The Grenadillo Box: A Novel

by Janet Gleeson

  Perhaps the answer lay not in the library but in the dining room. I racked my brains to remember the comings and goings I’d witnessed. Who had been present when the gunshot was heard? I recalled Bradfield emerging from behind the screen, two ladies, Foley’s wife and Lady Bradfield, and Wallace the lawyer seated at the table. Where had everyone else been? Almost immediately a vision of shoes and hems came into my mind. I had been under the table when Foley reentered immediately after the gunshot; Robert Montfort and Elizabeth had followed. Margaret Alleyn had entered last. All this had taken place about the same time that the groundsman had reported seeing a figure close to the pond, where next morning I’d found Partridge frozen and mutilated.

  Reviewing these events from a distance didn’t really help me comprehend them, but it sparked further discomfiting thoughts. I had accomplished none of the tasks Foley had set me. The box was still unopened, its contents as yet undiscovered. I had found out no more about Partridge’s movements prior to his journey to Horseheath. The discoveries I had made were scant and seemed to lead nowhere. I had learned the name of the wood from which the box was made; I had discovered that, according to Chippendale, Montfort had no right to the drawings in his possession. Madame Trenti had told me that Partridge had visited Horseheath because he believed Lord Montfort to be his father. These were not, I realized, impressive advances, nor did I expect lavish congratulations from Foley on account of them. More important by far was my discovery that, as I’d feared, my involvement in these matters had drawn down danger upon me. I shuddered to recall the way I’d been run down. There was no doubt this was an attempt on my life. How long would it be before another one was made?

  Some quarter of an hour later we arrived at the Monument. Foley tapped on the window, the carriage rumbled obediently to a halt, and we descended. We strolled down Gracechurch Street to the top of London Bridge, from where, he promised, we should enjoy a spectacular view of the river from on high. We mounted the stairs to the top and gazed down from the parapet. Foley paced up and down, surveying various vessels and their comings and goings. For my part I was unmoved by the panorama before me. It seemed to me the bustling scene was no more than insubstantial shadows, bleached of color; gray buildings towering over dark quays, antlike people, crusted mudflats, and the smooth gray slick of river. The bitter cold of recent days had partly frozen the water, and fragments of ice, like jagged shards of stone blasted from a quarry, crashed into the hulls of vessels moored by the banks. It was only after staring at this desolate scene some considerable while that I became aware that Foley had stopped pacing about and now stood scrutinizing me intently.

  “Something about you seems different, Hopson,” he declared abruptly.

  “I can’t imagine what you mean, my lord.”

  “What is it precisely?” he persisted. “You have a purple bruise beneath your eye, and another on your forehead. You are walking with a limp. You look as if you have lately been involved in some alehouse brawl. Yet you have a lackluster, dispirited air about you that I do not recall observing even after the discovery of your friend’s body in Cambridge. You look”—he paused—“older, like a man foundering under some burden beyond his capacity to support.”

  I was flabbergasted by the minuteness of his observations. Blood rushed to the roots of my hair, and my scar began to throb as it hadn’t for several days. Was I so transparent?

  “Lord Foley,” I blurted, “I don’t know how you read all this from my expression. I confess to being a little weary and am merely admiring the view until you deign to tell me why you have brought me here.”

  “Then without further ado let me tell you. I’ve brought you here partly to discover what you’ve unearthed these last days, and partly for my own satisfaction. I’ve loved this place ever since I was a boy, and it’s some years since I saw it,” he declared. “Now tell me, what have you discovered of the box?”

  My cheeks reddened further with this reminder of my failure. “I’ve made little progress—save that the wood is a rarity known as grenadillo.” This information didn’t seem to interest Foley in the slightest.

  “Haven’t you opened it yet?”

  I shook my head and fumbled in my pocket for the box, which I returned to him. “I gave it to a locksmith who was also confounded by it. But I was loath to force it without your instruction.”

