‘I neither consent to stay away nor to go,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘I’ll make the decision on the day itself and not have it made for me. If you and Henry shy away like frightened horses, that’s your affair.’
‘Sir Willard will also see sense in the pact.’
‘Then let him accept it. I’ll have no rival at the graveside.’
‘It would be a cruelty to Araminta to go.’
‘How else can I get close to her?’
‘You would not be wanted.’
‘Stop browbeating me,’ complained Kidbrooke. ‘You’re the second person to snap at my heels about Araminta and I’ll not endure it. First, I am accused of stealing that portrait of her and now you try to force me to sign a pact. I’ll have none of it.’
Prout was interested. ‘What’s this about the portrait?’
‘An oafish constable named Bale stopped me at the door and had the effrontery to ask me if I was a thief.’
‘According to Henry, you did offer to buy it.’
‘I would have thought that was proof of my good intentions,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘Why offer money for something if I intended to take it by stealth?’
‘Was the constable persuaded?’
‘I don’t think he had brain enough to comprehend logic. When such men are in charge of law and order, how can we wonder that London is awash with crime?’
‘Who did steal that portrait of Araminta?’
‘I wish I knew, Elkannah. Were you the thief in the night?’
‘No,’ replied the other, indignantly. ‘I told you — I’ve withdrawn from the Society so I am no longer at the mercy of the same imperatives.’
‘Are you saying that you’ve lost interest in Araminta?’
‘No man who has seen her could do that. I just respect her right to mourn her husband without being bothered by any of us.’
‘Would you like to own that portrait?’
‘That’s neither here nor there.’
‘You’re prevaricating,’ said Kidbrooke, digging his ribs with a finger. ‘Be honest, man. Did you or did you not covet it?’
‘I did,’ conceded Prout.
‘There you are — you’re as bad as the rest of us.’
‘No, Jocelyn, I’m not. I wanted it but knew that I could never have it. The portrait belongs to Araminta and it would be an act of cruelty to take it away from her.’
‘Who would do such a thing — Henry?’
‘He vehemently denies the charge.’
‘Sir Willard?’
‘I’d not put it past him.’
‘A few days ago, I’d not have put it past Elkannah Prout. You were always in the forefront of the chase. But now,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘you’ve lost your nerve.’
‘I’ve lost nothing. What I did was to gain a moral sense.’
‘Has it robbed you of your love of coffee?’
‘No,’ said Prout, inhaling the aroma with a smile. ‘I’ll join you in a cup or two this minute. As for our pact…’
‘Your pact, Elkannah,’ said the other, slipping a companionable arm around his shoulders. ‘It has no power to restrain me. Stay away from the funeral, if you wish. I answer to my own desires.’
* * *
When Jonathan Bale arrived at the house, Christopher took him into the study and first listened to his report before giving one of his own. They agreed that neither Sir Willard Grail nor Jocelyn Kidbrooke had stolen the portrait, but that both would be likely to pay handsomely for it were the painting to be offered to them. Bale grew quite excited when he heard about the visit of Eleanor Ryle. It was an unexpected bonus to get such valuable information from someone inside the Culthorpe household. He was shaken by the revelation that Villemot had been seen leaving the garden around the time when the crime was committed, but he rallied when he heard about Abel Paskins.
‘We must find him, sir,’ said Bale.
‘That’s my office, Jonathan. I’ll save your legs by riding there. Not that I have a horse at present,’ he added, ‘but I will before too long.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers from the table. ‘Take a look at these sketches and tell me who the subject is.’
‘An easy question, sir,’ said Bale, glancing at them. ‘It’s your brother, Henry.’
‘You recognise him?’
‘Clearly.’
‘Then let’s see if someone else does as well,’ said Christopher, looking over his friend’s shoulder at the sketches. ‘I can conjure buildings out of the air and create a wonderful garden with deft strokes of my pencil, but I’m no Jean-Paul Villemot. He can distil the essence of a person. I can only capture a faint likeness.’
‘It’s more than a likeness, Mr Redmayne.’
‘I hope that’s enough.’
‘When did you do the drawings?’ asked Bale, handing them back so that Christopher could slip them into a portfolio. ‘And what did your brother think of them?’
‘I did them a year ago at Henry’s request. He picked out the best one to send to a lady with whom he’d become acquainted. My brother blamed me when it was returned in tiny pieces.’ He moved to the door. ‘Come, Jonathan — you are about to meet Matilda.’
‘Is she the lady who tore up the sketch?’
‘No, she’s the maid at Monsieur Villemot’s lodging.’
They set out together and maintained a good pace until they reached Covent Garden. When they got to the house, Emile saw them from the upstairs window and came down to open the door.
‘You bring good news?’ he asked, hopefully.
‘Not yet,’ said Christopher, ‘but we soon will.’
‘I see my master in the prison. Is terrible place.’
‘It’s intended to be,’ said Bale.
‘He ask me to tell Lady Lingoe where he was. She will help.’
‘So will we, Emile,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re here to speak to Matilda but there’s something I must ask you first.’
‘What is it?’
‘You told me that you went out for a walk yesterday evening. Someone must have seen you because that’s when he persuaded the maid to let him into the studio. How long were you away?’
Emile shrugged. ‘An hour?’
‘You walked for an hour in the dark?’ said Bale. ‘I should take more care, sir. It’s not safe to be on the streets at that time. London is a dangerous city.’
‘We learn that, my master and me.’
‘May we come inside?’ requested Christopher.
Emile stood back to let them into the passageway. ‘I fetch Matilda for you,’ he said.
He walked a few yards and tapped on a door. The maid’s head soon emerged. At the sight of the strapping constable, she drew back slightly. Christopher beckoned to her.
‘Could we have a moment of your time, Matilda?’ He held up the portfolio. ‘I want you to look at something.’
‘If you wish, Mr Redmayne,’ she said, coming towards him.
‘Do you remember that gentleman who called yesterday?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Did he look anything like this?’
He took out the sketches and handed them over. Matilda was a short, fat, young woman who was worried by the thought that she had mistakenly allowed the stranger to enter the house. At the time, he had seemed so friendly and plausible. She was less sure about him now. As she peered at the drawings with great concentration, Emile stood beside her. He was not impressed.
‘These are not by the good artist,’ he said.
Christopher smiled. ‘I’m the first to admit that.’
‘Oh!’ cried Emile in embarrassment, ‘I did not know that they are yours, Mr Redmayne. I am sorry.’
‘You made an honest judgement. Stand by it.’ He turned to Matilda, who was gazing hard at one sketch. ‘Was that the man?’
‘I think so.’
‘Close to my height and a few years older?’
‘He kept moving his hands.’
‘Like this?’ said Christopher, gesticulating in a manner typical of his brother. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’
‘Look at all the sketches — be certain.’
‘I am certain,’ she said, holding two of the sketches side by side. ‘This is the man who called here yesterday.’
‘Thank you, Matilda.’
‘You know this man?’ asked Emile.
‘Yes,’ replied Christopher, putting the drawings back into the portfolio. ‘Unfortunately, I know him only too well.’