The other possibility was that Chippendale was under some obligation to Trenti, that she had some hold over him that forced him to oblige her. But what could this be? I knew he couldn’t have fathered a child on her, for she had resided in Italy until recently. Perhaps she had uncovered some other transgression or weakness that permitted her to milk him for favors. Chippendale’s most obvious weakness was his concern for his reputation. He would allow nothing to threaten it. I shivered, remembering his ruthlessness towards Partridge. Perhaps Trenti had coerced furnishings from Chippendale, threatening to besmirch his name if he didn’t oblige. He would have viewed such a threat as a powerful one. But would he have retaliated by murdering her?
Another alternative came to mind, which did not necessarily preclude Chippendale. Suppose Madame Trenti knew, or thought she knew, who the murderer of Montfort and Partridge was; suppose, having failed to extort money from Montfort, she had tried the same with the killer, threatening him with exposure if he did not comply? The killer might have come here at her request to make a payment, and then committed his dreadful crime.
This thought, which seemed most credible of all to me, brought my own fears to the fore. I cast my mind back to the morning I’d been run down. It occurred to me that the attempt on my life might have been spurred by the murderer’s assumption that I knew, or was close to knowing, his identity. Now he had killed again, would he return his attention to me? As I went about my solitary investigations, was I in greater peril than ever?
It was my affection for Partridge that had driven me into this mire. I returned to the manner in which he and Montfort died, and asked myself what the methods of killing, viewed alongside Madame Trenti’s strange death, indicated about the killer’s character. The means of killing were different in each instance. This suggested either that the killer enjoyed experimenting, enjoyed death, or that he had improvised with the weapons available. Montfort’s death seemed to me distinct. It had been by gunshot—a conventional means. In contrast, the other deaths were both unusual in that the weapons employed were opportunistic. The toolbox containing the hatchet used to sever Partridge’s fingers happened to be in the library because I had left it there; Madame Trenti had been strangled with her own lace trimming, which presumably the murderer had chanced upon. If I added my own misadventure to the equation, I could surmise that the attempt on my life had taken place because I chanced to be out walking as the killer passed by.
The thought struck me then that, as well as being more conventional, Montfort’s killing was also more deliberate, more considered. The other deaths seemed haphazard, less organized by comparison. And so I asked myself the final question. If the killer was now striking so impulsively, did this mean that he was insane?
The unexpected clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hoofs outside interrupted my musings. I rushed to the window and looked down to the square below. It had been devoid of life when I arrived, but now a carriage drawn by a handsome pair of chestnuts tore past. I caught sight of a streak of green on the chassis and had a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s hooded head and a flash of his arm as it whipped up the horses. I knew then with dreadful certainty that this was the same vehicle that had almost run me down.
“Whose carriage is that?” I cried.
Chippendale was behind me and spied the vehicle. “It closely resembles an equipage used by Lord Montfort when he called on me. I remarked its fineness when he visited my premises last autumn,” he replied.
“How peculiar,” I murmured under my breath, before turning back to the room and the two trembling servants. “The one person who cannot possibly be driving the carriage is Lord Montfort.”
In due course the formalities that the discovery of Madame Trenti’s body necessitated were neatly resolved. Chippendale summoned a justice with whom he was well acquainted, stating it was common knowledge that in this modern city the detection of crime relies upon fortuitous acquaintance. I remembered Westleigh’s rapport with the Montfort family and nodded. No sooner had the justice arrived and surveyed the scene than my master preempted his questions by offering a detailed statement. In it he declared that Madame Trenti was a well-known actress with a large coterie of admirers, one of whom had almost certainly become disaffected and perpetrated this wicked deed. He had arrived here with me on a business matter shortly before ten (here he introduced me as his journeyman). We had failed to raise Madame Trenti and, when we found her door locked, the servants had shown us the back stairs entrance.