  “Is that all you have to tell me?” he said, taking the box from me. Although he seemed dejected by the news, he didn’t chastise me as I had half expected. Yet I knew I’d disappointed him, and for some unfathomable reason it irked me.

  “No. There are other matters.”

  “Pray continue.”

  “The first surprises me greatly. It seems that Partridge believed himself to be the son of Lord Montfort and Madame Trenti, an Italian actress currently settled in London.”

  Foley’s face blanched at the mention of Trenti’s name.

  “Do you know her, my lord?” I inquired.

  “I knew her once, long ago. Now by reputation only. How has she embroiled herself in this?”

  “It was she who directed Partridge to Lord Montfort. She led Partridge to believe Montfort was his father and she his mother.”

  “You say Partridge believed Montfort and Trenti to be his parents. Do I take it from this you are skeptical?”

  “My mind is uncertain. I don’t believe Madame Trenti was entirely open with me.”

  “That is in keeping with all I know of her. What was the second matter you wished to divulge?”

  “It concerns Mr. Chippendale’s drawings—those we found scattered in the library on the night of Lord Montfort’s death.”

  “What of them?”

  “Chippendale has told me they rightfully belong to him. It seems Montfort loaned him money for the publication of his book and kept the drawings as security. The loan was repaid but the drawings were not returned.”

  Foley gave a rueful smile. “How unfortunate for me if you are right,” he said. “Of all Montfort’s possessions owing to me, the contents of his library are what I covet most. Do you believe him?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly, “and he’s given me the documents to prove it.” Here I handed him the bundle Chippendale had earlier entrusted to me. He perused the first paper, then looked at the oily water beneath us.

  “Curious, is it not, that I never heard mention of the matter? Before I concede to return the drawings I should like some confirmation. The Bradfields are come to town yesterday—George, their son, will accompany Robert Montfort on his voyage to Italy and is preparing himself for the journey. I had planned to call on Bradfield, who may know something of this.”

  To me there seemed little to debate, for I didn’t doubt Chippendale’s word. Nevertheless Foley was determined to visit Bradfield and investigate the matter further. He pressed me to join him, and since I was too dull to conjure a means to excuse myself, I fell in with him. On the way, in his carriage, he turned to me again. “You still have not explained to me the reason for your battered face, or your hangdog expression.”

  “I met with an accident yesterday. Outside Madame Trenti’s house a coach ran me down and threw me in the gutter. As the driver passed over me I had the distinct impression that I knew him, that I’d been knocked over deliberately, perhaps with the intention of causing me greater harm than I suffered.”

  “Who was it?”

  “The driver was cloaked and passed by very fast. There was no time to see.”

  Foley shrugged his shoulders as if my near scrape with death were a matter of little consequence. An instant later and the carriage drew up outside the stately stuccoed building in Leicester Fields that was the Bradfield town residence, and a footman stepped forward to open our door. Bradfield and his wife received us in a small parlor ornamented with portraits of ancestors and favorite dogs and horses. Their son, George, was away from the house, presently engaged, so Lady Bradfield informed us, in ordering his portmanteau and traveling garb for the tour of Europe he was to under
take with Robert Montfort.

  “What news is there from Cambridge?” inquired Foley, as if he’d been in town for weeks.

  “Robert arrived in London two days ago with Elizabeth and Miss Alleyn. They are lodging with us for the next few days. Last night at dinner Robert disclosed that he is uncertain when the matter of his father’s death will be resolved and that his departure for Europe may be delayed. He had previously agreed with George to cross the Channel by the end of the month,” replied Bradfield.

  “Will he contest my claim?”

  “He didn’t say it in so many words, but I’ve no doubt he’ll do all he can to prevent you walking off with a portion of his inheritance. He mentioned something about seeking out his father’s apothecary.”

  “For what reason?”

  “The fellow treated Montfort’s melancholia, and Robert hopes he will support his theory that his father was in a frame of mind to do away with himself.”

