The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (19 page)

I reread this letter twice more while Foley sat beside me, staring out of the carriage window. “Well,” he said brusquely, taking out his snuffbox again as I looked up from the last page, “is it not perplexing? What d’you make of it?”

His judgment that the letter would disturb me was exact. Indeed I longed to be away from him, to mull over the information contained here, and the implication of each phrase without being subjected to another of his interrogations. Yet certain sentiments struck me instantly. On the one hand I felt a strange relief to have Partridge’s disappearance explained, to know that the reason he’d left me out of his plans was his concern for my well-being. Our friendship
was
all I had believed it to be. My suspicions and the vague misgivings I’d felt seemed spontaneously to dissolve. On the other hand I was struck with overwhelming revulsion at learning of Chippendale’s duplicity. I’d always recognized his single-minded ambition. It was this that had spurred him to publish his book, to reach the pinnacle of success as one of London’s most fashionable cabinetmakers. But to have treated Partridge thus revealed a callousness I had never suspected of him. I remembered his story of Partridge’s illness; I’d always doubted its veracity, and now I knew I was right to do so. I wondered what he had told Dorothy to convince her to leave. I knew his story that Dorothy had complained about Partridge’s proposal was fictitious because I’d seen with my own eyes that she cared for him. Above all, I thought, if only Partridge had braved the prohibition and contacted me, I might have helped him. I might have saved his life.

All this time Foley was fidgeting with his snuffbox while observing me closely. I knew I’d have to muster some response for him, however ill-conceived, or he’d never leave me be. I spoke as I felt, without really considering my words at all.

“It bears out what Madame Trenti said concerning Partridge. It suggests that she told him he was her son and sent him to Lord Montfort. And that would explain his presence at Horseheath.”

Foley sneezed loudly, spraying snuff about the carriage. “But it does not explain his death in the pond, or why four of his fingers were brutally severed.”

“Indeed,” said I, flinching as I recalled the awful sight of Partridge’s corpse. “Nor does it prove that Madame Trenti was telling the truth when she informed Partridge that he was her child. In fact, Partridge’s doubts confirm my own suspicions.”

“Why would she lie about it? What reason could she have for persuading Partridge he was her son if he was not?”

“Perhaps because she needed a convenient foundling to extract money from Lord Montfort? I believe the money he’d been paying her all these years to keep her silent had ceased. Perhaps that was why she came to England. She needed to find her son to threaten Lord Montfort. If she couldn’t find him, a substitute would serve equally well.” I stared down at my boots as I gathered my thoughts. “Partridge would have been ideal for such a role. He was eager to trace something of his past, and after his mistreatment by Mr. Chippendale, he would be even more ready to believe her. She is, after all, an actress by profession.” Again I halted, waiting for Foley to say something, but he remained stubbornly silent.

“But perhaps we are looking further into the matter than we need.”

“What d’you mean?” said Foley.

“Let’s for a moment assume that all was as Madame Trenti declared it: that Partridge
was
her child and Lord Montfort’s, and that he presented himself at Horseheath as such. In those circumstances, who might wish him dead?”

“The beneficiaries of Montfort’s estate?” suggested Foley.

“Precisely. For they might fear Lord Montfort would recognize a responsibility to his child, even though the child was in all probability illegitimate. And these beneficiaries, I presume, are Elizabeth Montfort, his wife, Robert, his son, and his sister, Miss Alleyn?”

“I am not apprised of all the details. Only that Robert is his heir, and there’s provision for Elizabeth, including the right to reside at Horseheath for the duration of her life. Miss Alleyn, I believe, is expected to continue as housekeeper at the same stipend.”

“So,” I reiterated, as a shiver of anticipation ran through me, “Lord Montfort’s heir is his son, Robert. His second beneficiary is his wife, Elizabeth. And as we have just seen, both are presently in London.”

It was only as I spoke these words that my earlier fears returned. Whoever ran me down outside Madame Trenti’s house was acting deliberately. And it was likely, then, that the same person had killed Montfort or Partridge, or both.