When we entered we’d found her dead but still warm. The maidservant had stated that Madame Trenti was alive and well when she took in her breakfast, at nine, though she was uncertain whether or not the main door was locked. Thus whoever committed this crime had done so within the last hour, in all probability as we approached her door, since a shriek had been heard that might well have been her death cry. The killer must have crept in by the rear entrance adjacent to the kitchens (whose door the footman told us was always left open), ascended to her room unnoticed via the back stairs, strangled the unfortunate Madame Trenti, and left by the same way he had come in.
All the while he made this statement I scrutinized Chippendale to see if I could detect some chink in his carapace. And yet, as before, he seemed to draw upon his remarkable capacity (which I don’t believe I shall ever master) to put all his feelings aside. Not once did his voice waver or his composure lapse, not even when he described the moment we entered Trenti’s room and found her sprawled upon her bed.
I suppose this coolness shouldn’t have surprised me, for he had displayed the same detachment when I’d told him of Partridge’s demise. And yet I own that, having often seen him in a frenzy over some matter pertaining to business, in my heart of hearts I expected something more.
In any event, his version of events satisfied the justice and, after a quiet exchange in which I believe I heard Chippendale offer him a purse “to cover his inconvenience,” he was content to summon his deputy to interrogate the servants in greater detail and permit Chippendale and myself to leave.
So relieved was I to be free to keep my rendezvous with Alice that it was only some time later, as I made my way along the Strand, that it occurred to me Chippendale’s behavior was unusual in several respects. As soon as the justice had released us, he had scurried off in the direction of St. Martin’s Lane, without a word to me. The account he had given to the justice was far from honest. Why pretend we’d arrived together when we both knew he’d been descending the stairs as I arrived? The offer of the purse was a further troubling detail. Was it usual to compensate officers of the law for inconvenience when they were merely carrying out their duties?
I returned to my earlier notion of some intrigue between Madame Trenti and Chippendale, and wondered again if he’d had a hand in her demise. I added up possible signals of his involvement. His flustered demeanor when I met him might well have had a sinister cause. The extraordinary lengths to which he’d gone to satisfy Madame Trenti were possible proof of her hold over him. Taken together, they seemed impossible to read as anything other than ominous pointers of guilt.
But like scratches on a polished surface, the flaws in this theory emerged. I had seen the carriage and had heard descending footsteps as we approached Madame Trenti’s chamber. The steps were those of the murderer. The carriage was the means by which the murderer had made his escape. Chippendale might know more than he’d disclosed, he might have some involvement with Madame Trenti that he wished to remain hidden, but he could not be the person I sought.
I arrived at the Goodchild warehouse to be told Alice had already departed and had left word she’d meet me at the Theatre Royal. As I bade my driver make haste up Drury Lane, the sun sagged behind the buildings, staining the sky with a sulfurous halo.
As we drew closer, the crowd became dense and then all but impassable; at length I had no choice but to descend and make my way on foot. I pushed ahead urgently towards the doors, fretting that I’d never find her. Would she be among t
he hundreds clustered outside the entrance, or amid the finely dressed throng within? Finding no sign of her, I paid half a crown for a ticket at a turnstile and allowed myself to be swept through the barriers by the tide of people pressing from behind.
Lit by hundreds of tallow candles in ring chandeliers, the auditorium already seethed with people gossiping and drinking and sitting on the benches in the pit and gallery. An orchestra was playing on the stage, and a sizable crowd had gathered to watch. I had combed the entire arena several times before I finally caught sight of her.
Instead of waiting for me in the pit or the gallery as I expected, she had somehow found her way into a gentleman’s box and was now sitting in comfort, searching the throng clustered around an orange seller for my arrival. I began to push my way through the crowd towards her, waving to attract her attention, for I was eager to extract her from the box without causing her embarrassment.