  “And then Robert’ll persuade Westleigh to declare his father of unsound mind and thus call into question the document in my favor,” said Foley, nodding thoughtfully. “Exactly as I anticipated.”

  A shadow now crossed Bradfield’s rotund face. “I confess, Foley, I have yet to tell him you have my support in this. I feel it would not be prudent yet to remind him that I was there when Montfort pledged you the sum and saw you win it fair and square.”

  “Why do you hold back?”

  “Because it will assist your investigations to know what he is thinking and I can only discover that by feigning to concur with him. We do not know much of Robert, but do not forget, Foley, in all probability he is no more principled than his father. He will play a cunning game.”

  “Perhaps you have reason, Bradfield. I thank you for your discretion.”

  Bradfield flushed as he warmed to his theme. “You recall how Montfort cheated me of my prize hunter? I’ve never forgiven him for it. If you’re not paid, it will be a grave iniquity…”

  Foley raised his hand to halt the flow. “In that respect, Bradfield, you and I are trees grown from different soil. I never sought Montfort’s money and hadn’t planned to keep it. You will recall, however, that the document also makes over to me the contents of Montfort’s library. This, unlike the money, I greatly desire. Which brings me to the reason for my call.”

  Bradfield was incredulous. “Upon my word, I can’t comprehend your attitude, Foley—how you could value a set of books above a fortune. What is it you wish to know?”

  “A curious matter has come to light concerning the cabinetmaker Chippendale. It seems he too has claims upon a portion of the library.” Foley paused to brush a speck of dirt from his stocking. “You’ll recall the drawings of tables and chairs discovered by Montfort’s body?”

  Bradfield nodded.

  “Chippendale says they are rightfully his. That Montfort lent him money to publish a book, held the drawings as security, and when the loan was repaid refused to return them.”

  A gust of mirthless laughter burst from Bradfield’s lips. “Why a set of carpentry scribbles should concern either Montfort or you is beyond me. Give them back if he’s a civil fellow; burn them and damn him if not!” he cried.

  Foley tightened his grip on his chair. “Bradfield, you must comprehend that I value those drawings as highly as you regarded your favorite hunter. I would keep them myself to add to my collection. But equally I adhere to certain scruples and won’t stoop to Montfort’s level. I wouldn’t rob a man of what rightfully belongs to him, any more, I assume, than you would defraud another man of his horse. So what I wish to know is whether Montfort mentioned this matter of the loan and Chippendale to you.”

  Bradfield was chastened by the sharpness of Foley’s tone. “I have heard him speak of Chippendale often enough, boasting of his commissions, complaining of the man’s tardiness concerning the library. But drawings—no—I do not believe they came into it. Why, Foley, God’s teeth, if you’d have ’em, keep ’em.”

  Foley smiled grimly. “On what grounds should I do so if he has a rightful claim?”

  “On the grounds that your rank places your word above his,” responded Bradfield, ripe with fervor. “I’ve heard Chippendale is a man of grandiose ambition who aspires to set himself up as a gentleman. In all probability he regrets selling Montfort the drawings and now wishes for them back at no cost so he can sell them again. I see no reason why you shouldn’t hold on to them.”

  Forgetting my recent disaffection with my master, I began to seethe. How dare Bradfield cast such aspersions on his integrity? I longed to demand that Foley show Bradfield the documents supporting Chippendale’s claim. But then it occurred to me that perhaps if he held back there was some reason for his reticence and I’d be wiser not to intervene. And so I sat there, biting my tongue, boiling with annoyance at Bradfield.

  To distract myself from their conversation, I returned to my blunder with Alice. How would I resolve it? Why wouldn’t she listen or believe me when I tried to explain? Most ladies of my acquaintance readily accepted my explanations (even when these were plainly sparing with the truth) so long as their dignity was preserved. But Alice was more impulsive, less pliant, and the injustice of her assumption that there was something improper in my rendezvous with Madame Trenti irked me even more than Bradfield’s ramblings.

