The valet looked beleaguered. ‘I know nothing.’
‘What did you tell the two officers?’
‘It’s a crime to hold back information,’ warned Bale. ‘It may be different in your country but, in England, you have to tell the truth to any law officers. Do you understand?
‘I’m sure that he does, Jonathan. Don’t frighten him with veiled threats or we won’t get a single word out of him.’
They were in Villemot’s studio and the visitors were attempting to question Emile. It was proving difficult and not only because his grasp of English was uncertain. The valet was frightened. For the second time that morning, two officers had come to the house to demand to know the whereabouts of his master. In their wake, two more people wanted to interrogate him. Clemence was equally scared. Sensing danger, she stood on the chair with her back arched and her fur bristling. She took particular exception to Bale and hissed every time that the constable looked in her direction.
Christopher had seen the studio before but it was a revelation to his companion. Its combination of striking art and spectacular disarray was almost overwhelming for Bale, and he did not like the atmosphere of the place. The sense of excess repelled him. Nor did the little French valet reassure him. Neat, smart and wholesome he might be, but there was something about Emile that worried Bale. What puzzled him was that he could not work out what it was.
‘Let’s try again,’ said Christopher, patiently. ‘Do you believe that your master has committed this crime, Emile?’
‘Non!’ The answer was decisive.
‘Has he ever been in trouble before?’
‘Non!’ replied Emile, hurt by the suggestion.
‘So why did they want to arrest him?’ The valet looked blank.
‘We won’t leave until you tell us,’ said Christopher. ‘What did those officers say when they first called?’
‘They look for Monsieur Villemot,’ said Emile.
‘But why? They must have had cause to do so.’
‘A warrant would not be issued without evidence,’ said Bale. ‘Did they tell you what that evidence was, sir?’
Emile shook his head. Clemence gave her loudest hiss yet.
‘Where did Monsieur Villemot go?’ asked Christopher. ‘When I called to see him yesterday afternoon, he was not here. Where was he, Emile?’
‘He went out for the ride,’ said the other.
‘Where?’
‘I do not know.’
‘How long was he gone?’
‘A long time, Monsieur Redmayne.’
‘An hour — two, perhaps?’
‘Two, I think.’
‘So he was away from this house when the crime took place?’ After a pause, Emile gave an affirmative nod. ‘I saw him when he came back,’ Christopher continued, ‘and he was very disturbed. He was perspiring and he looked ill. Also, the sleeve of his coat was torn.’
‘I mended that,’ said the valet, promptly.
‘Did you think he was in a strange mood?’
‘I work for Monsieur Villemot. His moods are not strange to me.’
‘Is he often in that state?’
‘There’s only one reason that would have brought those officers here,’ said Bale, ‘and that was evidence from a witness. Sir Martin Culthorpe lived in Westminster, Emile. Was your master seen in the vicinity of his house yesterday?’
The valet bit his lip. ‘Yes,’ he conceded.
‘Do you know why he went there?’
‘No.’
‘How many years have you worked for him?’
‘Three.’
‘Then you must have got to know him very well in that time. If you work so closely together, he’d trust and confide in you.’ Bale took a step closer to him. ‘What did he tell you yesterday afternoon when he got back?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What did he do?’
Emile glanced at the easel. ‘He worked on the portrait.’
‘The one of Lady Culthorpe?’
‘Yes. He painted until it got too dark.’
‘That does not sound like the behaviour of a man who had just killed someone,’ said Christopher, trying to win Emile’s confidence. ‘He would have been much more likely to disappear. Instead, he came back here to get on with his work. Is that correct?’
‘It is, Monsieur Redmayne.’
‘When your master spoke to me earlier, he told me that he first heard about Sir Martin’s death yesterday evening.’
‘Is true,’ said Emile. ‘A servant came from the house. He tell us Lady Culthorpe will not be here again.’
‘How did Monsieur Villemot react?’
‘He was upset.’
‘I’m sure he was. Listen, Emile,’ said Christopher, gently, ‘we are very anxious to help your master. Can you give us any idea where he might be?’
‘Non.’
‘Does he have friends in London?’
‘Yes — many friends.’
‘Anyone in particular?’ There was a long pause before Emile shook his head. ‘I think there was and you do Monsieur Villemot no favours by keeping the name from us. Where would he go, Emile? Who could he rely on to hide him?’
Emile backed away slightly, wrestling with his conscience. He was in a quandary. Wanting to protect his master, he knew that fleeing the law might look like a confirmation of guilt. Unless his name was cleared, Jean-Paul Villemot would be hunted all over London. If anyone should find him, it was preferable that it was a friend like Christopher Redmayne and not two officers, annoyed at the way that he had eluded them in Fetter Lane. Emile bit his lip again.
‘I do not know where he is,’ he said with unmistakable honesty.
‘But you might have some idea?’
‘I could be wrong, Monsieur Redmayne.’
‘You know your master better than anyone,’ said Christopher.
‘There was a lady,’ admitted Emile. ‘She was his friend.’
Bale was suspicious. ‘What sort of friend?’
‘He was painting her portrait.’
‘Who was she and where does she live?’
‘Don’t press him, Jonathan,’ advised Christopher. ‘Let him tell us in his own good time.’
‘Her name was Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said Emile.
‘I fancy I’ve heard my brother mention her.’ Bale shot him a knowing glance. ‘Believe it or not, some of Henry’s friends are quite respectable. Let’s not rush to judgement on this lady.’ He turned to Emile. ‘What can you tell us about her?’
‘They were friends, this lady and my master.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged Christopher.
‘Is all I know. The painting is still here.’
‘Could we see it, please?’
‘If you wish.’
‘We do, Emile. Show us the portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe.’
The valet went across to a framed portrait that stood against the wall with a cloth over it. Picking it up, he had second thoughts and hesitated. The visitors waited in silence. Emile eventually decided that there was no point in hiding something that might lead them to his master. He pulled the cloth away to reveal the nude portrait of Lady Hester Lingoe, posing as Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the moon.
Christopher gaped in wonder but Bale was so shocked that he began to splutter, turning his head away from the painting in sheer embarrassment. It was Christopher who recovered first.
‘I think that we had better visit the lady,’ he said.
Chapter Five
Araminta was still in a daze. Twenty-four hours after the murder of her husband, she sat in the window of her bedchamber and gazed with mingled pain and curiosity at the garden where she had found his body. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, she could not accept that he was gone. Araminta tried to keep up her spirits by pretending that he was simply unwell and that, once treated by his physician, he would recover and return to her. She clung with pitiful desperation to a false hope even though she knew that Sir Martin’s body had been taken to the coroner for examination.
Since the moment of discovery in the grotto, she had not slept a wink. Araminta had insisted on keeping a vigil. Fatigue had rounded her shoulders and made her head droop. It had also put dark rings under her eyes but she refused to yield up to sleep. She told herself that she had to be ready to welcome her husband back home again. So preoccupied was she is staring through the window that she did not hear the door open, nor see her maid slip into the room. Eleanor Ryle was carrying a wooden tray bearing food and drink. Setting it down on the table beside the bed, she came across to her mistress.