Reading this you may think that we had little common ground on which to build our friendship. I’d come from a modest yet well-established family; he was haunted by having none. He’d lived almost all the life he remembered in London; I was a stranger in the city. Yet despite our differences, our friendship ripened. By autumn he spoke of marriage and, as Christmas approached, we decided to make our intentions known to my family.
So that nothing would mar our future happiness, he was anxious all should be done correctly. But we were unsure how to proceed. Should he first approach my brother, since he was my guardian and employer, or should he apply directly to my father for my hand? By now I’d grown close to my sister-in-law Catherine and decided to seek her advice.
I mentioned the matter to her the day before my sudden departure. She gave me no cause for alarm, congratulating me warmly on our mutual affection while hoping I wouldn’t leave her household immediately. As for the etiquette of asking for my hand, she promised that as soon as an opportunity arose, she would raise the matter with my brother, and discover from him what we should do. Thus I’d no sense of foreboding the next day when my brother summoned me to him. It was only when I entered his study that I saw something was terribly amiss. His face was contorted with rage. His mind was quite made up.
I must leave the household that very afternoon, without a word to Partridge or anyone else.
I was, needless to say, dumbfounded, especially since having made this astonishing proclamation he seemed unwilling to provide an explanation for it. Eventually I overcame my shock and pressed him. The least I deserved was to know how I’d displeased him, since I had thought until then that he was satisfied with all I’d done. But my brother refused to respond, saying only that I’d performed my duties well enough but that I’d grown too close to Partridge for his liking.
“Evidently, for we wish to marry,” I replied boldly.
“It is not a union I think in the least desirable, nor one to which I will ever give my consent,” he thundered.
I dared to persist further, whereupon he fell into an even more violent rage, shouting repeatedly that we were too close, that Partridge was a common bastard of no known background, that his mother was without doubt some form of strumpet, and such a marriage would do nothing for his reputation or mine, indeed, would bring disgrace on the entire Chippendale family.
Overwhelmed with grief, I sobbed and wailed as loudly as I was able, but far from rousing his compassion and altering his resolve, my distress left him utterly unmoved. By now it was nearly two o’clock. Still ignoring my anguish, and with evident distaste, he wrapped me in my cloak and bundled me into a hackney carriage, into which he climbed beside me. I was thus summarily escorted to the White Hart at Holborn, where the stage for York stood ready to depart in half an hour. Without any consultation, my brother paid the fare and put me on the coach, watching from the yard—presumably in case I should dare to try to escape. Just before it pulled away, he approached the window and gave me this final warning: I should know by now how great was the sphere of his influence. I should not under any circumstance attempt to write to John Partridge. If I disobeyed him he’d easily discover it, in which case he’d accuse John of theft or some other trumped-up crime, instantly dismiss him, and do whatever was necessary to ensure he never again found work in London.
Thus was I silenced. Of course I longed to write to John, to explain my sudden disappearance, but knowing that he had no family to protect him and that without his profession he would have nothing, I dared not defy my brother’s wishes. Naturally I assumed that my brother would likewise keep his part of the bargain and leave John to continue quietly in his employment. It was only thanks to your letter that I learned how cruelly he had deceived me.
I am, sir, your grateful and obedient servant,
Dorothy Chippendale
The second letter was from Constance in Horseheath. It was written in a childish, scarcely decipherable hand, dated two days ago.
Nat
I’ve been wantin to tell you since I saw you last. ’Tis too tricky to write it, tho’ John’s helped a bit, it has to do with Lord M’s dying. ’Tis stupid but you mightn’t think it. Anyway now Lady E’s sent for me in London so I will tell you. Meet me Wed by the church in Covent Garden, six o’clock. How’s Alice, still lovesick are you?
Connie
I read both these letters again more slowly, pondering the significance of each. Connie’s letter was tantalizingly cryptic and confused. Dorothy’s letter, by contrast, completed my understanding of the events leading to Partridge’s departure for Horseheath. I now realized how stupid I’d been not to have guessed much of it. From what I knew of their devotion to each other, I should have known that Dorothy would have abandoned Partridge only if he was threatened in some way. I’d already surmised that the story of Partridge pestering her was a mere fabrication.
I was well aware of Chippendale’s ruthlessness, but the treatment he had meted out in this instance startled me. What had made him send his own sister away so abruptly and dismiss Partridge? Why did he refuse to discuss the matter candidly with her? Neither had committed any wrong—unless affection had become criminal in his eyes. Was it merely a matter of Partridge’s doubtful birth, or did jealousy lie at the root of it? I suspected Chippendale had grown irritated, threatened even, by Partridge’s effortless talent at drawing and cabinetmaking. Perhaps the prospect of marriage into his family made him see how easily Partridge might usurp his position. So he had banished his sister and dismissed Partridge, assuming that he would simply disappear and take up some other life where their paths would never cross.
Of course it had been a grave misjudgment. With so little bedrock in his life, Partridge would inevitably cling to whatever he had, grasp whatever opportunity presented itself. His craft was all he knew; thus when Madame Trenti happened at this vulnerable moment to confront him, naturally he’d readily embraced her story that Montfort was his father and gone to Horseheath praying for acknowledgment and financial backing to begin his own enterprise. Yet tragically not only had Montfort denied him but something else had taken place that had left him dead and frozen in the icy waters of the pond.
