The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (9 page)

The men, to whom Partridge was but a stranger, were more straightforward in their response to this brutality.

“Good God,” said one, “that’s murderous cruel. Worst thing I ever saw.”

“Must’ve been chopped with a cleaver, like jointing a pig.”

“No, look at the tears to the flesh. Those wounds aren’t clean—more like the fingers have been twisted off, or wrenched by a pair of monstrous jaws…”

“Who could have done such a thing?”

“Foxes or badgers…or Montfort’s dog. God knows he never fed it. Delighted in keeping it hungry.”

I could bear it no longer. “Heaven spare us!” I shouted. “Have you no respect, no feeling for the dead? This man was my friend, the dearest friend I had. I don’t wish to hear a word more!”

Realizing my torment was worsened by their speculation, they grew silent, standing awkwardly about, stamping their feet on the gravel in futile attempts to ward off the cold, looking down on my crouching figure and Partridge’s prostrate one, saying nothing. Of course I had no wish to keep them there. I wanted more than anything to be alone in my wretchedness. Yet I realized that unless I addressed the men, gave them direction, we would all remain unhappily together. Thus I forced myself to my feet and attended to the practicalities of the moment. We had to bring Partridge back to the house, I told them. No more could be done for him here.

The men formed a rough stretcher from two planks and some twine and placed Partridge’s body upon it. I removed my coat and laid it over his poor face and walked behind. In this unhappy procession we moved off.

W
e laid him in a vacant storeroom, and while I kept vigil word was sent to the house and to Justice Westleigh. An hour later I heard the crunch of carriage wheels outside and Westleigh bustled in. With only a cursory nod in my direction, he began his examination of Partridge’s body. He looked at the mutilated hand and then at the other, which was untouched, showing no more sign of emotion than if he were gazing on haunches of mutton on a butcher’s block. Next he rifled through the pockets of the dead man’s jacket. He placed the contents in a neat line on the table beside the corpse: three silver shillings, a single gold sovereign, a handkerchief, a penknife, a folded paper. The last he opened and examined, but it had been submerged so long in water that any writing it once bore was indecipherable. There was nothing to offer any answer to Partridge’s presence at Horseheath, let alone in the pond. Nothing to explain his death.

After some minutes Westleigh turned abruptly to me. “You knew him, did you, Hopson?”

I nodded my head and explained that we were fellow journeymen from Chippendale’s workshop. Partridge had fallen ill before Christmas; had he not, he rather than I would have installed the Horseheath library. In view of his recent absence I could make no sense of why Partridge might have come to Horseheath. Nor could I offer any explanation as to how he’d met his untimely death.

Having listened to my short dialogue without comment, Westleigh ordered me to join him in the library within the hour. There were other matters concerning Partridge he wished to clarify, for they might have a bearing upon the death of Lord Montfort, and he wished to write a record of my account.

When I went in, Westleigh was seated at a large leather-lined desk, a sheaf of paper, ink, pounce, and quill laid on the table before him. Lord Foley had somehow heard the news and come immediately to offer his assistance. He sat some distance off, in front of a blazing fire. His head was concealed behind the wings of a large armchair, leaving only his elbow propped on the armrest and his legs visible. With some relief I saw that Montfort’s body had been removed—presumably in preparation for the undertaker’s arrival.

“This is a strange business indeed, Mr. Hopson,” said Westleigh, looking searchingly at me before he indicated a chair facing him. “Tell me something of this man, your friend John Partridge. How did you become acquainted?”

“Our friendship stretches back eight years. He arrived a week after I had started my apprenticeship in Chippendale’s workshop.”

While Westleigh recorded my testimony, I began, reluctantly at first, to trace our joint history, endeavoring to control my confusion, to put the gruesome spectacle of his damaged body from my mind as I spoke. I pictured poor Partridge when we first met: a miserable specimen, scrawnily built, puny of stature, with a pair of penetrating blue eyes that were perpetually downcast.

