The Grenadillo Box: A Novel

by Janet Gleeson

  I stooped my head, threading my way through the rafters after him. I was uncomfortably hot. The wood store was situated beneath the roof, above a well-stoked German stove, and the moisture leeching from the drying wood made the air as stifling as Calcutta. Yet it wasn’t only heat that reddened my cheeks and quickened my pulse but rage kindling within my breast. How could I muster my enthusiasm for a plank of wood after all that had transpired? Was Chippendale blind not to see I had a matter of urgency to communicate? I was muddled and fatigued and frustrated, in need of a little tranquillity, a place to mull over the events of the past days, to disentangle the fearful images of blood and gore in my mind’s eye and then lay them to rest. Yet since I’d left Cambridge I’d had not a moment to reflect. No sooner was my interrogation by Foley over than I’d been pressed into a coach between strangers whose meaningless chatter had distracted me for the duration of my journey back to London. I’d passed a fitful night, disturbed by the raillery of drunkards, and then been obliged to rush to Chippendale’s workshop to avoid incurring his wrath. Was this not enough to throw any man into despondency and confusion?

  Beads of sweat seeped from my forehead. I wiped my face with my sleeve. The more I dwelled on my frustrations, the more insistently a small voice in my head sounded. Was there some other reason for my muddled despair? Was I really so anxious to think quietly, or was I actually glad of these distractions for staving off the moment when I had to face myself and decide what my course of action should be?

  Even now I couldn’t bring myself to confront this question. Pushing it from my mind, I leaned forward to squint at the board Chippendale was showing me, before straightening myself and stepping back. “What of it?” I said brazenly.

  “What of it?” he repeated incredulously. “Why, what d’you think of the grain, Nathaniel? Have I taught you nothing in all these years? D’you not see that this has been taken from the fork of a branch? Cut and polished, the figuring of it will be as meandering as a serpent. I shall guard it for my cabinet.”

  Suddenly he glanced at me and perceived that I was standing as rigid as the boards all around me. “Well,” he said, replacing the wood in the stacks and turning towards me, “you return late, Nathaniel, and evidently in ill-humor. I trust you acquitted yourself well at Lord Montfort’s, and that your tardiness has some explanation?”

  “It was a tragedy not negligence delayed me,” I declared, brushing a damp forelock from my brow.

  “So,” said Chippendale, waving his hand loftily, as if signaling a carriage to drive on, “explain yourself.”

  And so I outlined, in a rather garbled fashion, the awful events I’d witnessed. I told him how I’d installed the library bookcase in time for the dinner, but that Montfort had been out of sorts. I told him that during the dinner I’d found Lord Montfort’s dead body in the library surrounded by drawings taken from his book. I told him that there was a question over the nature of Montfort’s death: some believed he’d killed himself; others, myself included, held that he was murdered. And finally, my voice shaking, I told him how the next day I’d been on my way back to London when I’d discovered poor Partridge, mutilated and frozen to death in the pond.

  For several minutes after hearing this sorry tale, Chippendale said nothing. When at length he spoke, it was to express his chagrin, not for Montfort or Partridge but for his drawings. It was their fate that concerned him most deeply. He seemed visibly to tremble when I mentioned I had retrieved them from the floor around Montfort’s corpse.

  “What became of my designs, Nathaniel? Were they damaged? Why did you not return with them?”

  “I did not know under what circumstances the drawings were at Horseheath. How should I think to seize them? For all I knew you had sold them to Lord Montfort.”

  “Would I sell something so precious? Something that is the keystone of my success?”

  I shrugged noncommittally, although I seethed at his callousness. Was there to be not a word of regret for Partridge?

  “Where are they now?” he barked.

  “I am not entirely certain. I presume them to be either at Horseheath, where I left them, or seized by Lord Foley as part of his debt.”

  He shook his head slowly. “This is indeed a tragedy beyond compare.”

  I knew he meant the drawings, not poor Partridge. He’d yet to make a mention of his name.

  “Let us discuss it further, for there is much I would tell you,” said Chippendale. “Come with me.”

