‘Yes, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’d like to speak to Lady Hester Lingoe,’ said the other.
‘Is she expecting you, sir?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Lady Lingoe is not in the habit of receiving chance visitors,’ said the butler, ‘especially while her husband is out of the country.’
‘I have a feeling that she’ll agree to see me. Tell her that it concerns a portrait that she recently had painted.’
‘May I give her your name, sir?’
‘Christopher Redmayne.’
The butler invited him in, closed the front door and disappeared down a corridor. Christopher had the opportunity to look around and he was intrigued. Marble predominated. Statues of classical heroes stood everywhere, all of them armed and most of them naked. It was like being back in Rome, a city that Christopher had once visited when deciding to follow architecture as a profession. The gilt-framed art also had a classical theme. He was still studying a dramatic painting of Leda and the Swan when he heard footsteps clacking down the corridor. He looked up to see Lady Hester Lingo sailing gracefully towards him.
She was a full-bodied woman of medium height with bright red hair dressed in broad plaits in the style of a Roman matron. Her long tunic with its wide flounce was fastened along the upper arm by some gold brooches. An outer garment of silk was wrapped around her like a shawl. Christopher was irresistibly reminded of an illustration he had once seen of a Roman priestess. Though she was nearing thirty, her face had a sculptural splendour and seemed to be totally unlined. When she got closer, however, he saw how artfully Lady Lingoe had used cosmetics to conceal any signs of aging. The lady in the painting at the studio was indeed a painted lady.
‘Mr Redmayne?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher.
‘You must be Henry’s younger brother.’
‘Do you know Henry?’
‘We are acquainted,’ she said with a noncommittal smile. ‘He mentioned to me that his sibling was a brilliant architect.’
‘My brilliance has yet to be proven,’ said Christopher, ‘but I revel in my work. I am in awe of your house,’ he went on, looking around the hall. ‘It’s taken my breath away. I am pleased that you favour the Ionic Order. The shaft is more slender in proportion than the Doric and the capitals more intricate. The cornice-mouldings are small masterpieces.’
‘I’m glad that you approve, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, ‘but you did not come here to show your appreciation of my house. I believe that you came to talk about a portrait for which I sat.’
‘Yes, Lady Lingoe.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s rather a delicate subject,’ said Christopher, feeling that the hall was too large, cold and echoing a place for a private conversation. ‘Is there somewhere else we might go?’
She kept him waiting for an answer. ‘Very well,’ she replied after long cogitation. ‘Follow me.’
Lady Lingoe opened a door and took him into the library, a sizeable room with shelves of books against two walls, topped by a series of marble busts of Greek and Roman poets. When he was waved to a chair, Christopher sat in the shadow of Catullus.
‘What is this about a delicate subject?’ she said.
‘It concerns the artist, Monsieur Villemot. I believe that he befriended you while painting your portrait.’
‘Do you have any objection to that?’
‘None at all, Lady Lingoe.’
‘Have you seen the portrait?’
‘Briefly,’ he said with evident discomfort.
She gave a brittle laugh. ‘There’s no need to be quite so coy, Mr Redmayne,’ she said. ‘As an architect, you must be accustomed to nude figures, if only carved in marble. Why feel ashamed — I certainly am not? The portrait is a present for my dear husband on his fiftieth birthday. Lord Lingoe is in Holland at the moment, attending to his ambassadorial duties. I wanted to surprise him with the gift.’
‘I’m sure that he will be delighted with it.’
‘We share a common passion for classical antiquity.’
‘I gathered that, Lady Lingoe.’
She sat opposite him. ‘I’m still waiting to hear what brought you to my door, Mr Redmayne.’
‘The death of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘Really? I had no idea that he had passed away.’
‘He was murdered, Lady Lingoe — stabbed in his garden.’
‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Has the killer been apprehended?’
‘Not yet.’
‘These are dreadful tidings. I did not know Sir Martin well but I nevertheless grieve for him. Murdered in his garden — how frightful! That young wife of his must be in torment.’
‘She is, Lady Lingoe.’
‘I’m full of sympathy for her,’ she said with unfeigned sincerity, ‘though I fail to see what connection my portrait can have with the crime.’
‘It’s not your portrait that’s relevant here,’ said Christopher, ‘but the one Monsieur Villemot was painting of Lady Culthorpe. For reasons I don’t fully understand, he is suspected of committing the crime and a warrant has been issued for his arrest.’
‘Jean-Paul, a killer?’ she cried, incredulously. ‘That’s an absurd suggestion. I know the man and can vouch for his character.’
‘So can I, Lady Lingoe. I’ve designed a house for him and it has meant our spending a lot of time together. Like you, I hold him in high esteem. I do not believe he’s guilty. However,’ added Christopher, ‘he has, unfortunately, behaved like a guilty man.’
He told her about the attempted arrest of Villemot at his home and how, in the wake of the artist’s escape, he had been imprisoned. Since he had still not been fully exonerated, Christopher wanted to dispel any doubts about his own innocence by persuading Villemot to give himself up so that he could confront the charge against him and clear his name. Lady Lingoe was very attentive.
‘M. Villemot has a good friend in Christopher Redmayne.’
‘He needs help. Our judicial system is foreign to him.’
‘It’s no wonder he fled from it,’ she said, levelly. ‘Fascinating as all this may be, however, I still do not see how I am involved.’
‘It was Emile who suggested your name, Lady Lingoe.’
‘The valet?’
‘He was aware of the warm friendship between you and his master. If he would turn to anyone for assistance, Emile surmised, Monsieur Villemot would probably come here.’
‘Well, he has not done so.’
‘How would you respond if he did?’
‘I find that question impertinent, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, curtly, ‘and I think less of you for asking it.’
‘My apologies, Lady Lingoe — I only sought to warn you.’
‘Of what?’
‘The consequences.’
‘I am not unaware of those, sir.’
‘Harbouring a fugitive is a crime,’ said Christopher, ‘even though you may be — as I am — convinced of his innocence. All that I did was to talk to two officers for a short while and I was locked in a cell in Newgate.’
‘That would never happen to someone like me,’ she said with disdain. ‘Not that the situation would arrive, I can assure you. Jean-Paul would simply never come here.’
‘But he does know where you live.’
‘Of course.’
‘And he has probably been here before.’
‘You are lapsing into impertinence again, Mr Redmayne.’
‘Then I’ll tender my apologies once more,’ he said, getting up from his seat, ‘and bid you farewell. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘I was grateful to hear the news.’
Christopher smiled disarmingly. ‘I was grateful to have the opportunity to see inside this remarkable house,’ he said. He looked over his shoulder at Catullus. ‘You keep good company, Lady Lingoe.’
‘I choose my friends with extreme care,’ she said, pointedly.
‘Monsieur Villemot is lucky to be one of them.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘The butler will show you out. You’ll have no need to call again.’