Eleanor crossed to the window and looked out at the garden. Even under a leaden sky, it looked full of colour and blossom. A stray thought floated into her brain like a dry leaf blown by the wind. It produced an immediate reaction. Leaving the room, she went down the backstairs and out into the garden, following a path that twisted its way between trees, shrubs and flowerbeds. Eventually, she came to the shaded grotto where Sir Martin Culthorpe had been murdered. There, dressed in black, sitting on a bench, dwelling on memories that brought a faraway smile to her face, was Araminta Culthorpe.
‘I wondered where you were, m’lady,’ said Eleanor.
‘What?’ Araminta came out of her reverie. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘I felt drawn back to this place, Eleanor.’
‘But it has such unhappy memories for you, m’lady.’
‘That’s not what I found. It’s an odd word to use perhaps, but I feel renewed. Being able to come here has dispelled some of my gloom. It was almost as if my husband beckoned me back to this spot. He wanted me to conquer any fears I have of this grotto, to remember the many happy moments he and I spent in this garden.’
‘It’s good that you can feel like that.’
‘I have to, Eleanor, or there’s no point in going on.’
‘You must go on, m’lady.’
‘I know — and I will. Sir Martin would expect it of me. I’ll tend this garden with the same love that he showed.’ She gave the maid a shrewd look. ‘Do you have something to tell me?’
‘No, no.’
‘I can see it in your eyes. What’s happened, Eleanor?’
‘Nothing, m’lady.’
‘Come on, I insist on knowing.’
‘Wait until after the funeral,’ said Eleanor. ‘That’s the only thing that matters now. Forget everything else.’
Araminta was persistent. ‘Is it something to do with Monsieur Villemot?’ The maid pursed her lips. ‘Well — is it?’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mr Redmayne — Christopher Redmayne — is more certain than ever that Mr Villemot was not the murderer. To prove it beyond doubt, he asked for some help from us.’
‘What sort of help?’
‘He wanted to borrow a key to the garden gate.’
Jonathan Bale did not enjoy the wait. Left alone in Christopher’s house, he was restless and uncomfortable. When Jacob offered him refreshment, the constable was even more ill at ease. Having no servant of his own, he could not bring himself to allow someone else to fetch and carry for him, unless it was his wife. Nigel eventually rode back to Fetter Lane and handed over the key. Bale went off on his mission at once.
If Abel Paskins had indeed borrowed the key, he reasoned, the man would have wanted the duplicate made as quickly as possible. The gardener would therefore have chosen a locksmith nearby so that the key was not missing from the house in Westminster for long. Bale set off at a brisk pace and maintained it all the way. The first locksmith he found had never seen the key before but he gave the constable the name of a rival whose workshop was only streets away. Bale soon made the acquaintance of Elijah Sayers.
‘What do you want?’ asked Sayers, bluntly.
‘I want you to look at this key.’
‘I don’t have the time.’
Bale was assertive. ‘Make some time, Mr Sayers.’
‘I’m too busy. If you want a duplicate, you’ll have to wait at least a fortnight before I could take on more work. Find someone else.’
‘I don’t want a duplicate,’ said Bale, ‘I want information.’
After introducing himself, Bale explained why he was there. Elijah Sayers did not appear to be listening to him. He continued to use a file on a large key and did not even look at his visitor. Sayers was a short, wiry man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair sprouting on both sides of his balding head like a pair of supplementary ears. He wore a leather apron over his filthy working clothes. Filled with smoke from the little forge, the workshop was a long, low, narrow room that was never swept, with keys of all sizes hanging from the rafters. Locks were arranged haphazardly on a rough wooden table. The place was so filled with shadow that Bale wondered how the locksmith could see well enough to practise his trade.
Sayers glanced up, eyes gleaming in the half-dark. He thrust out a hand and took the key from Bale. After a brief examination, he handed it back and returned to his work.
‘Do you recognise it?’ said Bale.
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Do you recognise people you once arrested?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s the same with me and my keys, Mr Bale,’ said the other, turning to spit into the forge. ‘They’re like humans to me — each one has a different face and character. I’d know that anywhere.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I made a tidy profit out of it.’
‘Who brought it in?’
‘A man in a hurry,’ said Sayers. ‘He wanted me to make another key while he waited. I told him I had other customers waiting for their locks and keys. He’d have to take his turn.’
‘What was his reply?’
‘He said it was urgent. The gentleman who’d sent him had to have a duplicate that day. Money was no object. He’d pay whatever was asked. I took him at his word.’
‘You made the key?’
‘Yes, I did — and I charged him four times what I would have done. He paid up without any argument then watched me do my work. Afterwards, he rushed off.’
‘Did he give his name?’
‘No, Mr Bale.’
‘What about the gentleman who sent him?’
‘Oh, he told me what he was called.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Mr Kidbrooke — Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
Chapter Eleven
Henry Redmayne was racked by indecision. As a rule, he made up his mind about his social calendar with remarkable speed but not in this case. Should he or should he not attend the funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe? It was a dilemma that vexed him for hours on end. If he went, would his presence be noted and appreciated by Araminta or would it alarm her? If he stayed away, could his absence please or disappoint her? More to the point, would it simply hand an advantage to his rivals? Elkannah Prout might avoid the occasion but Jocelyn Kidbrooke would definitely be there and, Henry suspected, so would Sir Willard Grail. Both might attract favourable attention from Araminta and it worried him.
After lengthy cogitation and much soul-searching, he made a provisional decision to go to the funeral but that only pitched him headfirst into another frothing pool of uncertainty. What should he wear? Henry needed something appropriate yet individual, muted apparel that showed his respect for the deceased yet somehow caught the eye of the widow. He began to work his way through his wardrobe, trying on and discarding item after item. He was preening himself before the mirror in his bedchamber when someone rapped on his door.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Christopher,’ replied his brother, opening the door to walk in. ‘I was told that you were dressing.’
‘Dressing and undressing,’ said Henry, turning at a slight angle to admire the cut of his long waistcoat in the mirror. ‘What I really need is a tailor to provide me with a new suit for the occasion.’
‘What occasion?’
‘Nothing that need concern you.’
‘What occasion, Henry?’
‘It does not matter.’
Christopher looked at the clothing scattered over the huge bed and draped over every available chair. Evidently, the occasion mattered a great deal to Henry. It was therefore easy to identify.
‘You are surely not going to the funeral?’ said Christopher with a blend of disapproval and disbelief. ‘How could you even conceive of the idea, Henry? You are not wanted there.’
‘I might be missed by Araminta.’
‘Gratefully.’
‘You don’t know that, Christopher.’
‘I know that she’d prefer the event to be a private affair, involving only family and close friends.’