Unseen by the turnkey, she touched the artist’s hand again then she held the pomander to her nostrils. Thrilled to see a friend, Villemot was frustrated by the watchful presence of a third person. It made for halting and unsatisfactory exchange.
‘I’ve brought food and wine for you,’ she said.
‘Merci beaucoup!’
‘My lawyer will come to see you every day.’
‘You are the only person I wish to see, Hester!’
‘I hope we can meet in more propitious circumstances next time, Jean-Paul.’ She glanced around. ‘This is hardly the ideal place for a tete-a-tete.’
‘I am living in the privy.’
‘How sordid!’
‘The noise, it drives me mad.’
‘Hold fast — we will do everything in our power to save you.’
‘And if you fail?’
Lady Lingoe could not hide her fear. For one vital second, the mask of reassurance slipped from her face and Villemot saw that she was as frightened as he was. She recovered her air of imperturbability and produced a dazzling smile.
‘We’ll not fail, Jean-Paul,’ she said. ‘You mean too much to us.’
It was still light when Christopher Redmayne reached the house in Chelsea and he was able to see the extensive gardens in which it stood. In the previous century, Chelsea had been known as a village of palaces because Henry VIII and some of the leading men of the day had maintained splendid houses there. It was still a place to catch the eye of an architect. Cuthbert Foxwell’s mansion was not as large or palatial as many others but its clear signs of French influence aroused Christopher’s interest. He noted features that he had incorporated into the design for the Villemot residence.
When he rang the doorbell, he was invited into the house and introduced himself to its owner. Cuthbert Foxwell was a short, slim, round-shouldered man in his late thirties with a book under his arm. After conducting his visitor into the library, he looked at him over the top of his spectacles.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, sir?’ he asked.
‘I believe that you are Sir Willard Grail’s brother-in-law.’
‘I have that honour. Do you know Sir Willard?’
‘My brother is a close friend of his,’ said Christopher.
‘Redmayne…Redmayne…’ Foxwell’s memory was jogged. ‘I thought I’d heard that name before. Sir Willard has mentioned it to me. I can’t say that I see much of my brother-in-law,’ he continued. ‘We have no mutual interests — apart from my wife, that is. Sir Willard is a man of the world while I’m more parochial in outlook. I think he looks upon me as a country yokel.’
‘You’re hardly that, Mr Foxwell,’ said Christopher with a gesture towards the bookshelves. ‘You have a magnificent library here.’
‘I’m bookish by nature and account myself a true scholar.’
‘You obviously have a passion for the garden as well.’
‘I do indeed, Mr Redmayne.’
‘It’s on that subject that I came to speak to you.’
‘Tell me more, dear sir.’
When they had sat down, Christopher told him about the murder and the arrest of Jean-Paul Villemot. He explained that he believed in the Frenchman’s innocence and was bent on proving it. Foxwell was impressed with the clarity of his report and the earnest manner in which it was delivered.
‘This is all very intriguing,’ he said, ‘but I do not see how your researches can have brought you to Chelsea.’
‘I came to look for a gardener.’
‘We have a small team of them here, Mr Redmayne, and they are kept very busy. Gardens are a joy to behold when they are well-tended. If you neglect them, however,’ he counselled, ‘you’ll soon end up with a wilderness.’
‘One of your gardeners once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘Did he? That’s news to me.’
‘He may have concealed the fact from you, Mr Foxwell. I gather that he left Sir Martin’s employ under something of a cloud.’
‘What was the man’s name?’
‘Paskins — Abel Paskins.’
‘I remember him — a sturdy, hard-working fellow.’
‘Is he here at the moment, by any chance?’ said Christopher.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You dismissed him?’
‘No, Mr Redmayne — he left of his own accord. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. I later learned that he’d been poached.’
‘By whom?’
‘A friend of my brother-in-law,’ said Foxwell. ‘To be frank with you, I was rather put out. When you have guests in the house, you do not expect one of them to tempt a gardener away. For that’s what happened,’ he continued. ‘When Sir Willard and his friend arrived, we entertained them as we saw fit. I showed them around the garden.’
‘Was Abel Paskins there at the time?’
‘He was. I saw Sir Willard’s friend chatting to him.’
‘Then the gardener left you.’
‘I think he was lured away by the promise of more money.’
‘What was the name of your guest?’
‘It was my brother-in-law who invited him. He was not the sort of person to whom I could ever take — a portly man who looked as if he caroused too much, and who only remembered that he had a wife on Sunday when they went to church. In fact,’ said Foxwell, ‘he was a very disagreeable fellow altogether.’
‘Did he have a name?’
‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
Henry Redmayne was not given to making apologies. He had certainly never been compelled to tender one to a roly-poly maid with an unappetising face. But his brother had ordered him to do so and it was the only way he could appease Christopher. To that end, he asked a servant to gather a basket of flowers from the garden then set out with it on his arm. Reaching the house, it took him a long time before he could pluck up the courage to ring the bell. While he waited for the door to open, he rehearsed his apology and manufactured his most ingratiating smile.
Matilda opened the door to be greeted by the daunting sight of a gentleman in fashionable attire. The maid had been crying and her eyes were still moist. Strands of straggly hair hung down over her forehead. She was so overwhelmed by her ostentatious visitor that she dropped a curtsey by instinct.
‘How are you, Matilda?’ asked Henry, solicitously.
Recognising his voice, she let out a yelp of pain and tried to close the door. He stuck out a foot to hold it open. Matilda was cowering with a mixture of fear and anguish. Tears began to explore the periphery of her fat cheeks.
‘I’ve brought you a gift,’ he said, holding up the basket. ‘Do you see? These are for you — by way of an apology.’
Matilda regarded the flowers warily. When she saw what a large and colourful variety had been gathered, she slowly began to relax. Her caution gave way to pleasure and she was soon beaming. When she opened the door wide, Henry gave her the basket.
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said.
‘I am sorry that I was unable to come to you last night.’
‘I waited and waited.’
‘Circumstances beyond my control intervened,’ he said. Seeing her look of incomprehension, he supplied his excuse in plain terms. ‘My wife came home unexpectedly.’
‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t know you were married, sir.’
‘I forgot that I was when I looked upon you, Matilda.’ Her cheeks turned crimson. ‘Alas, I was unable to fulfil my promise.’
‘I left the window open all night long, sir,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘If they ever find out, I’ll get the blame.’
‘For what?’
‘A thief crept into the house.’
‘Never!’
‘He stole a portrait from the studio upstairs. He couldn’t have done that if the window had been locked. It was all my fault.’
‘No,’ said Henry, altruistically, ‘I absolve you of any blame. I was the culprit, Matilda. That window was open because of me. You need have no qualms about it. The responsibility is entirely mine.’