‘How did he know that I’d be here?’ he asked.
‘Your valet gave him this address.’
‘Emile is an idiot!’
‘He could not be sure that you’d be here,’ said Lady Lingoe, ‘and he must have known that, even if you had come running to me, I’d never give you away.’
‘Thank you, Hester — I had nowhere else to go.’
She smiled. ‘I was touched that you thought of me.’
‘I think of you often.’
‘Good.’
They gazed at each other for a few moments and he reached out to squeeze her hand. Lady Lingoe soon put affection aside in favour of practicality.
‘It’s not safe for you to stay here, Jean-Paul,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Others may come looking for you. Mr Redmayne was sent on his way but it will be more difficult for me to fend off any officers. You must get away as soon as possible — otherwise both of us will be in trouble.’
‘I would not put you in the danger,’ he said, considerately. ‘You are my good friend, Hester.’
‘And I’m happy to remain so.’
‘Where will I go?’
‘To our country house near St Albans,’ she decided. ‘They’ll know nothing of this affair there. You can bear a letter to the steward. He’ll look after you.’
‘If I am to leave London, I will need the horse.’
‘A servant is saddling one for you even as we speak.’
‘Merci beaucoup! You think of everything, Hester.’
‘That’s what friends are for, Jean-Paul. You gave me your word that you did not kill Sir Martin Culthorpe and I accept it without question. That being the case,’ she went on, sitting at a table so that she could write a letter. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to help you avoid arrest.’
‘I am sorry that Christopher suffered because of me,’ he said.
‘Yes, he struck me as an admirable young man. An alert one, too,’ she recalled. ‘That’s why I tried to get rid of him before he had time to question me too closely.’ She began to write. ‘Ride to Lingoe Hall and you’ll be perfectly safe. Nobody would look for you there.’
‘What about you, Hester?’
She looked up at him. ‘Oh, I’ll be joining you before very long, Jean-Paul. It will be the fulfilment of a dream,’ she confessed, touching his arm. ‘I’ll have you all to myself at last.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, ‘but I’m neglecting my duties in Baynard’s Castle Ward. I can’t stand around here all day.’
‘It would be unfair to keep you any longer,’ said Christopher. ‘You’ve already done me a huge favour today by securing my release from Newgate. To ask anything else of you would be an imposition.’
‘What about you, sir?’
‘I’ll linger for a short while.’
‘It will be in vain.’
‘You are probably right, Jonathan.’
They were still lurking at the rear of the house in Piccadilly. After a farewell handshake, Bale walked back in the direction of the city. Sad to see him go, Christopher was loath to abandon his post. After his conversation with Lady Lingoe, he felt certain that Villemot was in the house, sheltered by a friend who would surely report to him that Christopher was on his trail. The information would alarm the Frenchman and make him anxious to get away.
He could easily understand why the artist had been drawn to Lady Lingoe. She was a handsome woman and, though the portrait of her was nominally for her husband, she did not have the look of a wife who moped in his absence or prayed for his early return. The age gap between the couple was significant. Knowing that she was attractive to men, she had given Christopher the impression that she liked exerting that attraction, albeit with carefully chosen targets. Even at a casual meeting, the architect had felt her power. In the more intimate setting of an artist’s studio, that power could be overwhelming. Resting against a tree, Christopher stood up when he heard the clatter of hooves from the other side of the wall. He rushed to stand beside the door that led to the garden and the stables. Unlocked from the other side, it swung open to allow Jean-Paul Villemot to bring a bay mare out into the street. Before the artist could mount, Christopher leapt out to stop him.
‘Stay here, Monsieur Villemot,’ he pleaded. ‘Running away will only get you into more trouble.’
‘Leave me alone, Christopher.’
‘But I’ve come to help you.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
Villemot pushed him firmly in the chest and sent him reeling backwards. The artist was in the saddle immediately, kicking the mare into a canter. He did not get far. Jonathan Bale stepped out from behind a clump of bushes some thirty yards away and waved his hat wildly at the horse. Frightened by the obstruction, the animal came to a halt and reared. Villemot was hurled from the saddle and hit the ground with a thud.
Christopher ran up to join them, grabbing the reins to bring the horse under control. Bale, meanwhile, stood over the fallen figure.
‘I thought you’d gone,’ said Christopher.
Bale smiled. ‘I had a feeling you might need some help, sir.’
Having been compelled to accept the truth of the situation, Araminta Culthorpe threw herself into a frenzy of activity. Instead of sitting in her bedchamber and staring out at the garden, she came downstairs to the drawing room to write a series of letters, make decisions and give orders to the servants. She even consented to eat some food at last. Delighted by the signs of improvement in her mistress, Eleanor Ryle was nevertheless worried that she might overtax herself.
‘You must try to rest, m’lady,’ she advised.
‘There are too many things to do, Eleanor.’
‘Let someone else do them for you.’
‘That’s out of the question,’ said Araminta. ‘Who else could write to Sir Martin’s brothers but me? Who else could pass on the tidings to his sister in Kent? They deserve to hear from me in person. While he was alive, I tried to be a good wife to my husband. Now that he’s dead, I’ll not shirk my duty.’
‘What about your own family, m’lady?’
‘I’ve sent word. It should reach them by this evening.’
‘They will want to comfort you.’
‘That’s why I ordered rooms to be prepared for them and food to be ordered. In a day or two, the house will be full. We must be ready for them, Eleanor.’
‘If you take to your bed, everyone will understand.’
‘My place is here, acting as mistress of the house.’
‘At least, let me do something,’ implored the maid. ‘I want to take the burden off your shoulders, m’lady.’
‘You do that simply by being here, Eleanor.’
Araminta got up from her chair to give her a hug of gratitude. She suddenly became aware of how tired she was. Her eyelids were heavy, her body aching and her legs unsteady. Making a conscious effort to shake off her fatigue, she reached for a sheet of paper on the table and handed it to Eleanor.
‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘See if there’s anything I’ve missed.’
‘It’s such a long list,’ noted the maid, running her eye down the names and the items. ‘You’ve been so busy these past few hours.’
‘There’s still a lot more to be done.’
‘I don’t think so, m’lady.’
‘My brain is addled. I’m sure I’ve missed things out.’
‘Only one thing, as far as I can see.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The portrait.’
Araminta was perplexed. ‘Portrait?’
‘The one that Mr Villemot was painting of you.’
‘Oh, that — I’ve tried to forget it, Eleanor. That portrait was the start of all our woes. If I hadn’t become acquainted with Monsieur Villemot, none of this would have happened.’
‘We don’t know that for certain.’
‘I do,’ said Araminta, sadly. ‘I feel it in my bones. When you first told me that Monsieur Villemot was the killer, I could not believe it. He would never do anything to cause me so much pain. But, as I wrote those letters,’ she continued, ‘I became more and more convinced that I was wrong. There were moments when I felt profoundly uneasy in his company. I was never sure what was going through his mind.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Now, alas, we know.’