The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (13 page)

There was a silence as she fixed him with her olive green eyes and raised a perfectly arched mouse-hair brow. “I am astonished to hear it. Where is he?”

Chippendale regarded her smoothly. “He has left London.”

“What do you mean?”

“He means Partridge is dead,” I interrupted coldly.

Madame Trenti turned to me, gasped in astonishment, and turned back to Chippendale. “Are you quite certain? Is there not some mistake?” She reached into her muff, withdrew her salts, and sniffed them loudly before leaning back in her chair and half closing her eyes.

Chippendale’s eyes were blazing now, and his voice, when he addressed me, was chilling. “Nathaniel, do you not have duties to attend to? You are not required here and may leave us if you please.”

I am not a man who delights in physical violence, yet I confess that at that moment my earlier desire to jump at him returned more forcefully, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from flooring him. In truth the reason I held back was mainly that I was afraid; I was fearful of my master, afraid of insulting him and incurring his further fury. And so I held on to what remained of my dignity. I drew myself up to my full six feet two inches and bowed briefly to Madame Trenti, who was still lying back in her chair wafting her bottle beneath her nose. “Good day, madam,” I said and turned on my heels without saying a word more to my master.

For an hour after returning to the cabinetmakers’ workshop, I sat at my desk and wrestled with a large-scale working drawing on which I was detailing the construction and dimensions of a circular table. I was still seething and spoke to none of the other craftsmen working in the same room. From time to time, however, I broke off my calculations to glance out of the window to the yard below. At midday I saw the rear door to Chippendale’s residence open. Chippendale emerged, alone.

I put down my quill and rule and hurried out through the narrow passage from the yard to the street. By the time I arrived, Madame Trenti had already stepped into her sedan chair, the door was fastened, and her bearers were set to convey her hence. She caught sight of me careering towards her. “Mr. Hopson?” she said, leaning carefully out of the window so her plumage did not catch. “Is it I you seek?” She seemed to have recovered from her shock at the news of Partridge’s death, for she gave me a glance that was practically flirtatious.

“There was something you said, madam. I wondered if I might presume upon you to explain it.”

“What was it?”

“When you spoke of Partridge, you called him ‘the foundling.’ This was a matter of which he rarely spoke. I am intrigued to discover how you knew of it.”

There was a long interval before she smiled beguilingly at me. “I too had intended to interrogate you more on the matter of Mr. Partridge. But first, pray tell me, why was it that Mr. Chippendale seemed so averse to our discussion?”

The suddenness of her question caught me by surprise. I didn’t know how I should respond. But before I could stutter a reply, she waved her fan at me. “Have I baffled you, Mr. Hopson? Perhaps the matter is of no consequence. In any event what I wished to say was this—news of Partridge’s death came as a profound shock. He was more to me than you know. Come to my lodgings tomorrow afternoon and we will satisfy each other’s curiosity.”

S
leet was falling from a pewter sky as later that same afternoon I made my way to the Strand to call on Alice. I need hardly mention that I went with my spirits in a lather of confusion. I had fretted about our postponed outing. I prayed she would have received the hastily written note explaining the reason for my absence. How would she greet my sudden reappearance? Would she chastise me for my failure to keep to our rendezvous? Would she feign indifference, and treat me with the businesslike detachment she had always employed until our last encounter? Each time I turned the matter over in my mind these wretched anxieties consumed me.

The warehouse, an imposing brick-built edifice four windows wide and three stories high, stood at the northern reaches of the Strand, beyond the Exeter Exchange, between a draper and a bookseller’s. I entered through a cavernous hallway devoid of all furnishings but strewn with boards, planks, splinters, and shavings, in short, wood of every form. A narrow corridor led me into a small office, where I found Alice seated at an old oak table with a lighted lamp before her. From the number of handwritten sheets strewn around, it seemed she was in the midst of writing a letter.

I cleared my throat and gently, so as not to startle her, announced myself. “Miss Goodchild, how pleasant to see you again.”

She looked up suddenly, then sprang to her feet. “Mr. Hopson! What an unexpected entrance. I didn’t hear you knock.”

My heart lightened unmistakably. “Perhaps that is because in my impatience to see you I forgot to do so.”

“Are you well after your journey from Cambridge? Your note reached me—and Fetherby the driver tells me you encountered great sorrows there. I mean the death of your friend Partridge.” I fancied I saw color flood her complexion, and there was understanding in her voice.

“I’m glad you knew where I was, even though I wish it had not been Fetherby who told you of what had transpired.” Fetherby was employed by Chippendale to transport goods to and fro. I could not imagine anyone less suited to relay such delicate information.

