‘Go on.’
Christopher had to wait until Henry had finished the last mouthful. His brother washed it down with a sip of wine, then surveyed the table to see if anything else tempted him.
‘According to Sir Willard — and he’s always unnervingly well-informed about such matters — Jocelyn’s wife is not even in London at the moment. She’s visiting her family in Hampshire.’
‘So why did he lie to you?’
‘Why else but to go peering at Araminta through his telescope?’
‘He has a telescope?’
‘He bought it for that sole purpose. All that the rest of us have had to sustain us are distant glimpses of her. Jocelyn has been able to bring her much nearer through his infernal instrument.’
‘So at the time of the murder,’ said Christopher, eager to confirm the fact, ‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke missed an opportunity to dine with friends because of a more urgent appointment?’
‘Yes, Christopher.’
‘That appointment could have been in Sir Martin’s garden.’
‘It could but I doubt very much that it was.’
‘Why?’
‘Wait until you meet him,’ said Henry. ‘He’s too fat and slow to be a likely assassin — though strangely enough, Elkannah did make a comment to that effect,’ he continued as a memory surfaced. ‘It was over that meal we had in Locket’s.’
‘What did Mr Prout say?’
‘Only that Jocelyn was so bedazzled by Araminta’s charms that he would kill to make her his own.’ He flapped a hand. ‘Elkannah was only speaking metaphorically. He knew as well as I did that Jocelyn would be incapable of such a deed.’
‘I wonder,’ said Christopher.
‘His passions run deep but they would not provoke him to commit a murder. To begin with, Jocelyn would have had no means of getting inside that garden.’
‘Abel Paskins might have helped him.’
‘Who?’
‘The gardener who was dismissed by Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
Christopher told him how he had first heard about the man and how he had driven to Chelsea in the hope of meeting him. The news that Kidbrooke had blatantly poached the gardener from his last employer made Henry forget all about his dinner. He began to revise his opinion of his friend.
‘Paskins could have told him everything he needed to know.’
‘Especially how to get into that garden.’
‘Jocelyn — the killer?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Why was he so keen to engage Abel Paskins? Why did he fail to turn up for dinner that day? What use did he put that telescope to?’ asked Christopher. ‘Is he simply a man in the grip of an obsession or was he driven by uncontrollable jealousy to stab the husband of the woman he pursued? I need you to find out, Henry.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re an intimate of his. If you make casual enquiries, he’ll give you some answers. If I try to approach him, Mr Kidbrooke will be curt and defensive. That’s what happened when Jonathan Bale talked to him.’
‘Bale would make anyone curt and defensive.’
‘Find out what he was really doing on the day of the murder.’
‘He’s unlikely to volunteer the information.’
‘Then dig it out of him by more devious means,’ said his brother. ‘As long as you don’t alert him to the fact that we have the gravest suspicions about him.’
‘I’m not sure that I’m equal to the task, Christopher.’
‘You have to be. You still have much to do to make amends for the way you tried to steal that portrait. Any magistrate who heard what you did would clap you in prison at once.’
‘Not prison again, please — it so disagrees with my complexion.’
‘It’s driven Monsieur Villemot to thoughts of suicide.’
‘That could be a sign of guilt,’ said Henry, pensively. ‘He’d rather take his own life than face the hangman in front of a baying crowd. Perhaps you are wrong about Jocelyn. What if the real killer is the man they have already arrested for the crime?’
‘Monsieur Villemot is innocent — I swear it.’
‘I feel the same about Jocelyn. ’Sdeath, I spent the whole evening with him yesterday. I cannot get my brain to accept that I was revelling with a cold-blooded killer.’
‘I’ve no proof that Mr Kidbrooke is guilty,’ said Christopher, ‘or that Abel Paskins is in any way involved in the crime. It may be that they are not. But it’s an avenue I must explore for the sake of Monsieur Villemot. About it, Henry.’
‘I’m working at the Navy Office this afternoon.’
‘Seek out your friend at the earliest opportunity.’
‘I need to think this over.’
Christopher was authoritative. ‘I’ve thought it over for you. Do as you’re told or there’ll be repercussions.’
‘Would you really turn me over to the law?’
‘Yes, Henry!’ His stern expression melted into a smile. ‘But if you do help me and Jonathan to find the killer, I’ll sing your praises to Lady Culthorpe and wipe away her painful memory of those mawkish verses you felt moved to write.’
Henry was wounded. ‘I put my heart and soul into every line,’ he said, piteously. ‘I expected Araminta to swoon at the sheer magic of my words. I discern a small flaw in her character at last — Araminta has no appreciation of a master poet’s craft.’
Christopher was tactful. ‘Then send her no more examples of it.’
Emile was stroking the cat when he heard the coach rumble to a halt in the street below. Going to the window, he looked down to see Lady Lingoe being helped out of the vehicle by her footman. Clemence did not like being tossed on to a chair and she screeched her disapproval but Emile was already out of the room and descending the stairs. He opened the front door to admit his visitor, greeted her warmly then escorted her up to the studio. Lady Lingoe stood in the doorway and surveyed the room with a nostalgic smile.
‘I spent so much time in here,’ she said, fondly.
‘It was the honour to see you here.’
‘Things have changed for the worse since then, Emile. What I admired most about your master was that he was a free spirit, an artistic vagabond. He lived his life exactly as he chose.’
‘Is very true.’
‘Monsieur Villemot had such a healthy disdain for the pointless restraints that society imposes upon the rest of us. It was a joy to be in his company.’ Her face clouded. ‘The free spirit has now been caged. I went to see him in Newgate.’
‘He tell me, Lady Lingoe. He thank you.’
‘It was disheartening to see him in such a squalid place.’
‘He is hurting very much.’
‘Can you blame him? He’s locked up with the sweepings of London. It’s like Bedlam in there.’
‘I know. I tell Monsieur Redmayne.’
‘Christopher Redmayne?’
‘Yes. He say that he will go to the prison himself.’
‘He’d be better employed trying to get your master out of there. The atmosphere in Newgate is so foul. When I got home, I had to change out of my clothes to get ride of the smell.’
‘I do the same,’ said Emile, fastidiously.
‘When you spoke to Christopher Redmayne, did he give you any reason for hope?’
‘A little — he say he has the suspect.’
‘Did he tell you who it was?’
‘No, Lady Lingoe, he give me no name.’
‘At least, it sounds as if he’s picked up a scent. I wonder who the man could be and how he managed to get away with the murder.’
‘We will know one day.’
‘Let it be one day soon,’ she said with feeling. ‘I do not think that Monsieur Villemot can stand those unspeakable conditions for much longer. I only got as far as the sergeant’s office but that was enough to make me feel crushed. It must be soul-destroying to be locked away in one of the cells.’
‘When I come out of there,’ said Emile, ‘I cry for my master.’
‘I can well believe it. However,’ she went on, looking around, ‘I did not only come here to tell you about my visit to Newgate. I wanted to collect my portrait and take it back with me.’