‘I feel that I owe it to Araminta to do so.’
‘Then your feelings do not accord with mine.’
‘How so?’
‘I grieve with her,’ said Henry, trying to sound dignified. ‘I share her misery. Tomorrow will be the most trying day of Araminta’s young life. It would be callous to spend it enjoying myself at the races.’
‘You intend to break our pact, then?’
‘Only minutes ago, you declared it impractical.’
‘The principle holds, Henry.’
‘It will be something to reflect on as you journey to Newmarket.’
‘Do you plan to sneak off to the funeral behind my back?’
‘I will do what I will do,’ said Henry, grandly.
‘Then you are just as bad as the others.’
‘We are all four banded together in this, Elkannah.’
‘Do not include me,’ said Prout, firmly. ‘I renounce the Society and all it stands for. My devotion to Araminta remains unaltered but it prompts me to move in a different direction.’
‘To Newmarket — so that you can bet on horses.’
‘That was merely a device to keep you away from her tomorrow.’
‘Why not admit that at the start?’
‘You disappoint me, Henry.’
‘There’s nothing I can do about that. Allow me to give you a word of warning. Do not even think of inviting Jocelyn or Sir Willard to join you tomorrow. They will laugh in your faces.’
Prout got to his feet. ‘Is that what you are doing?’
‘No, Elkannah.’
‘I know mockery when I hear it.’
‘I’m giving you sound advice.’
‘What you are doing is to betray the promise you gave me. You agreed to stay away from Araminta tomorrow.’
‘And I may still do so,’ said Henry, getting up from his chair.
‘No,’ said Prout, angrily. ‘I see you for what you are. You, Jocelyn and Sir Willard have signed a pact of your own. The three of you are plotting to be there tomorrow to get a glimpse of her even though she will be consumed with sorrow.’
‘There’s no plot, Elkannah.’
‘I looked upon you as a friend.’
‘I remain one still.’
‘Not when you deceive me like this.’
‘It’s you who wilfully misunderstands me.’
‘I’ve seen far too much of Henry Redmayne to misunderstand him. You tell me that you grieve with Araminta but that did not hinder you from spending half the night at the card table. Is that the way you share her misery?’
‘Why this sudden piety?’
‘I know you for what you are.’
‘A devotee of pleasure in all its forms.’
‘A weak-willed degenerate.’
‘I patterned myself on you,’ rejoined Henry. ‘There was not a rake in the whole of the capital who could touch Elkannah Prout for drinking, gambling and whoring. You gave the lead that I followed. Yet now you’ve lost your appetite for vice,’ he continued, ‘you portray yourself as a paragon of virtue.’
‘I just felt that it was time to make a stand.’
‘We preferred you as you were.’
‘That’s your prerogative.’
‘Come back to us, Elkannah.’
‘Not while the three of you scheme against me.’
‘But we’ve not been doing that.’
‘There’s nothing I despise as much as disloyalty, Henry, and that’s what you’ve displayed. I take back my former suggestion.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please repay the money you owe me.’
‘When I have the chance to make it work for me?’
‘Yes,’ said Prout, nastily. ‘And look to borrow nothing more from my purse. I’ll not lend a single penny to you ever again.’
Henry was alarmed. ‘That’s too harsh, Elkannah.’
‘It’s a fit penalty for a traitor.’
‘But you have ever been my most reliable banker.’
‘Not any more, Henry.’ Prout snapped his fingers. ‘Pay up!’
After his brief imprisonment there, Christopher Redmayne knew all about the multiple indignities of Newgate. As a result, he returned to the place with some trepidation. Because he had helped to capture and hand over Jean-Paul Villemot, he was no longer suspected of aiding the escape of a fugitive and was safe from arrest. That fact brought him no comfort as he walked reluctantly towards the prison. Once inside, he feared that they would somehow find a means of keeping him there.
Destroyed by the Great Fire, the prison had been completely rebuilt and it was slowly nearing completion. The structure had a splendour to gladden the heart of any architect yet it did not even attract a glance from Christopher. Behind the imposing exterior, he knew, was a world of suffering, hunger and darkness of the soul. As he entered the great portal, he felt an instant tremor. The man who conducted him to Villemot’s cell insisted on staying to listen to the conversation. When he saw that he had a visitor, the artist flung himself at the bars.
‘Christopher!’ he cried.
‘How are you, Monsieur Villemot?’
‘I am not well, my friend.’
‘If you are ill, I can arrange for a doctor to visit.’
‘The illness, it is not in my body,’ said Villemot, tapping his skull with a finger. ‘It is up here — in the head.’
‘Are you in pain?’
‘My thoughts leave me in agony.’
Christopher was disturbed by his appearance. The Frenchman was haggard with anxiety and loss of sleep. His eyes were darting and his body twitching. He slapped a hand to his temple as if suffering severe pain. Christopher feared that he might have picked up one of the many diseases that were so rife in the prison. Foul water and lack of sanitation made an already noxious environment far worse. Even the healthiest prisoner could succumb to the powerful compound of infections. In spite of a good constitution, Villemot might easily have fallen prey to a form of brain fever. In its later stages, it would make him rant and rave as it was patently doing to some of those who were contributing to the daily tumult in the other cells.
‘Emile came to see me,’ said Villemot.
‘Yes, I spoke to him earlier.’
‘He says you are trying to get me out of here.’
‘Indeed, I am,’ said Christopher, ‘and I’m not alone in my efforts. Jonathan Bale, whom you met, is helping me a great deal and I’ve called on the services of my brother, Henry.’
‘What can he do?’
‘He knows people. He can open doors for me.’
‘Then let him open this door,’ yelled Villemot, shaking it with such violence that it rattled aloud. ‘I lose my mind in here.’
‘Emile told me that you had another visitor, one who must have been shocked by your condition. Lady Lingoe came to see you.’
‘She brought food and drink.’
‘So did I,’ said Christopher. ‘I left them with the prison sergeant. Let me know if they don’t reach you.’
‘I am not worried about food. I hate being locked up.’
‘I know. I felt the same and I was only behind bars for a short time. It’s that sense of helplessness, of being at the mercy of others.’
‘Set me free!’ begged the other.
‘We are working hard to do so, Monsieur Villemot.’
‘I am an artist. I paint things of beauty. In here, everything is ugly. Is frightening. I look ugly myself.’
It was true. Even though he had put on the fresh clothing that his valet had brought, Villemot looked dirty, crumpled and beaten. The prison stench had burrowed its way into his garments and pieces of damp straw were sticking to his shoes and breeches. Christopher’s desire to rescue him was intensified.
‘Before I can get you out,’ he said, ‘I need your help.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Tell me what happened the day you went to that house.’
‘I’ve already done that, Christopher.’
‘No, you didn’t. You told me only part of the story and I need to know every last detail. Why did you go into the garden?’
‘I did not,’ said Villemot, defensively.
‘You were seen coming out of there,’ said Christopher, ‘so there’s no point in denying it. A reliable witness will stand up in court and tell the judge that you were in that garden.’