‘After him, Peter,’ he ordered. ‘Search the garden.’
Peter did not stand on ceremony. Cocking a leg over the windowsill, he pulled the other behind him and trotted down the garden, looking in all directions for the fugitive. Until that moment, Christopher could not believe that Villemot had had anything to do with Sir Martin Culthorpe’s death, but his sudden flight was hardly the action of an innocent man. And Christopher was well aware that the Frenchman possessed a dagger.
‘You’ll have to come with us,’ said the officer, taking him roughly by the arm. ‘I’m placing you under arrest.’
Christopher was scandalised. ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong!’
‘You helped a wanted man to get away from us.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said the man, tightening his grip. ‘You kept us talking at the door so that he’d have time to climb out of that window. That’s what I’d call aiding and abetting an escape.’
‘But I didn’t know that he was going to escape.’
‘Tell that to the magistrate, sir.’
‘I know my rights,’ yelled Christopher. ‘Let go of me.’
‘Not until we have you safely locked up, Mr Redmayne. You obstructed two officers in the execution of their duty.’
‘That’s an absurd accusation!’
‘Yes, you did,’ said the man, officiously, ‘and the law does not take kindly to that. You may have saved your friend for a little while but it will cost you a spell in prison.’
Christopher reeled as if from a blow. He was a criminal.
Henry Redmayne was as good as his word. Having set his heart on acquiring the portrait of Araminta Culthorpe by whatever means necessary, he first went to see where it was kept. The rooms that Villemot rented were in a house in Covent Garden within easy walking distance of Henry’s own home in Bedford Street. He sauntered past the house on the other side of the street and gave it only a cursory glance. When he paused at the corner, however, he turned to take a closer look at the dwelling, noting that there was an alleyway that led to the rear. He was still trying to assess the easiest way of getting into the house when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun round to look into the fleshy face of Jocelyn Kidbrooke.
‘What are you doing here, Jocelyn?’ he asked.
‘I happened to be passing,’ said Kidbrooke, blandly.
‘You live over a mile away. You’d not come to Covent Garden without a particular reason.’
‘I have one. I came to see you, Henry.’
‘Then why not call at my house?’
‘Because I knew that you’d come here sooner or later,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘You found out where Villemot has his studio because you know that there’s a portrait of Araminta inside.’
‘You misjudge me.’
‘I know you too well to do that. You want that portrait. I waited to see how long it would be before you came in search of it. If you’re thinking of trying to purchase it, save your breath.’
‘Why?’ Henry was alarmed. ‘You’ve not bought it already?’
‘I made a generous offer for it.’
‘Damn you, Jocelyn!’
‘This is a contest — each man for himself.’
‘Does that mean you have the painting?’
‘Alas, no,’ admitted Kidbrooke, sorrowfully. ‘My offer was refused. I didn’t speak to Villemot himself — he was out at the time. His valet assured me, however, that his master would not part with the portrait of Araminta for a king’s ransom.’
‘What did you say to that?’
‘I thanked the fellow politely and withdrew.’
‘But you did gain access to the house?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘It’s mine as well,’ said Henry, irritably, ‘so do not hold out on me. Where are his rooms — upstairs or downstairs? And which one is his studio? That’s what I’d really like to know.’
Kidbrooke was smug. ‘Then you’ll have to find out for yourself.’
‘I thought that we were friends.’
‘Not when there’s a lady in the case.’
‘We must all compete on equal terms, Jocelyn.’
‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ said the other with a derisive laugh. ‘I’ve never met anyone so ready to gain an advantage over his rivals. You’d stop at nothing, Henry. I’ll wager that you’ve already asked your brother to secure that portrait for you by trading on his friendship with the artist.’
‘That’s a vile accusation,’ said Henry, counterfeiting righteous anger. ‘Christopher has no part in this venture and I would never even think of involving him.’
‘In other words, he rebuffed your entreaty.’
‘There was no entreaty.’
‘You sneaked off to see him without telling us.’
‘I’ve not seen my brother for weeks,’ lied Henry, tossing his head and making his periwig flap. ‘As for sneaking off, Jocelyn, you are the one who did that. You agreed to dine with us at Locket’s yesterday but you never turned up.’
‘I had business elsewhere,’ said Kidbrooke.
‘Yes — you were pursuing Araminta, I dare swear, while the rest if us were eating our meal.’
‘My wife requested me to dine with her.’
‘Since when have you ever listened to your wife?’
‘We had things to discuss.’
‘The only wife in whom you have any interest is the one who was married to Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Henry. ‘I think you went spying on her again through that telescope that you bought.’
Kidbrooke shifted his feet uneasily. ‘Arrant nonsense!’
‘Then where were you?’
‘At home with my wife.’
‘I’m surprised that you remember where your house is,’ said Henry with heavy sarcasm. ‘You spend so little time there that you probably wouldn’t recognise your wife if she stood only inches away from you. Can you even recall her name?’
‘Cease this railing!’
‘No? I thought not. Araminta has eclipsed her completely.’
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Kidbrooke.
He looked as if he was about to strike Henry but the blow never came. Instead, both men were diverted by the sound of someone ringing a bell and pounding on a door. They looked down the street to see two officers, standing outside the house where Jean-Paul Villemot lived and worked. Henry’s eyebrows arched inquisitively.
‘What’s going on here, I wonder?’ he said.
Christopher Redmayne had never been so overjoyed to see his friend. Hauled before a magistrate, he had then been summarily locked in Newgate, kept in a noisome cell with a group of desperate prisoners and denied any right of appeal. It was only because he was able to bribe one of the turnkeys that his message was duly delivered. A couple of hours later, to his intense relief, he peered through the bars and saw Jonathan Bale being conducted down the stairs by the prison sergeant. Christopher could not believe his good fortune when the cell door was unlocked so that he could step through it. With the jeers of the other prisoners ringing in his ears, he walked away with Bale.
‘What happened?’ asked Christopher.
‘I spoke to the magistrate,’ replied Bale, ‘and told him that it had all been a misunderstanding. I vouched for you, Mr Redmayne. Since the magistrate knows me well, he agreed to release you, pending further investigation.’
‘There’s nothing to investigate, Jonathan. I’m innocent.’
‘I know that, sir. I spoke to Jacob.’
Christopher was taken aback. ‘You went to my house?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the other. ‘I needed to hear all the facts.’
‘Well, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you. I knew what a cesspool Newgate was because I visited my brother when he was held here, but I was on the right side of the bars then. When you’re locked up with those bickering ragamuffins,’ said Christopher, shuddering at the memory of what he had endured, ‘it’s like being in the seventh circle of hell. I don’t know which was worse, the stench, the noise or the random violence.’
‘Let’s get you out of here where we can talk properly.’