But even when I came closer and waved madly she looked straight through me and seemed to be gesturing at some other person behind. I turned to see what drew her. A tall, velvet-cloaked gentleman in an immaculate powdered wig emerged from the crowd. He was holding a plump orange. Entering the box, he greeted her with an easy bow and a kiss on the hand. I could see him smilingly incline his head towards her lips, as if to hear what she said above the hubbub. I could see the bloom of her cheeks, the dazzle of her hair, her eyes shining brighter than the myriad chandeliers. If I had been too warm from the heat of the crowd, my blood was now turned to ice. The gentleman with whom Alice was conversing in such companionable intimacy was none other than Lord Foley.
They were so engrossed with each other that I was thumping on the balustrade in front of them before they acknowledged my presence.
“Why, Hopson,” said Foley as coolly as if we’d dined together that very day, “Miss Goodchild promised we should find you here.”
Fuming with frustration, I nodded curtly at him and turned to Alice. “Miss Goodchild,” I said, “how pleasant to see you again. May I take it you received my message?”
I was rewarded with a flicker of a smile. “I received it, but since you neglected to mention a time or a place for the rendezvous, and since Lord Foley was most anxious to find you, I asked him to accompany me here, and he kindly accepted.”
“I hadn’t realized you were such friends.”
“Lord Foley and I are barely acquainted, as you well know. He called on me yesterday only to discover your whereabouts. He had tried at Chippendale’s, but you weren’t there. I could tell him nothing apart from suggesting that he might meet you here.”
I stood there lost for words, furious within, grinning like an imbecile without, then frowning at my boots. There was much I wanted to discuss with her, many questions I wanted to ask of her; but with Foley present, not only was I unable to speak freely as I desired but it was also impossible to gauge whether her feelings towards me had warmed a little since her abrupt departure from the inn at Hindlesham.
It was Foley who broke the silence. “Well, Mr. Hopson,” he said, “am I to be honored with an explanation as to why you left Horseheath Hall so prematurely, without keeping our appointment, or must I divine it?”
Irritation at his intrusion made me retort more bluntly than I intended. “I left after I discovered Partridge’s mangled fingers stuffed in a casket in Robert Montfort’s chamber. After that grisly find, I had no more stomach for searching, and in any case I wanted to confront Madame Trenti with her deception.”
Alice’s eyes widened at this shocking statement, and I cursed myself for speaking thus. Foley, however, seemed scarcely moved. “And have you done so?” he barked.
“I went to see her this morning but found her dead. Strangled in her bed.”
Alice turned paler than a winding sheet, and even Foley was thunderstruck. “Good God!” he said. “Who else knows of this?”
I explained that Chippendale was also present when the body was discovered, that we’d seen Montfort’s carriage pass by the window, and that I was convinced the vehicle contained the murderer.
“Montfort didn’t keep a carriage in town,” said Foley. “He lost it at cards some time ago, and ever since was in the habit of borrowing Bradfield’s or mine.”
“This was a fine equipage, drawn by a handsome pair of chestnuts, with a green stripe on the side.”
“Then I’ll wager it was Bradfield’s,” said Foley, taking a circular gold snuffbox adorned with a star of diamonds from his pocket. “He’s fonder of horses and vehicles than almost anything.” He paused while he flicked open the sparkling lid, then turned to me. “Are you implying that Bradfield is involved with Trenti’s death?”
“Possibly but not necessarily. If Lord Bradfield loaned the vehicle to Lord Montfort, is it not likely he also loaned it to others? Some other person might have used his coach this morning. By the by, I believe it was this very coach that tried to run me down on my previous visit to Madame Trenti.”
“In that case we can rejoice in the fact that it will be an easy matter to ascertain the identity of the murderer, for whoever it was will doubtless be staying with Bradfield. I shall call on him after this afternoon’s entertainment and discover it. Hopson, I think you should accompany me. And perhaps Miss Goodchild would be interested to come with us?”
By way of reply Alice gave Foley a brief nod of acquiescence. Without another word she flashed me an inscrutable smile, then turned her gaze in the direction of the brilliantly lit stage.
Chapter Twenty-one
At ten o’clock that night lights blazed from every window of Lord Bradfield’s mansion in Leicester Fields.
