The Painted Lady (17 page)

‘You took such an interest in it.’

‘I have to, now that my husband is not here. That garden is a sacred duty I’ve inherited. I’ll keep it exactly as Sir Martin would have wished.’

‘He would not have wanted you to fret like this.’

‘It’s much more than fretting,’ said Araminta. ‘I feel a great emptiness inside me. And I’m so listless. I’ve no strength to cope with the demands made on me.’

‘That’s why you’ve got people like me to help,’ said Eleanor, a hand on her shoulder. ‘Have you been looking at that list of guests? You’ve no need to trouble with that. I’ve spoken to Mr Rushton. He’ll make sure that everyone is taken care of, m’lady.’

‘It’s the service itself that worries me.’

‘You’ve family and friends to carry you through it.’

‘I’m not sure if I shall be able to bear up.’

‘Yes, you will – for Sir Martin’s sake.’

‘Of course,’ said Araminta, sitting upright. ‘I’m doing it for his sake. I must stop thinking of myself and turn all my thoughts to him. What would my husband expect of me – that’s what I must consider.’

She addressed herself to the list and started to go through it. Glad to see her mistress’s spirit restored, Eleanor sat beside her. It was only when Araminta had been through all the names that her sadness returned.

‘What if one of them should come?’ she asked.

‘One of whom?’

‘Henry Redmayne and those other men who bothered me.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be considerate enough to stay away, m’lady.’

‘It’s so strange,’ mused Araminta. ‘Mr Redmayne and his silly poems were so objectionable yet his brother was charming. I could not believe they belonged to the same family. One is an idle fop and the other, a well-mannered and diligent young man.
And he must have great talent as an architect or Monsieur Villemot would never have employed him.’ She let out a gasp. ‘Oh dear!’

‘What ails you, m’lady?’

‘I’ve just remembered him – locked away in that prison.’

‘If he’s guilty, that’s where he should be.’

‘But what if he’s not, Eleanor? That’s what worries me. I got quite close to Monsieur Villemot. I liked him. I respected him as an artist. He had a wonderful career ahead of him and was having a new house built so that he and his wife could live in London.’ She pursed her lips in thought. ‘Why put all that in jeopardy?’

‘It does seem rather reckless,’ said the maid.

‘He could never hope to get away with it.’

‘Then perhaps he was not the killer, after all.’

‘I’d
love
to believe that,’ said Araminta. ‘I’d love to believe he could be exonerated and set free.’

‘Perhaps that will happen, m’lady.’

‘How? He’s imprisoned in a foreign country with nobody to help him. Even if he were innocent of the crime, how would we ever know?’

Eleanor thought of her visit to Christopher Redmayne.

The meeting took place in the prison sergeant’s office. Lady Hester Lingoe had commandeered it with the help of a generous bribe, but even her money and position were not enough to ensure a private conversation with the prisoner. A turnkey was there throughout and his presence set precise limits on their freedom of expression. When they first met, therefore, all that Jean-Paul Villemot felt able to do was to touch her hand in gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

‘Did my lawyer visit you?’

‘Yes, he did. He had me moved to a larger cell.’

‘A single one, I trust.’

‘I am all alone – apart from the rats.’

‘It must be intolerable.’

‘They treat me bad.’

‘Then I’ll make a formal complaint about that.’

Lady Lingoe held the pomander to her nose and inhaled deeply. Even in the prison sergeant’s office, the offensive odours were evident and Villemot was embarrassed by the fact that his clothing was giving off an unpleasant smell. He looked worn and desperate. For her part, Lady Lingoe had shed the costume of a Roman priestess and put on more conventional apparel. In the drab little room, she looked like a beacon of light and he dared to nurse hopes again.

‘Get me out of here!’ he begged.

‘That may take a little time, Jean-Paul.’

‘I did not kill this man.’

‘I know that,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘We have to gather evidence to prove it. Mr Redmayne is doing all he can to help you.’

‘But he handed me over to the magistrate.’

‘It was for your own good.’

‘Good?’ he echoed with a mirthless laugh. ‘This is
good
?’

‘Put some trust in Christopher Redmayne,’ she advised. ‘That’s what I’ve decided to do. He’s eager to build that house for you, Jean-Paul. He has an incentive to get you released – and so have I.’

