‘So?’
‘You must have got to know him very well.’
‘What are you implying?’ she asked, sitting opposite him and subjecting him to a long, challenging stare. ‘I hope you’ve not been sent to pry into my personal life.’
‘Only insofar as it affects Villemot,’ he said, his tone emollient. ‘Since you twice went to Newgate to see him, it’s reasonable to assume that you and he are more than passing acquaintances. I speculate no farther than that.’
‘Thank you, Henry.’
‘When he saw Villemot in prison today, Christopher found him in a miserable condition. He’s overcome with shame at what he did and promises that he’ll never try to take his own life again.’
‘That’s comforting to hear.’
‘Villemot was also more honest about his past.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he admitted that he was not actually married — even though he’s talked frequently of his wife and employed my brother to build a house for the two of them.’ He paused for her to comment but she said nothing. ‘It seems that he was compelled to leave France because of his romance with a married woman. This lady — Monique, I believe she’s called — apparently bears some resemblance to Araminta Culthorpe, though it can only be of the faintest kind.’ He stopped again but she maintained a watchful silence. ‘Did you know all this?’
‘Some of it,’ she acknowledged.
‘Is there anything you’d care to add, Hester?’
‘Only that I’d be glad if you told me precisely why you’re here.’
‘Then let’s abandon all the formalities,’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘On the day that Sir Martin was killed in his garden, did Villemot come here?’
‘Is that what Jean-Paul is claiming?’
‘He refuses to answer the question. Christopher knows that the man was away from his studio for over two hours, but all that Villemot will confess is that he spent a short time at Araminta’s house in Westminster. Where did he go afterwards?’ pressed Henry. ‘If we know that, it might help in his defence.’
‘How?’
‘We could then have a witness who saw him immediately after the time when the murder took place. Villemot is, by all accounts, a man of high emotion. Had he committed the crime,’ said Henry, ‘he would surely have been agitated as a result.’
‘There are other causes for agitation.’
‘So he did come here?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and that fact is proof of his innocence in my opinion. If Jean-Paul were a killer, he’d never have come near this house. He’d have fled the scene in a panic without knowing where he was going. He’s not a phlegmatic Englishman, trained to hide his feelings. He expresses them freely. That’s what made him such delightful company,’ she added, dreamily. ‘Jean-Paul is honest, impulsive and wonderfully spontaneous.’
‘Some Englishmen can be spontaneous,’ he insisted with a mischievous smile. ‘We are not all dull and phlegmatic. I’ve been famed for my spontaneity.’
‘Unfortunately, you are famed for other things as well. I won’t embarrass you by saying what they are.’
‘Happy is the man who can hear his faults and put them right.’
‘I thought you wanted to talk about Jean-Paul.’
‘I did, I did,’ said Henry, quickly. ‘Why did he not tell my brother that he came to you that day?’
‘Because he’s intensely loyal,’ she replied, ‘and that’s another quality you lack. He wanted to guard my reputation. If it became common knowledge that a handsome Frenchman spent time under this roof in my husband’s absence, people would draw some unkind conclusions. I’d be compromised.’
‘Was he very agitated when he got here that day?’
‘Yes, he was — agitated but also excited. Jean-Paul needed someone to talk to and I was the only person he could trust. He poured out his heart to me.’
Henry sat forward. ‘What exactly did he say?’
Sarah Bale had been the wife of a parish constable for long enough to know that it was pointless to rebuke him for any injuries that he picked up in the course of his work. Bruises, cuts and abrasions were an accepted part of a job that involved keeping the peace. Bale never complained. Whenever he had been hurt, all that he wanted was for the wound to be treated so that he could go back to work again. His wife’s sympathy was something he could take for granted.
‘It’s a bad one this time, Jonathan,’ she said as she finished bandaging his head. ‘What did he use to hit you?’
‘I think it was a spade,’ he replied, ‘though it felt more like a giant anvil. He was a strong man.’
‘Does it still hurt?’
‘I can stand the pain, Sarah. It’s the folly of it that stings me.’
‘Whose folly?’
‘Mine, of course,’ he said. ‘I never let someone creep up on me like that. If I’m being followed, I usually know at once. Not this time, I fear. My mind was on other things.’
‘At least, you’re still in one piece.’
She kissed him gently on the cheek then stood back to admire her handiwork. Encircling his head, the bandage hid the wound itself but it could not conceal the dark bruise that spread down the side of his face. He looked battered and faintly sinister. She could tell that the injury was still smarting but she knew that he would never admit it. Bale had a stoical attitude towards pain. It was something that had to be mastered so that it could be ignored.
When someone knocked on the front door, Bale tried to rise from his chair. Sarah pushed him back into it with a firm hand before going out of the kitchen. She soon returned with a visitor.
‘There you are, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘I told you there was no need to struggle over to Mr Redmayne’s house. He’s here in person.’
‘Whatever happened?’ asked Christopher, looking at his friend in dismay. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Much better now that Sarah’s seen to me,’ said Bale. ‘The main thing is that I found that locksmith. I know who wanted the key.’
‘Forget the key, Jonathan. Your welfare comes first. When you didn’t come back to my house, I knew that something untoward must have occurred. Tell me all.’
Because his wife was there, Bale gave only a terse account of the attack, trying to make it sound less threatening than it had been. Christopher felt guilty for having sent his friend on an errand that had put him in such danger. Bale brushed aside his apologies.
‘I got what I went there for, sir,’ he said, taking the key out of his pocket. ‘I showed this to a locksmith named Elijah Sayers.’
‘Did he recognise it?’
‘Straight away, Mr Redmayne.’
‘That was lucky. There must be hundreds of similar keys.’
‘They’re all different to Mr Sayers and he remembers this one.’ Bale handed it to Christopher. ‘He described the man who brought it in and it sounds as if it might have been that gardener.’
‘Abel Paskins.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bale. ‘And I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that it was the same Abel Paskins who tried to do some gardening on my head. He knew how to handle a spade.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive, Jonathan,’ said his wife.
‘It’ll take more than a tap on the head to stop me, Sarah.’
She snorted. ‘A tap! Is that what you call it?’
‘That’s all it felt like.’
‘Nonsense! The kind man who brought you back home on that cart said that you were unconscious on the ground. When he first saw you, he thought you were dead.’
‘Don’t fret about that,’ said Bale.
‘Did the customer give his name?’ said Christopher.
‘No, Mr Redmayne, but he told the locksmith the name of the gentleman who wanted the duplicate made so quickly. I think you can guess who it was.’
‘Jocelyn Kidbrooke, by any chance?’
‘That’s him, sir.’
‘But you were told that Paskins no longer works for him.’
‘If he committed a murder on Mr Kidbrooke’s behalf, he’d have been well-paid for his work. He might not need to go on gardening, sir.’ He put a hand gingerly to his head. ‘I’ve a feeling that Paskins is still working for Mr Kidbrooke. We both need to be careful.’