Chapter Seven
Christopher Redmayne had met several of his brother’s friends before and they tended to be as shameless and profligate as Henry. They also bore the indelible imprint of decadence. Expecting to see another unconscionable rake, Christopher was startled to find that Sir Willard Grail had none of the telltale signs of a sybarite. He was tall, well-favoured and looked remarkably wholesome. His boyish smile made him seem even younger than he really was. Sir Willard’s attire was flamboyant without being gaudy. He was affable and unaffected.
‘Henry’s brother, are you?’ he said, weighing his visitor up. ‘Nobody would ever guess it to look at you. I believe you’re a famous architect.’
‘No, Sir Willard — I’ve yet to rise in my profession.’
‘It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure. Having no inclination or capacity for hard work, I always admire those who do and you are obviously a Trojan in your chosen field.’
‘Work is never onerous when you enjoy it,’ said Christopher.
‘So I believe.’
They were in the hall of Sir Willard’s home near Shoreditch, an elegant house, designed by a disciple of Inigo Jones, which would have fitted into Covent Garden without a hint of incongruity. It was close enough to the city to allow easy access yet sufficiently distant to give it a sense of isolation. It was a place where Lady Grail could live in style and comfort while her husband pursued pleasures elsewhere.
‘I’m glad that we finally met,’ said Sir Willard, ‘though I’m bound to observe that you seem to have gone out of your way to make my acquaintance.’
‘I came on private business, Sir Willard. Given its nature, you might wish to discuss it somewhere other than in your hall.’
‘To what does it relate?’
‘Lady Culthorpe.’
‘Perhaps we’d better step in here,’ said the other, smoothly, taking Christopher into the drawing room before closing the door firmly behind them. ‘You know Araminta?’
‘I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her.’
‘Then you must be as enthralled as the rest of us.’
‘She’s a very beautiful lady, Sir Willard.’
‘Araminta is quite incomparable. But you do not need to be told that. We all worship her. Your brother has been sending poems to her for months.’
Christopher stared. ‘Henry has no talent for poetry.’
‘That might explain why he met with such a cold response. He once showed me a sonnet he penned in praise of her,’ said Sir Willard with a laugh. ‘It beggared description. Shakespeare has no rival in the Navy Office, I do assure you.’ He met Christopher’s gaze. ‘Now, then, what exactly has brought you to my door?’
‘The theft of Lady Culthorpe’s portrait.’
Sir Willard’s eyes narrowed. ‘The theft?’
‘It was stolen some time during last night.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Monsieur Villemot’s valet sought me out to tell me,’ explained Christopher. ‘Since his master is at present in Newgate, it fell to Emile to guard his property. The loss of the portrait has struck him like a thunderbolt.’
‘Why did the valet turn to you, Mr Redmayne?’
‘I’ve designed a house for Monsieur Villemot.’
‘Of course,’ said Sir Willard. ‘I should have remembered that. What a pity the house will never be built!’
‘I’m confident that it will.’
‘Even though its owner will soon be dangling from the gallows?’
‘I don’t accept that he committed the murder,’ said Christopher, resolutely, ‘and I’ll strain every nerve to prove his innocence.’
Sir Willard grinned. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was much mistaken in you. There is a resemblance to your brother, after all. You have Henry’s boldness, his wild-eyed passion and his readiness to pursue a lost cause.’
‘Trying to rescue Monsieur Villemot is not a lost cause.’
‘The man is patently guilty.’
‘Not in my eyes, Sir Willard.’
‘Then perhaps it’s time to buy some spectacles.’
‘I’ve been in this position before,’ said Christopher, ‘and on that occasion I also saved someone who had been judged guilty before he was even brought to trial. His name was Henry Redmayne. I’m sure that he’s told you the story of how he evaded the noose.’
‘Many times,’ replied Sir Willard, ‘though he’s never mentioned your name in his account. He prefers to claim all the credit for himself, but that’s ever his way.’
He gave a dismissive gesture with his hand that Christopher recognised as belonging to his brother, and there were other indications — a shrug, a nod, a facial expression — that Sir Willard had picked up some of Henry’s characteristic actions. What Christopher could not believe was that, even by candlelight, Sir Willard could be mistaken for Henry. He was of similar height and build but his age, fair complexion and handsome features set him clearly apart.
‘I’m sad to hear that Araminta’s portrait has gone astray,’ said Sir Willard, ‘and I’m grateful that you rode all this way to tell me.’
‘I’m not here merely to impart news.’
‘No?’
‘I came in search of your help,’ said Christopher. ‘I wondered if you could suggest the name of anyone who would covet that portrait enough to steal it.’
Sir Willard laughed again. ‘That’s a very naive question,’ he pointed out. ‘I can suggest the names of at least a hundred men who would yearn for that painting. I’m one of them and, since you saw Araminta in the flesh, your name could probably be added to that list.’
‘Very few people even knew that the portrait was in hand.’
‘Then that cuts down the number appreciably.’
‘Does anyone come to mind, Sir Willard?’
‘Yes,’ said the other.
‘I’ve already taxed Henry with regard to the matter.’
‘It’s just the sort of madcap thing he’d do. Jocelyn Kidbrooke is another potential art thief, and you’d have to bring Elkannah Prout into the reckoning.’
‘I’d discount him,’ said Christopher.
‘Why?’
‘As it happens, I met Mr Prout earlier today at my brother’s house. He did not strike me as the kind of man who would lower himself to such an act.’
‘Nevertheless, he was a member of the Society.’
‘Society?’
‘I’ll leave your brother to divulge any details of it,’ said Sir Willard, discreetly, ‘if he so decides, that is. By the way, what made you tax Henry with the crime?’
‘Someone called at the studio the previous evening,’ said Christopher. ‘My guess is that he watched the house until the valet left — Emile told me that he went out for a time — then he tricked the maid into letting him in so that he could see the premises from the inside. He also took the opportunity to have a sly look at Lady Culthorpe’s portrait.’
‘Did the maid give you a description of the man?’
‘It was her description that sent me haring off to Bedford Street.’
‘Then your brother must be the thief.’ He snapped his fingers in a way that was reminiscent of Henry yet again. ‘The crime is solved. Have him arrested and repossess the painting.’
‘He does not have it, Sir Willard.’
‘Then a confederate is hiding it for him.’
‘No,’ said Christopher, ‘there are rare moments in his life when Henry actually tells the truth — or, at least, enough of it to give the semblance of truth. He did not steal that portrait. Of that I have not the slightest doubt.’
‘He could still have visited the house yesterday.’
‘I mean to look into that more closely.’
‘Take the maid to Bedford Street to identify your brother.’
‘I’ve thought of an easier way than that,’ said Christopher. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already. You’ve already answered the question I was bound to ask.’
‘You thought that I might have been the thief, didn’t you?’