‘We were going to talk about the payment?’
‘Only if you wish to do so, Monsieur Villemot,’ said the other. ‘I have the feeling that this is not the ideal time for you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You seem distressed.’
‘No, no, that is not true. There is nothing wrong with me.’
Christopher had already made an alternative diagnosis. The artist was flushed and perspiration was trickling down his face. He was unsteady on his feet yet, judging by sound of his voice, had not been drinking. Christopher had never seen his client in such a state before. Villemot resented his scrutiny.
‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, truculently.
‘I wondered if you were altogether well, Monsieur.’
‘I am as well as any man, Mr Redmayne.’
‘Well, I’m bound to say that you do not look it.’
‘How I look is nothing to do with you,’ said Villemot, pushing past him to walk to the other end of the room. ‘You are not the doctor. I do not ask for your opinion.’
‘Then I withdraw it at once,’ said Christopher, raising both hands in a calming gesture. ‘I did not intend to annoy you. I simply came here to talk business.’
‘You came for money, Mr Redmyane.’
‘That’s why you invited me.’
‘You English are all the same. Money must always come first. You think of nothing else.’
‘On the contrary, Monsieur Villemot,’ said Christopher, eager to correct a misapprehension. ‘I’m always more interested in a project itself than in any payment. It’s the initial design that preoccupies me and I provided that without asking for a penny from you. It was your idea to include a schedule of payments in the contract.’
‘It was yours,’ insisted the artist.
‘I beg to differ.’
‘You have chased me for money from the start.’
‘All that I’ve received to date is the small advance that you gave me and most of that went to Jonathan Bale for building that model. The person who now needs money is Mr Littlejohn because he has to buy building materials and pay wages to his men. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.’
‘No,’ said Villemot, thinking it through. ‘It is not.’
‘Then we need to put the details in writing.’
The Frenchman bridled. ‘Why — don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s because I am the foreigner. You think I will not pay. You believe that we are not like you but we always honour our debts.’ He became more agitated. ‘It is an insult for you to come here like this and ask for money when we already have the contract.’ He walked across to confront Christopher. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘Do you now what I am?’
‘Everyone knows that.’
‘I am the best portrait painter in the whole country,’ said the artist, tapping his chest with pride. ‘I am rich enough to buy ten houses and still have money left over, so you do not need to have the worries about Jean-Paul Villemot. He is a man of his word. I hoped that you knew that,’ he continued, his voice rising in fury. ‘I cannot work with someone who does not respect me.’
The tirade continued for a couple of minutes and Christopher was unable to say a word. He stood in silence as Villemot lost his temper and delivered a series of stinging and undeserved rebukes. At the peak of his attack, he stopped, looked around in dismay, realised what he had been saying and produced a smile of appeasement.
‘Christopher,’ he said, embracing him. ‘Do not listen to me. I do not know what I am talking about.’ He kissed the architect on both cheeks. ‘We are still the good friends — no?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher without conviction. ‘We are still friends.’
‘Thank you, mon ami.’
‘But I suggest that we postpone this discussion.’
‘We will talk about it now. You must hear me.’
But the voice he heard in his ear was not that of Jean-Paul Villemot. It belonged to Samuel Littlejohn and it gave him a timely reminder. The French artist could be a problem, after all.
It took time for her to accept the truth. As she stared down at the motionless figure of her husband, Araminta kept expecting him to stir, to regain consciousness, to display visible signs of life. But he did not. He lay in a heap at her feet, exhibiting the bloodstained coat as an explanation of what had happened. Sir Martin Culthorpe had been stabbed in the back and there was an ugly slit in the material where the dagger had gone in. It held a hideous fascination for her. Araminta could not turn her head away from it.
Then, finally, when every last shred of hope had been wrung from her, when she could no longer deceive herself, when the fervent prayers she had been sending up to heaven met with no answering reassurance, she accepted that her husband had been murdered. The moment she did that, she sought oblivion and went down in a faint. For some while, Araminta lay side by side with her husband, like marble statues of a married couple on a tomb, except that he was on his front while she rested on her back.
Several minutes passed. When her eyelids flickered open, she looked up to see the foliage of the grotto arching over her like a fretwork to shade her from the sun. She needed time to work out her bearings. Moving her hand, she touched another then drew it back in horror when she saw that she had just slipped her fingers into the palm of a dead man. Overcome with grief and convulsed with fear, she dragged herself to her feet and staggered back down the garden towards the house.
Araminta opened her mouth to scream for help but no words came out. Instead, she blundered on until she reached the door, opened it wide and stumbled through it. She met Eleanor Ryle in the hall. The maid was frightened at the state her mistress was in. Araminta’s hair was dishevelled, her dress was scuffed and there was a trickle of blood from her temple where it had struck the ground. Eleanor reached forward to grab her before Araminta collapsed.
‘’What’s the matter?’ she cried.
‘It’s my husband,’ gasped Araminta. ‘He’s been attacked.’
The alarm was raised and the butler took command. After ordering a servant to help the maid take the distraught wife upstairs, he rushed into the garden to search for his master.
When he saw that Sir Martin had been stabbed to death, he sent one servant to fetch a surgeon and another to bring a constable. He also called the rest of the domestic staff together to break the appalling news to them.
Araminta, meanwhile, was lying on her bed, sobbing quietly and dabbing at her tears with a lace handkerchief. She gave her maid a halting account of what she had seen. Eleanor sat beside her, grieving over the loss of Sir Martin while trying to offer succour to his widow. The maid was utterly bewildered.
‘Who could have done such a thing?’ she said.
‘I’ve lost him, Eleanor. I’ve lost my dear husband forever.’
‘How could anyone get into the garden?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you see anyone else there?’
‘No.’
‘Was the garden gate open?’
‘I didn’t look, Eleanor.’
‘This is terrible,’ said the other, vainly trying to discern all the implications of the crime. ‘You were so happy together and married for such a short time. It’s cruel, m’lady. That’s what it is — it’s downright cruel.’
‘He didn’t deserve this,’ said Araminta breathily, chest heaving as she spoke. ‘My husband was a kind, gentle, considerate man. He never did anyone any harm — yet this happens.’
‘It’s so unfair.’
They heard voices from the garden. Araminta sat up in bed.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Eleanor went to the window to look out. ‘There are some men walking down the garden,’ she said. ‘One of them is a constable.’
‘Will he take the body away? Don’t let him do that.’
‘He won’t do anything you don’t want, m’lady.’
‘I need to see him again before…’
‘Maybe that’s not such a good idea,’ said the maid, coming back to her and taking her hand. ‘You’ve already seen more than you can bear. You should not have to look at him again.’