe would not even read the verses he sent.’

  ‘From what I hear, he’s been harassing her for some time with his foolish attempts at poetry. I’ll speak to him about it,’ promised Christopher. ‘So you came here solely on the strength of my letter?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘It was what Lady Lingoe wrote about you.’

  ‘Oh — what was that?’

  ‘She sent her condolences to Lady Culthorpe but she also claimed that Mr Villemot did not commit the murder. She knows the gentleman well and swears he is innocent. Lady Lingoe mentioned you in her letter. She said that you agreed with her and were determined to clear his name.’

  ‘That’s true, Miss Ryle.’

  ‘Then I’d like to help.’

  ‘I’d be grateful for any assistance.’

  ‘I’m doing it for Lady Culthorpe’s sake,’ said Eleanor, playing nervously with the edge of her cloak. ‘I can’t bear to see her suffering so much. She’s in agony, Mr Redmayne, even though she tries to hide it. If it goes on like this, it will make her ill. Imagine what it must have been like for her to find Sir Martin the way she did.’

  ‘It must have been excruciating,’ said Christopher. ‘And while she was tottering from that blow, she was hit by another. The man arrested for the murder is none other than the artist who’s been painting her portrait.’

  ‘That really hurt her.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘In her heart,’ said Eleanor, ‘I know that Lady Culthorpe doesn’t believe he could do such a thing, but the evidence is against him.’

  ‘At the moment,’ he said. ‘That could well change.’

  ‘Nothing could bring Sir Martin back, sir, but it would make his death so much easier to bear if Mr Villemot was not the killer. My mistress liked him. Whenever she got back from a sitting, she told me how thoughtful and caring he was.’

  ‘That’s exactly how I found him, Miss Ryle.’

  ‘Why would he do something that would cause her so much pain and misery? That’s what puzzles me. It set my mind thinking.’

  ‘I’m glad that it did.’

  ‘I came to tell you what I know, Mr Redmayne. I spend each and every day with Lady Culthorpe. Because I hate to see her like this, I’ve picked up every scrap of information I can about the crime. Ask me anything you want.’

  ‘Monsieur Villemot was seen at the house by two witnesses,’ he recalled. ‘Do you happen to know who they were?’

  ‘One of them was Dirk, the coachman.’

  ‘How would he have recognised him?’

  ‘He drove Lady Culthorpe to the studio every day,’ she replied. ‘A couple of times, Sir Martin went with her but it was Dirk who looked after her from then on. Monsieur Villemot came to the front door to welcome her. The coachman would have got a close look at him.’

  ‘And he saw him again at Sir Martin’s house?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Redmayne, he did. The stable block is at the rear of the garden. After dropping Lady Culthorpe at the front door, he drove around to the back. Dirk swears that he saw Monsieur Villemot, sitting astride his horse.’

  ‘What about the second witness?’

  ‘That was Jamie, the stable lad,’ she said. ‘He was walking past the garden gate when Monsieur Villemot came out. He didn’t know him by sight, of course, but he described him so well that it simply has to be him.’

  Christopher was alarmed. ‘Are you sure that Monsieur Villemot was in the garden?’

  ‘Jamie took his Bible oath.’

  ‘Was the garden gate open or shut?’

  ‘Wide open.’

  ‘And was Monsieur Villemot running when he came out?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Eleanor. ‘I only know what the butler told me. He says that Jamie is very trustworthy. He wouldn’t make up a story like that.’

  Christopher was disturbed. The artist had admitted riding past the house at the crucial time but he had never mentioned that he actually went into the garden. That was damning evidence. It was ironic. Eleanor had come in the hope of helping to prove Villemot’s innocence but her information had so far only confirmed his probable guilt.

  ‘How many keys are there to the garden gate?’

  ‘That’s what the officers wanted to know.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There are three, it seems. Sir Martin had one, so did the head gardener and the third was kept in the house.’

  ‘So how could Monsieur Villemot have got hold of one?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ Worried about the time, she stood up abruptly. ‘I’d better go, sir, or they’ll start to miss me.’ She paused. ‘But there is one last thing,’ she remembered. ‘I don’t think this is anything to do with what happened but I thought I ought to tell you.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, getting up from his seat.