Unseen by the turnkey, she touched the artist’s hand again then she held the pomander to her nostrils. Thrilled to see a friend, Villemot was frustrated by the watchful presence of a third person. It made for halting and unsatisfactory exchange.

‘I’ve brought food and wine for you,’ she said.

‘
Merci beaucoup
!’

‘My lawyer will come to see you every day.’

‘You are the only person I wish to see, Hester!’

‘I hope we can meet in more propitious circumstances next time, Jean-Paul.’ She glanced around. ‘This is hardly the ideal place for a tête-à-tête.’

‘I am living in the privy.’

‘How sordid!’

‘The noise, it drives me mad.’

‘Hold fast – we will do everything in our power to save you.’

‘And if you
fail
?’

Lady Lingoe could not hide her fear. For one vital second, the mask of reassurance slipped from her face and Villemot saw that she was as frightened as he was. She recovered her air of imperturbability and produced a dazzling smile.

‘We’ll not fail, Jean-Paul,’ she said. ‘You mean too much to us.’

It was still light when Christopher Redmayne reached the house in Chelsea and he was able to see the extensive gardens in which it stood. In the previous century, Chelsea had been known as a village of palaces because Henry VIII and some of the leading men of the day had maintained splendid houses there. It was still a place to catch the eye of an architect. Cuthbert Foxwell’s mansion was not as large or palatial as many others but its clear signs of French influence aroused Christopher’s interest. He noted features that he had incorporated into the design for the Villemot residence.

When he rang the doorbell, he was invited into the house and introduced himself to its owner. Cuthbert Foxwell was a short, slim, round-shouldered man in his late thirties with a book under his arm. After conducting his visitor into the library, he looked at him over the top of his spectacles.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, sir?’ he asked.

‘I believe that you are Sir Willard Grail’s brother-in-law.’

‘I have that honour. Do you know Sir Willard?’

‘My brother is a close friend of his,’ said Christopher.

‘Redmayne…Redmayne…’ Foxwell’s memory was jogged. ‘I thought I’d heard that name before. Sir Willard has mentioned it to me. I can’t say that I see much of my brother-in-law,’ he
continued. ‘We have no mutual interests – apart from my wife, that is. Sir Willard is a man of the world while I’m more parochial in outlook. I think he looks upon me as a country yokel.’

‘You’re hardly that, Mr Foxwell,’ said Christopher with a gesture towards the bookshelves. ‘You have a magnificent library here.’

‘I’m bookish by nature and account myself a true scholar.’

‘You obviously have a passion for the garden as well.’

‘I do indeed, Mr Redmayne.’

‘It’s on that subject that I came to speak to you.’

‘Tell me more, dear sir.’

When they had sat down, Christopher told him about the murder and the arrest of Jean-Paul Villemot. He explained that he believed in the Frenchman’s innocence and was bent on proving it. Foxwell was impressed with the clarity of his report and the earnest manner in which it was delivered.

‘This is all very intriguing,’ he said, ‘but I do not see how your researches can have brought you to Chelsea.’

‘I came to look for a gardener.’

‘We have a small team of them here, Mr Redmayne, and they are kept very busy. Gardens are a joy to behold when they are well-tended. If you neglect them, however,’ he counselled, ‘you’ll soon end up with a wilderness.’

‘One of your gardeners once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Did he? That’s news to me.’

‘He may have concealed the fact from you, Mr Foxwell. I gather that he left Sir Martin’s employ under something of a cloud.’

‘What was the man’s name?’

‘Paskins – Abel Paskins.’

‘I remember him – a sturdy, hard-working fellow.’

‘Is he here at the moment, by any chance?’ said Christopher.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘You dismissed him?’

‘No, Mr Redmayne – he left of his own accord. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. I later learned that he’d been poached.’

‘By whom?’

‘A friend of my brother-in-law,’ said Foxwell. ‘To be frank with you, I was rather put out. When you have guests in the house, you do not expect one of them to tempt a gardener away. For that’s what happened,’ he continued. ‘When Sir Willard and his friend arrived, we entertained them as we saw fit. I showed them around the garden.’

‘Was Abel Paskins there at the time?’

‘He was. I saw Sir Willard’s friend chatting to him.’

‘Then the gardener left you.’

