‘I know. I feel so sorry for his wife.’
‘Who could do such a thing?’
‘I hope that we soon find out. But I’d hate you to think that this is what usually happens in London, because it does not. Most of us are perfectly safe in our own homes,’ said Christopher, ‘especially in the part of Westminster where Sir Martin lived. Aristocrats and politicians inhabit that area. There’s comparatively little crime.’
‘This is more than a crime,’ said Villemot. ‘It is the calamity.’
‘I agree.’
‘That’s why I need your advice.’
‘Advice?’
‘About what to do, Christopher,’ he explained. ‘I do not know the rules in this country. I know what I want to do but it may not be the right thing. I would like to go to the house to tell Lady Culthorpe that I have the great sympathy.’
‘That might not be wise,’ cautioned Christopher.
‘I want her to know that she can call on me for any help.’
‘Lots of people will feel the same, Monsieur Villemot, but I don’t think that Lady Culthorpe would want anyone to intrude on her grief. She’s probably still dazed by what’s happened. It would be a kindness to leave her alone until she has recovered from the shock.’
‘But there is the portrait to think about.’
‘It won’t even enter her mind, I fear. You may have to accept the inevitable. The portrait will never be completed.’
‘Yes, it will,’ asserted Villemot with a flash of spirit. ‘I will finish it as a matter of honour.’
‘Lady Culthorpe will certainly not be able to sit for you again.’
‘Her husband paid me handsomely for the painting of his wife. Jean-Paul Villemot, he does not let the customer down.’
‘But the commission has been revoked by his death.’
‘I do not agree.’
‘You can hardly complete the portrait without Lady Culthorpe’s permission,’ said Christopher, worriedly. ‘In the circumstances, she may want it destroyed.’
‘Never!’ cried Villemot. ‘I’ll not allow it.’
‘Strictly speaking, the portrait belongs to her.’
‘It belongs to me, as the artist, until I am ready to hand it over. If Lady Culthorpe, she no longer wants it, I will give her back the money that her husband paid me.’
‘I don’t think that would be necessary.’
‘It is necessary for me, Christopher,’ insisted the other. ‘I have the conscience. I could not keep the fee I did not earn.’
‘But you have earned it. If you complete the portrait, you’ll have done exactly what Sir Martin asked of you.’
‘I do not see it that way.’
‘Ultimately,’ said Christopher, ‘the decision lies with Lady Culthorpe and she won’t be in a position to make it for a long while. I hope that the portrait will be kept safe in the meantime.’
‘I would guard it with my life — so would Emile.’
‘We don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.’
‘The wrong hands?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher with his brother in mind. ‘Lady Culthorpe is a very beautiful woman. If it were known that a famous artist had painted her portrait, there might be any number of her admirers who would like to acquire it.’ He remembered Henry’s plea for a loan. ‘They might even try to buy it from you.’
‘It is not for sale.’
‘What if you were offered a large amount of money?’
‘I would throw it back in the face of the man who holds it out to me,’ snapped Villemot. ‘No money on earth could buy that portrait from me. Araminta — Lady Culthorpe — will be treasured.’
‘I’m relieved to hear you say it.’
‘Why is that, Christopher?’
‘Lady Culthorpe may not want it herself,’ said the architect, ‘but she would be very distressed if it went astray. Beauty like that will not have gone unnoticed. She will have had many suitors and was only able to shake them off by getting married. Now that Sir Martin is no longer able to shield her,’ he went on, ‘there may be some who are unscrupulous enough to try to take advantage of her.’
‘I’ll not allow it!’ howled the artist. ‘I’ll protect Araminta.’
‘You’d help her best by protecting that portrait of her.’
Villemot snatched his dagger from its sheath. ‘I’d kill the man who tried to take it from me!’ he threatened, brandishing the weapon. ‘I’d cut him into shreds.’
There was a long, uncomfortable, embarrassed silence. Villemot was shamefaced at his outburst and Christopher was startled by his visitor’s explosive rage. The dagger glinted in the light from the window. Before the Frenchman could put it back in its sheath, there was a thunderous knocking at the front door.
‘See who that is, please, Jacob!’ called Christopher.
‘I’m on my way, sir,’ replied the servant from the passageway.
‘Thank you.’ He looked at the dagger. ‘I suggest that you put that away, Monsieur Villemot.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the other, sheathing the weapon. ‘I did not mean to pull it out like that, Christopher.’
But the architect was not listening to him. His attention was diverted by the sound of raised voices at the front door. Shortly afterwards, Jacob put his head into the room and licked his lips nervously before speaking.
‘There are two officers at the door, sir,’ he said.
‘What do they want?’ asked Christopher.
‘They say that they have a warrant for the arrest of…’ Jacob looked with dismay at Villemot.
Christopher was mystified. ‘On what possible grounds?’
‘The murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘But that is ludicrous!’
‘I did not kill him!’ said Villemot, trembling.
‘Shall I show them in, Mr Redmayne?’ asked the servant.
‘No, Jacob. I want to see this so-called warrant for myself.’
Gesturing for Villemot to stay where he was, Christopher went out of the room and marched purposefully down the passageway to the front door. Two burly men in uniform stood on the threshold.
‘My name is Christopher Redmayne, gentleman,’ he said, ‘and I own this house. May I help you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the older of the two men, gruffly. ‘We are given to believe that Jean-Paul Villemot might be here.’
‘He called on me to discuss business.’
‘So his valet told us.’
‘What’s this nonsense about a warrant of arrest?’
The man was offended. ‘It’s not nonsense, Mr Redmayne,’ he said, pulling a scroll from his pocket and unrolling it for Christopher to see. ‘Read it for yourself. He’s being arrested for stabbing Sir Martin Culthorpe to death yesterday afternoon.’
‘That’s preposterous! Monsieur Villemot is no killer.’
‘Let the court decide that, sir.’
‘Sir Martin was employing him. Why on earth should he murder a client who had paid him a large fee? It does not make sense.’
‘The only thing that makes sense to us is a name on a warrant. We’ll have to ask you to stand aside so that we can take the gentleman into custody.’
‘Where will he be held?’
‘That’s for the magistrate to determine.’
‘There’s been a grotesque mistake here,’ protested Christopher.
‘Mr Villemot is the person who made it,’ said the man, grimly. ‘Now, will you invite us in or do we have to force an entry?’
Christopher stepped back. ‘No force will be needed,’ he said. ‘You can come in.’ The officers walked quickly past him. ‘It’s the last door on the right.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The two men went along the passageway and into the study. Christopher was about to follow them when the older man rounded on him angrily.
‘Is this some kind of jest, sir?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s nobody here.’
‘There must be,’ said Christopher, easing him aside so that he could go into the study. ‘This is where I left him.’
Jean-Paul Villemot was not in the study now. Since there was only one door, his method of departure was clear. He had lifted the window and fled. Christopher’s stomach heaved. He felt compromised. The older of the two officers nudged his companion.