‘I am talking about a portrait of Lady Culthorpe.’
Prout’s ears pricked up. ‘Araminta?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘I must discuss it with Henry.’
‘It’s a subject in which I, too, have an interest.’
‘Then you must stay, Elkannah,’ said Henry, glad to have a shield between himself and his brother’s anger. ‘Let us go back into the drawing room where we can talk quietly.’
He led the way out of the hall, then closed the door behind his guests. Christopher did not mince his words. Taking off his hat, he confronted his brother with a blunt accusation.
‘The portrait has been stolen and I am looking at the thief,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been so ashamed of you in all my life, Henry, and given your long career of drunkenness and debauchery, that’s a bold claim. I’m revolted by the thought that my brother is nothing more than a common criminal.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Prout. ‘You stole that portrait?’
‘No!’ retorted Henry. ‘Until this very moment, I did not even know that it had been taken. Where did you glean this intelligence, Christopher?’
‘I spoke with Monsieur Villemot’s valet.’
‘Is he certain the portrait is missing?’
‘Emile would not make a mistake like that,’ said Christopher, keeping his brother under close scrutiny. ‘As soon as he went into the studio this morning, he saw that it was gone.’
‘Where was it kept?’
‘On an easel near the window.’
Henry gulped. ‘Who would dare to steal it?’
‘You are the prime suspect, Henry. The last time we met, you swore that you’d acquire that portrait of Lady Culthorpe by whatever means were necessary. Now I know what those means were.’
‘This is unpardonable of you,’ said Prout.
‘By rights, you should be arrested,’ added Christopher.
‘But I’ve done nothing wrong,’ bleated Henry, flapping his hands. ‘Do you really think I’m capable of such a dastardly act?’
‘Yes,’ said the two men in unison.
‘Then you cut me to the quick. My life has not been without its occasional irregularity — what gentleman’s has not? — but I would never stoop to theft or any other crime.’ He thrust out his chest. ‘I am a model of a law-abiding citizen.’
‘If you had no designs on the portrait,’ said Christopher, ‘why did you bother to go to the house yesterday?’
Henry gulped again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve just come from there. According to the maid, someone who fits your description to the last detail called at the house yesterday evening and claimed that he had left something in Monsieur Villemot’s studio by mistake.’ Henry’s eyelids flickered. ‘Since nobody was there, the maid obligingly showed the visitor into the studio. Luckily, she had the sense to stay with him.’
‘What did you do then, Henry?’ Prout challenged.
‘I was not even there!’ cried Henry.
‘The maid got a close look at you,’ said Christopher.
‘Then I must have a double.’
‘Your double did not stay long in the studio. Once he had reclaimed what he said was a handkerchief that had fallen from his sleeve, he took a peep under the cloth on the easel. Your motive was crystal clear,’ said Christopher, sombrely. ‘It was a reconnaissance expedition. You contrived to get inside the house in order to take your bearings, and you checked to see where the portrait was so that you could return at night and spirit it away.’
‘Where is it?’ demanded Prout.
‘Return it immediately or face arrest,’ Christopher put in.
‘I’ll have you arrested in any case. This is abominable.’
‘But I do not have that portrait!’ bellowed Henry. ‘How many times must I tell you? Search the house, if you do not believe me. Turn the whole place upside down and look in every corner. You are quite correct, Christopher,’ he said, displaying both palms in an attempt at mollifying him. ‘I did make some foolish boasts with regard to that painting of Araminta, and I did hope that I might somehow purchase it from the artist. Wiser counsels prevailed and I backed off.’
‘Before or after your visit to the house?’ asked Christopher.
‘I did not go anywhere near it.’
‘That’s a blatant lie,’ said Prout, jabbing the air with a finger. ‘I spoke to Jocelyn yesterday evening and he told me that he met you standing outside Monsieur Villemot’s lodging.’
‘I was strolling down the street by pure chance,’ said Henry, thrown on the defensive. ‘It’s only a few minutes away from here so there’s nothing sinister in the fact that I was there. I often use that street as a short cut to Covent Garden. Jocelyn, however,’ he went on, seizing on the opportunity to escape the interrogation, ‘went there for a reason. He offered money for the portrait of Araminta and admitted as much. There’s your thief, Christopher,’ he continued. ‘Instead of hounding your innocent brother, talk to Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
‘I’ll need his address.’
‘You shall have it — along with that of Sir Willard Grail.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because he must be suspected as well,’ said Henry. ‘They are both men in the grip of an obsession with Araminta. Neither of them would hesitate to steal the portrait. Am I right, Elkannah?’
‘They would both dearly love to possess it,’ confirmed Prout.
‘So I am in the clear. I require an apology, Christopher.’
‘You’ll not get one until the truth of the matter has been established,’ said his brother. ‘And there is still the question of why you inveigled yourself into that studio.’
‘But that was not me. Nor could it have been Jocelyn, for he’s too fat and misshapen. Sir Willard, on the other hand,’ he said, ‘is a very different proposition. He’s younger than me but — to the eyes of some ignorant little maid — he could pass for Henry Redmayne, especially in bad light. Elkannah?’
‘Yes,’ said Prout, thinking it over. ‘He could do so.’
‘He even apes some of my gestures.’
‘That he does, to be sure.’
‘There you are, Christopher. Now stop looking at me as if I had just stolen His Majesty’s entire art collection. Jocelyn and Sir Willard are the true suspects here.’ He pulled himself up to his full height. ‘I am vindicated.’
‘Not yet, Henry,’ warned his brother. ‘There’s a lot more to come out about this little adventure and I’m sure that you will be implicated in the crime in some way or other.’
‘But I’m the victim of it. I coveted that portrait.’
‘So did we all,’ murmured Prout.
‘Araminta must be found. I’ll join forces with you to recover her.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Christopher. ‘I choose to work with Jonathan Bale. His integrity is not in doubt.’
‘That sour-faced imbecile has no place in this search.’
‘He most certainly does, Henry. We are not just looking for someone who stole a painting. We are hunting the killer of Sir Martin Culthorpe. The two crimes are inextricably linked. I have an interest here,’ he declared. ‘Lady Culthorpe lost a husband and, as a result, I have been deprived of a client. Sir Martin, alas, is beyond recall but Jean-Paul Villemot is not. I mean to prove his innocence and recover the portrait he painted. Jonathan has volunteered to help me.’
‘Who is the fellow?’ asked Prout.
‘A dull-witted constable with a Puritan conscience,’ said Henry with a sneer. ‘He’s an odious creature.’
‘I like him,’ said Christopher.
‘There’s nothing remotely likeable about the ugly devil.’
‘There are many things, Henry. For a start, I like his essential goodness. After dealing with you, I find it uplifting. Jonathan would never trick his way into someone’s lodging by pretending to have left a handkerchief there.’ His gaze was cold and unwavering. ‘Couldn’t you have invented a better excuse than that?’
Until he was imprisoned, Jean-Paul Villemot had never known that such squalor and degradation existed. He had seen poverty in the back streets of Paris where women sold their bodies to feed their children, and where there was a pervading stink of despair. None of it compared with the sustained nightmare that was Newgate. It seemed as if the most violent, foul-mouthed, desolate, God-forsaken human beings on earth had been gathered there. The noise was deafening, the stench unbearable and the food inedible. Everyone inside the prison was filthy and depraved. He could not decide if the prisoners or the turnkeys were the more corrupt.