‘I see myself as Araminta’s closest friend.’
‘You’d only be intruding.’
‘I want to help her through her bereavement.’
‘I’ve told you before,’ said his brother, ‘that the best way to do that is to fade out of her sight. If you want to ingratiate yourself with Lady Culthorpe, assist me in solving the crime.’
Henry adjusted his wig in the mirror. ‘I’ve already solved one crime for you,’ he said with a touch of arrogance. ‘I found the stolen portrait. That should endear me to Araminta.’
‘There’s no reason that she should ever hear about it — and I certainly wouldn’t tell her about the way in which she is revered at the Molly House. If she knew that Emile had impersonated her in front of Samson Dinley and his like, she’d be deeply offended.’
‘Do you mean that I get no credit for what I did?’
‘You get an immense amount of credit from me, Henry.’
‘That doesn’t count. I want to impress Araminta.’
‘Then I’ll give you a chance to do so.’
Christopher told him about Villemot’s failed attempt at suicide and his refusal to see Lady Hester Lingoe when she visited Newgate. Henry was interested to hear that the artist had been hounded out of France because of his love for a married woman, but he refused to believe that she could have matched Araminta for beauty.
‘Araminta has no peer,’ he insisted, ‘and certainly no twin.’
‘I’m only repeating what Monsieur Villemot said.’
‘No Frenchwoman could compete with a true-born English lady.’
‘You’ll have to take up the issue with him,’ said Christopher, ‘and you can only manage that if we prove his innocence. What I need you to do for me is to find out exactly what happened to him after he left the garden of Lady Culthorpe’s house.’
Henry was baffled. ‘How could I possibly do that?’
‘Because you know her much better than I do.’
‘Who?’
‘Lady Lingoe.’
‘Is that where he went?’
‘It must be,’ said Christopher, ‘though he won’t admit it. A man like Monsieur Villemot would only hold back information in order to protect a woman. He has a sense of chivalry.’
‘Why should he want to protect her?’
‘That’s what you must discover. The fact is that he was very excited when he returned to his studio that day — why?’
‘I can think of one explanation,’ said Henry with a sly grin. ‘He was invited to take full advantage of Lord Lingoe’s absence, then he was forced to listen to Hester, reading Juvenal to him in bed afterwards.’
‘Make discreet enquiries.’
‘Leave it to me.’
‘How well do you know Lady Lingoe?’
‘Not as well as I’d like, Christopher — though I’ve come to admire her much more since I saw that portrait of her at the studio. If Hester wishes to be a naked huntress, I’d gladly be her quarry.’
‘You are on a mission to save Monsieur Villemot’s life,’ said his brother, tartly, ‘not to pursue your own questionable ends. If, as I believe, he did go to her house from Westminster, what sort of state was he in? That evidence could be significant. If Villemot had killed Sir Martin Culthorpe, he would probably have been nervous, distracted or triumphant. Only Lady Lingoe can tell us the truth.’
‘I’ll call on her later.’
‘Go now, Henry.’
‘But I’ve not chosen what to wear.’
‘The fate of an imprisoned man is much more important than your choice of attire,’ scolded Christopher. ‘Think back to the time when you languished behind bars at Newgate. How would you have felt if I’d spent hours going through my wardrobe instead of doing all I could to secure your release?’
‘A sound argument,’ conceded Henry. ‘Urgency is in request. I’ll go to her house at once. It’s a pity I’ll not be able to dress the part,’ he went on, surveying the wide array of clothing. ‘If I’m calling on Hester, I should really do so in the toga of a Roman Emperor.’
After his visit to the locksmith, Jonathan Bale began the long walk back to Fetter Lane. He prided himself on having obtained a vital clue from Elijah Sayers and could not wait to pass it on. Lengthening his stride, he headed in the direction of the Strand and reflected on the way that his friendship with Christopher Redmayne had widened his sphere of activity and given him an insight into the higher levels of society. Those insights only served to confirm his prejudices and reinforce his republican leanings but he was nevertheless grateful to the young architect. One way or another, Christopher had provided him with an education.
Bale liked to believe that his friend had learned a great deal from him in return. Christopher had been taught how onerous and wide-ranging the duties of a constable were, and he had also seen how a family of four with a very modest income managed to get by. Bale was so preoccupied with this thoughts that he did not realise he was being followed. The man stayed well back. Wearing rough garb and with a hat pulled down over his forehead, he was a sturdy individual of middle height, around the same age as Bale. Over his shoulder, he carried a spade and looked as if he was going off to work in a garden.
There was too much traffic about at first and far too many pedestrians who might act as witnesses. The man therefore bided his time. When Bale eventually turned down a side street, his shadow saw his chance and began to gain on the constable. A horseman was approaching and there were a couple of people talking on a corner, but there was nobody to stop the attacker or to overpower him after the assault. It was the moment to strike.
Breaking into a run at the last moment, he took hold of the spade in both hands. Bale heard the footsteps and turned on his heel to see who was behind him. The man swung the flat of the blade at his head, intending to crack his skull open and knock him unconscious. Bale had a split-second to react. Pulling his head sharply back, he ducked instinctively and turned his face away from the oncoming spade. The implement caught him on the side of the head. It was only a glancing blow but it was enough to knock him from his feet and open up a gash on the side of his skull.
The man did not stop to assess his victim’s injuries. His only concern was to get away from the scene of the crime as swiftly as possible. Running fast, he dived down the first lane he came to and raced on until he was certain that he was not being followed. When he saw that nobody was behind him, he joined the main road and sauntered along with the spade over his shoulder. A hundred yards behind him, Jonathan Bale lay motionless on the ground.
* * *
Lady Hester Lingoe took her visitor into the library and offered him a chair. She was dressed once more as a Roman priestess though there was nothing at all spiritual about her manner. Henry Redmayne was given no time to take stock of his surroundings.
‘Why did your brother send you, Henry?’ she asked.
‘I came of my own accord.’
‘You lost interest in me when I married so let’s not pretend that this is anything more than a search for information.’
‘You malign me,’ said Henry with a grin of admiration. ‘I never lost interest in you, Hester. I merely thought it proper to liberate you from my attentions when you took your marriage vows. In any case, my interest was soon revived when I saw that portrait of you at Villemot’s studio.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m rather proud of that.’
‘Did you enjoy sitting for it?’
‘Immensely.’
‘Villemot would have enjoyed working on the painting, that much is beyond doubt. Any man with the privilege of gazing upon your beauty day after day was bound to be enthralled by it.’
‘Jean-Paul is an artist. He was not there to gloat.’
‘I’m not for a moment suggesting that he was,’ said Henry, wondering if every Roman priestess had worn quite so much powder on her face. ‘All I mean is that, in those circumstances, an artist and his model are inevitably drawn close.’