‘I think he was lured away by the promise of more money.’

‘What was the name of your guest?’

‘It was my brother-in-law who invited him. He was not the sort of person to whom I could ever take – a portly man who looked as if he caroused too much, and who only remembered that he had a wife on Sunday when they went to church. In fact,’ said Foxwell, ‘he was a very disagreeable fellow altogether.’

‘Did he have a name?’

‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’

Henry Redmayne was not given to making apologies. He had certainly never been compelled to tender one to a roly-poly maid with an unappetising face. But his brother had ordered him to do so and it was the only way he could appease Christopher. To that end, he asked a servant to gather a basket of flowers from the garden then set out with it on his arm. Reaching the house, it took him a long time before he could pluck up the courage to ring the bell. While he waited for the door to open, he rehearsed his apology and manufactured his most ingratiating smile.

Matilda opened the door to be greeted by the daunting sight
of a gentleman in fashionable attire. The maid had been crying and her eyes were still moist. Strands of straggly hair hung down over her forehead. She was so overwhelmed by her ostentatious visitor that she dropped a curtsey by instinct.

‘How are you, Matilda?’ asked Henry, solicitously.

Recognising his voice, she let out a yelp of pain and tried to close the door. He stuck out a foot to hold it open. Matilda was cowering with a mixture of fear and anguish. Tears began to explore the periphery of her fat cheeks.

‘I’ve brought you a gift,’ he said, holding up the basket. ‘Do you see? These are for you – by way of an apology.’

Matilda regarded the flowers warily. When she saw what a large and colourful variety had been gathered, she slowly began to relax. Her caution gave way to pleasure and she was soon beaming. When she opened the door wide, Henry gave her the basket.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said.

‘I am sorry that I was unable to come to you last night.’

‘I waited and waited.’

‘Circumstances beyond my control intervened,’ he said. Seeing her look of incomprehension, he supplied his excuse in plain terms. ‘My wife came home unexpectedly.’

‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t know you were married, sir.’

‘I forgot that I was when I looked upon
you
, Matilda.’ Her cheeks turned crimson. ‘Alas, I was unable to fulfil my promise.’

‘I left the window open all night long, sir,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘If they ever find out, I’ll get the blame.’

‘For what?’

‘A thief crept into the house.’

‘Never!’

‘He stole a portrait from the studio upstairs. He couldn’t have done that if the window had been locked. It was all my fault.’

‘No,’ said Henry, altruistically, ‘I absolve you of any blame. I was the culprit, Matilda. That window was open because of me.
You need have no qualms about it. The responsibility is entirely mine.’

‘But I don’t even know your name, sir.’

‘It’s perhaps better that you never do.’

Clutching the basket to her bosom, she beamed hopefully. ‘Shall I see you again, sir?’ she enquired, coyly.

‘One day, perhaps,’ said Henry, gallantly. ‘One glorious day.’

Then he flitted gratefully away into the gathering twilight.

Darkness was falling by the time he reached Addle Hill. Christopher was glad that he had made the effort to ride to Chelsea and back. He was now calling on Jonathan Bale to apprise him of what had happened since they parted. He was always glad to visit the little house when the whole family was at home. He was as fond of Sarah Bale as she of him, and he liked the two boys. It did not trouble the architect that Oliver and Richard had been named after the Lord Protector and his son. They were two lively, friendly, fun-loving lads. Whenever he met them, Christopher found himself wondering if he and Susan would ever have such a contented family.

When his wife had taken the children into the kitchen, Bale invited his visitor to sit down then perched on a stool that he had made when first married. It seemed too small for his bulk but it held his weight without any difficulty.

‘I’m sorry that you had to leave us earlier on,’ said Christopher, ‘but my brother would not have been so open in your company.’

‘Did you get the truth out of him, sir?’

‘Little by little.’

‘I long to hear it.’

Christopher gave him a brief description of what had occurred at the house in Bedford Street, picking out only the salient points. Since his friend already had a low opinion of his brother, he saw no point in revealing that Henry had coaxed the maid into leaving the window open for him at night. Bale would
despise him even more and would insist that legal action be taken against him for attempted theft. Christopher preferred to keep his brother out of prison so that he could be of assistance to them, and so that their father could be spared the shock of learning about the antics of his elder son.