The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (23 page)

“Mr. Hopson,” said he, handing me a cup of coffee and lounging back in his chair. “You anticipate me uncannily with your visit. It was my intention to call upon you later today.”

“Indeed, Lord Foley. Forgive my untimely intrusion, but I felt sure you would wish to be the first to hear what I have to say.”

Foley sat up sharply, furrowing his mossy brows. “You have news, I take it. What is it, pray?”

“Let me ask you something first,” I said, forcing myself to contain my excitement by speaking slowly. “Is the grenadillo box in this house still?”

“It is downstairs in the parlor. The servant will fetch it directly if you desire it. Why do you ask?”

“I believe, my lord, I’ve uncovered the means to open it.”

Foley’s knife clattered on his china plate. “Upon my life, Hopson, why did you not say so sooner?”

He clicked his fingers and briskly informed his servant that the box should be brought. Then he turned back to me and demanded that I explain myself. I was of course burning to show him what I’d found. I took out the notebook, laid it open in front of him, and briefly described the significance of the drawings. He flicked through them, scrutinizing each carefully, turning back and forth between the pages as I had done the night before. He was still examining these images when the footman returned with the box on a silver salver. Immediately Foley seized the box from the tray and thrust it towards me.

“Here you are, Hopson!” he cried. “Let’s see what you can make of it.”

With a trembling hand I placed the box on the table. It was as I remembered it: smaller than my fist, exquisitely carved and finished. Aided by frequent reference to the pages of the book, I pressed and slid and delved. I retrieved the key, removed the column that covered the keyhole, and just as the drawing delineated, the lock appeared before us. I put the key in and turned. A smooth click, the lock disengaged, the lid opened.

Foley had moved round the breakfast table and was standing beside me now. As if we’d stumbled into an unlit cavern, we both stared intently into shadows. Only here the cavity was so minute we had to squint to see its treasure. “What is it?” said Foley, craning over me in a lather of impatience. “Is anything there? I see nothing…”

“Yes,” I replied as I frowned into the box. “There is indeed something, although I fear it won’t answer as many questions as we hoped.”

“God’s teeth!” cried Foley, throwing back the chair in his agitation. “What on earth d’you mean? Show me!”

I picked up the contents of the box between my thumb and forefinger and dropped it delicately into his outstretched palm. “Here, see for yourself what you make of it.”

As if it were quicksilver that might trickle through his fingers, Foley cradled the object in his hand. He bowed his head to examine it, then looking more perplexed than I’d ever seen him, he picked up a magnifying glass from his side table and held it to his hand.

“Not only does it fail to answer our questions, it is meaningless, is it not?”

“It cannot truly be meaningless,” said I at length. “It must signify something or there would be no purpose in secreting it there. It’s clearly a token of some sort.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Foley, placing the object gingerly on a saucer and handing it to me with the magnifying glass so I too could look. “Confess it, Hopson. You are as flummoxed as I. And we are both as confounded now as before you opened the wretched box. What on earth is it?”

I held the magnifying glass up and focused on the center of the saucer. The object I scrutinized was a crescent of gold, engraved with the words “To C…”

That was all.

“I can see as well as you, my lord, that it is a ring that for one reason or another has been cut in half. Perhaps it was an engagement or marriage ring that was severed as a token, two people each taking a portion, possibly as a form of pledge,” I said.

“Hopson, your ‘perhaps’ and ‘possibly’ are all very well. But what good does the ring do us? Has it actually helped in any way?”

“The fact we don’t understand its significance doesn’t mean it has no meaning. I believe it does represent an important advance, even if that advance is only to comprehend how little we know.”

Foley glowered. “What the devil d’you mean?”

I met his scowl unflinchingly. “Imagine our inquiries into these deaths as if we were cutting a clearing in the midst of a forest. The larger the clearing, the greater the perimeter of dark trunks around us. The obscurity may seem impenetrable. But that is not to say we are not yards from the forest’s limit.”

Foley’s testiness increased. “You are most poetic this morning, Hopson. Though I hazard there’s little substance to your theory. To continue with your metaphor, who’s to say we are not stumbling further into the undergrowth, widening the gap between the truth and speculation? And in any event, what d’you suggest we should
do
with this incomprehensibly significant advance?”

