“It seems to me entirely probable that after his unsuccessful interview with Lord Montfort some days ago, Mr. Partridge returned to Horseheath yesterday night. His intention was perhaps to deliver his drawings and his gift and, I would hazard, to beg once more for the money he required, for reasons known only to himself. Yes, Mr. Hopson,” he cried as if some great revelation had just occurred to him, “I now believe you may be correct in your hypothesis that Lord Montfort was murdered.”
“Go on,” said Foley impatiently.
Westleigh paused as he marshaled his theory. “It is my conjecture that Partridge caught sight of the family seated at dinner. I believe you told me Lord Montfort himself opened the curtains?”
Foley nodded.
“Perhaps then he also saw Montfort storm from the room and enter the library. And here was the moment he’d waited for. An opportunity to accost Lord Montfort. He entered this room through the window that had been left open earlier in the day to allow the varnish to dry. Left open by you, I understand, Mr. Hopson.” Here he turned to me and, though I already had a fearful inkling of the turn his thoughts were taking, I could do little but nod.
Westleigh tapped his chin triumphantly. “We cannot be certain why Lord Montfort came into this room in the dark. But we can imagine his surprise to find himself once again pestered by the young interloper Partridge. There must have been some heated exchange, which led to Montfort taking out one of his own pistols. A struggle ensued, during which Partridge received the small wound I observed on his head, and yet was able to wrest the gun away from Lord Montfort and shoot him…”
I could contain myself no longer. “The very idea of Partridge shooting Montfort is ludicrous,” I exclaimed. “In any case you ignore the small matter of illumination. The library was unlit. How could Partridge see Montfort enter, accost him and shoot him, and all this in the dark?”
Westleigh halted and looked at me as if I were no better than a common thief.
“Hopson, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself until you’re asked. Be reminded I am the justice in these parts. It is usual for a justice to appoint a suitable officer to assist him in his inquiries. I have decided in this instance that Lord Foley, as interested party, will be that officer. It is our responsibility to seek out the truth. Truth is not always as clear as the pimples on your chin. It is often a complex matter that requires a little probing. There is no better way that I know to do this than by discussion. Therefore if you impede our debate, I’ll have you apprehended for unruliness.”
I flushed with anger. Foley glanced in my direction and perhaps read the look of fury, dismay, and incredulity upon my face. Even though Westleigh’s theory was obviously ridiculous, I was aghast at the speed at which he’d assembled it, and fearful of how he might twist the facts to develop it further. Was I too to be implicated as an accomplice to my friend for leaving the window open? I knew whatever I said would be turned and molded to suit his purpose. Better to remain silent and fume.
“But perhaps we should heed Hopson,” interjected Foley. “For he has a point, does he not? The room was dark. Thus Partridge could not have seen Montfort enter. Furthermore, your theory does not explain why Montfort’s body was arranged to look like suicide, nor the blood at the window, nor how Partridge came to be frozen in the pond without four of his fingers.”
Westleigh nodded his head encouragingly. Clearly he could accept criticism when it came from the great Lord Foley, but not from a cabinetmaker of middling birth. “Agreed. What then is your solution, Foley?”
There was a brief silence while Foley mustered his thoughts. “You may be right about Partridge’s surprise entry to the library during dinner, but I don’t believe he expected to come upon Montfort. I believe he intended to leave his gift—the box, I presume—and return later on, once Montfort had examined it and been won round by its quality. It’s my conjecture that Partridge was killed by Montfort. That the wounds to his hands were administered by Lord Montfort himself in this very room. You recall the bloodstain at the window? That would explain it.”
Westleigh furrowed his brow. “In that case, where is the weapon he used, and where, pray, are the missing pieces of his anatomy? And how did Montfort come to be shot? Partridge could not have shot Montfort without his fingers. Montfort could not have dissected Partridge’s hand if he was shot, nor could he have done so without a knife of some sort. Your argument is no less flawed, Foley.”