“Partridge was a foundling,” I told them, trying to control the wavering of my voice. “He had been discarded as an infant on the steps of the newly built Foundling Hospital, to be raised by charity to become a useful citizen.”

I did not add that, having been brought up in the distant countryside, I had been utterly ignorant of the preconceptions associated with that institution. I soon learned, however, of the ignominy attached to its inhabitants. Foundlings were conceived in sin, abandoned without name by their parents, who would not or could not raise them. Without the hospital they would almost certainly have died in the streets. With it they were saved, but the shame of their birth would never be forgotten, for they represented the physical evidence of their parents’ failings.

“Is it not unusual for foundlings to be apprenticed to cabinetmakers? I had thought them suited to more lowly occupations—as befitted their origins?” demanded Westleigh abruptly.

Although his remark was not ill-founded, I felt anger rising in my breast. What right had he to speak so disparagingly of my friend? How cocooned are the privileged from the harshness of city life. How little he understood. “As you say, most boy foundlings are enrolled in far less prestigious occupations or sent to sea. To be apprenticed to a cabinetmaker such as Mr. Chippendale was thus uncommon, but then Partridge was uncommonly talented.” My voice was cool and sharp. I tried to contain my desire to be insolent, telling myself that rudeness wouldn’t help poor Partridge. Unless I cooperated there was no chance of discovering how he came by his appalling fate. “The apprenticeship happened, so Partridge told me, because he was singled out by the hospital’s benefactor, William Hogarth. Partridge was sent to assist the craftsmen working in the hospital’s new chapel, where he showed the first signs of his remarkable talent. Mr. Hogarth thus approached Mr. Chippendale, who agreed to take him in.”

“Was that not most philanthropic of your Mr. Chippendale?”

“It was,” I replied, still struggling to contain my irritation at his manner. “But Mr. Chippendale benefited greatly from Partridge’s skills.” There was no point in telling him what Partridge had told me: that our master had accepted him only in the expectation of gaining favor with the polite society in which Hogarth mingled.

“And yet you say this most fortunate of foundlings was woebegone? One might justifiably ask what is the point of philanthropy if it is to be greeted with such ingratitude. What d’you say, Foley?” blustered Westleigh.

“What does Mr. Hopson say?” replied Foley, thoughtfully kicking a log further into the grate so it exploded in myriad sparks.

“Partridge was not ungrateful, and the reason for his unhappiness is easily understood,” I said sharply. “His origins were no secret, and certain of the other apprentices tormented him for it.”

While I waited for Westleigh’s scratching pen to catch up with my account, I returned to the days when our friendship began. I’d helped Partridge get the better of his tormentors and turn their contempt to respect, but I’d done so unwittingly. Finding myself in need of a companion, on the spur of the moment I’d invited Partridge to go rowing on the river and afterwards to dine at the Castle Tavern in Richmond. You’ll recall I knew nothing of the prejudices attached to foundlings. I’d noted he was a little miserable but saw no reason why he shouldn’t make me a suitable friend. So I’d filled him with burgundy, oyster pies, cabbage farced, and marchpane cake, which he’d eaten as hungrily as if it was his first proper meal for a month. The sustenance, or the day itself, seemed to effect a remarkable transformation. With a bottle of wine he became a little more lively; another bottle and he was transformed into a boisterous accomplice. There was no restraining his onslaught on a third. Then we had grand entertainment with a couple of pretty milliner’s apprentices we encountered. After such an auspicious beginning, we repeated our excursions (until one of the milliners slipped a shilling from my purse). Partridge’s smallness didn’t worry the ladies, who were enchanted by the quickness of his wit, the gap between his teeth, and the eagerness of his embraces. I recall there were several who took it upon themselves to teach him gentler skills, which he learned as readily as I. Our weekend diversions gave him a new assurance in the workshop. He flung a few punches at the worst of his tormentors and floored them, for they never expected him to retaliate. With this the ribbing from the others dwindled. By the time our apprenticeship was complete all animosity had faded, for not only had Partridge surpassed them all (apart from me) in stature and in his appetite for revelry and mischief but it had also become clear that Hogarth was correct in his judgment; Partridge was peculiarly gifted.