I confess this question took me aback, for I’d come here in such haste, certain all would become clear once we saw the contents of the box, that I’d taken no thought of what I might do afterwards. I saw now I’d been foolish to think it would be so simple, but still Foley’s glumness didn’t flatten me entirely. However mystifying the ring was, however indecipherable Partridge’s death seemed, I wasn’t defeated. I only needed time in order to decipher it.

I looked again at the ring, and it struck me then how similar it was to the tokens I’d read of at the Foundling Hospital. This was just the sort of object a mother might leave with her child in order to identify him at a later date. But Foley permitted me no time to explore this notion. He was already rumbling on with further proposals.

“I think we should return to Horseheath,” he declared. “I am confident that where the bodies were found more answers must lie.”

A chill ran through my veins as I contemplated that fearful place. Foley seemed to consider the fact that my life had already been threatened as a matter of no consequence. I knew I was in peril enough in London, surrounded by the bustle of city life; Horseheath, desolate and hostile, where I’d barely a handful of acquaintances, was the last place I wished to go.

“I fear it will be impossible for me to obtain further leave from my master,” I murmured, looking at my feet. “He is supremely pressed with commissions; if I don’t assist him there’s every possibility I’ll be dismissed.”

Foley considered for a moment. “Very well.” He strode to his writing desk. “In that case
I
shall instruct Chippendale that I require you to assist me at Whitely Court. I want you to separate his drawings from those of Partridge. Since the return of his drawings is what he desires above all else, I don’t anticipate he will disagree. Nor will he have any means of discovering that you are in fact at Horseheath rather than Whitely.”

My heart sank as I contemplated my inescapable fate. My legs began to tremble. I’d no idea what I would do when I got to Horseheath, or how I’d avoid the menace lurking within it. And once again I was allowing myself to be separated from Alice, and the city most likely to hold the key to the cause of Partridge’s death. “No, my lord,” I replied, helpless as a twig carried off in a torrent. “I don’t expect he will.”

W
hen I entered Chippendale’s office, I found him seated on a high stool, staring at a carved and gilded goddess, while Craggs, the apprentice, hovered nervously by the door. The golden carving gleamed resplendently amid a bed of ruffled drapery. Fronds of hair tumbled about her breasts, and she held a garland of flowers invitingly towards him. Chippendale seemed entirely unaffected by these abundant charms. His lips were drawn into a thin line, his weathered complexion seemed uncharacteristically pallid, and his jaw twitched. He trailed a finger along the cool, smooth surface of her thigh, then as swiftly as if he’d been scalded he retracted his hand and turned away.

“Whose work is this?”

“Cowley’s, I believe, sir,” responded Craggs.

Catching sight of me on his threshold, Chippendale’s eyes darkened.

“Hopson, is that you? I scarcely recognize you, so long is it since you graced these premises with your presence.”

I’d come to break the news of my imminent departure for Cambridge, and was taken aback by the sharpness of his tone. That morning he had seemed willing enough for me to pursue his interests with Foley. Now, once he heard what I had to say and read Foley’s letter, I’d expected he would drop any opposition and encourage me to go. However, when I sensed his anger, a small glimmer of hope began to smolder within me. Perhaps he would object to the scheme and insist I stay in London. Perhaps I would escape another visit to Horseheath after all. “If you recall, sir, I have been with Lord Foley—”

He cut me off impatiently, gesturing towards the reclining Venus. “Look at this, will you! Her finish is rougher than the pockmarked cheek of a Covent Garden whore! Ground’s uneven, patches of bole visible through the leaf. How can such shoddy craftsmanship adorn any pier table of mine? Would Cowley rather gild a king’s throne or a close stool?”

“Indeed, sir,” said I, anxious to appease him before embarking upon my own petition, “the carving, while excellent, appears wanting in finish. However, I’m certain it can be speedily improved.”

He sighed deeply and fixed me with a pitiless eye. “Nothing is serious to you, Nathaniel, for this is not your enterprise. It is not your name and reputation that is marred by the lapses of such imbeciles. You have grown so accustomed to gilding and carving and drawing marquetry you believe, with the optimism of a simpleton, everything is likewise—shiny, exotic, rich, and polished. Had you been raised, as I was, to shave planks in a wind-blasted shed, or hammer nails in windows and doors while blinded with rain and snow, you might think otherwise!”

