Authors: Edward Marston
‘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 with 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.’
Prout was interested. ‘What’s this about the portrait?’
‘An oafish constable named Bale stopped me at the door and had the effrontery to ask me if I was a thief.’
‘According to Henry, you did offer to buy it.’
‘I would have thought that was proof of my good intentions,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘Why offer money for something if I intended to take it by stealth?’
‘Was the constable persuaded?’
‘I don’t think he had brain enough to comprehend logic.
When such men are in charge of law and order, how can we wonder that London is awash with crime?’
‘Who did steal that portrait of Araminta?’
‘I wish I knew, Elkannah. Were you the thief in the night?’
‘No,’ replied the other, indignantly. ‘I told you – I’ve withdrawn from the Society so I am no longer at the mercy of the same imperatives.’
‘Are you saying that you’ve lost interest in Araminta?’
‘No man who has seen her could do that. I just respect her right to mourn her husband without being bothered by any of us.’
‘Would you like to own that portrait?’
‘That’s neither here nor there.’
‘You’re prevaricating,’ said Kidbrooke, digging his ribs with a finger. ‘Be honest, man. Did you or did you not covet it?’
‘I did,’ conceded Prout.
‘There you are – you’re as bad as the rest of us.’
‘No, Jocelyn, I’m not. I wanted it but knew that I could never have it. The portrait belongs to Araminta and it would be an act of cruelty to take it away from her.’
‘Who would do such a thing – Henry?’
‘He vehemently denies the charge.’
‘Sir Willard?’
‘I’d not put it past him.’
‘A few days ago, I’d not have put it past Elkannah Prout. You were always in the forefront of the chase. But now,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘you’ve lost your nerve.’
‘I’ve lost nothing. What I did was to gain a moral sense.’
‘Has it robbed you of your love of coffee?’
‘No,’ said Prout, inhaling the aroma with a smile. ‘I’ll join you in a cup or two this minute. As for our pact…’
‘
Your
pact, Elkannah,’ said the other, slipping a companionable arm around his shoulders. ‘It has no power to restrain me. Stay away from the funeral, if you wish. I answer to my own desires.’
* * *
When Jonathan Bale arrived at the house, Christopher took him into the study and first listened to his report before giving one of his own. They agreed that neither Sir Willard Grail nor Jocelyn Kidbrooke had stolen the portrait, but that both would be likely to pay handsomely for it were the painting to be offered to them. Bale grew quite excited when he heard about the visit of Eleanor Ryle. It was an unexpected bonus to get such valuable information from someone inside the Culthorpe household. He was shaken by the revelation that Villemot had been seen leaving the garden around the time when the crime was committed, but he rallied when he heard about Abel Paskins.
‘We must find him, sir,’ said Bale.
‘That’s my office, Jonathan. I’ll save your legs by riding there. Not that I have a horse at present,’ he added, ‘but I will before too long.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers from the table. ‘Take a look at these sketches and tell me who the subject is.’
‘An easy question, sir,’ said Bale, glancing at them. ‘It’s your brother, Henry.’
‘You recognise him?’
‘Clearly.’
‘Then let’s see if someone else does as well,’ said Christopher, looking over his friend’s shoulder at the sketches. ‘I can conjure buildings out of the air and create a wonderful garden with deft strokes of my pencil, but I’m no Jean-Paul Villemot. He can distil the essence of a person. I can only capture a faint likeness.’
‘It’s more than a likeness, Mr Redmayne.’
‘I hope that’s enough.’
‘When did you do the drawings?’ asked Bale, handing them back so that Christopher could slip them into a portfolio. ‘And what did your brother think of them?’
‘I did them a year ago at Henry’s request. He picked out the best one to send to a lady with whom he’d become acquainted. My brother blamed me when it was returned in tiny pieces.’ He moved to the door. ‘Come, Jonathan – you are about to meet Matilda.’