‘That will bring comfort,’ said Araminta. After a pause, she sat bolt upright to announce an important decision. ‘I’ve been thinking about the portrait.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘It hasn’t upset me, Eleanor. It did at first, I admit, because it had such painful associations. Then I tried to look at it from Monsieur Villemot’s point of view. He was so excited by the commission. He brought such relish to his work.’ A look of bewilderment came over her face. ‘Monsieur Villemot wanted more than anything to finish that portrait. He told me that it would be his finest work since coming to England. Why should he do anything that might prevent him from completing it? That would be nonsensical.’
‘I agree, m’lady.’
‘He stood to gain nothing whatsoever by committing the crime,’ said Araminta, ‘yet he risked losing everything. Once I’d dwelt on that fact, I realised that I need no longer shun the portrait. It was not, after all, the work of a man who killed my husband.’
‘Other people feel the same,’ said Eleanor, thinking of her visit to Christopher Redmayne. ‘I’m sure that they are doing whatever they can to prove his innocence.’
‘It was as if a curse had suddenly been lifted off the portrait.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way.’
‘Since it was commissioned by Sir Martin, it ought to be here in our house. In time — God willing — Monsieur Villemot may even be in a position to finish it, though I can understand that he might want to have nothing more to do with it.’
‘All that he wants at the moment is to be set free.’
‘If he’s truly innocent, that will surely happen.’
‘What do you want me to do about the portrait, m’lady?’
‘Go and fetch it.’
‘Today?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Araminta, decisively. ‘Take the carriage to the studio and collect what is rightly mine.’
Christopher Redmayne was impatient. The evening was wearing on yet there was no sign of his brother. He feared that Henry might have forgotten his assignment and drifted off to a tavern with his friends. As he paced up and down the drawing room of his house, Christopher reprimanded himself for trusting so important a task to a person who was noted for his unreliability. Valuable time had been lost. Until they had more detail about Abel Paskins, neither Christopher nor Jonathan Bale could press ahead with their investigation into the murder and the theft of the portrait.
There was the additional problem of Jean-Paul Villemot. To a man of such pride and sensitivity, being under lock and key in Newgate was like being stretched on a rack of humiliation. He would not be able to withstand it indefinitely. His threat of suicide had not been an idle one. If he carried it out, his name would be added to the long list of prisoners who had taken their own lives to escape the shame of being thrown into Newgate.
Christopher did not want the artist’s death on his conscience but the only way to avoid that was to establish his innocence. If he put his mind to it, Henry could play a crucial role in getting Villemot out of prison, but it appeared that he had once again been distracted by the more immediate pleasures of the city. His brother’s first impulse was to visit Henry’s favourite haunts and drag him out of the one into which he had selfishly rolled that evening. Christopher drew back from that course of action because he knew how quickly Henry could drink himself into incomprehensibility. An inebriated brother would be no use to him at all.
He was just about to give up all hope of seeing Henry that evening when he heard the clatter of hooves in the street. Someone pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. When the doorbell rang, Jacob went to answer it. Leaving his horse in the care of the old servant, Henry Redmayne swept into the drawing room and took off his hat before giving a low bow. Christopher was astounded. He did not at first recognise his brother for he wore a peach-coloured suit of the finest silk and the most elaborate sartorial accessories. What confused Christopher was that his visitor’s face was covered in white powder and marked with a large beauty spot.
‘Is that you, Henry?’ asked his brother, tentatively.
‘As large as life, Christopher.’
‘Why have you dressed like this?’
‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ said Henry. ‘Meanwhile, prepare yourself for a disappointment.’
‘You forgot all about speaking to Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
‘On the contrary, I rode to his house as soon as I’d finished at the Navy Office. But he was not there. He spent the day in Richmond.’
‘Did you enquire about Abel Paskins?’
‘That’s the other disappointment.’
‘Why?’
‘The gardener left Jocelyn’s staff days ago,’ said Henry. ‘Nobody at the house has any idea where Paskins might have gone. But do not worry,’ he continued. ‘As one trail goes cold, we pick up a scent elsewhere. Get changed, Christopher. Put on the most gaudy apparel that you possess.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘It will help us to blend in. Samson Dinley is a distant acquaintance of mine, though anyone less like the Biblical Samson it would be impossible to find. He’s no strong man brought down by a woman, but a puny, prancing, pigeon-chested fellow. However,’ said Henry, magnanimously, ‘despicable as he is in many ways, Samson gave me the most valuable piece of information.’
‘About what?’
‘The missing portrait.’
‘He knows where it is?’
‘Samson saw it for himself.’
‘Where?’
‘At the place I’m about to take you, Christopher. But you’d not be admitted in that dull and workaday attire. Seek out the brightest thing in your wardrobe,’ he urged, pushing his brother out of the room. ‘You are about to have an experience that will set your mind racing. Araminta awaits us — dress up accordingly for her.’
Chapter Ten
Jean-Paul Villemot dreaded the approach of night. The day had been a trial but visits from Emile and Christopher Redmayne had acted as a welcome distraction and left him with the minor comforts of clean clothing and edible food. Natural light had also filtered into his cell. Although the narrow slit in the wall was too high for him to look out through, he was grateful for the sunshine that poked in and for the additional benediction of a whiff of fresh air that came in its wake. At night, one of them disappeared.
Newgate was plunged into darkness. Villemot had a candle in his cell but its flickering flame created only a small circle of light. He was lost in shadow, a hunched figure sitting against the wall as he listened to the nocturnal howls of the crazed, the sick and the violent. Noise was more intrusive at night, bruising his ears, battering on the iron bars and pressing in upon him with almost physical force. As the din built to a crescendo, he put his hands to his face in sheer dejection.
There was no way out. He admired Christopher Redmayne but he simply could not believe that the architect — albeit with the aid of a constable — would be able to secure his release from prison. There were strict limits to what Emile could do for him and even Lady Lingoe was only able to make his imprisonment marginally less hideous. Villemot was on his own, a renowned French artist who discovered that his fame, his nationality and his choice of profession only provoked derision in Newgate. Charged with murder, he was treated like the lowest criminal. It was degrading.
He was not only obsessed with his own suffering. His thoughts frequently turned to Araminta and to the torment that she was undergoing. Her pain would be intensified beyond endurance by the belief that the artist had stabbed her husband to death. Wanting her to think well of him, he was horrified that he was seen as the agent of her grief. Young, vulnerable and forlorn, Araminta would be locked in a prison of anguish. She had her own Newgate.
The notion of suicide had at first been too frightening to contemplate but it began to take on a seductive appeal. It would liberate him from his woes and save him from the strong possibility of being hanged in front of a jeering mob. The problem lay in deciding on a means of committing suicide that would be swift and effective. A razor was the obvious choice but he was not allowed to shave. The alternative was a dagger with a sharp blade. However, since a turnkey overheard every conversation he had, he could hardly instruct a friend to provide one for him.