Foley shook his head helplessly but made no response. Westleigh continued. “We may all hypothesize, but before we can discover beyond doubt what took place we must hold an inquiry. We must search the grounds, we must find Partridge’s lodgings, we must have his body examined by a medical practitioner.”
“A wise decision,” conceded Foley, lifting his gaunt head to gaze out at the icy wasteland beyond the window, rapt in thought. “Have you considered that the two deaths could be entirely unrelated? Or that a third party could be involved? The footprints were different outside from in, remember that, Westleigh. The third person might have seen Partridge murder Montfort, followed him, attacked him, and left him for dead.”
Westleigh was unconvinced. “But where’s the motive, Foley? Would not such an avenger of Montfort’s murder declare himself? It is my observation that in sudden deaths coincidences are rarely as they seem. I’ll wager this was no quirk of fate or act of God but some evil of man’s invention. And I fancy that Mr. Partridge, far from being the blameless innocent Mr. Hopson paints, is at the heart of the depravity. As to a third person’s involvement—I should doubt it, for was not the entire household assembled in the dining room or occupied in the kitchens at the time of Montfort’s death?”
By now I was unable to hold back my fury. How could he vilify my friend, whom I knew to be a man of principle? I didn’t know why Partridge had come here or why he’d seen fit to keep it a secret from me, but I knew enough of him to be sure he would never slaughter a man. I owed it to our friendship to defend my defenseless, murdered companion. “Sir, I don’t wish to be disrespectful, but I beg you to construct another theory, for I’m certain you are mistaken in this one. You can bend the evidence to suit your argument, but it will not alter my belief—and more than my belief, my certain knowledge of my friend’s character. Partridge was not a violent man. He would never have entered here clandestinely to thieve, let alone attack Lord Montfort. Why, I doubt he’d ever held a pistol in his life. He’d certainly never fired one.”
“He was eager for financial support, Mr. Hopson. And in a state of agitation. You have heard Miss Alleyn vouch for that. And, as you have testified, he was of unfortunate birth. Such men will often, in my experience, deviate from their usual character. Or perhaps—since we know nothing of his origins—return to his true character. Virtue reverting to villainy.”
I shook my head vehemently. “I still believe you are wrong, sir. I remain convinced of his innocence in all this. In the meantime, with your permission, I must return to London.”
I gave Westleigh an assurance that he could contact me whenever he wished, and that if he desired it I would return to Cambridge, and with this undertaking he saw no reason to prevent my departure. I made my way to the servants’ corridor. I had been anxious before to distance myself from this unhappy place; now I was filled with desperation to be gone. I craved time alone to contemplate the death of my dear friend, to fabricate my own theory as to how it might have happened, for I confess I was no closer to understanding it than Foley or Westleigh.
I stood for a moment in a doorway in the passage, my eyes closed tight, my head pressed hard to the wall, yielding to the ferment of shock, fear, and dismay swirling in my heart. I felt as if I was tumbling down into a vortex of darkness, in which each horror I discovered was overshadowed by another more dreadful uncovering. If it had shaken me to stumble on Montfort’s corpse, how much more rocked had I been to find the body of Partridge. And then further devastation—I’d confronted his gruesome injury. Were my ordeals still incomp
lete? Was I now to discover that this dear friend of mine was a common murderer? No! I knew I must refute the suggestion. The issue of Partridge’s culpability should not even arise in my mind. Yet how was I to resolve the barrage of other questions his death posed? How was I to make sense of it all?
And still solitude eluded me. I’d stood for scarcely two minutes in the passage before I heard Foley calling after me. “Mr. Hopson, you are on your way to Cambridge, I believe. Allow me to offer you a ride in my carriage, for I have volunteered to go there immediately to summon the apothecary physician to examine Mr. Partridge.”
