She pointed towards the far wall, where between a pair of tarnished brass sconces, a large looking glass hung by a rusty chain. She lighted the dusty candle stubs in the holders. The flames spluttered, grew tall, and were magnified in the silvered glass. Our reflections were likewise warped into elongated figures scarce recognizable as our own. The glass was mounted into a broad, flat frame intricately adorned with marquetry. I knew this form of decoration. Half a century and more ago it had been perfected by Dutch craftsmen who taught our native makers how to shade the wood like an artist’s shadows using hot sand. But this was different. For a start, it was richer than any I had hitherto observed. Into a whorling background of walnut oyster veneers were inserted jewel-like marquetry panels of peonies, tulips, and scrolling foliage intertwined with exotically plumed birds. Unusually, it was unfaded by sunlight; the hues of the various woods encompassed every shade of yellow, red, green, and brown, creating images worthy of the Garden of Eden.
“Remarkable,” I said. “It might be painted, and yet every petal has been formed with tiny morsels of wood, some cut narrower than a reed.”
Alice looked gratified by my admiration. “The style is now obsolete, I know,” she said, “but I’m fond of it, for it holds family associations. It occurred to me the multiplicity of timbers contained within this small area might assist you in your inquiry. The frame is almost a dictionary of woods; there must be a chance that the same wood is contained here as in your box.”
“How will that help me to identify it?”
“That’s not all I have to show you. Look here.”
She walked to the adjacent wall, where she drew back a dust sheet covering a plain oak bureau. She unlocked the top drawer and extracted a yellowing paper, which she unfolded and held close to the flame. I could just make out a faint pencil drawing of flowers and birds identical to those adorning the mirror.
“The mirror frame was constructed by my aunt Charlotte, my father’s sister. She was fascinated by the number of exotic timbers in the warehouse, and her greatest ambition was to become a marquetry cutter.”
“And did she?”
“Her father was greatly averse to the idea. He was a prosperous merchant, and as all fathers do, he wished his daughter to marry well and thus advance the family fortune. Her story is a sad one, and I will not tire you with the details. Suffice it to say that for some time she did persist clandestinely, as this mirror testifies. After she died, this and the working drawing she made for it were handed to my father. If you examine it, you will find every morsel of wood she has used in the mirror is named.”
With Alice’s assistance I detached the mirror from the wall and carried it back to the parlor. We laid it on the table, spread the drawing beside it, and spent the next hour very agreeably, seated side by side, moving the box next to each sample of wood to see if we could discover a match. The woods were so minutely cut that this task necessitated the closest observation. Most in the jigsaw were familiar to me: holly, laburnum, box, ebony, tulipwood, amboyna. I scrutinized each one hard, searching vainly for a timber with the same distinctive streaked rays and straight grain as the box. Only occasionally did I tire of this search and allow myself to glance in the mirror glass, at our heads close together, her curls tumbling from the cap, so near that I could feel them brushing my cheek.
Eventually she pointed with the tip of a pencil to the vivid tail feathers of a bird. “Look here,” she said softly. “I believe this is it.”
I moved the box close. It was identical.
“It seems that this timber is employed in this one portion alone,” said Alice, who was already busily referring to the drawing. “Its name she has written as Caesalpinia granadillo, underlined, as if there’s some special significance to it.”
“Grenadillo wood.”
“Perhaps it was a great rarity and that was the reason for the underlining.”
“Have you ever heard of it?”
She frowned and shook her head. “I am as ignorant as you, although I can consult the ledgers to discover where it originates.”
“I wouldn’t put you to so much inconvenience.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said firmly.
At this instant her brother returned. Stamping his feet with cold, he threw off his greatcoat and made straight for the fire. For several minutes he stood there, clearly bewildered to find us leaning close together over the mirror. I stood up and went to stand with my back to the fire. I smiled at him amiably. I felt sorry to be the cause of his confusion, but more than that, I was reluctant to leave.