I thought back to the sense of menace I’d felt all around me at Horseheath Hall, and the pervasive fear that had remained with me on my return to London. I had not imagined it. The speeding carriage proved it. I
was
indubitably in the shadow of danger. Clearly, I saw, once this murderous driver discovered my escape, he would make another attempt on my life. I shivered with horror at this thought. What threat could I pose to this murderer? Why did someone want
me
dead, rather than Foley or Westleigh, who were leading the investigation? What was it about me that set me apart from them? A motive dawned on me that filled me with even greater dread. My life was in peril because the killer believed I
already
knew something that would lead me to him. It followed that now I had seen him he would be even more determined. And yet I did not know what the salient information was, or who the driver was. I had consciously neither observed nor learned anything that could help me. Here the full desperation of my predicament struck me. I had plummeted into an unfathomable mystery that seemed likely to destroy me, and I didn’t comprehend why. But even as I sank to this nadir of weakness, a solitary course of action occurred to me. If I could discover who was driving the carriage that had tried to run me down, I would answer the mystery of both deaths. I must try to recall the face that had looked back at me.

I closed my eyes, filled with renewed determination. My ears once again echoed with the rattle of harnesses, I smelled again the horses’ steamy scent. I felt the dread of certain death envelop my heart. I saw the carriage wheels advance towards me; I tried to picture the person who had looked down so menacingly. But all I saw was darkness.

P
artridge’s letter shook me to the depths of my soul, but in one way it also helped me. There was consolation in the partial enlightenment it brought. I felt sorrow at the information I learned, yet it made me feel calmer, more certain of my friend, firmer than ever in my determination to uncover the circumstances surrounding his death.

After Foley left me at the workshop door, I returned to my desk and took out the letter again. It was as I was shuffling the pages that I remarked another small scrap of paper. Foley must have handed it to me, and I had previously overlooked it. The paper was dated December 20—a few days after Partridge was dismissed and six days before the letter to me was written. It was inscribed in Chippendale’s hand.

I scoured the page, inconsequential though it seemed. Apparently Chippendale had paid Partridge a month’s salary in lieu of notice. Clearly the frequent inquiries I had made as to Partridge’s whereabouts convinced him the banishment of my friend had been effective. I scratched my head, reread the sheet, and this time found myself seized by an unexpected flash of hope. The expenses listed in the days prior to notice were unremarkable, apart from the porterage charge. Presumably this was the cost of moving Partridge’s belongings from the workshop. I already knew from my visit to his lodgings that they hadn’t been taken there. If Chippendale had used the usual carter—Fetherby—there was a fair possibility I might discover where Partridge had stayed in London after his disappearance, before he left for Horseheath.

It was early evening now; if Fetherby followed his usual routine, he’d be recovering from his daily toil in the tavern. The Coach and Horses was halfway down St. Martin’s Lane, a small-windowed, low-ceilinged building that had stood on the same site for the past hundred years with scarcely a jot of difference in its outward appearance. Fetherby was indeed there, slumped by the fire over an empty tankard, watching a pair of rival carters compete at arm wrestling. He ignored my arrival, the only response to my greeting being a muttered “Set to it, boy—would you let Jameson get the better of you?” I deduced that Fetherby had (stupidly) wagered threepence on the younger and punier of the two contestants—a scrawny-looking youth with greasy hair and a poxy complexion. “You’ve backed the wrong ’un, Fetherby—and anyone here could’ve told you so,” growled Jameson, an ox of a fellow with a head as smooth as a bell. These words had no sooner been uttered than the boy’s arm collapsed on the table.

“So, Fetherby, how do you?” I said, replenishing his tankard from the quart jug I’d ordered.

He nodded curtly, grumbling that the competition was a fix if ever he saw one, and gulped his drink as if afraid I might think the better of my generosity. “Not too well, Mr. Hopson. There’s too few who fill my mug. Too many like them willing to empty it from under my nose.” He grimaced in the direction of the rival arm wrestlers, who now appeared the best of friends.

I nodded my head at the nearly drained mug. “There’s more where that came from. And sixpence for your dinner if you can recall something for me.”

Fetherby set down his mug and gave me his undivided attention.

