Nothing had prepared the two brothers for what they were about to see and they were rendered speechless. The room was half-full of people who stood in a semi-circle around a large, gilded picture frame. Inside the frame, lolling on a couch and wearing a blue dress that shimmered in the candlelight, was a beautiful woman. She looked so much like the figure Christopher had seen in the portrait at the studio that he thought, for one startling instant, that it was Araminta. The resemblance was quite uncanny.
Henry felt it, too, craning his neck and blowing her a kiss. As they had been told, it was no mere painted likeness of Araminta but a creature of flesh and blood, capable of movement. As she adopted another pose, Christopher eased himself forward to get closer. The mirage before him slowly began to change. He could not only see the thick powder that had been used on the face, he realised that this woman was much older than Araminta. When their eyes locked for an instant, he realised something else as well and it sent him back to Henry’s side. He spoke in his brother’s ear.
‘I’m leaving, Henry.’
‘Why? Look on Araminta and understand why I love her.’
‘That’s not her,’ said Christopher.
‘It’s close enough to persuade me.’
There was a collective cry of disappointment as Araminta got up from the couch and withdrew into a dressing room. Christopher pulled his brother out by the sleeve.
‘We need to catch him when he leaves,’ he said.
‘Who?’ asked Henry. ‘All I saw was a vision of Araminta. She looks exactly as she did in that portrait at the studio.’
‘Now we know who stole it.’
‘Do we?’
‘I got near enough to recognise her — it was Emile.’
Sir Willard Grail was carousing in the tavern with some friends when he saw Jocelyn Kidbrooke enter. Excusing himself from the table, he went across to confront him.
‘I’ve been looking for you all day, Jocelyn,’ he said.
‘I had to go to Richmond.’
‘So I was told.’
‘What did you want me for?’ said Kidbrooke. ‘If you’re after more money, Sir Willard, you’re out of luck. I have none on me.’
‘It’s not your money I’m interested in — it’s your garden.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you.’
He took Kidbrooke to a vacant table and they sat down. A waiter came to take the order. When the man had gone, Sir Willard let his anger show.
‘Did you poach a gardener from my brother-in-law?’
‘That’s a private matter,’ said Kidbrooke.
‘If it involved Araminta, it’s a very public matter. I spoke to Cuthbert earlier today. What you did to him still rankles. He adores his garden almost as much as he does his library.’
‘He has every right to, Sir Willard — it’s very impressive.’
‘It was until you lured away one of his best gardeners.’
‘I, too, have a garden.’
‘That wasn’t the reason you wanted Abel Paskins, was it?’ said Sir Willard, accusingly. ‘You discovered that the fellow once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘Really? He never mentioned that to me.’
‘He had no need to, Jocelyn — you already knew.’
‘I did nothing of the kind.’
‘You wanted Paskins because he could tell you things about Araminta and her husband that only someone who had worked at the house would know. You didn’t employ a gardener — you were buying information.’
Kidbrooke smiled defiantly. ‘What if I was?’
‘It was a breach of the Society’s articles.’
‘There was no reference to a gardener in them.’
‘We made a solemn agreement that we wouldn’t try to bribe members of Araminta’s household to act as spies,’ said Sir Willard. ‘Yet that’s exactly what you did.’
‘I deny that.’
‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’
‘Perhaps you should take another look at those articles that Elkannah drew up for us. Specific mention was only made of Araminta’s household, not of Sir Martin’s. At the time when we formed the Society,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘she was not married and was living with her cousin here in London.’
‘Don’t try to wriggle out of this, Jocelyn. You violated the spirit of the articles and should forfeit your right to the purse.’
‘It’s not the purse I’m after, Sir Willard.’
‘No, it’s that poor, wounded, defenceless, grieving widow.’
‘As for the spirit of the articles,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘that does not apply here. I did not try to bribe one of Sir Martin’s gardeners. Abel Paskins had already left his employ.’
‘Yes — he was working for my brother-in-law.’
‘I made him a more attractive offer.’
‘Then pumped him for intelligence about Araminta.’
‘I may have asked him if he was aware of the way that the romance between Sir Martin and her had first developed, but I also wanted him to build a rockery in my garden. The one he constructed for Mr Foxwell,’ he went on, ‘was what first drew my attention to him.’
‘You cheated, Jocelyn.’
‘I simply made the most of my chances.’
‘You broke the rules.’
‘What would you have done in my place, Sir Willard?’
‘Behaved more honourably.’
‘I beg leave to question that,’ said Kidbrooke, roundly. ‘Had you known that Paskins had once worked for Sir Martin Culthorpe, you’d have whisked him away from under your brother-in-law’s nose without a second thought. Am I correct?’
Sir Willard was spared the awkwardness of a reply by the return of the waiter with a bottle of wine. When he had poured it into the two glasses, he withdrew again. Kidbrooke lifted his glass.
‘Let’s drink as friends,’ he encouraged.
‘Very well,’ said the other, picking up his glass. ‘But I’ll not forgive you for what you did, Jocelyn. You tried to gain an advantage over the rest of us by using corrupt means.’
‘I admit that I tried.’
‘And what did you learn?’
‘That Sir Martin was right to dismiss Abel Paskins.’
‘Why?’
‘The fellow was surly and ungovernable. Left to himself, he worked well and hard but he insisted on having his own way. Also, he was forever complaining.’
‘About what?’
‘Whatever took his fancy — he thrived on argument.’
‘Cuthbert had no trouble from the fellow.’
‘Then he would have been welcome to have him back because I soon regretted tempting him away from Mr Foxwell.’
‘When I called at your house, they said Paskins was not there.’
‘That’s quite true, Sir Willard.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Kidbrooke, resentfully. ‘He left earlier this week without a word of explanation. Paskins has flown the coop.’
As soon as they got back to Christopher’s house, he asked Jacob to pour three large glasses of brandy. The old man was perturbed when he saw his master return with his two companions but he masked his concern with his usual aplomb. Jacob was used to seeing Henry in flamboyant clothing but not with a painted face. It worried him. What really disturbed him was the sight of the little French valet with a powdered features and a woman’s wig on his head. He was, however, spared the blue dress. Emile had changed out of that before leaving Mother Pilgrim’s Molly House.
Left alone with their brandy, Christopher fired off a question.
‘Why did you steal that portrait, Emile?’ he challenged. ‘Did you want to show it off to your friends at Fanny Pilgrim’s?’
‘I no steal it,’ insisted Emile.
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I hide it so that nobody could take it away. Matilda, she warn me that this man go to the studio when I was not there. He look at the painting of Lady Culthorpe. He want it.’
‘You can hardly blame the fellow,’ said Henry, blithely, giving no hint that he was the man in question. ‘Any portrait of Araminta would be like spun gold.’