  I cursed the wretched Madame Trenti. Of course Alice had reason to cast aspersions on her reputation. An actress such as she was bound to inhabit a seamy world of scandal and pandering and excess. But I had no desire to join this world. Madame Trenti held no allure for me. My only interest in her was in the light she could shed on Partridge. It occurred to me then that Madame Trenti was a curious figure. In Chippendale’s dingy parlor, she’d appeared an exotic bloom in a wasteland, and he had accorded her as much homage as a duchess. Yet what was the reason for his deference? How could an actress such as she afford the lavish furnishings he supplied? Perhaps she had some secret wealthy benefactor of whom Chippendale was in awe. I could explain Trenti’s insistence that Partridge should take charge of her cabinet on the grounds of her belief (or claim) that he was her son. But why had Chippendale appeared so troubled by her mention of Partridge? Because he was jealous of Partridge’s talents? Unlikely—for Partridge was already dead by then. Because Partridge posed some threat to him? Impossible. It was then that a sudden realization dawned. There was some hidden intrigue between Trenti and Chippendale of which I was entirely ignorant.

  As I was contemplating the nature of this intrigue, I became aware of a strange gurgling coming from a room nearby. I tried for the sake of politeness to ignore it, but the sound continued, growing in volume until it resembled a series of agonized shrieks. At length even Foley acknowledged it.

  “What is that sound, Bradfield? Is someone taken ill?”

  “As I told you, Robert and Elizabeth are staying with me.”

  Foley looked alarmed. “Are they indisposed? Is one of them making those dreadful sounds?”

  Bradfield smiled benevolently and stood up. “I had quite neglected to inform you. It transpires Robert Montfort is something of an amateur surgeon.”

  “A surgeon?”

  “I discovered it only this morning when one of the servants complained of a pain in his tooth. Robert heard him and charitably offered to operate for no charge when the man had completed his duties. He took up his scalpel some minutes before your arrival, and Elizabeth assists him. Judging from the noise, the operation is currently under way. Come. Perhaps it will divert you to see for yourselves.”

  He led us to the gloomy hall and then down the back stairs to the kitchens, where a small anteroom used for polishing silver was serving as an operating theater. The patient, a man in his middle years, lay stripped to the waist, stretched out on a table. Three leather straps were tied across his ankles, middle, and throat to secure him. There was an open bottle of brandy on the table and beside it a bowl of bloodstained liquor with a rotten tooth floating in its midst. At the moment of our entry, R
obert Montfort, clad in a bloodstained leather apron, was pouring the brandy through a brass funnel into the man’s mouth. Elizabeth was holding his mouth open with a wooden wedge. Whether or not she was a willing helper it was impossible to say, for although she was clearly engrossed by her role, her face was pale and entirely expressionless, as if she were in a waking sleep. No such serenity was visible in the patient; the poor man was wide-eyed, gnashing on the wood like some rabid beast, a mixture of blood, brandy, and foaming sputum streaming from the corners of his mouth and bubbling from his nostrils.

  “How d’you progress, Robert?” said Bradfield. “I have brought some spectators. Is the offending tooth removed?”

  “I have indeed succeeded,” said Robert, eyes shining with triumph, “but the fool has at least half a dozen more that require extraction and refuses to lie still while I operate. Elizabeth is too feeble to hold him.”

  Suddenly his eye fell upon me.

  “Ah, Hopson the carpenter, I see. You will surely have the brawn required to hold his head, and I’ll finish the task in a few minutes.”

  I looked again at the man and the bowl and Robert Montfort. I felt the same chill creep over me as the day I’d discovered Montfort’s corpse. The room began to spin, and my legs grew unsteady. I tried to retreat to the door, but it was no good; the entrance was blocked by the bulky form of Bradfield, who ordered me to follow Montfort’s instruction.