I now understood what had driven Partridge to Horseheath, yet I was still no closer to fathoming why he’d been killed. I considered Foley’s theory that his death might have been the result of someone believing him to be Montfort’s son and discounted it. There was no proof of Madame Trenti’s assertion that Montfort and she had ever been married. This was doubtless another of her manipulations to gain sympathy. And in the eyes of the law, what right did a bastard have even if he knew his father? None.
I thought about the injuries Partridge suffered. Were they more significant than I realized? To mutilate a craftsman’s hand would effectively condemn him to penury, even if the wounds themselves were not fatal. He could never have worked again. Was there therefore some symbolic import in the manner of his death? If Chippendale could have devised a punishment for his talented, threatening employee, this surely would have been it. Yet why did I still consider Chippendale? My inquiries at Horseheath, coupled with the circumstances of Madame Trenti’s death, had forced me to discount such a convenient solution.
I tucked the letters in my pocket and headed towards the back streets of Leicester Fields. With luck, by now Bradfield’s grooms would be at work in the mews preparing the horses and carriages. One of them must be persuaded to divulge who had used the smaller carriage on the previous day. Thus would I discover the identity of the driver of the chariot I’d seen outside Madame Trenti’s house. Thus would I identify the person who had run me down and murdered Montfort and Partridge and Madame Trenti.
The carriage, with its distinctive black and dark green paintwork, stood in the alley outside the coach house. A small boy polished its brass lanterns and moldings, while a groom harnessed up a pair of chestnut mares. Were they the same horses that had nearly trampled me to death? The same horses that had flashed beneath Mada
me Trenti’s window?
The whole place reeked of straw dust and horse dung. I strode closer, trying my best to avoid the pools of slurry, and addressed myself casually to the groom.
“That’s a fine chariot.”
He turned slightly to eye me, gave a noncommittal grunt, and continued securing his buckles.
“I myself intend to purchase a similar equipage. Does it ride well?”
The groom turned warily and looked me up and down. I was wearing a newish blue coat and clean linens, and even though I’d spattered my stockings, I knew I might pass for a middle-ranking merchant.
“Well enough, sir.”
“I believe it is identical to Lord Bradfield’s?”
“That is because it is his. Are you acquainted with Lord Bradfield?”
“Slightly. I was at his entertainment last evening. I’ve met him in Cambridge once or twice, at Lord Foley’s.”
This explanation reassured him further. His face relaxed. Time to broach the subject for which I’d come.
“Does Lord Bradfield take it out frequently for airings?”
“Not so often. He prefers the comfort of the town coach. ’Tis more usually his son, George, that likes to take turns in the park in it.”
“Does he drive alone?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes with his friends. And ’e says it gives the ladies a thrill to race round the trees and nearly crash into them.”
“What of gentleman acquaintances?”
“Robert Montfort takes his turn. You might be acquainted with him?”
I nodded to show that I was. “I believe I saw the two of them out yesterday morning.”
“Aye, I’d guess ’tis for the two of them we’re preparing it now.”
“D’you not know who takes it then?”
“Not always. We drive the carriage round to the house. Sometimes they might come immediately, other times they might not, and if we have orders to get ready another vehicle, we leave it with the footman.”
I felt a slight twinge of disappointment. “And yesterday?”
The wariness returned. “What’s all this for, sir? Nothing to do with buying a carriage, I’m thinking.”
“I’m interested, that’s all,” I said, with an affable smile. I took a shilling from Foley’s purse and slipped it in his pocket.
He shook his head as if I was taking a terrible liberty but answered me nonetheless. “Yesterday I saw the two gentlemen go in the carriage at their usual hour.”
“At what time was that?”
He answered without hesitation. “Ten, ten-thirty.” This was as I expected.
“There was nothing out of the ordinary?”
“What d’you mean, ‘out of the ordinary’?”
“Had the carriage been used earlier?”
He cast another curious glance in my direction. “I don’t know how you’ve become so well acquainted with their comings and goings, or what it is to you, but yes, as I recall, it was taken out early, before the two gentlemen drove it.”
“By whom?”
“By a lady. Miss Alleyn.”
“Miss Alleyn?”
The reply left me speechless as a baby.
“Was she alone?” I persisted.
“She was alone in the mews, but I fancy there was someone waiting nearby to drive her.”
I breathed again; this was more probable. “Did you see this other person?”
“No, but she mentioned her nephew’s name. And one of the grooms arriving late that morning said he saw the carriage cross the square driven by a gentleman in a dark green coat.”
“Did Miss Alleyn return with the carriage later?”
“No, she said she’d take it straight to the house for her nephew and George.”
Finally I comprehended the extent of the murderer’s guile. Hadn’t I seen Robert wearing a gentleman’s green coat? Until this moment I’d mistakenly thought it was merely the painted stripe I remembered, but now I knew that the hunched figure within had been wearing a coat of the same hue. The figure had been Robert Montfort. Miss Alleyn’s complicity was easily explained. When she told me of her history, she had disclosed that she lavished affection on Robert. She had become a surrogate mother to him. Had I not observed how she protected him from anything that might cause him disturbance, how she forever ascribed to him the noblest of sentiments?
