‘It may be some time before the news reaches her.’
‘Yes, Eleanor — it will tear her life apart as it has sundered mine. No matter for that,’ she said, holding back tears. ‘We must make an effort to carry on as best we may.’ She looked down at the letter. ‘Let me see what Lady Lingoe has to say.’ Her face soon crumpled. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Eleanor.
‘It’s what Lady Lingoe has written in her letter. According to her,’ said Araminta, upset and bewildered, ‘Monsieur Villemot did not commit the crime at all. She claims that he’s innocent.’
Lady Hester Lingoe had always liked Emile. She found him attentive and amusing. He was an educated man. To relieve the boredom she inevitably felt while sitting for long periods in the studio, Emile had read the poems of Catullus to her in the original Latin, and he had found other ways to stave off tedium. She was less pleased with what he said to her now. His account of what had happened made her roam around the library of her house like a restless animal.
‘I had no idea that he had been arrested,’ she said in dismay. ‘I ordered a horse to be saddled for him. Nobody told me that the animal had been returned to the stable. It’s my fault,’ she admitted, slapping her thigh. ‘I should have known that Christopher Redmayne did not believe me. He was too astute. When I allowed Monsieur Villemot to leave the house, I let him fall straight into Mr Redmayne’s hands.’
‘He wants to help, Lady Lingoe.’
‘Locking up your master in prison is not my idea of help.’
‘He help you as well,’ Emile reminded her.
‘All that he did to me was to pester me with questions.’
‘You were hiding my master. That is against law. Monsieur Redmayne, he does not get his friend, the constable, to arrest you.’
‘That’s a small mercy, I suppose,’ she conceded. ‘It would have been humiliating to be hauled before a magistrate even though he would never have dared to impose a sentence on me. My husband is an important man. We have friends in high places.’
‘What can they do for my master?’
‘We shall see, Emile. To begin with, I’ll appoint a lawyer to defend him and to make sure that he’s treated properly in Newgate.’
‘He wants to get out now.’
‘That’s more difficult to arrange.’
‘Is frightening in there.’
‘I can imagine.’
She stopped to consider the situation and Emile had his first opportunity to look around the library. He loved its classical style and its array of leather-bound books. He also liked the attire of a Roman priestess that she was wearing. It gave her allure and distinction. Most of the English ladies whose portraits had been painted by his master had been either shy and reticent or haughty and garrulous. Lady Hester Lingoe fitted neither of these categories. She was unique. Shrewd, perceptive and friendly, she was a woman of real character.
‘I need more time to think,’ she said, conscious that he was waiting for her to speak. ‘I’ll be in touch, Emile.’
‘Thank you, m’lady.’
‘When will you be seeing Monsieur Villemot again?’
‘Soon.’
‘Tell him that he is in my thoughts.’
‘I will,’ said Emile with a smile. ‘My master will like that.’
Sarah Bale was delighted to see him again and she became almost girlish. Christopher Redmayne always had that effect on her. For his part, he was pleased to be given the customary warm welcome and to answer the battery of questions that she fired at him. After making some polite enquiries after her children, Christopher was rescued by Bale. The constable eased his wife into the kitchen.
‘Mr Redmayne came to see me, my love,’ he told her, gently, ‘and not to listen to your gossip.’
‘Is he going to ask you to make another model?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Offer to do so, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘Don’t hold back.’
‘We’ve other things to talk about, Sarah.’
After kissing her on the forehead, he went out and closed the kitchen door behind him. He and Christopher went into the little parlour. Bale moved some toy soldiers from a chair so that his visitor could sit down. He put the soldiers on a table. Christopher peered at them with interest.
‘Did you make those?’
Bale smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, I did, sir.’
‘I thought so,’ said Christopher with a grin. ‘Who else would build his children a New Model Army?’
‘I served under Oliver Cromwell and I’m proud of the fact.’
‘You’ve a right to be so, Jonathan. You were on the winning side at the battle of Worcester and that’s a memory you’ll cherish. But,’ he went on, ‘that’s all past. We are subjects of a King once more.’
‘You know my views where His Majesty is concerned,’ said Bale, ‘so I’ll not spoil our friendship by giving them to you again. Something has happened, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes — the portrait of Lady Culthorpe has been stolen.’
Bale started. ‘Who took it?’
‘That’s for us to find out.’
‘Did you have anyone in mind?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, thinking of his brother but determined to keep his name out of the discussion. ‘There are two people who might bear close examination. We must recover that portrait.’
‘Does the lady herself know that it’s been stolen?’
‘No, Jonathan, and she must never find out. It would distress her even more if she realised that her likeness was in the hands of a thief. Lady Culthorpe doesn’t know what occurred and neither does Monsieur Villemot.’
‘Why?’ asked Bale. ‘The artist ought to be told.’
‘His valet is terrified of the way he would respond,’ said Christopher. ‘His master has a temper — I’ve seen him flare up with my own eyes. While he’s away, Emile is in charge of the studio. It’s his responsibility to protect the paintings.’
‘Especially the one of Lady Culthorpe.’
‘Emile told me that he would rather have lost all the other paintings in the studio.’
‘Does that include the portrait of Lady Lingoe?’
‘It does, Jonathan. I know that you’d be saddened if that had been stolen,’ he teased. ‘The portrait had a special meaning for you.’
Bale sniffed. ‘It made me wonder what goes on in an artist’s studio,’ he said, dourly.
‘You’ll have to put that question to Lady Lingoe herself.’
‘No, thank you, sir — I’d rather not meet her at all.’
‘You’d be quite safe. She dresses as a Roman priestess.’
‘I’ll keep my distance from her, dressed or undressed.’
‘One thing is certain,’ said Christopher. ‘Whoever stole that other portrait, it was not Lady Lingoe. I begin to think that it may be the same person who killed Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘He could have stolen it without resorting to murder.’
‘That depends on his motive. If he was spellbound by Lady Culthorpe’s beauty, he could have been driven to kill the husband in order to get closer to her.’
‘She’s in mourning.’
‘That’s why he has to be patient,’ said Christopher. ‘Since he can’t even see her while she’s brooding on her loss, he would have wanted to look upon her in some way.’
‘The portrait.’
‘Why else would he take it?’
Bale fell silent, deep in contemplation. His brow was rutted, his lips pursed, his eyes staring into space. Christopher looked down at the toy soldiers. They had been made with love for Bale’s two sons so that they could play out various battles. Each soldier had been carved and painted with precision. To a doting father, the soldiers were every bit as important as Villemot’s portraits were to the artist. Christopher could see how deeply wounded Bale would be by the theft of his handiwork. Over the time he had worked on the miniature figures, he would have built up a close relationship with them.