  As he issued this command he sighed deeply and regarded his hands. Wood dirt had lodged itself beneath his fingernails in several places, sullying his flawless manicure. Observing this simple gesture, I was reminded vividly of poor Partridge’s mutilated hand and felt sickened to the core. Chippendale might be able to pass over such a death without comment, but I was haunted by it. I would never forget the icy pond, the frozen body, the blood. I saw it even now as I watched Chippendale. What manner of monster could perpetrate such an atrocity on a fellow man? What manner of monster was Chippendale to show no glimmer of pity for Partridge’s suffering?

  But was I any better than he? I ruefully recalled my own reluctance to cooperate with Foley, my taciturn response to his questions and request for assistance. It seemed to me now there was little logic to my hesitancy. I was honor bound to seek justice for my dead friend, yet like a coward I had resisted Foley. There was but one reason for my reluctance. Fear. My instinct for self-preservation. I had expected that once I left Horseheath I would feel safe, that the evil I had witnessed would remain within its boundaries, leaving me to go back to my carefree ways. And yet returning to London hadn’t lightened my spirits or lessened my sense of peril one jot. The oppressive atmosphere of Horseheath Hall and the danger I had sensed there remained with me. Uneasiness shadowed me; any attempt on my part to probe into the events of the past days might draw down on me the attention of the killer. The two corpses I’d witnessed were harrowing enough. I couldn’t bear to contemplate another death, let alone my own.

  Yet I had to acknowledge that this cowardly apprehension didn’t tally with my steadfast loyalty to Partridge. I had told Westleigh and Foley that Partridge couldn’t be Montfort’s killer, but how could I be sure when I hadn’t the first notion who his killer was? Both deaths were complex, and it was obvious that Westleigh with his Montfort family allegiances and Foley with his financial interests were hopelessly ill-suited to the task of unraveling them. Thus, despite my reservations, fears, and doubts, my mind was driven helplessly towards the inevitable conclusion. Whatever the dangers to my own person, I had no choice but to remain involved with the investigations. Not to do so would be a final betrayal of Partridge.

  Chippendale led the way down the dingy staircase, which opened into the bustle of the upholsterers’ shop. Here, amid sacks of horsehair and bales of webbing and canvas, a dozen women were busily engaged in stuffing and combing and gossiping and stitching. Chippendale strode in saying nothing to any of them. His broad-shouldered physique and coal black hair seemed to cast a cloud over the entire room, and the chatter within subsided. The master was present: all could see his knotted brow and chiseled expression, and no one wanted his foul temper to fall on them.

  Only Molly Bullock, who was tacking sky blue moreen to a chairback, failed to notice Chippendale’s arrival. I was stepping neatly over a mound of hair when she raised her eyes and smiled straight at me. Like sunshine in a leaden sky, for an instant her smile lifted the gloom in that room. I winked back. Her companion spied this boldness and couldn’t stop herself from nudging Molly sharply in the ribs. “Your cheeks are redder than holly berries, Molly Bullock. Is it fever or the oven that warms you? Or perhaps you have some other malady,” she whispered loudly.

  The sound of nervous giggles drifted out of the upholstery shop and followed us to the muddy yard outside. We skirted the cabinetmakers’ workshop, feather rooms, storerooms, and chair rooms, making our way towards the front of the premises. The yard was shaped like a decanter, broad at
the rear, narrowing to a long covered passage at the entrance to St. Martin’s Lane, where stood three adjacent premises leased by Chippendale. Two made up the showroom. The third was his private residence. It was towards this building that he now directed his steps.

  We came in through the side entrance, where a cramped corridor led to a small dark hall. Chippendale opened a door to an oak-paneled room. “Wait for me in the parlor,” he said. “I must go to my closet before speaking with you.”

