‘There is still the portrait to be considered.’
‘He can never finish it if he is convicted of the murder.’
‘Another artist might do so in his place, m’lady.’
‘That’s inconceivable,’ said Araminta.
‘Then you might want it in its present condition,’ said Eleanor. ‘I know that Sir Martin paid for it even though Mr Villemot told him he should wait for it to be finished first.’
Araminta was wistful. ‘That was my husband’s only fault. He was too trusting. He had such faith in Monsieur Villemot’s skill that he insisted on giving him the money before the first sitting.’
‘That means the portrait is your property.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a symbol, Eleanor. Whenever I look at it, I’ll remember the wonderful man who commissioned it, the loving husband who was snatched away from me before his time.’
‘Sir Martin would want you to keep it.’
‘The decision is out of his hands,’ said Araminta with a sigh. ‘As for me, I’ve no use for it. To tell you the truth, Eleanor, I never want to set eyes on that accursed portrait again!’
* * *
Stunned by the fall, Jean-Paul Villemot was in no position to resist arrest. Jonathan Bale helped him to his feet and took a firm grip on him. Christopher, meanwhile, returned the horse to the stable. All three of them then set off. With a man either side of him, Villemot had no chance of escape. He felt betrayed.
‘I thought you were my friend, Christopher,’ he said.
‘I am,’ replied the other. ‘That’s why I want to help you to get out of this mess. You only made it worse by running away.’
‘I did not kill Sir Martin!’
‘Then why act as if you did?’
‘Because of you,’ said Bale, ‘Mr Redmayne was arrested and taken into custody. They thought he was your accomplice.’
Villemot was chastened. It was something that Lady Lingoe had failed to mention to him. ‘This is true?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Christopher. ‘The officers who called at my house thought I was distracting them so that you could get away. I spent a couple of hours in Newgate Prison.’
‘I am sorry, Christopher. Is my fault.’
‘I survived.’
‘What about Lady Lingoe?’ asked the other with sudden fear. ‘I hope that she will not suffer.’
Bale was blunt. ‘She took in a fugitive from justice.’
‘Unwittingly, I think,’ said Christopher, ‘and that makes all the difference. I see no reason to mention her name at all and I’m sure that Jonathan agrees with me.’ The constable gave a reluctant nod. ‘Your friend is quite safe, Monsieur.’
The Frenchman was grateful. ‘Thank you, Christopher.’
‘What we have to do is to prove your innocence.’
‘I will tell them. I will explain that it was not me.’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ said Christopher. ‘There’s evidence against you. The fact is that you were seen near Sir Martin’s house around the time of the murder. And you were very excitable when you returned to your studio. I was there, remember. You were extremely rude to me.’
‘I know. I came to make my peace with you. I apologise.’
‘It will take much more than an apology to satisfy the court. It may well be that only one thing will persuade a judge that you were not guilty of the crime.’
‘And what is that?’
‘We have to catch the man who did stab Sir Martin to death.’
‘Who is he?’
‘We have no idea at the moment,’ admitted Christopher, ‘but we won’t rest until we find out. It’s not the first time that Jonathan and I have saved someone from the gallows.’
‘True enough, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale.
‘Rely on us, Monsieur.’
‘If you’re really innocent, we’ll help you cheat the hangman.’
As the trio walked on, Villemot ran a hand around his throat.
Emile was horrified by the turn of events. When he heard that his master had been imprisoned in Newgate, he tried to visit him but was turned away and told to come back the following day. Returning to the rooms in Covent Garden, he reflected on how completely things had changed in such a short space of time. Instead of being the valet of the most famous artist in London, he was employed by a man accused of a heinous crime. Instead of having a job for life, he faced the threat of summary dismissal. Instead of looking forward to moving to the new house, he might have to sneak home to Paris in disgrace.
Villemot had not committed murder. Of that Emile was certain. But he was equally certain that his master would not be the first innocent man to be hanged by mistake. As an artist, his nationality was in his favour, suggesting a flair and passion felt to be lacking in the more reserved English. As a prisoner, however, his French manners and accent would be a serious disadvantage, attracting scorn from the turnkeys and other prisoners, and prejudicing the jury against what they would perceive as a wicked foreigner.
The problem had all started with Araminta Culthorpe. She was not the first beautiful woman to sit for her portrait but she had a quality that the others had lacked, a purity that set her apart and lent her face its spiritual glow. Emile went over to the easel and threw back the piece of cloth, staring in wonder at Araminta’s face, neck and shoulders. She was truly captivating. Even with his long experience of painting young and gorgeous ladies, Villemot had been deeply moved by her presence in the studio.
It was late before Emile retired to bed, having tried to console himself with several glasses of wine. Once his eyes closed, he was dead to the world. The studio was unguarded.
The intruder came with great stealth, entering the house by means of a window at the rear and climbing the stairs with furtive steps. When he reached the rooms rented by Villemot, he first made certain that the valet was asleep then went into the studio and closed the door soundlessly behind him. Knowing that the floor was littered with objects, he took the precaution of lighting a candle. It enabled him to step between the scattered items and reach the easel without colliding with anything.
Here was the moment for which he had been waiting, the act of revelation that would deliver his beloved Araminta into his hands. Taking hold of the cloth, he threw it back and held the candle close to illumine the painting. His eyes widened in amazement and his heart began to pound. What he beheld was quite beyond belief.
Chapter Six
Work began early on the site of the new house. Oblivious to the fact that the person who had commissioned it was now in custody, Samuel Littlejohn was there to supervise his men and to help them unload the building materials that arrived by cart. He understood the importance of setting a good example for the others. Instead of standing apart and barking orders at them, therefore, he was quite ready to get his hands dirty from time to time by working alongside them. His combination of industry and cordiality won him the respect of his men and none of them tried to slack in his employ.
Littlejohn had just unloaded the last of the bricks when Christopher Redmayne came into view, riding his horse at a trot. The builder gave him a cheery wave then removed his hat and ran his sleeve across a perspiring brow.
‘Good morning, Mr Redmayne!’ he said.
‘And to you, Sam.’
‘There’s precious little for you to see, I fear. Give us a week and we’ll have made some real progress.’
‘Unfortunately, I can’t do that,’ said Christopher, dismounting from his horse. ‘I’ve come to call a halt to any work on the house.’
Littlejohn was wounded. ‘A halt?’
‘I fear so.’
‘Aren’t you satisfied with what we are doing?’
‘I’m eminently satisfied. The fault lies elsewhere.’
There was no point in shilly-shallying. The builder deserved the truth and Christopher gave it to him as quickly and concisely as he could. Littlejohn was shocked to hear what had happened. He broke off to order his men to stop work then he searched for more detail.