Westleigh had covered several sheets with his laborious script when his progress was unexpectedly interrupted by a hesitant knock. Miss Alleyn hovered on the threshold, eyes flitting between Westleigh, Foley, and me. She was dressed in mourning black, twisting the fabric of her dress between her forefinger and thumb as I’d seen her do when she first saw her brother’s corpse the previous night. “Forgive me for interrupting,” she faltered, “but I have seen the body of Mr. Hopson’s friend and have something to say that I believe may have a bearing upon his death.”

At this Foley shifted forward in his chair a little and gave a vigorous thrust to a large terrestrial globe on a stand, rotating it so fast that the seas and continents blurred into one. Westleigh smiled comfortingly. “Madam, in that case there is no need for apology. Enter. We are all ears to hear it.”

He drew up a chair for her, and she sat upon it, shoulders hunched, sinewy neck jutting forward. Looking at her, I was reminded of nothing so much as the bats that used to shelter in the rafters of my father’s workshop.

“Some days ago this same man, John Partridge, called upon my brother, Lord Montfort. It seems Partridge had fallen on hard times and had formed the impression my brother was of a philanthropic bent. I was present during this conversation and witnessed Partridge ask my brother for money to establish his own business.”

Westleigh was staring directly at her, his lavish gray eyebrows uplifted in curiosity. “What made him form this opinion? And how did Lord Montfort respond to the application?”

She looked away, apparently distracted by the still-twirling globe, which was making a faint grinding sound. Foley halted its rotations by jabbing his forefinger on Italy.

“I can’t say why he thought my brother might assist him. And in any event my brother refused, with a rudeness and violence that I’m sorry to confess was entirely characteristic of him. He wasn’t an easy man, Sir James…” As she said this her lip trembled, and I feared she might break down entirely.

“I had gathered as much,” replied Westleigh soothingly, “but don’t trouble yourself with your brother’s character now. His ill-temper is common knowledge, and I see it distresses you. Tell me instead, what was Partridge’s reaction to this refusal?”

“Far from equable. He took out some drawings and presented them to my brother, hoping that they might verify his talents.”

“And what did your brother say to this?”

“He laughed derisively. “You are nothing but a chancer. I want no more to do with you and will have you leave the premises immediately,” he said, tossing the drawings on the floor.”

“What happened then?”

“Partridge grew agitated. He said he had a further gift for my brother that would prove his talent, and more besides, and that he would bring this proof next day. This made my brother’s temper rise even more. “I have no intention of accepting such a gift, or examining any proof. I say again you are no better than a grasping opportunist. Never do I want to catch sight of you on my property again.” Then he took hold of Partridge by the scruff of his neck and thrust him out of the house.”

There was a lengthy pause, interrupted only by Foley opening and closing the lid of his snuffbox. I confess I was astounded at the information. That Partridge had taken this course and journeyed to this house so far from London came as a profound shock to me. There must have been dozens of other patrons he could have approached. Why had he chosen Lord Montfort? Why had he not told me of his predicament? I searched my memory to see if I could recall Partridge mentioning Montfort. But while I well remembered his enthusiasm for the design of the Horseheath bookcase, I didn’t recall him mentioning Montfort by name.

I thought back to the last days when I’d seen Partridge. Yes, he’d seemed animated, exhilarated even, but I’d presumed he was fired by love. He’d hinted he hoped to marry in the spring, the object of his affections being Dorothy, Chippendale’s younger sister, of whom he’d grown fonder than of any other woman. Now I began to question my assumption. Had he brimmed with passion for Dorothy, or was there some other sentiment or ambition he’d kept hidden from me?

Suddenly I began to feel less sure of our friendship. Partridge, someone I’d always assumed I knew intimately, who didn’t have secrets from me, had surprised me. The thought came to me that there might have been more to him than I knew, that he might have deliberately deceived me. I tried to suppress the sentiment, but at heart I felt a worm of doubt.