“I believe your brother deserves a meal after the errand he has just completed. And I can see he is perplexed at our activities. Will you allow me to take you both to supper and we can reveal to him what we are doing?”
She glanced intently at Richard’s hungry face, smiled, and he smiled back. “Gladly,” she replied.
We went out immediately. I paid a links boy to light our way, though I needn’t have bothered. The weather had cleared, and a brilliant half-moon illuminated the street and turned everything in it to silver. Bathed in this ghostly light, the city was transformed to a magical place. It seemed the Strand resembled a luminous river over which we floated, while all around iridescent hawkers of chestnuts, oranges, and oysters wafted like sprites.
The air of enchantment vanished as soon as we reached Clifton’s, a commendable chophouse in Butcher Row. An exhibition of amateur boxing was to be held that night at the tavern next door, and the crowd had overflowed here. The main rooms brimmed with the stench of mingled tobacco and ale, and the babble of spectators placing bets, cracking jokes, telling yarns, insulting one another. What Alice made of this city soup I couldn’t guess, for to speak above the rowdiness was impossible. I thumped on the bar, shouting out for a table away from the throng. The obliging landlord showed us to a quiet room, where we sat in high-backed settles before a blazing fire, she and her brother on one side, I on the other, a rough trestle table and a candlestick between us. After an excellent meal of neat’s tongue, boiled salad, liver pudding, and wine, Richard begged to be allowed to watch the entertainment and Alice laughingly agreed. He left us. Her eyes glittered and her complexion glowed with the wine, the nourishment, the friendliness. I felt emboldened to speak more freely.
“I trust the press and noise does not offend you,” I ventured.
She laughed and shook her head. “Of course not. If I’m quieter, or less forward, than your usual companions it’s because I so rarely enjoy company.”
“My usual companions?”
She looked at me levelly. “Mr. Hopson, you must know your reputation for gallantry precedes you.”
“Must I?”
“Fetherby remarks on it constantly.”
I could happily have throttled the talkative carter. “It is ill-deserved, Miss Goodchild, I can assure you of that.” I felt a small prick of conscience for this insincerity and hurried on to crush it. “Though I confess I enjoy company—that of both sexes—as much as any sociable young man. Yet you say you do not enjoy it?”
“I said no such thing. What I meant was that I rarely experience company, not that I don’t enjoy it. I have no choice in the matter.”
“Why is that?”
With evident reticence she began to tell me a little of her family circumstances. The Goodchild enterprise had been founded two generations earlier by Alice’s grandfather, Jan Gudhuis. He was a Dutch sea captain turned merchant who’d retired from the sea and migrated to London along with sundry silk weavers, silversmiths, cabinetmakers, and moneylenders shadowing the Dutch King William of Orange. The decision proved shrewd. Within a few years providence and swelling profit allowed him to acquire the premises in the Strand and assume the life of a prosperous merchant. He concluded then that the more he forgot his native land and blended with his new surroundings, the easier the citizens of London would be in their dealings with him, and his commerce might further benefit. Thus had he changed his name to Goodchild and wedde
d a clockmaker’s pretty daughter from Clerkenwell. They had two children: a daughter named Charlotte—the maker of the mirror—and a son, Alice’s father, whom they named John. Charlotte died young, as I’d already learned. John took over the running of the business, married, and was blessed first with a daughter and then with a son—Alice and her brother, Richard.
“But that doesn’t explain why you find yourself charged with such burdens when your father is still alive,” I prompted, when her account trailed to silence.
For several minutes Alice regarded her glass. When at length she spoke, her eyes glistened, and I could see each word she uttered was painful.
“The family was thrown into disarray when my mother died suddenly in a smallpox epidemic. Without his wife to anchor him, my father felt he no longer belonged in this city. He yearned to distance himself from London. His head became filled with rambling thoughts; he was as careless of his enterprise as he was of his children, preferring to pore over travel journals, imagining the fertile hills and valleys and the strange trees and plants and creatures they described.” She halted again.
“And where did his preoccupation lead him?”
