Listening to the recital of events, Jonathan Bale did not realise that his friend had omitted some crucial details. Christopher had deliberately concealed the fact that he and his brother had visited a Molly House. Such places were anathema to Bale and he would have passed on the address of the establishment to a magistrate. All that he was told was that the missing portrait had been in the safe hands of the valet from the start.
‘Why didn’t Emile tell us that?’ he asked.
‘He wanted everyone to believe a theft had taken place.’
‘In doing that, he was misleading an officer of the law. They may do things differently in France, Mr Redmayne, but we take a dim view of that sort of thing in England.’
‘I did make that point to him, Jonathan.’
‘I’d like to do so myself, sir. He wasted our time.’
‘Let’s not criticise him too harshly. His ruse did prevent the portrait from being stolen and I know for a fact that one thief did gain access to the house.’
‘Do you know the man’s name?’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t,’ said Christopher, shielding his brother from arrest. ‘On balance, I feel that Emile’s action had a purpose.’
Christopher did not add that part of that purpose had been to fuel the valet’s interest in Araminta to the point where he actually tried to become her. The constable would have considerable difficulty in understanding why any man should do that.
‘Putting aside the portrait, sir,’ said Bale, ‘I’m more worried by what you’ve just told me about the gardener.’
‘Abel Paskins has disappeared. It was Henry who found that out for us. Nobody at the house knew where Paskins had gone.’
‘So your brother did not speak to Mr Kidbrooke.’
‘He wasn’t there yesterday.’
‘What about today?’
‘Henry has agreed to tackle him on our behalf.’
‘Your brother is being unusually helpful,’ noted Bale. ‘In the past, he has always done his best to hamper any investigation.’
‘I fancy that he’s seen the light at last,’ said Christopher with gentle sarcasm. ‘Father would be delighted.’
Bale was sombre. ‘I’ve been thinking about that key, sir.’
‘What key?’
‘The one that opened the gate to Sir Martin’s garden,’ said the other. ‘Without that, the killer would not have been able to get in and lie in wait for his victim. He must have had a duplicate made.’
‘So?’
‘That points us firmly towards Abel Paskins, sir. While he was working there, he would have had the key in his possession from time to time. He could have taken it to a locksmith to be copied. If we could find that locksmith,’ suggested Bale, ‘we might get a description of the man who wanted the duplicate.’
‘Locksmiths are making spare keys all the time, Jonathan. How would one of them remember that particular commission?’
‘I’d show them a key to the garden gate. If someone made a duplicate recently, I think that he might remember it.’
‘But we do not have one of those,’ said Christopher.
‘Get one, sir,’ said Bale. ‘You have a friend in the house.’
It was something that Christopher had forgotten. Eleanor Ryle had cared enough about helping the investigation to slip away from her mistress and visit Fetter Lane. Since they were in the study, Christopher had pen and paper to hand. He dashed off a letter to the maid then summoned Jacob.
‘I want Nigel to deliver this immediately,’ he said, handing over the missive. ‘He knows the way to the house.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Tell him to await a reply.’
Before the servant could do so, the doorbell rang and he went off to answer the summons. The haughty voice of a woman was heard then Lady Lingoe was ushered into the study.
‘Good morning, Mr Redmayne,’ she said. ‘Forgive this intrusion but I come on a matter that will brook no delay. It concerns Monsieur Villemot.’
‘Then you’ll not mind if Jonathan stays,’ said Christopher, ‘for he is helping me to prove Monsieur Villemot’s innocence.’
After introducing Bale to his visitor, he offered her a seat. Lady Lingoe arranged herself on the couch and Christopher sat close to her. Cowed by her appearance and aristocratic mien, Bale took the chair that was farthest away from her. He marvelled that his friend could be so at ease in the company of a high-born lady. Being in her presence only accentuated his feelings of social inferiority.
‘Let me go straight to it,’ said Lady Lingoe, ignoring the constable as if he were not there. ‘I’ve just come from Newgate.’
‘How is Monsieur Villemot?’ asked Christopher.
‘They would not let me see him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He tried to kill himself last night. He begged the prison sergeant not to allow me in. I regard myself as a friend of Jean-Paul,’ she went on with unconcealed affection. ‘Why did he have me turned away? The only explanation is that he’s come to the end of his tether. He’s set on taking his own life.’
‘What happened last night, Lady Lingoe?’
‘He attempted to hang himself. Can you think of anything more deplorable? A dear and gifted man like that is driven to suicide, and all because of a crime he did not commit. I was distressed beyond measure when I heard.’
Christopher was on his feet. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘I’ll visit the prison myself and insist on seeing him.’
‘That’s what I was hoping you’d do, Mr Redmayne.’
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Keep me informed of what transpires.’
‘I will, Lady Lingoe.’
‘And give him…’ She smothered the words she was about to say. ‘And please pass on my warmest regards.’ She rose to her feet. ‘You know where to find me, Mr Redmayne.’
‘You’re welcome to stay here with Jonathan.’
‘No, I need the comfort of my own home. Goodbye, Mr Bale.’
‘Goodbye,’ he said, getting up awkwardly.
Christopher took her to the front door to see her off. When he came back into the study, he was carrying his hat.
‘I’ll go at once, Jonathan.’
‘What about me, sir?’
‘You have to stay here for a while.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone might bring you a key to that garden.’
The funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe was due to take place that evening and a pall hung over the whole house. Servants went about their duties in a respectful silence and guests spoke in hushed voices. Since her mistress had asked to be left alone in her bedchamber, Eleanor Ryle was able to retire to her own little room. Letters were still arriving from friends and well-wishers but she had never expected that one message would be addressed to her. The butler delivered it in person. Delighted to have a private moment with Mr Rushton, she opened the letter in his presence and read it.
‘What does it say, Eleanor?’ he asked.
She looked up. ‘I have to ask you a favour, Mr Rushton.’
Overcoming his aversion to the prison, Christopher entered Newgate and asked to see Jean-Paul Villemot. The prison sergeant was at first dubious about allowing the visit but a handful of coins helped him to make up his mind. Christopher was taken to the Frenchman’s cell by one of the turnkeys. He knew immediately why the artist had refused to see Lady Lingoe. After his failed attempt at suicide, he had been stripped of most of his clothes and fettered to an iron ring in the wall of the cell. Embarrassed to be seen by Christopher, he would have felt utterly humiliated if Lady Lingoe had viewed him in that situation.
Crouching down low, the visitor spoke through the bars.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Not well.’
‘What made you do it, Monsieur Villemot?’
‘It was the only thing left to me.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Christopher, ‘and it’s a terrible indictment against the rest of us that you should have reached this point. You must know that taking one’s own life is a crime and a sin. It would leave a terrible stain on your reputation.’
Villemot groaned. ‘What reputation?’
‘The one you took such pains to build up over the years. Would you sacrifice that in a single moment of despair? You must have been brought up as a Roman Catholic. Were you never taught about the consequences of suicide?’ asked Christopher. ‘The Church would renounce you. By law, you’d be buried in unconsecrated ground.’ Villemot started. ‘Is that what you wanted?’