‘I’ll take over from now on, Jonathan. You deserve a rest.’
‘Not until we’ve caught the pair of them,’ said Bale, struggling to his feet. ‘I’ve a score to settle with Paskins.’
‘And I’ve one to settle with Jocelyn Kidbrooke,’ said Christopher. ‘By plotting the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe, he almost robbed me of a commission to build a new house here in Baynard’s Castle Ward.’
‘Which one do we arrest first, sir — Paskins or Mr Kidbrooke?’
‘I think we’ll start with Kidbrooke.’
‘The truth of it is that I’m still dithering,’ said Sir Willard Grail.
‘You’ll have to make a decision fairly soon,’ warned Jocelyn Kidbrooke. ‘The funeral will be in less than two hours.’
‘I’m not sure that I wish to go.’
‘Elkannah has been at you again.’
‘He knew he’d be wasting his time.’
‘Then why these last-minute doubts?’
‘They’re not really doubts, Jocelyn. I suppose that they are best described as faint rustlings at the back of my mind.’
‘That’s an affliction from which I’ve never suffered.’
‘No conscience?’
‘Not in this case, Sir Willard,’ said the other, happily. ‘It makes life so much easier when you don’t have to consider the rights and wrongs of your actions. Morality can be such a nuisance.’
They were in the coffee house, seated in the corner so that they were not drawn into the general discussion at the common table. Sir Willard was in his customary flamboyant attire but Kidbrooke had dressed to attend the funeral. They made an incongruous pairing.
‘When did Elkannah first stumble upon it?’ said Kidbrooke.
‘Upon what?’
‘Morality.’
‘Very recently,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He’s gone through the best part of forty years without realising that such a thing existed. That’s why his conversion has been so surprising.’
‘Is it a conversion or a form of madness?’
‘Both, I fancy.’
‘What sane man would renounce his interest in Araminta?’
‘And why did he break off his friendship with Henry simply because they had a disagreement? I’m always having disagreements with Henry Redmayne,’ disclosed Sir Willard. ‘He invites argument. It’s one of his few virtues that he never bears grudges when I best him in debate. It’s just as well because I do it so frequently.’
‘Henry is a fool but an extremely likeable one.’
‘How would you characterise Elkannah Prout?’
‘Until recently,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘I’d have described him as one of the most amiable, wicked, depraved, heartless men in London. In short, inspiring company for thorough-going libertines like us. All that changed when Sir Martin was killed,’ he went on. ‘Elkannah had a sudden attack of religious principles and the vile disease warped his mind.’
‘I hope that I don’t catch it when I reach his age.’
‘The only thing we are likely to catch is the French disease.’
Sir Willard laughed. ‘That’s why I choose my ladies with such care,’ he said. ‘Their purity is part of their charm.’
‘As it is with Araminta, the princess of purity.’
‘You never said a truer word, Jocelyn.’
Kidbrooke got up. ‘I’ll leave you to dither, Sir Willard,’ he said. ‘I have a funeral to attend. You’d be wise to go to it as well.’
‘I’ll think it over.’
They exchanged farewells. Kidbrooke left the coffee house but his friend remained to consider his own position. Sir Willard wondered if there was a positive gain in going to the funeral. He would have little chance of getting anywhere near Araminta. On the other hand, a list of mourners would eventually reach her and she might be touched by the fact that he was there. After several minutes of rumination, he decided to go to the church. Before doing that, he would need to change into something more suitable.
Getting up, he hurried towards the exit. The moment he stepped through the door, however, he found two figures barring his way. He recognised Christopher Redmayne as one of them.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said, brusquely. ‘I’ve no time to speak to you now as I have an important appointment.’
‘Our appointment is also important,’ said Christopher. ‘We’ve come to make an arrest in connection with the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’ He looked past him into the coffee house. ‘I understand that Mr Kidbrooke may be here.’
Sir Willard was astounded. ‘You’re going to arrest Jocelyn?’
‘Is he still inside?’ asked Jonathan Bale.
‘No, he left a short while ago.’
‘Do you have any idea where we could find him?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sir Willard. ‘At a funeral.’
Araminta Culthorpe looked out of the portrait with the steady gaze of a woman who was sublimely happy. Still unfinished, the painting had been reclaimed from the studio and now stood beside the dressing table in Araminta’s bedchamber. After looking at the portrait, she let her gaze shift to the mirror and she saw a very different face from the one that graced the canvas. Whitened by grief and lined by anxiety, it was thrown into sharp relief by her widow’s weeds.
Eleanor Ryle, also in black, hovered behind her mistress.
‘How do you feel now, m’lady?’ she asked, softly.
‘I feel as if I’ll never get through the service,’ said Araminta, ‘but I know that I must. I’ll find the strength from somewhere.’
‘Everyone is waiting downstairs.’
‘There’s plenty of time yet before we need leave.’
‘I thought it might help to be with your family,’ said Eleanor.
‘I just want to be alone at the moment.’
‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘Please, Eleanor — and take the portrait with you.’
The maid was surprised. ‘Take it away?’
‘Yes,’ said Araminta. ‘It reminds me of Monsieur Villemot.’
Instead of sinking further into despair, Jean-Paul Villemot made an effort to control his feelings. He even dared to embrace a distant hope. In trying to commit suicide, he had shocked himself and he was deeply grateful that he had been stopped in time. He thought of all the people who would have been rocked by the news that he had ended his life at the end of a noose in a London prison. It would have been an appalling epitaph. The very notion now made him shudder.
When his visitor arrived, he was relieved to see Emile again, even if they were prevented from speaking their native language. The valet had brought food, wine, unlimited sympathy and news from the outside world. Knowing how fragile his master was, Emile did not upset him by mentioning that the portrait of Araminta Culthorpe was no longer at the studio. Nor did he reprove him for attempting to take his own life. He sensed that Villemot had already castigated himself mercilessly.
‘How are you?’ asked Emile.
‘I’m a little better today.’
‘Good.’
‘I was at my lowest point a day or so ago. Now,’ said Villemot with a brave smile, ‘I know I have something to live for.’
‘You do, you do.’
‘How are you managing without me?’
‘The studio, it is very empty.’
‘What about Clemence?’
‘She misses you — we both miss you.’
Emile reached through the bars to squeeze his master’s hand. It felt cold and damp. Yet there was a hint of spirit about Villemot and that was gratifying. He tried to offer encouragement.
‘You will not be here long,’ he said.
‘I feel as if I’ve been here forever, Emile.’
‘They will get you out. They are very clever.’
‘Who?’
‘Monsieur Redmayne and his brother, Henry,’ said the other. ‘They are good men. They will save you.’
Henry Redmayne disliked seeing Jonathan Bale at the best of times. When the constable’s head was swathed in bandaging, and when the bruise made his face even more ugly, he was a daunting presence. Henry shot a look of dismay at his brother.
‘Did you have to bring this walking gargoyle with you?’
‘Jonathan has a right to be here,’ said Christopher. ‘He discovered a valuable clue for us. A duplicate key to the garden of Sir Martin’s house was made on the instructions of a certain gentleman.’