‘A friend of yours, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, solemnly.
Henry was startled. ‘A friend of mine?’
‘Mr Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
‘Never!’
Christopher explained how the information had come to light and how Bale had been assaulted as a result. Henry was forced to congratulate the constable and he even offered a token of sympathy. The three of them were in the hall of the Bedford Street house. Dressed for the funeral, Henry was descended upon before he could leave. He was glad to see his brother but wished that he had come alone.
‘What did Lady Lingoe say?’ asked Christopher. Henry glanced uneasily at Bale. ‘You can speak in front of Jonathan. I told him about my visit to Monsieur Villemot. He’s aware that it was the resemblance between Lady Culthorpe and his beloved that took Villemot to Westminster on that fateful day.’
‘Does he know that Villemot’s beloved is already married?’
‘Yes, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale. ‘I’m sorry to hear that there are people in France — as well as here — who do not respect the institution of holy matrimony.’
‘But Villemot does respect it,’ said Henry, irritably. ‘That’s why he wishes to make this lady his wife. Unfortunately, Monique Chaval is married to a member of the French government, a vindictive man with the ear of the King. He’s almost forty years older than his poor wife — even in France that must verge on indecency.’
‘They were married in a church,’ Bale reminded him.
‘A Roman Catholic church,’ rejoined Henry. ‘I’m surprised that an unrepentant Puritan like you considers that to be a proper union. It’s certainly a wretched one for his wife. Chaval bullies her, starves her of money and keeps her locked away in his mansion. It was only because he wanted to show her off to his friends that he decided to have her portrait painted.’
‘Choosing Monsieur Villemot as the artist,’ said Christopher.
‘You can guess the rest. He fell in love with Monique and, when he heard how cruelly she was treated, he was determined to flee the country with her. Unfortunately,’ said Henry, ‘the plot was discovered and Villemot was lucky to escape with his life.’
‘Yet he still nurses the ambition of marrying her.’
‘He does — and with good reason. Old age and too much wine have taken their toll of Chaval. He’s also been something of a roue.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Bale.
‘A French version of my brother,’ explained Christopher.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Chaval is in decline,’ said Henry, ignoring the censorious look he collected from the constable. ‘Villemot only has to wait until he passes away and he can claim his bride. According to Hester, the lady does look remarkably like Araminta.’
‘Did he go to Lady Lingoe’s house that day?’ said Christopher.
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Then why didn’t he admit it to me?’
‘For the obvious reason,’ said Henry. ‘He didn’t want you to make any unflattering assumptions about him and Hester. That’s what I did and she took me to task over it. Hester assures me that their friendship is essentially Platonic, and since she has a bust of Plato in her hall, I’m inclined to believe her.’
‘Something must have taken him there,’ argued Christopher.
‘It was fear.’
‘Of what?’
‘A vengeful husband, of course,’ said Henry. ‘Chaval knows that his wife is still coveted by Villemot because he was courageous enough to sneak back to France in order to see Monique. As a result, the love-struck artist received death threats from Chaval.’
‘But he’s perfectly safe in England.’
‘That’s what he hoped, Christopher.’
‘Does he have cause to believe otherwise?’
‘He thought that he did. Something happened at Sir Martin’s house to give him a real fright. It made him ride off at once. Hester said that he was shaking all over when he got to her house.’
‘What frightened him?’ said Bale.
‘Somebody was watching Villemot from behind a tree.’
‘Did he know who it was, sir?’
‘No, Mr Bale,’ said Henry. ‘Given the threats against his life, he was afraid that the man had been sent by Chaval. If he’d spoken to me, I could have put his mind at rest but I wasn’t there at the time.’
‘What could you have done, Henry?’ said Christopher.
‘I could have told him that the man was no assassin sent from France. He was an English gentleman whose sole interest in being there was Araminta.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because of what Villemot told Hester,’ said his brother. ‘What scared him was that the man was peering through a telescope. As Villemot came out of the garden, he saw the telescope glinting among the trees. He felt that he was being hunted and he fled.’
‘Who was the man with the telescope?’
‘The person you’re looking for, Christopher — Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
Drizzle had started to fall out of an overcast sky, making a sad occasion even more sombre. The first mourners had already started to arrive at the church and others soon came in their wake. Sir Martin Culthorpe had been a popular man with many friends who wanted to pay their last respects to him. It was not long before a ring of coaches besieged the church. Interested bystanders lurked nearby so that they could watch the funeral cortege appear.
Jocelyn Kidbrooke had been among the early arrivals but he had not taken up his seat inside the church. Positioning himself where he had an excellent view of the whole scene, he ran his telescope across the sea of faces and picked out a number that he knew. It was a curious instrument and it had taken him time to master it but it gave him a distinct advantage over his rivals. In order to see Araminta, they had to get close to her but Kidbrooke could watch her at will from a distance. Where they would get only a mere glimpse of her, he was rewarded with continuous surveillance.
None of the others were there yet. Elkannah Prout had vowed to stay away from the funeral and Sir Willard Grail’s attendance was by no means certain. Kidbrooke fancied that Henry Redmayne would be unable to stay away and that he would do his best to get near to Araminta at some point. Kidbrooke was not worried that any of his rivals would have an edge over him. With his telescope in his hands, he felt that his position was unassailable.
The telescope did not stay in his hands for long. It was snatched away by Jonathan Bale. When its owner swung round to protest, he was staring into the face of Christopher Redmayne.
‘Give me back my telescope!’ demanded Kidbrooke.
‘We need to use it as evidence,’ said Christopher.
‘Of what?’
‘Your involvement in the murder of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
‘But I had nothing whatsoever to do with it!’
‘You may not have stabbed him with that dagger, Mr Kidbrooke, but you paid the man who did. His name was Abel Paskins.’
‘And unless I’m mistaken,’ said Bale, whisking off his hat to reveal the bandaging, ‘you also instructed Paskins to attack me when I came to Westminster earlier.’
‘I haven’t seen Paskins for days,’ said Kidbrooke, ‘and I certainly wouldn’t pay him to commit a crime. He needed no incentive from me to do that. Abel Paskins was a deep-dyed villain. After he left my service, I learned that he’d stolen several things from my garden.’
‘Offer these excuses to the magistrate, sir.’
‘They’re not excuses, Mr Bale.’
‘On the day of the murder,’ said Christopher, taking control, ‘you were seen outside Sir Martin’s house.’
Kidbrooke blanched. ‘It was not me.’
‘How many people own a telescope like this one?’
‘Very few — it was highly expensive.’
‘You were seen with it in Westminster. And do not claim that you dined with your wife that day,’ Christopher added, ‘because we have it on good authority that Mrs Kidbrooke was in Hampshire. You were expected to dine at Locket’s with my brother, Henry, and some other friends, but you did not turn up. We know why.’