Until now Foley had seemed aloof, and I knew that if he offered me a ride there must be something he wanted from me. But I had no other certain means of making the journey to Cambridge in time to catch the midday coach, and I was consumed by eagerness to be gone. I grasped the offer gratefully, no matter what its hidden motive.
I did not have long to wait to discover it. The coach and four pulled past the sentinel dogs, the driver whipped up the horses, and Foley addressed me.
“Mr. Hopson,” he said, “I would speak freely to you and ask you to do the same with me. Do not stand on ceremony. I want your honest views.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“I have no doubt, Hopson, that you are asking yourself what I want with you.”
Emboldened by the informality of his tone, I responded candidly. “I confess, my lord, I’m too overcome with sorrow and the traumas I have witnessed to worry greatly about it.”
Perhaps he was shocked by my stark riposte, for his mouth twitched, as if there were an answer he wished to make but he was restraining himself. At length he continued. “It’s a rare thing to be as percipient as I believe you to be, Hopson. I’ve confidence your knowledge, your observations, might assist me.”
“My knowledge and observations of what, my lord?”
“Of Partridge.”
Was he trying to lull me into trusting him, only to use the information I gave against me? “Forgive me, my lord, but I’m intrigued to know why Partridge—a penniless foundling—should concern a gentleman such as yourself.”
“His relationship with Montfort is what concerns me, in the bearing it has upon his death. Yesterday morning Lord Montfort drew up a document in my favor in settlement of his gaming losses.”
“I’d heard as much from the servants’ hall.”
He snorted. “I’m sure such a private matter was the talk of the household. What you don’t know perhaps is that my entitlement is not clear-cut. It could be affected by the manner of his death.”
I was so baffled by this that for a moment I forgot my misery. “Surely if Lord Montfort made over his property to you, in the proper manner, it now belongs to you?”
“It’s not straightforward. Wallace advises me that if Montfort is found to have taken his own life, he’ll declare him non compos mentis—mentally deranged—in order that the entire estate is not confiscated by the crown, for according to the law as it stands, self-murder is a crime and thus punishable. But should Montfort be declared unsound of mind, the document settling our debt might be declared invalid, and my entitlement called into question. If, in contrast, Montfort was killed by another hand, the document of debt stands, and I will benefit.”
“But even Sir James Westleigh believes it was murder.”
“His mind is undecided. You heard his vague theories. They will undoubtedly change. You may have remarked how anxious Robert Montfort was that his father’s death should be declared a suicide. Did you ask yourself why? The reason is plain enough. He wishes to contest my claim, and there’s no one to oppose him. Elizabeth, Montfort’s widow, stands to share the estate with Robert and will follow his direction. Westleigh is a family friend, and will give weight to their opinions. You’ve rightly observed there’s much that’s questionable in these deaths. The scant facts in our possession will be easily misconstrued. The matter of Partridge is a mystery that none of us begins to understand. None of us—neither you nor I nor Westleigh—has formulated a theory that bears scrutiny.”
He hesitated, twirling the knob on his silver cane, as if he was waiting for me to respond. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to ponder the matter now, or share my opinions and thoughts with someone I had no reason to trust. All I wanted was to be gone. In any event, why open my mouth when my comments might be misinterpreted against Partridge? I clenched my jaw and said nothing.
Foley accepted my silence without demur. “That is why I’m happy to assist Westleigh. I’ll act as his officer and steer him in his investigation,” he added quietly.
Against my better judgment I was curious. “And where would you begin?” I asked suspiciously.
“I’d return to Montfort’s death. One peculiarity we have not explored is the box discovered beside the corpse. Do you believe that was the gift of which Partridge spoke to Montfort? Did the handiwork reflect your friend’s capability?”
I recalled the exquisitely carved temple box which had so mysteriously disappeared. “I thought you’d forgotten it. Have you found it yet?”
He shook his head. “I never lost or forgot it. I chose not to leave it where it might fall into the wrong hands.”