“The loss must grieve you greatly. I too was shocked by the news of his death. Partridge visited here from time to time, when he had particular requirements.”

I nodded, grateful for her sympathy. “The reason I’ve come so speedily to see you,” I declared, remembering how I’d postponed even Molly Bullock’s lusty embrace, “is that I’m anxious to find out what I can about this object.” I removed the temple box from my pocket and passed it to her. “I wondered if you could identify the wood. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

She placed the box close to the glass shade of her lantern before taking a magnifying glass and bending over it to examine the pattern of the wood, looking in turn at the flat-grained roof, the turned columns, the carved capitals and cornice. After some minutes she shook her head slightly, drew back from the light, and handed the box back. “The light is too poor to be certain, but it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen either—although I’ve no doubt if my father were here he’d know it.”

I was disappointed, and my face must have showed it. “May I leave it with you and return tomorrow when you have viewed it in daylight? I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but I fear there’s no one better qualified to recognize it.”

My crestfallen expression must have moved her, and I suppose she may have been a little flattered by my high opinion of her talents. She returned her attentions to the box, narrowing her eyes as if searching her memory for something. Suddenly her face cleared and she looked back at me. “Perhaps there is something I can do…. If you wait while I finish this letter, I’ve something to show you that may assist you.”

For the next half hour, I sat in a chair while she continued with her letter. It was no hardship for me to wait. Her mind was obviously rapt in writing, and she ignored me so completely that I passed the time happily, studying her at my leisure. She was simply dressed in a well-cut cloth jacket and petticoat of deepest blue that served only to accentuate the fineness of her figure. Her hair was piled up in a white gauze cap with a single thick ringlet falling from one side onto her shoulder, where it shone like well-seasoned mahogany. She wrote fluently, forming her letters in generous loops, stopping only occasionally to dip her pen and gaze at the lamp as she searched for the right word or phrase, or referred to a page written in crabbed script beside her.

I should confess here that my interest in Alice had already led me to discover a little of her family circumstances from George Fetherby, the aged and garrulous carter. According to his information, Alice’s father, John Goodchild, had left London to attend to his interests overseas, following the sudden death of his wife. Alice, though little prepared for trade, had been left in charge of the London side of the business.

“Do you write to your father?” I inquired, when she looked up after some time and caught my eye.

“Every week. There’s much to master in this business.”

“That’s most commendable. And does he reply as regularly?”

She lowered her eyes to her script. “His letters are dependent on the whims of the weather and merchantmen returning from the colonies. He does his best.”

Some minutes later she put down her pen, assembled her sheets in order—there were six in all—addressed them, and sealed the package.

“Come,” she said, putting the letter she had written in her pocket, “I will send my brother to dispatch this and then you will have my full attention. Let’s hope what I have to show you will be worth your patience.”

She led the way through the warehouse proper, past hulking pyramids of boards, to the rear. A large oak double door, with a smaller entrance set in it, opened to the yard and her Dutch-gabled cottage beyond. Drawing back the bolts of the small aperture, she gathered her skirts in one hand and, without a backward glance, ran nimbly through the arrows of sleet to her front door. I lumbered behind, spattering my knitted stockings with globules of mud in my effort to keep pace.

Her brother was already returned from his school. He had the parlor fire roaring and was now seated beside it, busily constructing a ship’s model. The hull had been carefully carved, and the masts had been stepped. He was fixing the cotton rigging.

“That’s an impressive piece of work.”

“A replica of the Indiaman
The Duke of Portland,
on which my father sailed,” he declared proudly.

“I believe it was Mr. Partridge who gave him the idea,” said his sister. “He came to the yard one day quite recently when Richard was at home and listless. Partridge distracted him with his suggestion of building the model and helped him begin it.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “He had a generous disposition, and no family of his own, and always profoundly regretted it.”

“I didn’t know it,” said Alice. “How very tragic his short life was.” She hesitated for a moment, looking at me as though she wished to ask more. Then, perhaps fearing her curiosity might be misconstrued, she turned to her brother and gave him the letter to post. There was an Indiaman due to leave as soon as the tides and winds were favorable, and she was anxious her letter should be on it.

No sooner had he left us than she took a key from the wooden box on the side table, handed me a lit candle, and led me back across the hallway to a small oak-paneled drawing room. The chill struck me as I entered. After the warmth of the blazing parlor fire, the air in here was cold and damp. No fire had been lit, the shutters were drawn, and the furniture veiled by dust sheets.

“My father sat here every evening to read while my mother did her needlework,” she said, a shadow crossing her face. “These days my brother and I almost never come in here. That was why I nearly overlooked what I want to show you. It is this.”

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.