“What then?” he hissed. “Something concerning Miss Goodchild?”

“Why no,” I said sharply. “It’s news of Partridge that troubles me.”

“Who?”

“The journeyman. The one who’s departed from Chippendale’s.”

“I know nothing of that matter.”

“Perhaps you know more than you comprehend.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Some days ago were you summoned by Mr. Chippendale to move a craftsman’s tool chest?”

“Tool chest?” Fetherby poked at his wispy ear with his forefinger. “My memory’s not all it used to be, Mr. Hopson.”

“Then think harder, damn you. It would have been a large heavy chest, painted black. Can’t be so difficult to recall.”

“Rope handles?”

“Yes, I daresay—You
do
remember then?”

“Nearly cut my hand to the bone on account of ’em…’ad to get a lad to help me on the cart with it, and that weren’t easy. He insisted I came after eight…”

“He?”

Fetherby rolled his eyes at my stupidity. “Your master—Mr. Chippendale. Said I must come late when workshop was empty—so’s to cause no obstruction.”

“Anything else?”

“That the chest must be taken away ’cause the man ’ad gone. Tell no one where I took it.” He grinned, revealing his gum, in which only three stained, broken teeth sprouted.

“Where did you transport it?”

“Didn’t I just tell you? He said I mustn’t speak on it.”

I slid a sixpence over the table. “It will go no further if you do.”

The temptation was too much. Fetherby bit the coin before secreting it in his pocket.

“That was the worst. Gave me the address of some lodgings at a court near the Fleet. Insisted I take it that night. That instant. Or I’d not be paid, nor get more work from ’im.”

“Did he say why?”

“Didn’t question him.”

“And did you take it?”

“D’you reckon I might have turned him down after all ’is threats?” He shook his head again at my crassness. “Terrible place to get to. Obliged to carry it on my back the last part.”

“Might you find your way there again?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m forbidden. I’m not going there again, any rate. Place is crawling with those as’d cut your throat for the clothes off your back soon as say good day to you. I escaped with my life last time, I’ll not put it to the test again.”

“Fetherby, it is imperative I go there. I’ll pay you a shilling to take me.”

His face was mulish.

“Two shillings. My last offer.”

Another long silence, before he sighed heavily and, grasping the handle of the now empty tankard, gazed thirstily into it. “Two shillings and a bite first?”

“Done. But I must speak to Miss Goodchild beforehand. Here’s threepence for your food. Meet me at the yard within an hour.” I left him gnawing on bread and a wedge of greasy mutton.

I don’t know what sudden impulse had made me decide to call on Alice. She had made her dissatisfaction abundantly clear the previous afternoon, and I had no reason to suppose her feelings had changed. But her angry words continued to echo in my head. I felt an overwhelming urge to try to mend the rift between us, to explain myself, to apprise her of all that had happened since our last unhappy encounter. But what made me think she’d see me at all? Why, when she’d shown me how flighty and unreasonable she could be, did I value her opinion so highly? I thought of the warm and uncomplicated Molly Bullock, who last night had offered me a place in her bed. I’d refused, saying my head was sore from the fall I’d taken, not daring to tell her the reason my senses were in a spin was not the knock I’d received but a scolding from Alice Goodchild.

So it was that I strode briskly down the Strand and plunged into the narrow alley leading to her cottage. When I came to the door, I saw a stain of yellow candlelight flicker at the parlor window. I knocked boldly, trying to hold my gaze ahead—trying not to stare through the window at the shadowy forms that moved in response to my knock. Was she there? Would she answer? Through mottled panes I glimpsed what seemed a female form. I heard steps in the hall, a voice—her voice—call out.

“Who’s there?”

“Nathaniel Hopson.”

There was a long pause—an eternity, it seemed. The door opened a fraction, and I caught sight of a sliver of her face. She opened it a trifle wider. When she saw it was indeed I, she raised her chin and drew herself up, like a snake about to strike. “Did you not comprehend me yesterday when I said that I did not wish to see you on personal matters?” The tone of her voice was so disdainful it would have crushed bolder men than I, but I was determined to persist.