Foley had scarcely reached the door when a footman, assuming we were latecomers to the card and supper party, ushered us indoors. Foley, Alice, and I entered the saloon, a vast room with a ceiling stuccoed so heavily with nymph musicians it seemed they might swoop down at any moment. Bradfield, pink and plump as a wood pigeon, was holding court amid a group of gentlemen all dressed in embroidered finery. He greeted Foley jovially as if his unexpected arrival were the greatest good fortune.
“Foley, sir, I had no idea you were in town,” he said, vigorously shaking his hand. “My profound apologies, I should naturally have sent you a card had I known it.”
“On the contrary, dear fellow, think nothing of it. This is an entirely impromptu visit, and it is extremely good of you to receive us at such short notice,” answered Foley, bowing low as he did so. “The Cambridge weather, I’m sure you know, has been treacherous of late. I was uncertain whether or not to come to town. But in the end I found I had business to attend to, and here I am.”
Alice and I had hovered behind Foley during this exchange, but we had not escaped Bradfield’s notice. His brow furrowed in puzzlement as he glanced in my direction.
“I see you have Mr. Hopson in attendance. He is becoming quite a favorite of yours, I think.”
“His assistance has been invaluable in the matter of Montfort’s death. He continues to help me all he can.”
Bradfield now addressed me directly. “You are quite recovered from your tumble, I trust, Hopson? No more thoughts of a profession in surgery, I take it?” He guffawed at this jesting reference to my fainting.
I was in the midst of a halting apology for my indisposition when Foley saved me by interrupting again.
“Bradfield, I must tear you from Hopson and present to you Miss Goodchild, an acquaintance of ours who is accompanying us this evening. Miss Goodchild, I should add, is a most formidable woman. She runs the finest wood merchant’s in London, I’m told.”
I expected Alice to find such an introduction awkward, for she had told me she was not much used to company. But she handled herself with remarkable aplomb. Blushing only enough to enhance her complexion, she curtsied low and murmured a dignified “Good evening, my lord.”
Bradfield was dazzled, or at the very least intrigued, by what he saw. “A woman of business, how enchanting. You must meet my other guests. I’m sure they would b
e amused to know of your enterprise.”
I watched this exchange, helpless and impatient. I was conscious that Alice’s presence here offered what I’d been craving the past week—the opportunity to speak to her alone. Yet these meaningless pleasantries created still more obstacles between us, and I had to admit, her vexingly ambivalent manner left me utterly confused. Surely she could see from my desperate glances that I yearned to speak to her. How easily I could whisk her away to some quiet corner if only she’d look at me straight. But her eyes flitted over me and glanced about the room, apparently drinking in every detail of the decor and the assembled guests. I harbored a niggling suspicion she was cold-shouldering me, and the thought irked me like a splinter under the skin. I edged my way closer to her, intending to wait for a break in conversation to make a direct attempt to speak to her. But before I had opened my mouth, Bradfield stepped in and whisked her away. Now I saw he was introducing her to a cluster of ladies, including Miss Alleyn and Elizabeth Montfort, who were sitting together by the fire.
It was at this point that the throng parted and I caught sight of Robert Montfort. He was dressed more stylishly than I’d ever seen him, in a black brocade suit; he was looking with rapt interest at Alice. As he watched Bradfield usher her away, I fancied he shot a black look at Foley and then caught sight of me. His brow furrowed as if for a moment he was unsure who I was, then his expression clouded. I looked away, trembling at the thought of what his reaction would be to my presence. Surely by now he must have heard of my discovery in his laboratory. Would he dare to carry out his threats in the midst of this assembly? Was I about to be called a thief and branded and thrown into prison? When I mustered sufficient courage to look back, to my extreme astonishment I saw he was paying no attention to me whatsoever. Instead, he proceeded to present himself to Alice. Having kissed her hand, with what I judged unnecessary slowness, he began to converse with her. I couldn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was it seemed to charm her, because from then on her eyes never wandered from his face.
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