“Nine months ago his passion for escape—for that is what it was—finally consumed him. He packed up his few possessions and, leaving me in charge of the warehouse and my young brother, set sail for Jamaica. He had heard talk of rich new sources of mahogany and other, rarer tropical timbers for which every cabinetmaker in London clamored. He would return, he vowed, when his thirst for travel was satisfied and when new supplies had been established.”
“That’s sad for you,” I said. “For some would say he’s neglectful of his responsibility to you and your brother.”
She shifted on her bench and drummed her fingers softly on the table. Her russet hair tumbled softly from its bindings, glowing richer than the embers in the hearth, but her mouth and chin were set stern. “I don’t view it in that manner. If he’s found some solace then I’m glad for it. I trust he’ll return when he’s ready.”
Now her account was complete her voice sounded pluckier, impatient even, with no hint of a tremor. She looked at me levelly, unblinking. I wondered if I’d imagined the earlier gleam of anguish in her eyes.
“And what of you and Richard meantime?”
“Richard’s education continues uninterrupted. As for myself, why, I’ve opportunities few women enjoy: a business to run, little interference from anyone. I learn something new every day. There are many who would envy me.”
“Are there no inconveniences in your situation? You are very young to take on responsibilities that properly belong to a man.”
She waved an impatient hand as if my conventional view infuriated her. “There are those who disapprove of the manner in which I conduct my business, others who remark the negligence with which I run this house, the sea of papers and unwashed plates in my parlor. But the beauty of my situation is that I’m free of all obligation. I can disregard them.”
“And you never yearn for the usual diversions a woman of your age and rank enjoys?”
She gave a half smile, her eyes shone, and for an instant I wondered if she were laughing at me. “Mr. Hopson, I would ask you to disregard my sex for a moment, if that is possible. Then you will begin to see why my primary concern must be to work hard to nurture the family enterprise and my brother. Other matters must take second place.” She shot a knowing look in my direction and smiled more openly. “In any case I confess that, after nine months of business, a return to sewing and taking tea and promenading in the park doesn’t seem so very diverting.”
I laughed out loud at her wit and mettle. Her conviction that doggedness and energy were all she needed to surmount her tricky situation amused me. “I can’t think of many who’d view the situation as you do, Miss Goodchild,” I said, “though as to disregarding your sex, why, with such an abundance of charms as nature has bestowed on you, that would be utterly impossible.”
She looked away. “You flatter me, Mr. Hopson. I’ve a reputation, as you must know, for being less ladylike than I should be, for speaking as plainly—even as rudely—as a man on occasion. But I’ll tell you that I do so because I find the world of commerce is a man’s world. I’ve been unexpectedly charged as the guardian of our family interest and have no alternative…” She was roused now, and her cheeks were flamed with feeling.
Instantly I cursed myself for my ill-timed compliment. “You needn’t apologize to me for the strength of your resolve,” I interjected soberly, anxious to smooth things as quickly as possible. “Only a fool would chastise you for it. In any case we have much in common, for I too have been charged with an unexpected duty. In my case the role is perhaps even more surprising.”
Curiosity seemed to overcome her irritation. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been assigned to discover the truth about Partridge.”
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Searching for the truth preoccupies every one of us. But do we ever find the eternal verity of those we love? I think not. Most of us do not even know ourselves.”
I furrowed my brow at this extraordinary response. What did she mean? I remembered suddenly my feelings of dismay when I’d discovered Partridge’s secret involvement with Montfort. Was that what she meant? Had she too felt deceived by someone she believed she knew so profoundly? Her father perhaps? I wanted to pursue the matter further, but at that instant Richard reappeared, brimming with the excitement of the boxing he had witnessed.
“Tell me, Mr. Hopson,” said he suddenly, “how did you come by the scar on your forehead? Were you ever a boxer?”
