‘I was scared,’ said the valet. ‘I know what Monsieur Villemot would say if anyone steal it. So I hide it.’
‘Where?’
‘Under my bed.’
‘In other words,’ said Christopher, ‘it’s still in the house.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why did you tell us it was stolen?’
‘Because I want everyone to think that,’ said Emile, tasting the brandy with gratitude. ‘If they believe the portrait is not there, they will not come to the house.’
‘That was very clever of you but it did mean that we were searching for a stolen painting that never actually went missing. You wasted our time, Emile, time that could have been devoted to helping to get Monsieur Villemot released from prison.’
‘I sorry.’
‘What made you decide to be Araminta?’ said Henry.
‘I look at the painting every day. She is so lovely.’
‘You achieved a remarkable verisimilitude.’ He saw that he had strayed beyond the bounds of the valet’s English vocabulary. ‘You looked just like her, Emile.’
‘It was the tribute. I like her.’
‘How long have you been going to Fanny Pilgrim?’
‘Since we move to London.’
‘Does your master know about this?’ said Christopher.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Emile as if the question was unnecessary. ‘Of course, he did. I hide nothing from him.’
‘And he didn’t mind?’
‘Monsieur Villemot is an artist. He believe in freedom.’
‘I can think of better ways to exercise it.’
Henry sipped his drink. ‘You take too narrow a view of the world, Christopher,’ he said, ‘and fail to appreciate its teeming variety. I’d not care to spend an evening among the catamites in a Molly House but I refuse to condemn those that do. Well, you met Samson,’ he added. ‘Have you ever seen a more feeble, confused, innocuous creature? I dislike his sin but pardon the sinner.’
‘I’d prefer to put tonight’s little escapade behind us, Henry,’ said his brother. ‘Now that we know the portrait is safe, one problem is solved. We can turn to the more pressing one of Monsieur Villemot’s imprisonment.’
‘We must get him out,’ pleaded Emile, ‘or he die.’
‘I hate to say this but he’s his own worst enemy. Instead of telling me what I need to know to mount his defence, he keeps holding back salient facts.’
‘What sort of facts?’ said Henry.
‘He won’t tell me where he went on the day of the murder.’
‘You already know that. He went to Araminta’s house.’
‘But where did he go afterwards?’ asked Christopher. ‘He did not come back to the studio for two hours or more, and when he did, he was in a state of excitement.’
‘If I’d been to her house, I’d be in a state of delirium.’
‘He’s hiding something from me, Henry, something that might prove his innocence. It’s perverse,’ said Christopher in exasperation. ‘How can I help someone who keeps telling me lies?’
‘What sort of lies?’
‘To begin with, he told me that he was married and that he wanted the house built for him and his wife. But it turns out that there is no wife back in Paris.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Emile told me.’
The two brothers looked at the valet. Shifting in his seat, he took a long sip of his brandy. The resemblance to Araminta Culthorpe had vanished completely now. He was a weary, aging, bewildered, frightened little man.
‘Why did he mislead me, Emile?’ said Christopher. ‘Why did he tell me that he has a wife in France?’
Emile looked hunted. He rolled the glass between his palms.
‘I not tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Ask him,’ said Emile.
Elkannah Prout knew that his invitation would, in all probability, be declined but he nevertheless decided to offer. He called early at the house in the hope of catching his friend before he went out. Jocelyn Kidbrooke was less than welcoming but he agreed to speak to his visitor. They adjourned to the drawing room.
‘Why did you come here?’ asked Kidbrooke.
‘If we talk in your home, you’ll be reminded that you have a wife and children. I think that’s an important factor.’
‘Don’t preach morality at me, Elkannah. You’ve enjoyed every vice in London so it ill befits you to set yourself up as an arbiter of other people’s behaviour.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing,’ said Prout.
‘Then why does your voice have that sanctimonious ring to it?’
‘I came to issue an invitation.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘It’s the visit to Newmarket. When I saw Sir Willard last night, he warned me that you’d try to get me out of the city on the day of Sir Martin’s funeral.’
‘You’ve always liked racing.’
‘I’m engaged in a much more important race of my own at the moment — so are Sir Willard and Henry. That’s why none of us will stray one inch outside the capital.’
‘I think you should reconsider that decision, Jocelyn.’
‘Why?’
‘Your presence at that funeral will cause Araminta pain.’
‘Your absence will surprise her.’
‘I’ve written to offer my condolences.’
‘But what about the many blandishments you sent her in the past — the gifts, the invitations, the billet-doux? Won’t she find it strange that a man who professes to love her will neglect her on a day when she needs every ounce of support she can get?’
‘I do not see it that way.’
‘I respect your right to do so, Elkannah. By the same token, you must respect my right to view the situation as I choose. In short,’ said Kidbrooke, pointedly, ‘this conversation is over.’
‘So you did have a pact.’
‘A pact?’
‘To ignore my advice and attend the funeral,’ said Prout, sharply. ‘You, Henry and Sir Willard have lined up against me.’
‘We’ve done nothing of the sort.’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘We simply agree with each other.’
‘The three of you came to a formal agreement.’
‘Henry and Sir Willard may have done so,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘but I was not party to it. I’ve argued from the start that it was a case of each man for himself. I’ve not consulted them for a second and I doubt if they consulted each other.’
‘I got the strong impression from Henry that the three of you had a verbal contract and that he was going back on his earlier promise to me.’
‘You were misled.’
‘Do you give me your word?’
‘I’ll happily do so, Elkannah. I can’t speak for the others but there’s been no collusion on my part. I’ve not wavered in my view that Araminta is fair game in her bereavement.’
‘I find that notion shameful.’
‘Nobody is forcing you to accept it.’
‘Henry and Sir Willard seem to have done so.’
‘Then each has acted of his own volition. Why have you suddenly decided to bark at my heels?’ complained Kidbrooke. ‘I had enough of that from Sir Willard. As soon as he saw me yesterday evening, he was yapping away like a dog after a fox.’
‘What had you done to offend him?’
‘I’d seized an advantage that he should have taken.’
‘Advantage?’
‘His brother-in-law, Cuthbert Foxwell, hired a gardener who had formerly been employed by Sir Martin Culthorpe. Having worked for Araminta’s husband, the man had privileged information. I decided to avail myself of it by hiring the gardener myself. When I did so,’ he recalled, ‘Sir Willard didn’t make the slightest protest.’
‘Why was he so angry now?’
‘He had just discovered the link between Araminta and the gardener. When the man worked for his brother-in-law, Sir Willard was quite unaware of that link.’
‘How did he find out?’
‘Henry’s brother told him.’
‘Christopher? Why should he get involved?’
‘He seems to be poking his nose into anything and everything,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘It was he who set that unsightly constable on to me. I hope that Christopher Redmayne comes in person next time. I’ll have the pleasure of telling him how I despise meddlers like him.’