I was incredulous. Robert Montfort had accused me of filching the box. Granted, Foley had defended me from his accusation, but he had denied he knew where it was. “You mean you took it?”
“Yes, for I wanted to know what was inside before Robert or Elizabeth or anyone else tampered with it. Certainly it must have a bearing on all this.” He rummaged beneath his greatcoat, pulled out a package wrapped in a calico bag, and handed it to me. “The box is inside,” he said. “I want you to take it with you to London. Open it, find out what you can about its contents, and discover what you can of Partridge’s actions since last you saw him.”
I looked at him, dumbfounded. “I’m honored you trust me with it, but I fail to see how this can help you.”
“Neither can anyone until what is inside has been revealed. As to Partridge, the more I can find out about him and the reason for his visit to Lord Montfort, the more likely I am to discover the truth behind their deaths.”
“But you said earlier that they could be unconnected.”
“And so they might be, though I doubt it. But what I need, Mr. Hopson, is fact, not supposition. You haven’t answered my question. Do you believe this box was made by your friend Partridge?”
I took the box, unwrapped it, and held it in my hand again. The wood gleamed richly in the soft winter light. The skill of its carving and the ingeniousness of its design once again struck me.
“It could be.”
I folded its cover back over it, still holding it in my hand. I made him no promises and felt no obligation, but his conversation puzzled me. Was the outstanding debt at the root of his interest in these deaths? He didn’t strike me as someone to whom money was of paramount importance. His manner was too proud, too detached for that. I remembered his outburst when we’d discovered the body, the guilt he’d voiced, yet even then something had been missing. Montfort had supposedly been a close friend of his. Yet there was nothing in his expression that revealed the terrible emotions of loss and horror that I’d experienced on my discovery of Partridge. Surely there was some deeper motive that he was keeping hidden. Dare I test him a little to discover what it was?
I looked out of the window, as if I were mesmerized by the scenery flying past. “And if I refuse to assist you?”
“I could remind Westleigh that the window was left open on your instruction, which suggests that you aided Partridge in his entry, and are quite possibly an accessory to murder. I don’t wish to threaten you, Mr. Hopson, but you must see it’s in your interest to cooperate.”
“And then you will prove Lord Montfort’s death was not suicide and profit handsomely?”
“That is not my chief concern. It’s the quest for the underlying facts that inspires me—as I fancy it does you. Assist me in this and you shall be rewarded.”
“Rewarded with money?”
I caught a wry smile as it flitted across his face.
“With money certainly. But chiefly with what will bring you far greater satisfaction. The truth.”
Chapter Six
Chippendale was in the garret when I returned. This to him was the treasury of his emporium, the drying store where most days he came to admire his timber. Providence had smiled since I’d been gone. The racks were now piled with the jewels of his trade: mahogany and padauk, rosewood and walnut, ebony, pigeon wood, fustic, and countless others besides.
I watched him yank out planks of mahogany, deciphering the annual rings, signal of changing seasons and thickening sap, as easily as reading a letter. He emerged from one stack to continue his inspection elsewhere and glimpsed me at the head of the stair. Without a word of inquiry as to why I’d returned a day late, and before I could tell him my terrible news, he disappeared in the shadowy depths. His mood was jubilant. “Can anything compare with the beauty of this timber? Is it any wonder every patron in the land demands it?” he exclaimed more to himself than me.
“I am delighted to hear it’s so laudable, sir,” said I weakly, before adding in a firmer, more solemn tone, “unlike my stay at Horseheath, which was tragic.”
Chippendale seemed not to hear; his attention was all on his wood. “I believe it is the superiority of tropic timbers that makes them produce more than one ring a year. See here, Nathaniel, this is not any Spanish wood, but the finest of Cuban timber. Regard the richness of it, consider the span—wide enough to construct a table for a dozen from a single board.” He gave a further snort of delight. “And look here, I believe this is an oversight on Miss Goodchild’s part for she didn’t charge me for it.”
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