  I suppose Chippendale’s extraordinary reaction to the news of Montfort’s and Partridge’s deaths shouldn’t have startled me. I knew his work was all to him. I was aware he viewed all softer passions as mere distractions. Partridge and I had often heard him across the street in Slaughter’s coffeehouse, where he’d expound his views on his profession to any man who would listen. He was at the pinnacle of his career, yet the middling state of his craft irked him. “What unjust arbiter decreed that artists and architects, silversmiths and clockmakers and makers of porcelain pots should be the pride of monarchs, while cabinetmakers are accorded only cursory consideration? Why is wood inferior to metal or stone or canvas or clay? Furniture making is an art as noble as any, and equally worthy of the attention of men of discernment. For what use are noble architecture and inspiring paintings without the furnishings that allow man to enjoy them?” he would demand, thumping his fist upon the table, rattling the coffee cups in their saucers. “Without its chairs and sofas and tables and beds a mansion or a palace is no more welcoming or inspiring than a tomb.”

  If anyone dared dispute this argument, he was vigorously tested. Eyes blazing beneath crow black brows, Chippendale would insist that his disputant “name then a single art so closely bound to the complexion of man.” The silence allowed him to drive home his point. “A chair, you can only agree, embodies this fact. A stool underlines the humility of a servant, a throne the status of a king. And in between there is every permutation imaginable, all tailored to the size, shape, bearing of man. What other art can claim such significance?”

  But his professional disgruntlement did not explain his heartless reaction to the news of Partridge’s death, nor his inordinate concern for the drawings. Was a life so little to him? Particularly a life of such exceptional talent? Why did he value a handful of sketches so highly?

  When he returned, he gave no sign of what was coming. His hair was tidied and tied smooth as a jet-black shell, his face the usual stony mask; the only indication of emotion was in the keenness with which his flinty eyes glinted in the firelight. He drew up his favorite chair—mahogany, with a back carved like a cathedral window. “Of course, like most troubles in life, this one centers on money,” he volunteered somewhat unexpectedly. “I’m speaking of how it was that Montfort came to be in possession of the drawings from my Director, the book that established my reputation and has made my name known from Edinburgh to Truro.”

  Here I should explain that two years ago Chippendale took the greatest risk of his career. In the manner of a gentleman architect or a man of letters, he published a series of his own designs, The Gentleman and Cabinet Maker’s Director—Being a Large Collection of the Most Elegant and Useful Designs of Household Furniture in the Gothic, Chinese, and Modern Taste. The pages of this mighty volume featured engravings of chairs, sofas, beds, commodes, desks, girandoles, screens, glasses, candlestands and bookcases, and much more besides. This was a volume intended to impress. No other London cabinetmaker had promoted themselves in such a manner. Several of his Slaughter’s coffee-sipping acquaintances had snorted at the audacity of it. “Why, Chippendale the carpenter will have us bow to him as a man of taste. Pray tell us, Mr. Chippendale, what is your view on the gothic, and of the fashion for chinoiseries? Are they extravagant enough? Do you approve?”

  He had answered their raillery defiantly, writing in the preface to his volume, “I am not afraid of the fate an author usually meets with on his first appearance, from a set of critics who are never wanting to show their wit and malice on the performance of others. I repay their censures with contempt.”

  What I did not until now comprehend was that to publish his book he had required financial assistance, which his usual backer, a Scottish merchant, having recently advanced a large sum for the setting up of the St. Martin’s Lane premises, could not provide.

  Chippendale gazed at the tongues of fire consuming the coals. He appeared to have almost forgotten my presence and was speaking candidly, confessionally even. “Soon after the opening of this new emporium, Henry Montfort presented himself—a discerning patron of the arts, in great need of a quantity of furnishings. As is my habit in such instances, I journeyed to Cambridge to take measurements and discuss his requirements in greater detail. The preliminary sketches I drew impressed him, and his flattery encouraged me to confide that I wished to publish a book of my drawings. He was interested in providing the necessary backing and offered the entire sum required. His terms were reasonable, the interest modest. The only security he demanded was the original drawings from which the engravings were made.”

  He paused and stared at me as if trying to gauge my reaction to what he was saying. I met his eye impassively, saying nothing.

