Elizabeth gestured to me to stand in her place at the man’s head. Robert Montfort leaned over the man’s gaping jaw with his slender blade in one hand and a wrench in the other. I watched in horrified fascination as he incised the gum, grasped a tooth with his pliers, and twisted. The man writhed in agony. There was a ghastly crunch, and the tooth jerked free. Montfort waved it aloft, its pronged roots resembling pleading arms. My stomach heaved. The room, the man’s head, the table, and the blood turned gray and merged to one. My legs crumpled beneath me just as from what seemed a long distance off I heard Foley’s voice declare, “Great heavens, Bradfield! It seems Mr. Hopson now is indisposed.”
The next thing I knew, Foley was slapping me hard on the face and wafting salts under my nostrils to revive me. As I coughed and spluttered my way back to consciousness, I was aware that he was still talking to me. “Come, Mr. Hopson, rouse yourself. My driver will take you to your premises. On the way there is something I have yet to give you. I’ve held it back till now for I knew it might disturb you.”
My brain was still addled by my fainting, so that this announcement did not affect me as it should have. I staggered to my feet and allowed a footman to bundle me into the carriage while Foley took his leave of the Bradfields. When we were bowling through the park, he took out his gold snuffbox and opened it. A shaft of sun reflected off the shiny inner surface of the lid and shone directly in my eye as he addressed me. “Are you quite sensible, Hopson?”
I squinted into the splinter of light. “I am, my lord. Forgive me for fainting…it was the sight of the man’s agony and the blood. I couldn’t abide it.”
“It’s of no consequence now,” he said carelessly. “I myself was quite disgusted by the spectacle, though I chose not to display my feelings as overtly as you. Now listen well. You may be surprised to learn that among Partridge’s effects was an unsealed letter which he intended for you.”
“A letter to me? What does it say? I take it you have read it?” I stuttered. I was still confused by the episode at Bradfield’s.
“I will leave it to you to discover.”
Foley placed a folded sheet in my lap. For several minutes I stared at it in bewilderment, unable to believe the evidence of my own eyes. The heavy, spiky script was indeed that of my dear friend. With a trembling hand I picked up the letter and unfolded it.
December 26, 1754
My dearest Nathaniel
Today I went to find you—for I have such prodigiously astonishing news to tell you that I scarcely know where to begin. Imagine my sorrow—not to say amusement—when I learned you had left London for Lord Montfort’s Cambridge residence, the very place where
I too am bound within the next hour. I am confident that we will soon meet, but since I have not spoken to you these last weeks, I can no longer contain myself. Thus I am setting down recent events, so that should chance intervene and prevent us from meeting tomorrow you will know immediately what has befallen me.
I do not doubt, my dear friend, that all this has the flavor of melodrama and an overwrought imagination. Nor am I unaware that my silence for the past days must have concerned you and you will have asked yourself why I did not contact you, where I was, and what I was about.
Can you believe me when I tell you that I have watched you daily since the day I departed? Or that the motive for my clandestine behavior was to protect your safety, not mine? The truth is that your lodgings adjacent to the workshops and Chippendale’s house were too conspicuous. I did not dare call on you and feared that if I addressed a letter to you there it might fall into the wrong hands and you would not receive it. Thus I have bided my time until today, when the news I have recently received has caused me to throw all caution to the wind. But I run ahead of myself. I must go back many days and provide an explanation for my sudden disappearance.
I went not of my own volition but because I was forced to do so. You doubtless recall how during the past weeks my fondness for Dorothy Chippendale, our master’s young sister, had grown. I had never felt so content because for perhaps the first time in my life I began to question the convictions that seem to have lodged themselves in my brain ever since my first consciousness. My preoccupation with my birth seemed suddenly ill-founded, idiotic. Why would my past matter if I had a companion such as Dorothy with whom to build a future?
What I did not perceive was the foolishness of my dreams. Never once did it occur to me that Chippendale might take great exception to our closeness, and that when he knew of it he would intervene in a most pitiless manner.
And so to the dreadful last evening at St. Martin’s Lane. Chippendale called me to him. I presumed he wanted to inform me of some new commission and went without trepidation. You can imagine my astonishment therefore when I was greeted with a stream of invective. His sister had complained to him that I persisted in pursuing her. I should know that my advances were both unwelcome and odious to her. He wholeheartedly concurred with her opinion. The very prospect of a foundling marrying into his family, when he had worked so hard to better it, was contemptible and would never be countenanced. What right did I have to drag his family down into the mire from where he had retrieved them? Thus, for her own protection and at her own behest, he had sent his sister back whence she came.
