Edward Marston - The Painted Lady

‘Let me stay in the next room,’ he suggested.

‘ Impossible !’ exclaimed Villemot. ‘I sleep in that room and I allow no strangers in there. Until my new house, it is built, I rent only three rooms. In any one of them, Sir Martin, you would be in the way.’ He clapped his visitor on the shoulder. ‘I know what you think — that I am alone with Lady Culthorpe — but is not true.’

‘No?’

Emile, he is always with me.’

‘Emile?’

‘ Mon valet .’ He raised his voice. ‘Emile!’

The door opened at once and a figure scurried into the room. Short, slim, excessively well-groomed, Emile was a dapper individual in his forties with an air of studied deference. He wore a white shirt, a long, black waistcoat and black breeches. His shoes gleamed. When he was introduced to the visitor, he gave a bow. Sir Martin was immediately reassured. With the valet at hand, his wife would never be wholly alone with the artist.

‘You see?’ asked Villemot. ‘If Lady Culthorpe, she wishes for the rest or for something to drink, she has only to call for Emile.’

‘ Mon plaisir ,’ said Emile with another bow. Villemot clicked his fingers to dismiss him. ‘ Excusez-moi , Sir Martin.’

The valet withdrew as speedily as he had come. Sir Martin’s fears were allayed. He recalled something that Villemot had said earlier.

‘You are having a house built in London, you say?’

‘Yes,’ replied Villemot. ‘My life, it is here now. When I have a proper place to live, my wife, she will join me from Paris.’

Sir Martin was relieved. ‘You are married, then?’

‘Oh, yes. But I could not ask my wife to share three rooms in someone else’s house. She would never accept that. Monique deserves a place of our own. That is why I want the house to be built tout de suite .’

‘Who is the architect?’

‘A very clever man — Christopher Redmayne.’

Christopher Redmayne examined the model with great care, looking at it from every angle. Jonathan Bale, the man who had made it, watched him nervously, desperate for approval and fearful of rebuke. Bale was a big, solid man in his late thirties with the kind of facial features that only a loving wife could find appealing. When working as a parish constable, he knew exactly what to do. As the maker of a scale model, however, he was in uncharted territory.

Christopher let out a sigh of admiration. ‘It’s good, Jonathan.’

‘Thank you, Mr Redmayne.’

‘In fact, it’s very good.’

‘I did my best.’

‘It far exceeds my own mean abilities,’ confessed the architect. ‘I can see a building in my mind’s eye, and I can draw it to perfection, but I’m all fingers and thumbs when it comes to making a model. You have a real talent.’

‘I was a shipwright for many years,’ said Bale, nostalgically. ‘You never lose the knack of working with wood.’

‘Building a galleon is very different from creating a model of a new house, yet you adapted your skills with ease.’ He reached for his purse. ‘Let me pay you.’

‘No, no, Mr Redmayne — not a penny.’

‘A labourer is worthy of his hire.’

‘It was a joy to work on.’

‘Designing the house was also a joy,’ said Christopher, ‘but I expect Monsieur Villemot to pay me for it. Come now,’ he went on, extracting a handful of coins from his purse. ‘Let’s have no more of this nonsense. Take what you’ve rightly earned.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Bale, holding out a reluctant palm.

Christopher paid him the agreed amount and added some extra money by way of a bonus. Bale had done exactly what had been asked of him in half the time allowed. The constable looked at the coins.

‘You’ve given me too much.’

‘It will help to pay for all the midnight oil you burned.’

‘Sarah will chide me for taking more than I deserve.’

‘Your wife has far too much common sense to do that. There are scant rewards from being a parish constable,’ said Christopher, ‘and only someone as public-spirited as you would take on the work. When you’re employed by me, you’ll get a decent wage.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bale, touched. ‘You’re very generous.’

‘Strictly speaking, it’s Jean-Paul Villemot’s generosity so you should be grateful to him. Every penny I’ve given you comes from my client.’ He pointed to the model. ‘He’ll be overjoyed with this.’

‘Good.’

They were in Christopher’s house in Fetter Lane, a place that was so much larger and better furnished than Bale’s humbler abode that he always felt vaguely uncomfortable there. Holding his hat in both hands, he stood beside the table as the architect subjected the model to an even closer scrutiny. Tall, lithe and dashing, Christopher had long reddish hair that curled at the ends. Even in repose, he seemed animated. He and Bale were unlikely companions, divided by religion, social standing and every other measurement against which they could be set. Yet they had been drawn together over the years and each had come to value the friendship highly.

Christopher had first met the dour constable when the client for whom he had designed a house had been murdered. Since the crime had taken place in Bale’s own ward of Baynard’s Castle, he dedicated himself to solving it with the aid of the architect. In the course of their partnership, a mutual respect had developed and it had slowly increased with the passage of time. It was gratifying to both of them that they could at last work together on something that was quite unrelated to crime.

‘What do you think of the house?’ enquired Christopher.

‘Too grand for the likes of me, Mr Redmayne.’

‘More suitable for Paris than for London?’

‘Yes,’ said Bale, wrinkling his nose, ‘it is a bit Frenchified.’

‘A man is entitled to reside in a house that reminds him of his native country,’ said Christopher. ‘And there are aspects of French architecture that I find very endearing. When I was studying my trade, I learned a lot on the other side of the English Channel.’

‘I prefer a plain house with none of this decoration.’

‘Engage me as your architect and I’ll design it for you.’

Bale smiled. ‘I’m happy with the house I’ve got, sir.’

‘And with the wife and children you share it with, Jonathan.’

‘I’d not change them for the world.’

Christopher felt a pang of envy. Whenever Bale returned to his home in Addle Hill, his family were invariably there to welcome him. Though he shared it with two servants, Christopher’s house always seemed rather empty by comparison, even more so since Susan Cheever had returned to Northampton for a while with her father. Shorn of his beloved, Christopher felt desperately lonely and could only keep sadness at bay by throwing himself into his work. He longed for the day when he and Susan could share a home and have children of their own. Until then, he reflected, the only family he had in London was his brother, Henry, whose sybaritic existence appalled him and whose proximity was often an embarrassment.

It was uncanny. Even as he popped into Christopher’s mind, his brother came calling. The bell rang insistently, Jacob, the ancient servant, went to open the front door, and, seconds later, a grinning Henry Redmayne was shown into the room.

‘Christopher!’ he said, doffing his hat and embracing his brother affectionately. ‘How good to see you looking so well.’

‘I wish that I could say the same of you,’ said Christopher.

‘My doctor tells me I’m in the best of health.’

‘Then you must change your doctor. Your eyes are bloodshot, your cheeks are sallow and you look as if you’ve not slept for a week.’ He indicated his other visitor. ‘You know Jonathan, of course.’