‘How do you feel now, m’lady?’ she enquired, gently.
‘I’ll be fine when Sir Martin returns.’
‘The cook has made you some breakfast.’
‘I want nothing.’
‘But you haven’t eaten a morsel since yesterday morning.’
‘I’m not hungry, Eleanor.’
‘You must be.’
‘Take the food away, please.’
‘Why don’t I leave it beside the bed?’ said the other, coaxingly. ‘You might want to have it in a little while.’
Eleanor knew that it was unlikely. It was the fourth tray of food she had brought into the bedchamber and, like the first three she feared that it would remain untouched. She understood why. For several hours after the murder, she had lost her own appetite but the pangs of hunger had eventually overcome her resistance. Eleanor knelt solicitously beside her mistress.
‘You need some sleep, m’lady,’ she said.
‘I’m not tired.’
‘You must be.’
‘No, Eleanor.’
‘At least, lie down on the bed,’ the maid recommended. ‘Then you can have a proper rest.’
‘I don’t want a rest.’
‘You can’t sit in that chair all the time. You’re exhausted.’
‘Just leave me be.’
‘But I hate to see you in this state, m’lady.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘You’re punishing yourself in vain.’
‘I have to wait for my husband. He’d expect it of me.’
‘But he’s not coming back,’ said Eleanor, softly.
Araminta looked at her properly for the first time. She was fond of Eleanor. They had been together for years and she had come to place great trust in the maid. Eleanor was capable, obedient and loyal. She had devoted herself to the service of her mistress, sharing her woes and celebrating her moments of joy. When she had told them of her marriage to Sir Martin Culthorpe, some of Araminta’s friends believed that she had made a gross mistake she would soon regret. Their reaction had disturbed her. It was Eleanor who had comforted her, assuring her that she had made the right decision and telling her that she had never seen her mistress so happy. It had brought Araminta and her maid even closer together.
‘What did you say, Eleanor?’
‘It’s wrong to pretend that it never happened, m’lady.’
‘I’m not pretending.’
‘You are,’ whispered the maid. ‘Sir Martin is dead and you know it. He was murdered in the garden. You found his body.’
Araminta was befuddled. ‘Did I?’
‘Don’t you remember? The doctor came to verify the cause of death, then he spoke to you. He said that you must rest. He offered to give you something to help you sleep but you refused to take it.’
‘Is this true?’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘When did this all happen?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘My husband is dead?’
‘They took his body away,’ explained Eleanor. ‘There’s no point in sitting here like this because he will never come back.’ Araminta was still not persuaded. ‘There are lots of things to do, m’lady. There are so many people to be told — friends and relations. There are funeral arrangements to discuss. None of these things can be done if you just sit there in the window all the time.’
Araminta gave a pale smile, then, as if hearing of the murder for the first time, she suddenly burst into tears. Getting to her feet, Eleanor hugged her and let her cry her fill, rocking her to and fro like a mother with a child. At length, Araminta made an effort to control herself, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe the rivulets from her cheeks. She looked up at the maid.
‘Who killed him, Eleanor?’
‘Don’t worry yourself about that, m’lady.’
‘I want to know. Tell me.’
‘Nothing is certain as yet,’ said the other. ‘An officer called at the house earlier today and spoke to the butler.’
‘What did he say?’
‘It’s perhaps best if you don’t know. I don’t want you upset any more. Let the law deal with the killer.’
‘But who is he?’ demanded Araminta. ‘Give me his name.’
‘What use will that be?’
‘It will make me understand. It will help me to fit my mind to this horror. Who was the devil who took my husband away from me?’
‘They are out searching for him, m’lady.’
‘Tell me his name. I can see that you know it.’
‘I only know what Mr Rushton — what the butler told me. A warrant has been issued for the arrest of the man they suspect.’
‘And?’ Araminta was impatient. ‘Come on, girl — speak!’
‘It’s the French artist, m’lady.’
‘Monsieur Villemot?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
Araminta was aghast. Someone she considered to be a friend had stabbed her husband to death. Bringing both hands up, she buried her face in her palms. Her body trembled, shook, then went into a series of convulsions as she tried to cope with the dire news. Enfolding her once more in her arms, Eleanor stroked her hair to soothe her.
‘I told you that it was better if you didn’t know, m’lady.’
As Jonathan Bale approached the house, he had grave reservations.
‘We do not know if the gentleman is there,’ he complained.
‘I agree,’ said Christopher, ‘but, by the same token, we do not know that he is not there. In view of what Emile told us, we should at least look into the matter.’
‘I think it will be a wasted journey, Mr Redmayne.’
‘Have more faith, Jonathan. You heard what his valet told us. Monsieur Villemot became very friendly with Lady Lingoe.’
‘Yes,’ said Bale, disapprovingly. ‘Having seen that portrait of her, I shudder to think what kind of friendship it was.’
Christopher laughed. ‘This is no time for maiden modesty.’
‘That painting was indecent.’
‘It was unexpected, I’ll admit that.’
‘A woman, disporting herself like that — it was lewd.’
‘Not at all,’ said Christopher. ‘It had great artistic merit. It was firmly in the Classical tradition.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If you want to see lewdness and bad taste of the worst kind, you should look at some of the paintings in my brother’s house.’
‘I’ve seen them, sir. They are coarse and immoral.’
‘That, alas, is why Henry bought them.’
By keeping up a good pace, they finally reached Piccadilly, a wide thoroughfare that took its name from a tailor who had made his fortune by selling picadils, a high, stiff collar much in vogue at Court earlier in the century. Open fields were still in view but more and more houses were being built in the area, and Christopher had designed one of them. Emile had given them the address and it did not take them long to find the Lingoe residence, an imposing abode of white stone with a Classical facade that the architect stopped to admire. He marvelled at its beauty.
It only served to unsettle Bale. He was never at ease in the presence of wealth and privilege, and the house symbolised both. Its sheer opulence revolted him. Understanding his reluctance to enter the building, Christopher had a solution to the problem.
‘If he’s there,’ he predicted, ‘he will not give himself up. My guess is that he will try to sneak away again.’
‘Shall I cover the garden, sir?’
‘Please do, Jonathan. Cut off his escape.’
‘Only if he’s inside,’ said the constable, dubiously.
‘There’s one way to find out.’
After giving his friend plenty of time to walk to the rear of the house, Christopher rang the bell. The butler who opened the door was a tall, stately man in his forties with a searching gaze. It took him a second to establish that his visitor was a gentleman. Christopher’s elegance, respectability and air of wholesomeness impressed him.