“I heard you, Miss Goodchild—but I feel honor bound to reason with you. I comprehend the reasons for your actions, nevertheless your judgment is unfounded. And since I regret this disagreement and wish most heartily to resolve our misunderstanding, I have come to implore you to give me leave to explain. Besides, I value your opinion and there’s much to tell.”

There was a long pause, during which I shuffled uncomfortably on the threshold, my fate in the balance, wondering which way she’d go.

“What makes you assume I wish to hear it?”

“Trust in your kindness…intelligence…curiosity…”

She blinked and bit the side of her cheek. Suddenly she seemed less sure of herself. “If I do consent to let you in, it will not be because I am less determined to keep my distance from you. On the contrary, it will be only because there’s something I must tell you, that slipped my mind yesterday. And it will be on my terms.”

“Name them.”

“You will explain what you were about yesterday. Although it is no concern of mine, and I confess I don’t know why I ask it. For, as I told you, I have determined to keep my distance.”

A small hope grew in my breast that her anger might be an indication that she cared for me a little. Or was I deluding myself?

“Have I not said I intend to do so? All I ask is that you listen to me. I assure you when you hear the truth of the matter you will laugh wholeheartedly about it—as will I.”

Warily, she opened the door and bade me enter. Now I could see her more clearly I thought she seemed paler and more nervous than usual, but whether this was due to our rift or some other cause I had no means of telling.

The parlor was once again in a state of complete disarray, with papers and dishes and mugs strewn across the table and floor. Her brother, Richard, was there. He nodded a brief greeting and, perhaps sensing our need for privacy, departed to the kitchen, where he started clattering pots and pans.

“Well?” she began abruptly, the minute the door closed behind him.

“Well,” I said, trying to keep my voice steadier than I felt. “May I sit to explain myself?”

She furrowed her brow. “I suppose you may. But don’t presume to make yourself comfortable until I’ve heard what you wish to say.”

I outlined the gist of my visit to Madame Trenti, how I was run down by some madman in a carriage, how Trenti had told me Partridge was her child. Alice heard me out but remained skeptical. “Ruffians and a runaway coach…it all sounds even more far-fetched than a storybook,” she said scornfully.

I felt rather foolish. “There’s more to corroborate Madame Trenti’s account,” I persisted. “This morning Foley came to call and gave me a letter written by Partridge.” I handed the paper to her and shifted awkwardly by the fire, watching while she read. When she came to the part where Partridge described his agonies and Chippendale’s callousness, I heard her gasp and whisper, “This is indeed shocking.”

At length she looked up. “And so Partridge died because Trenti wished to exact revenge on Montfort for a crime committed two decades ago—and sent her son in her stead?” Here, it seemed, was the calm after the tempest. Her fury with me had vanished as swiftly as it had been stirred. I now detected only straightforward curiosity in her voice.

I nodded. “So it appears.”

“What will you do next?”

“I intend to go to Fleet.”

“Why there? ’Tis a most foul and dangerous place, full of warrens and alleys and lanes where all manner of vagabonds and wretches conceal themselves.”

“Fetherby took Partridge’s belongings to a lodging house there in the days after he disappeared—or rather was banished by Chippendale. Perhaps he left something in his room to shed light on this matter.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You cannot. It’s a menacing environ, as you said yourself. A young lady such as you would be in dire peril.”

She tossed the papers towards me and rose abruptly. “If you do not wish to rile me again, Mr. Hopson, you will stop treating me as a half-wit. Two days ago you involved me in your intrigue because you needed my assistance. A moment ago you said you valued my opinion, yet now you no longer need my help, in case I would be placing myself in dire peril. Don’t confuse the matter by citing my sex. I’m capable of running a business, and I’m certainly able to accompany you to Fleet.”

The set of her mouth warned me to tread carefully. Nonetheless I might have braved her anger and protested more, but at that moment Fetherby’s wagon creaked into the yard. She heard it as quickly as I, and before I could utter another word, she had fastened her cloak and clambered onto the wagon seat, from where she smiled defiantly down at me. “Are you coming, Mr. Hopson? D’you require assistance? Or shall I go with Fetherby alone?”