  ‘Sir Martin was very fond of his garden. He spent a lot of time there. A couple of weeks before he was killed, Sir Martin had an argument with one of the gardeners and dismissed him.’

  ‘Do you know what the argument was about?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she answered.

  ‘What was the man’s name?’

  ‘Abel Paskins.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Ryle — that could turn out to be important.’

  ‘I must leave now — it’s a long walk.’

  He was amazed. ‘You came all this way on foot?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘Well, you’ll certainly not have to walk back.’ He opened the door and called, ‘Jacob!’

  The old man appeared from the kitchen. ‘Yes, Mr Redmayne?’

  ‘This is Miss Eleanor Ryle. She’s Lady Culthorpe’s maid and has taken great pains to provide me with valuable intelligence about the murder. I want her to ride back to Westminster.’

  ‘I’ll get Nigel to saddle the other horse.’

  ‘But I’ve never ridden before,’ she protested.

  ‘The lad will look after you, Miss,’ said Jacob. ‘All you have to do is to sit tight and let Nigel tug you along on a lead rein.’

  Christopher smiled. ‘Would you rather walk all the way back?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Then it’s settled. Jacob will arrange everything.’

  Catching his master’s eye, the servant shot him a look of apology before going out. He regretted making a false assumption about him. Christopher kept thinking about the gardener.

  ‘This man who was dismissed — Abel Paskins…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I suppose you have no idea where he went?’

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ said Eleanor, helpfully. ‘I asked Mr Rushton — he’s the butler. Mr Rushton likes to keep a close watch on everyone who’s employed at the house.’

  From the way that she pronounced the butler’s name, Christopher had the impression that he was rather more to her than a colleague on the domestic staff. Eleanor’s fondness for the man was apparent. Everything she told Christopher had come from the butler.

  ‘So where is Abel Paskins?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s working for a Mr Foxwell in Chelsea.’

  ‘Mr Foxwell?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mr Cuthbert Foxwell.’

  It was the second time within
an hour that Jocelyn Kidbrooke had been deprived of pleasure at the coffee house and he was embittered. Instead of being able to sit at the common table and revel with the others, he was taken aside by Elkannah Prout.

  ‘We must agree to a pact, Jocelyn,’ said his friend.

  ‘The only pact I favour is one which commits all of us to entering a coffee house for the sole purpose of enjoyment.’

  ‘I appeal to your conscience.’

  ‘When I come in here,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘I leave it at the door.’

  ‘So do the rest of us but this is a special case.’

  ‘Do as you wish, Elkannah. That’s your privilege. But you have no right to force the rest of us to imitate your folly.’

  ‘It’s not folly,’ retorted Prout. ‘It’s an act of clemency. I’ve persuaded Henry to agree to the pact. I’d hoped you’d join us.’

  ‘Confound your pact! Have a cup of coffee with the rest of us, man, and forget about serious matters. Wear a smile again — you were always wont to do so.’

  ‘How can one smile at a funeral, Jocelyn?’

  ‘How can one be miserable in a coffee house?’

  Prout relaxed slightly and even managed a ghost of a smile. He had chosen the wrong place to broach such a solemn subject but he did not give up. After gritting his teeth, he tried once more.

  ‘It’s a simple request, Jocelyn,’ he said. ‘In two days’ time, Sir Martin Culthorpe is to be buried. Will you consent to stay away from the funeral?’

  ‘No, Elkannah.’

  ‘You have no place there and neither do the rest of us.’

  ‘I neither consent to stay away nor to go,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘I’ll make the decision on the day itself and not have it made for me. If you and Henry shy away like frightened horses, that’s your affair.’

  ‘Sir Willard will also see sense in the pact.’

  ‘Then let him accept it. I’ll have no rival at the graveside.’

  ‘It would be a cruelty to Araminta to go.’

  ‘How else can I get close to her?’

  ‘You would not be wanted.’

  ‘Stop browbeating me,’ complained Kidbrooke. ‘You’re the second person to snap at my heels about Araminta and I’ll not endure it. First, I am accused of stealing that portrait of her and now you try to force me to sign a pact. I’ll have none of it.’