Of course I was flabbergasted. I did what I could to defend myself. I replied that I had believed Dorothy wanted to marry me. That my suit had been welcome, not abhorrent. Moreover, I said, my origins were unknown but not necessarily discreditable, and I had done all I could to prove myself, having acquitted myself honorably in the seven years I had served him. “Well,” says he, “that remark brings me neatly to my second grievance.”
“What’s that?” I asked him.
“That your uncommonly high opinion of your talent is unsettling my craftsmen, who should respect the skill of their master above all others. I have observed that you set yourself up as my equal in matters of taste—and I cannot support this.”
I felt indignation to the depths of my soul at the injustice of this criticism. “What would you have me do?” I asked him. “Pretend that I cannot draw or carve as I do, or prohibit patrons from praise of my work? I do not vaunt my talents; if others laud me, there is little I can do to prevent it. And certainly I would never presume to place my opinion above yours.”
He stared at me with loathing. “What I would have you do,” he said quietly, “is leave these premises tonight and remove yourself from your lodging tomorrow morning without contacting anyone here. If you do this I will pay you your salary and a month in lieu. Otherwise you’ll not receive a penny of it. Furthermore, should you incite Nathaniel against me, he will be out with you—and I dare predict his talents will earn him less than yours.”
My dear friend, you may well imagine my bewilderment and dismay. That I did not deserve such treatment I was in no doubt. But my mind reeled with the sudden realization that my feelings of the past weeks had been nothing but a delusion. How could I have convinced myself that my birth didn’t matter? Here was the clearest evidence that the past still blighted my future most profoundly.
In a state of confusion I started home, then praying what he’d said concerning Dorothy was all a fabrication, I retraced my steps. I hoped even then that there was a solution to this maze—that Dorothy might still be in the house, that if she knew what had passed between her brother and me she would agree to come with me. But this was another futile illusion, for the housemaid informed me that Dorothy had indeed returned earlier that day to her family in Yorkshire. No word had been left for me.
And so, dear friend, I returned home doubly wounded. I had lost the woman I loved, who I believed loved me. I’d received cruel illtreatment at the hands of a master I had always respected. That Chippendale had seen fit not only to dismiss me but also to turn Dorothy against me made me comprehend the depth of his envy and hatred. And with this realization came the acknowledgment of a further dilemma. My friendship with you. He had already warned me to keep away from you
. I had no doubt that he would treat you unjustly should he suspect I had contacted you, yet because you are my dearest companion, I yearned to confide in you. I thought on this all night, and by dawn resolved that I would not be responsible for your downfall as I had been for my own and Dorothy’s. I would not contact you until I was sure it was safe.
But although that was indeed a most dismal hour, fortune had not entirely abandoned me. A kinder providence was about to intervene. After many days of lying low, I yesterday took a walk towards St. Martin’s Lane. I admit, dear friend, that I half hoped to encounter you, for despite my resolve I have longed to speak with you. I was returning to my lodgings when a carriage drew up alongside me. I was halted by a lady with whom I was but vaguely acquainted. She bade me get in the vehicle with her, and when I did, she divulged the astonishing news that now takes me to Cambridge, news which prevailed upon me to seek you out today in spite of all my earlier scruples. I own I am not sure if what she told me is true; I must discover it myself.
I see that these ramblings have filled the past hour and that the coach is due to leave. I intend to complete this account tomorrow, when I trust the whole story will be clear and I can set it down for you. For now, my dear friend, I must set out for Cambridge, my heart with such hopeful fancies as you would not believe.
I am your loyal friend,
John Partridge
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.
Chapter Eleven
Partridge’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 s
crap 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.
St. Martin’s Lane December 20, 1754
John Partridge
For salary—four weeks £4 4s 0d
Add workshop expenses
linseed oil 2s 0d
turpentine 1s 6d
beeswax 3s 0d
1 lb. glue 9d
8 iron brackets 3s 0d
cove and beading 2s 5d
Turkey stone 6s 5d
Less
Porterage of tool chest 1s 6d
Brought over £5 1s 7d
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.
The Grenadillo Box: A Novel Page 17