I laughed heartily at this and immediately forgot Alice’s unsettling remark. “I’ve found myself in plenty of brawls but never in a professional capacity,” I said. “As to the scar, that’s another story. I’ll tell you one day. For now I want to explain to you why I called on your sister today.” I took out the temple box and showed it to him. “I came to find out what I could about this, for I believe it may shed light on the death of my friend Partridge. Your sister has discovered the name of the wood—grenadillo. We believe it is a great rarity, for neither of us knows it.”
Richard took the box and, turning it in his hand, heard the contents shift.
“What’s in it?” he demanded.
“That I do not yet know, for I have been unable to unlock it in the absence of the key.”
He examined the box again. “I believe I might help you then,” he said importantly.
“Indeed I should be grateful of any assistance, for I would prefer not to force it.”
“I’ve a friend whose father is a master locksmith in Norfolk Street. If anyone can open it, it is he. And I’ve no doubt he’ll do it gladly.”
I smiled broadly at him and then at Alice. “That is mightily useful. Can I trust you to take this to him tomorrow and let me know when he has had time to look at it?”
He agreed to do as I asked, and with that we left the tavern. I walked with them the short distance to their cottage. At the door, without thinking, I bowed to Alice and kissed her hand. She accepted the gesture with a small curtsy and a smile. “Richard and I have enjoyed ourselves this evening, and we thank you heartily for it. I’ll come in person or send word to you as soon as we discover anything more of your box, of that you may be assured.”
The moon had vanished, but the sky remained clear and peppered with stars as I walked back to my lodgings, past the noble porticoes and walks of the Exeter Exchange. I knew the place was much vaunted as somewhere a man could find any mistress he required, and on occasion I’d sampled its diversions. Tonight, however, I’d no thought of them. I was more dizzy in spirit than if I’d drunk a flagon of wine, yet still strangely sober. I hunched my shoulders deeper into my coat and, without deflecting my gaze from the street ahead, walked briskly home.
Chapter Eight
January 3, 1755
Whitely Court
Sir
I arrive in London two days from hence an
d shall call on you directly to discover what progress you have made in the assignment we discussed. Meantime it might assist you to know the developments that have occurred here since your departure.
A search of the grounds has thus far yielded no sign of the severed fingers. This leads both Westleigh and myself to suppose they were either consumed by an animal or concealed—buried perhaps—by the perpetrator of this dreadful deed, so that finding them will prove impossible. A physician apothecary from Cambridge, Mr. Townes, a very astute man whose opinion I value highly, examined Mr. Partridge’s body. He informs us that there was little water in Partridge’s lungs. This and the manner in which he was embedded in the ice lead him to conclude that he lost consciousness due to the wounds to his hand and fell into the pond, dying soon afterwards. The blow to his head is too minor to have killed him but could, Mr. Townes says, have resulted when he fell. It is his opinion that the wounds to the hand were caused by a thick-bladed instrument, something like an ax. This would account, he says, for the bruising of the flesh and the manner in which the bone had splintered.
The groundsman verified what he told you regarding the removal of the ice to the icehouse. The men finished their work at four, when it grew dark. The man in question passed by the Italian Garden on his way to his cottage in the village at around seven and observed what he thought was the crouching figure of a man, although he cannot give any more detail than this. He fancies himself an expert in meteorological matters and estimated that the water would have been frozen too hard for a body to fall through by midnight. Therefore it is certain Partridge must have fallen into the pond in the early part of the evening, and it seems that the figure the groundsman saw may very well have been Partridge in the moments before his death.
Following his postmortem examination, the question arose of what to do with Mr. Partridge’s remains. Since he had died within the estate, Miss Alleyn was charitable enough to order that, rather than being buried a pauper by the parish, Partridge should be given a decent burial in the grounds of the family chapel where servants are usually laid to rest. Robert Montfort attempted to dissuade her from this generosity, arguing that the family shouldn’t pay to bury someone who was very possibly involved in his father’s death. “What?” said Miss Alleyn. “Are you saying you no longer believe your father’s death was suicide?” He fell silent then, seeing that if he admitted to believing his father was murdered he would have no means of preventing me from taking possession of a large portion of the estate. The burial will take place this afternoon.
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