Although my master had a tempestuous nature, I was taken aback by the ferocity of this onslaught. I’d taken great pains to hide my disillusionment, and as I’ve said, only this morning we’d been on cordial enough terms. Was Foley’s patronage causing him to grow jealous of me as he had done of Partridge? My instinct was to defend myself hotly and, while I was at it, to tell him precisely what I thought of his cruel treatment of Partridge. But of course I did no such thing. I feared any criticism I made might result in my dismissal and ruination, for having read Partridge’s letter, I knew my master was eminently capable of such a cruel action.

“I confess I may have spoken carelessly. I am optimistic—it is in my nature and has always been so—but I trust I am not negligent. Far from it—the reputation and prosperity of your enterprise is my uppermost concern, as it always has been. It is to that end I have spent many hours advising Lord Foley to the best of my ability.”

“You have been absent more than you have been present of late. Is this not negligence?”

“I repeat, master, I have been with Lord Foley. You will not have forgotten, sir, he came here wanting to commission furnishings for his London residence…”

“That was two days ago as I recall it. Can it take so long to visit a house not a mile from this door? An earthworm might have arrived there quicker.”

“Master,” said I with all the earnestness I could muster, “I’ve worked hard during this interval to win Lord Foley’s favor—and with good reason. You spoke to me of your fervent desire to recover your drawings. During my conference with his lordship, I’ve discovered they are currently in his possession.”

If I hoped that reminding him of the drawings he so desperately wanted would calm him, I was mistaken. His jaw convulsed as if it was all he could do to restrain himself from letting flow a stream of invective against Foley, me, and the evil fate that continued to withhold his precious drawings from him. When he spoke it was to spit out each phrase as if he was ejecting weevils from a biscuit. “If he has them, then you must get them back. I do not care what you have to do…. You know the entire prosperity of all I have here rests on those drawings, Nathaniel…. I must have them back for my new volume, otherwise you will see my rivals overtake me and my reputation founder. Perhaps I should accompany you.”

My heart turned to lead. I could see plainly now that there was no avoiding a return to Cambridge, but his suggestion only alarmed me further. If he came with me, he would easily comprehend that the whole mission was a ploy and intervene between Foley and me, and then what chance would I have of ever discovering the truth behind Partridge’s death? I didn’t want to go to Cambridge, but if I had to go, let it be with Foley alone, not with Chippendale shadowing my every move.

“Calm yourself, sir,” I said. “I come to you now to inform you Lord Foley has expressed his desire that I accompany him to Whitely Court, where the drawings are presently held. He is in urgent need of a new suite of furniture for his saloon, and has hinted that if I advise him well on this matter I may also look at the drawings and point out to him those by Partridge’s hand, whereupon the remainder will be returned to you directly. It will be a straightforward task. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself by accompanying me.”

He turned away from me and paced the room, running his fingers through his lank, unwashed hair. “Is this true? Can I trust you?”

There was a note of desperation in the question, one I’d never heard before. Was this a sign of his perturbation regarding his drawings? Could a bundle of drawings truly mean so much? What else might have caused his distress?

“I have here Lord Foley’s request to verify it.” I took out the letter Foley had given me that morning and handed it to him. With a trembling hand, Chippendale broke the seal, unfolded the thick paper, and scanned its contents before tossing it to the ground.

“I see I have little choice in the matter,” he said curtly. “When would you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

He rose and advanced slowly towards me until his face was only inches away from mine. For several minutes he stared silently into my eyes as if attempting to drink up the very core of my being. When at last he opened his mouth, his voice was little more than a whisper. “Let me warn you, Nathaniel, everything rests upon your journey. If you return empty-handed I shall not thank you for it.”

I stared unblinkingly back for a moment before dropping my eyes. This quiet restraint seemed infinitely more fearsome than his earlier noisy rage. I was still livid with him for his treatment of Partridge, but faced with such menace I froze and was incapable of expressing it. “Nor should I expect it,” I muttered.

