‘It did cross my mind.’
‘Well, don’t let it do so again,’ said Sir Willard, testily. ‘Much as I’d love to own that portrait, I have a distinct handicap — there’s nowhere that I could safely keep it. I could hardly suggest to my wife that I hang it in the library to encourage me to read more.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘Stay away from my house in future, Mr Redmayne.’
‘I’ll gladly do so unless I have cause to return.’
‘There is no cause. Now continue on your way and catch him. Catch the villain who stole Araminta from that studio and send him off to prison where he belongs.’
‘Henry is no culprit, nor is Mr Prout. I absolve both of them.’
‘Then turn your gaze elsewhere.’
‘To whom?’
‘The most obvious suspect, man — Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
* * *
Jonathan Bale was spared the prospect of a long walk across London. Thanks to information passed on by Christopher from his brother, the constable knew where to find Jocelyn Kidbrooke at a certain time of the day. He would be in his habitual coffee house. It was not a place that Bale entered willingly. In his view, coffee houses were either gambling dens or places where idle, over-dressed, wealthy individuals met to drink coffee, smoke, talk, argue, discuss political matters or boast of their latest conquests. He was alarmed by the spread of these exclusively male institutions. The first coffee house had been opened in Holborn in 1650. Now, some twenty years later, there were well over a hundred of them in the capital. Bale regretted the fact.
He got there early and lurked in the anteroom so that he could intercept Kidbrooke on his arrival. Finding his way blocked, the newcomer was resentful.
‘Out of my way, fellow,’ he ordered.
‘Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name is Jonathan Bale and I crave a few words with you.’
‘I’ve no time for chatter, Mr Bale,’ said Kidbrooke, trying to brush past him. He felt a strong hand on his arm. ‘Let me go, damn you!’
‘Not until you agree to talk to me, sir.’
‘We’ve nothing to say to each other.’
‘It concerns Lady Culthorpe.’
Kidbrooke’s resistance weakened. Through the open door of the coffee house, he could see his friends and hear their merry banter as they sat around the large common table at the heart of the room. Eager to join them, he was held back by curiosity.
‘You have news of Araminta?’ he asked.
‘I have sad tidings of her portrait,’ said Bale, releasing him. ‘It was stolen last night from the artist’s studio.’
Kidbrooke was impassive. ‘Really?’
‘You do not seem surprised.’
‘Very little surprises me, Mr Bale.’
‘Did you expect the portrait to be taken?’
‘It was the only means of acquiring it,’ said Kidbrooke, flatly. ‘I tried to buy it but my generous offer was turned down.’
‘Why did you want to buy a painting that was unfinished?’
‘I can see that you have never laid eyes on Araminta.’
‘True,’ said Bale.
‘Then you’ve missed one of the wonders of the world.’
‘I’m a married man, sir.’
‘For a smile from Araminta, you’d divorce your wife.’
‘Is that how you feel about the lady, sir?’
‘My feelings are my business.’
‘Did you steal her portrait?’
‘No,’ said Kidbrooke, reacting angrily to the bluntness of the question. ‘How dare you have the audacity even to ask that!’
‘You admit that you wanted it.’
‘That does not mean I was ready to steal it.’
‘May I ask where you were when the crime was committed?’
‘You may ask, Mr Bale, but I’ve no intention of telling you. I came here to commune with friends, not to be accused of a crime.’
‘Where would you have kept it, sir?’
‘What?’
‘The portrait,’ said Bale. ‘If you’d been able to buy it, where would you have hidden it? Your wife would hardly approve. Do you have such little care of Mrs Kidbrooke that you’d smuggle a painting of a beautiful woman into your house?’
Kidbrooke was infuriated. ‘I’ll not be censored by you!’
‘You face a higher critic than me, sir.’ Bale looked upwards. ‘You entered holy matrimony in His sight. Does that mean nothing to you?’
‘My private life does not concern you.’
‘It does when a crime is committed.’
‘But I was not the thief, you insolent dog!’
‘You might have hired one to do the business for you.’
‘That’s a slanderous suggestion!’
‘I have to look at every possibility, sir.’
‘Then look elsewhere,’ snarled Kidbrooke, ‘and let me go to enjoy some civilised company in place of this brash interrogation.’ When he tried to move, Bale’s hand held him fast again. ‘Unhand me, sir!’
‘We are not done yet, Mr Kidbrooke,’ said Bale, steadfastly. ‘I have something important to put to you. The thief will surely know how many people would like to own that portrait.’
‘So?’
‘Supposing that he offered to sell it to you?’
‘You’re hurting my arm.’
Bale let him go. ‘Would you buy it from him?’ he pressed. ‘Knowing that you’d be receiving stolen goods, would you pay to have that painting of Lady Culthorpe?’
Jocelyn Kidbrooke was silent but a shifty look had come into his eyes. It was time to go. Bale had his answer.
Christopher Redmayne rode back to his house in Fetter Lane where he expected to meet with Jonathan Bale so they could trade information about their respective visits. But it was not his friend who had called to see the architect. Jacob passed on the news.
‘A young lady is waiting for you, Mr Redmayne,’ he said.
‘Did she give her name?’
‘She refused to do so, sir.’
‘What does she want?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jacob, ‘but she insisted on seeing you. The young lady is in the drawing room. She’s very pretty.’
There was the faintest touch of reproach in his voice. Knowing how close his master was to Susan Cheever, the old man felt it improper for him to be entertaining another young lady in her absence. Christopher quashed his suspicions at once.
‘She is not here by invitation, Jacob, I promise you.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Walking past the servant, he opened the door to the drawing room and went in. The young woman leapt to her feet at once. Though extremely pretty, she was also tense and uncertain.
‘Mr Redmayne?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Christopher Redmayne?’
‘The very same,’ he said, appraising her. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Eleanor Ryle, sir,’ she said. ‘I work for Lady Culthorpe.’
He was taken aback. ‘Lady Culthorpe sent you here?’
‘No, Mr Redmayne — I came of my own accord. She doesn’t even know that I’m here and she might be very cross with me if she did. I can’t stay, sir. I have to be back in case Lady Culthorpe needs me, but I felt that I had to come.’ Having gabbled the words, she paused for breath. ‘I hope I’ve done the right thing.’
‘At least, sit down while you’re here, Miss Ryle,’ he offered. When she resumed her seat, he took the chair opposite her. ‘Why exactly did you want to see me?’
‘It was because of your letter, sir — the one you wrote to Lady Culthorpe. She found it very moving. I took the trouble to read it myself and that was how I got your address.’ She chewed her lip. ‘I was touched by what you wrote. I felt you were a person I could trust. That’s not true of some of the men who sent letters of condolence.’
‘Are you referring to my brother?’
‘Lady Culthorpe would not even read the verses he sent.’
‘From what I hear, he’s been harassing her for some time with his foolish attempts at poetry. I’ll speak to him about it,’ promised Christopher. ‘So you came here solely on the strength of my letter?’
‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘It was what Lady Lingoe wrote about you.’
‘Oh — what was that?’
‘She sent her condolences to Lady Culthorpe but she also claimed that Mr Villemot did not commit the murder. She knows the gentleman well and swears he is innocent. Lady Lingoe mentioned you in her letter. She said that you agreed with her and were determined to clear his name.’