‘Can you be so heartless?’
‘Yes, Elkannah,’ said the other. ‘I can and so could you a week ago. You may have been converted on the road to Damascus but the rest of us remain committed to our common objective. There was a time when you were the most pitiless and cold-blooded member of the Society. We took our lead from you.’
‘I confess it freely and am deeply ashamed.’
‘Shame is not an emotion with which I am familiar, and nor is Jocelyn. From what I know of him, he’ll not only be at that funeral, he’ll probably contrive to act as a pallbearer.’
‘At least, Henry Redmayne has scruples.’
‘They may lose him the prize,’ said Sir Willard. ‘By the way, did I tell you that I was accosted by his brother earlier today?’
‘Christopher?’
‘He seemed to think that I might have stolen that portrait.’
‘You are not the only suspect,’ said Prout. ‘I was there when he accused Henry of the theft. Jocelyn, too, has been questioned.’
‘What — by Christopher Redmayne?’
‘A parish constable lay in wait for him at the coffee house — a boorish fellow who demanded to know if Jocelyn had the portrait.’
‘Who was this constable?’
‘He’s a friend of Henry’s brother. They’ve worked together before to solve various crimes and had a measure of success. Christopher is tenacious and so is Bale.’
‘Is that his name?’
‘So I hear — Jonathan Bale. His heavy-handed questioning really upset Jocelyn and it takes a lot to do that. Christopher Redmayne and this constable are clearly determined to recover that portrait.’
‘To be honest, I thought it had been taken by Jocelyn.’
‘He denies it hotly.’
‘What about Henry?’
‘His denials were even more fervent. Since none of we four has that portrait of Araminta,’ said Prout, thoughtfully, ‘then only one conclusion can be drawn. Someone else stole it.’
Sir Willard’s envy glowed. ‘Who the devil is he?’
Wearing the blue dress and reclining on the couch, Araminta Culthorpe did not seem to have a care in the world. She looked happy, composed and thoroughly at ease with herself. The portrait was a study in unimpaired beauty and contentment. Though he had looked at it many times, the man never tired of his scrutiny. When he set the painting up on the table once more, he examined every last detail of Araminta’s face, hair and shoulders. Her soft, white, delicate arms held him in thrall. Her dainty hands had their own delight for him. It was over an hour before he had seen his fill. Pulling the cloth down over the portrait, he put it back carefully in its hiding place.
Araminta had lapsed back into melancholy. She sat beside the table in the drawing room and stared in silence at the paper in front of her. It contained the provisional list of mourners who would attend the funeral but she saw none of the names. Her mind was on the life that lay ahead and it was not appealing. When her husband was lowered into his grave, Araminta’s high hopes and bold plans for their marriage would go with him. It was depressing.
Coming into the room, Eleanor Ryle sensed the problem at once.
‘Try not to brood, m’lady,’ she said, crossing over to stand beside her mistress. ‘Only this afternoon, you were beginning to shake off sad thoughts. We had that walk in the garden.’
‘I know, Eleanor, and it restored me.’
‘You took such an interest in it.’
‘I have to, now that my husband is not here. That garden is a sacred duty I’ve inherited. I’ll keep it exactly as Sir Martin would have wished.’
‘He would not have wanted you to fret like this.’
‘It’s much more than fretting,’ said Araminta. ‘I feel a great emptiness inside me. And I’m so listless. I’ve no strength to cope with the demands made on me.’
‘That’s why you’ve got people like me to help,’ said Eleanor, a hand on her shoulder. ‘Have you been looking at that list of guests? You’ve no need to trouble with that. I’ve spoken to Mr Rushton. He’ll make sure that everyone is taken care of, m’lady.’
‘It’s the service itself that worries me.’
‘You’ve family and friends to carry you through it.’
‘I’m not sure if I shall be able to bear up.’
‘Yes, you will — for Sir Martin’s sake.’
‘Of course,’ said Araminta, sitting upright. ‘I’m doing it for his sake. I must stop thinking of myself and turn all my thoughts to him. What would my husband expect of me — that’s what I must consider.’
She addressed herself to the list and started to go through it. Glad to see her mistress’s spirit restored, Eleanor sat beside her. It was only when Araminta had been through all the names that her sadness returned.
‘What if one of them should come?’ she asked.
‘One of whom?’
‘Henry Redmayne and those other men who bothered me.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be considerate enough to stay away, m’lady.’
‘It’s so strange,’ mused Araminta. ‘Mr Redmayne and his silly poems were so objectionable yet his brother was charming. I could not believe they belonged to the same family. One is an idle fop and the other, a well-mannered and diligent young man. And he must have great talent as an architect or Monsieur Villemot would never have employed him.’ She let out a gasp. ‘Oh dear!’
‘What ails you, m’lady?’
‘I’ve just remembered him — locked away in that prison.’
‘If he’s guilty, that’s where he should be.’
‘But what if he’s not, Eleanor? That’s what worries me. I got quite close to Monsieur Villemot. I liked him. I respected him as an artist. He had a wonderful career ahead of him and was having a new house built so that he and his wife could live in London.’ She pursed her lips in thought. ‘Why put all that in jeopardy?’
‘It does seem rather reckless,’ said the maid.
‘He could never hope to get away with it.’
‘Then perhaps he was not the killer, after all.’
‘I’d love to believe that,’ said Araminta. ‘I’d love to believe he could be exonerated and set free.’
‘Perhaps that will happen, m’lady.’
‘How? He’s imprisoned in a foreign country with nobody to help him. Even if he were innocent of the crime, how would we ever know?’
Eleanor thought of her visit to Christopher Redmayne.
The meeting took place in the prison sergeant’s office. Lady Hester Lingoe had commandeered it with the help of a generous bribe, but even her money and position were not enough to ensure a private conversation with the prisoner. A turnkey was there throughout and his presence set precise limits on their freedom of expression. When they first met, therefore, all that Jean-Paul Villemot felt able to do was to touch her hand in gratitude.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
‘Did my lawyer visit you?’
‘Yes, he did. He had me moved to a larger cell.’
‘A single one, I trust.’
‘I am all alone — apart from the rats.’
‘It must be intolerable.’
‘They treat me bad.’
‘Then I’ll make a formal complaint about that.’
Lady Lingoe held the pomander to her nose and inhaled deeply. Even in the prison sergeant’s office, the offensive odours were evident and Villemot was embarrassed by the fact that his clothing was giving off an unpleasant smell. He looked worn and desperate. For her part, Lady Lingoe had shed the costume of a Roman priestess and put on more conventional apparel. In the drab little room, she looked like a beacon of light and he dared to nurse hopes again.
‘Get me out of here!’ he begged.
‘That may take a little time, Jean-Paul.’
‘I did not kill this man.’
‘I know that,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘We have to gather evidence to prove it. Mr Redmayne is doing all he can to help you.’
‘But he handed me over to the magistrate.’
‘It was for your own good.’
‘Good?’ he echoed with a mirthless laugh. ‘This is good?’
‘Put some trust in Christopher Redmayne,’ she advised. ‘That’s what I’ve decided to do. He’s eager to build that house for you, Jean-Paul. He has an incentive to get you released — and so have I.’