And so I unscrambled the orchestration of Madame Trenti’s murder. With such a devoted aunt at his beck and call, it would have been easy for Robert to persuade her to order the carriage and then hand it over to him. Thus Robert had completed his gruesome scheme safe in the knowledge that if the carriage were seen and questions asked it would be she who was identified, not him. He could be certain Miss Alleyn would never betray him; certain that her loyalty would blind her to his deviousness.
The very unexpectedness of the groom’s information made me skeptical, made me question it, and spurred me to reach my judgment. And so, as if a beam of light had suddenly illuminated a dark room I’d always wanted to see, I looked in through the open door and observed what I wanted to be there, what until then I had only imagined.
All along I had correctly divined that the evil that had sparked this vicious sequence of events emanated from Horseheath Hall. Now I saw I’d have to make one final visit there if I was to curtail it, for it was only within those desolate, unhappy walls that I would be able to reconsider and comprehend all the perplexing details we’d found at the deaths of Montfort and Partridge—the grenadillo box, the pistol, the leeches, the footprints. There would be logical explanations for all of them, of this I was in no doubt. Furthermore, although I knew how Madame Trenti was killed, I had yet to comprehend why.
Despite my resolution, certain of my anxieties remained unaltered. I hadn’t forgotten Robert Montfort’s malice towards me, nor that he was due to return to Horseheath the next day. Alice herself was due to accompany him and stay there at his invitation. Although I was more tremulous than ever when I thought of Robert, a new purpose infused me. I would slip into the house unseen; Robert Montfort wouldn’t discover my presence until I was ready to reveal it and have him apprehended.
I pondered Robert’s strange invitation to Alice. Why had she, rather than I, become a focus for his intentions? For what reason other than an evil one would a vicious murderer invite a lady he scarcely knew to his home? Something she had let slip in her conversation with him must have made him suspect she was closer than I to discovering the truth. What could this be? The answer came with dreadful certainty. Doubtless she had viewed her conversation with Robert as an opportunity to gather more information. Possibly she had tried to discover the driver of the carriage. It was, after all, the reason we had gone together to Bradfield’s party. Perhaps (and this thought filled me with dread) she had innocently asked him if he had been out driving that morning. In any event, once he had divined how much she knew, it could be no coincidence that Robert had asked her to Horseheath. The invitation had been tendered not because he wished to hear her opinion of his projected works but because he wished to silence her. Afterwards, presumably, it would be my turn, and then perhaps Foley’s, for I was convinced that Robert Montfort was the demented maniac behind all these deaths, and that he would kill and kill again to avoid detection.
I recalled the hideous images of Montfort’s blasted head, Madame Trenti’s broken body; of the dog laid out on the table and Partridge’s fingers crammed in the box. It was clear as a looking glass that if Alice went to Horseheath she would be placing herself in the clutches of Robert, and the shadow of inconceivable danger would fall upon her.
And so, having reached this great conclusion, I realized that it was paramount to protect Alice, to prevent her from leaving for Cambridge. She had mentioned that Robert planned to call on her that morning. If I happened to appear at her home at the same time, she might accuse me of overprotective jealousy and go off with him in a fit of pique. Thus I returned directly to the workshop and scrawled this hasty note.
&
nbsp; January 20
St. Martin’s Lane
Alice,
Forgive me for writing to you so directly and not coming to see you in person. I have to leave London again, but before I go I want to caution you most strongly against journeying to Horseheath as you propose. The reason for my heavy-handed warning is this. I have just returned from a visit to Bradfield’s stables. The groom there told me something quite astounding, which I scarcely believe, though he was honest enough in saying it. Miss Alleyn took the carriage that morning, procuring it for another gentleman—who from details of his dress I have now identified.
As I wrote this line I heard footsteps ascending the stair. I knew I’d have to finish quickly.
I told you the figure driving the carriage was familiar but I could not recognize it. Now I know why. It was Robert Montfort that I saw—
The door opened and I broke off.
Chapter Twenty-three
Chippendale burst through the workshop door, sending wood shavings flying like autumn leaves in a gale. “Hopson,” he bellowed, without any preamble whatsoever, “you’re nowt but a trifler. And I don’t take kindly to your waywardness. I’ll tell you plain, I’ve had my fill of you.”
I tried not to feel flustered, but my heart began to pound. Here was the anger I’d anticipated at Madame Trenti’s establishment, only he’d unaccountably decided to unleash it now, a day late. And I hadn’t time for it.
“I am sorry for your displeasure, master. If you’ll allow me leave to explain—”
I might as well have said nothing, for the torrent surged on with barely an interval. “When I encountered you yesterday morning, I presumed two things. First, you’d returned from Cambridge having accomplished the task I set you—to retrieve my drawings; second, you’d come back to your duties directly. On both counts you’ve deceived me. This greatly displeases me, and I conclude you no longer value your position here.”
The Grenadillo Box: A Novel Page 33
