‘It was only for a second.’
‘So you were there?’
Villemot kept him waiting for an answer. ‘I put my head in,’ he said, eventually, ‘that is all, Christopher.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘Is not important.’
‘It’s very important,’ argued Christopher. ‘It could mean the difference between life and death. If all that you did was to look at the house, they have no case against you. Since you were seen coming out of the garden — the very place where Sir Martin was killed — then you do have questions to answer.’
‘I was there one or two minutes at most.’
‘Why?’
‘The garden gate, it was open.’
‘But why did you go through it?’
‘I was curious.’
‘Are you in the habit of trespassing on other people’s property out of curiosity?’
Villemot tensed. ‘You make fun of me.’
‘I’m asking exactly what will be asked in court.’
‘It must never get that far.’
‘Then give me some real help, Monsieur Villemot. I am on your side. Why do you keep holding things back from me?’
Drawing back from the bars, the artist retreated to a corner of his cell and sulked. He studied Christopher warily. It took time for him to reach the decision to trust his visitor. When he did so, he took a step towards him.
‘Araminta — Lady Culthorpe — she talk a lot about it.’
‘The garden?’
‘Sir Martin spent much money.’
‘He obviously derived great pleasure from it.’
‘I was curious,’ said Villemot. ‘When I see the gate open, I wanted to look at this famous garden for myself.’
‘Wasn’t there an easier way to do that?’ asked Christopher.
‘Easier way?’
‘All you had to do was to express an interest and I’m sure that Lady Culthorpe would have invited you to the house. Instead of which, you sneak in there like a criminal.’
‘I am no criminal!’ shouted Villemot.
‘Calm down, calm down.’
‘I do nothing wrong.’
‘There’s no need to get so angry, Monsieur Villemot.’
‘Then do not call me names.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Christopher. ‘I am simply telling you how it looks to an impartial observer. A man is stabbed to death in his garden. You are seen leaving it. A plea of curiosity is not an adequate defence. We need more.’
‘What more is there?’
‘You still haven’t admitted why you went near the house.’
‘I was riding past.’
‘But what took you to Westminster?’
‘I wanted some fresh air.’
‘There are plenty of others places you could have gone.’
Villemot shrugged. ‘I go for a ride. I find myself in Westminster.’
‘You’re hiding something from me.’
‘What am I hiding?’
‘I think that you followed Lady Culthorpe’s carriage when it took her home that day.’ The Frenchman’s eyes flashed but he held his tongue. ‘When she had been dropped off at the front door of the house, the coachman drove around to the stable block. He saw you there. His name is Dirk and he’s another reliable witness. So,’ said Christopher, patiently, ‘let’s have no more pretence. Did you follow that carriage to Westminster?’
There was a long pause before Villemot grunted his reply.
‘Yes.’
‘Was that out of curiosity as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Or was it because you’d grown so fond of Lady Culthorpe?’
‘No!’ snapped Villemot.
‘Is that what took you there?’
Spinning on his heel, the artist retreated to the farthest corner of his cell and kept his back to his visitor. His shoulders were heaving and his feet shuffling. Christopher gave him plenty of time before he returned to his questioning.
‘What happened afterwards?’ he asked. ‘When you came out of the garden, where did you go?’
‘Back to the studio.’
‘But you didn’t. When I called in there, Emile said that you’d been away for a couple of hours. Was your valet lying?’
Another lengthy pause ensued. ‘No, he was not.’
‘So where did you go?’
‘I tell you already,’ said Villemot, rounding on him. ‘I go for the ride. I often go for the ride. You can ask Emile.’
‘Did something happen in the course of the ride?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Did it, Monsieur Villemot?’
‘No.’
‘Then why were you so upset when you got back?’
‘I was not upset.’
‘I was there,’ said Christopher, tiring of his evasion. ‘I saw you with my own eyes. And if you were not upset, why did you come to my house the next day to apologise for your behaviour?’ He fixed the artist with a stare. ‘Or are you going to deny that as well?’
Villemot chewed his lip. ‘I was annoyed, Christopher,’ he said. ‘While I was out riding, I have the argument with someone and it annoyed me. That was why I was rude to you.’
‘With whom did you have the argument?’
‘A man I meet in the park.’
‘What was the argument about?’
‘I do not remember.’
‘If it annoyed you that much, you’d be certain to remember.’
‘Why do you keep on at me like this?’ demanded Villemot, banging the bars with his fists. ‘You say you wish to help yet you do not believe what I tell you.’
‘There’s still too much missing. I need more detail.’
‘Do you never ride your horse for the pleasure?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Can you always remember where you went and what you saw?’
‘I’d remember a heated argument in a park.’
‘It was all over in a moment.’
‘What did you do with the rest of the time?’
‘The rest?’ repeated the other.
‘You were out of the studio for two hours,’ Christopher reminded him. ‘Take out your brief visit to Sir Martin’s garden and your even briefer argument with some unnamed person in the park and that still leaves a large amount of time.’ He put his face close to the bars. ‘Why are you so afraid to tell me where you went?’
‘Get me out of this place,’ whispered Villemot.
‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to do.’
‘Get me out soon or you will be to blame.’
‘Blame?’ said Christopher.
‘Yes, my friend — for my death.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
‘If I stay here much longer, I will kill myself.’
He meant what he said. The visit was over.
Sir Willard Grail was leaving his house when he saw his brother-in-law riding towards him. He waited until Cuthbert Foxwell had dismounted before exchanging a greeting with him. A servant came to take away the horse. Foxwell was panting and beads of perspiration stood out on his brow.
‘A ride like that always tires me,’ he said, removing his hat to use its brim as a fan. ‘I’m an indifferent horseman, Sir Willard.’
‘My sister married you for your other virtues, Cuthbert. I don’t think that she values horsemanship in a husband overmuch. Like you, she’s a restful creature.’
‘I’m hoping that she had a good rest here, Sir Willard.’
‘She did — and she was wonderful company for my wife. Barbara is always welcome here and so are you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s odd how relationships subtly alter, isn’t it?’ said Sir Willard. ‘When we were children, Barbara was always the elder sister who kept me firmly in line. I was terrified of her.’
Foxwell grinned. ‘How could you be?’
‘Compared to me, she was so big, strong and formidable.’
‘Yet she has such a sweet disposition.’
Sir Willard laughed. ‘It wasn’t quite so sweet when we were growing up,’ he said. ‘I think I was fourteen before my sister realised that she could not order me around any more. That’s when the first subtle change occurred. Instead of bullying me, Barbara learned to get her way by the black art of female persuasion.’
‘I’ll listen to no more of this,’ said Foxwell, pleasantly. ‘My wife is the closest thing to perfection that I’ve ever met and I’ll not hear a word against her. I’m just grateful that when we ride home this afternoon, we’ll do so in our coach. I’d not have enjoyed a journey both ways in the saddle.’