This semblance of humility was enough to mollify him. He returned his fastidious attentions to the Venus. I was dismissed.

In the yard outside I made as if I were heading towards the workshop. I strode a few paces, then looked up surreptitiously at Chippendale’s window. He was hunched over his desk. I could discern his slow, deliberate strokes from the shadow thrown by his quill. Satisfied he was engrossed, I deviated my course. There was an outhouse to my left; I dodged behind it and headed straight towards the path leading to the rear of Chippendale’s house.

The back door to the pantry was ajar. I stood on the threshold and whistled loudly. After a few minutes a scullery maid carrying a bucket of slops appeared. She wasn’t expecting to catch sight of a strange man lurking in a shadow by her sink and gave a startled shriek, jerking her bucket so the slops spilled over her skirt and the flagstones.

“Now look what you’ve made me do,” she complained.

I reflected that, even without the garnish of vegetable peelings and whatever else her bucket contained, she made a singularly unsavory spectacle; small and squat with a greasy complexion and hair tightly pinned in a turnip bun. A rancid odor of stale sweat emanated from her, now worsened by the putrid stench of slops. I backed towards the door to gasp at the fresh air. “Forgive me, miss, I did not mean to startle you,” I said, inhaling deeply. “I can help you clear the mess.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Go away,” she said, flapping her hands as if she was shooing poultry, “you’ve done enough harm already. You’ve no cause to be here in the first place.”

“Forgive me,” I reiterated, “I forget myself. I see you do not know me. I am Nathaniel Hopson, journeyman for Mr. Chippendale. I came here in search of an acquaintance.”

“In search of an acquaintance?” she mimicked. “If it’s only that, why go creeping about scaring the wits out of people? Why don’t you knock on the door as any honest person would?”

“All I want,” I said, evading this question with the most winning smile I could muster, “is to discover the whereabouts of Dorothy Chippendale. Since you belong to this household, perhaps you know where I might find that lady?”

A knowing gleam came into her bleary eyes, and she drew a breath. “Miss Chippendale, is it? And why would you be wanting her?”

“I’ve a message for her,” I replied, lying through my teeth.

“Then give it to me.”

“Is she here?”

“What makes you think she’s not?”

“My friend—who gave me the message—believed she’d gone.”

“Then why call here? You’ve no need of my assistance. You may ask your friend where she is.” She picked up her skirts and squatted froglike to gather the slops in her hands.

“Look, miss,” I said, “please help me, it’s a matter of some urgency. I’ll reward you as best I can for your assistance.”

She stopped and squinted up at me a moment. “This much I do know. Miss Chippendale’s not interested in the likes of you. Or any journeyman. And if your name is Nathaniel I’ve heard Molly Bullock’s talk. You’ve more than enough female company to choose from, I’d say. Any rate, if it’s intimacy you’re after, I’ll oblige, with a little incentive.” Here she winked crudely and rubbed her forefinger and thumb together.

“It’s not intimacy I’m after, it’s something else,” I said, crouching down some distance away from her. “I urgently need to know Miss Chippendale’s whereabouts.”

“Molly Bullock says there’s not much else you’re urgent about ’cept intimacy,” she persisted, grinning wider to reveal her foul teeth. “And if Molly’s too busy stuffing seats, you come to me and we’ll find some other amusement…” As she spoke she sidled nearer to me.

I backed away but found myself wedged between the door, the sink cupboard, and a washboard. I was frightened half out of my senses. I might defeat Chippendale with guile, but not this malodorous monster. Abruptly I stood up, vaulted the washboard, and sprang away. “Is Molly a friend of yours?”

“What if she is? Don’t mean I can’t enjoy myself with you, does it?”

“Perhaps you might think on Dorothy’s whereabouts, Miss…?”

“Miss Ellen Robson.”

“And if anything should come to mind, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve before responding. “I’ll be sure to tell Molly she’s in competition.”

Fearful that she was about to embrace me, I stepped hastily back into the yard, bidding her good day as politely as I was able before I made an excuse and scurried back to my workbench. It took some time and half a jug of ale before the terrifying spectacle of Miss Robson had retreated sufficiently from my consciousness to allow me to think sensibly again. Then I took up pen and paper and wrote the following letter.