  “All this took place two years ago. Since then, as you know, the publication has been remarkably successful and the loan was repaid as agreed. But the drawings were never returned.” Here he paused and breathed deeply, as if he were battling inwardly with himself. “Each time I raised the matter Montfort stalled, citing some new commission that had yet to be completed, that bore no relation to the original agreement. I was anxious to give no offense, for Montfort was powerful enough to do inestimable damage to my reputation. Yet I also knew that unless I capitalized on the success of the first edition and published a second, my competitors would follow my lead and gain ground on me.”

  Against my better judgment I was drawn into Chippendale’s dilemma. “But what did it matter if he had the drawings? You had the engraving plates. You could make a new edition from those, surely?”

  “But the drawings Montfort had in his possession were virtually my entire collection of designs, far more than those that were eventually published in the Director. Many of these drawings were unique, for I’d made no copies of them; among them were some of my finest, most ingenious ideas, which I intended to use for the second edition. It would take years for me to repeat them all, by which time I’d have lost my advantage over my competitors.”

  “But why did Lord Montfort not keep to his agreement and return the drawings?”

  “Montfort, as you have remarked, was an unpredictable and often unreasonable patron. He was also an avid collector who took great delight in amassing treasures for his house. He realized when the book made its mark that the original drawings for it would be of great value, a trophy in his collection. Perhaps he intended to try to buy them from me. As for the other drawings, the unpublished ones, I believe when he saw how urgently I wanted them he held on to them as a lever to get the library completed speedily and to his satisfaction. Doubtless, were it not for his death, he would now have returned them.”

  I thought this highly unlikely but didn’t trouble myself to say so, for it was neither here nor there now. “Did anyone else know of this arrangement?”

  “No one save Montfort and myself. There were letters of agreement between us, some of which I have here,” he said, pointing to his bureau. “And so to the solution I have in mind—the reason I’ve confided in you, Nathaniel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The death of Montfort is unfortunate as regards my payment for the library, but it puts a new—happier—complexion on the matter of the drawings. There is no reason now for them to be withheld. I have ample documentation to prove my case. I wish you to return immediately to Horseheath Hall with these documents and a letter from me, show them to the attorney Wallace, and recover my drawings. Then my unhappy predicament will be resolved.”

  I scratched my earlobe. “There is another matter
that may hinder the immediate return of the drawings.”

  “What, pray, is that?”

  “It concerns Partridge.”

  “Partridge has nothing to do with it.”

  “I am certain he does, sir. Have I not already told you I found him dead in the grounds of Horseheath Hall? In any event I have learned that a few days before his death Partridge called on Lord Montfort.”

  Chippendale’s brows knitted together; his voice was biting. “Impossible. He wouldn’t have dared.”

  “It seems he did. According to Miss Alleyn, Lord Montfort’s sister, he came expressly to Horseheath to request a loan to establish himself in business. Her story is borne out by the fact that some of his drawings were mingled with yours in the library when Lord Montfort’s body was found.”

  If my revelation unsettled Chippendale, it was only for an instant. “But what does this matter, since neither Partridge nor Montfort is here to plague us?”

  I clenched my fists on the armrests of the chair so tightly that my knuckles bleached. Violence boiled within me. How I longed to take him by the collar and shake him till his brains rattled in his skull; instead I struggled to contain myself and put on an air of detachment. “Partridge’s death confuses the issue. The justice, Sir James Westleigh, may wish to hold all the drawings until both deaths are resolved.”

  Chippendale snorted like an angry bull. “So Partridge thwarts me even in death. He deserves the end he met.”

  My head trembled. I lowered my gaze to examine my boots. I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, so intense was the loathing I felt for him at that moment. “Sir,” I said, “why was it that Partridge believed Lord Montfort might assist him? Why did he need assistance? Particularly when you told me he was on his sickbed?”

  There was a long pause, during which I scrutinized him intently. Unable to meet the gaze I leveled at him, Chippendale rose from his seat and walked to the window. It gave out onto the street, where a noisy vendor was waving his arms about, touting oranges to passersby. When he turned back his expression was bland and ingenuous. “I’m as ignorant as you on the matter.”