As chance would have it, just then a young woman with a wailing infant entered. I left the apothecary mixing an ointment of hare’s brine and capon grease to ease the child’s teething pains.
I crossed the street and strode off towards the Turk’s Head, a coffeehouse in Trinity Street. Foley had agreed that, while I interrogated Mr. Townes, he would call on Lord Montfort’s attorney, Wallace, and persuade him to join us here. Once we’d questioned him on the delicate matter of Montfort’s estate, we would proceed immediately to Horseheath.
With every moment that passed, the gravity and precariousness of Alice’s situation loomed larger in my mind. It was insupportable to leave her in such jeopardy. The moment I saw Foley I’d tell him I couldn’t continue here; I’d insist we abandon our plan and proceed straight to Horseheath. I would naturally prefer him to accompany me and endeavor to protect me from Robert Montfort’s wrath, but if he refused he could stay with Wallace. I’d find my own means of transport and take my chances with Robert.
But when I stepped inside the dark, pungently scented room, I detected no trace of either man. A handful of youths, university students perhaps, sat round a table poring over a newspaper, laughing at an electioneering cartoon and its gross depiction of the king, bare-bottomed and seated upon a commode while sundry ministers looked on. There was no one else. I took up another journal and began to turn its pages. But so engrossed was I by other thoughts the words before me were gibberish.
What had made Montfort storm from the table and apply the leeches in his library? The only reason I could conceive was that he’d been maddened with pain, forgotten the instruction, and applied them. But even this seemed unlikely. The leech jar was probably kept in his upstairs closet, where he was usually bled. There was no plausible reason for him to go upstairs, bring the leeches down to a unlit library, and employ them there. In any case, if the ache to his head had returned, why not take the sleeping draft as Townes had directed and retire to bed?
But what if someone else—his killer—had placed the leeches on him? Why would he do so? Leeches were never fatal; what reason could there be to put them on a man you were about to shoot? Because you were pretending to help him? Because you wanted to see his blood seeping from him the instant before he died?
I sighed. My mind was once again fogged with confusion. Townes’s statement raised yet more perplexing questions. Like layers of varnish on a tabletop, the more I discovered, the more truth seemed to disguise rather than reveal itself.
I thought of Partridge lying frozen, mutilated, and dead in the pond and asked myself for the hundredth time what possible reason there could be to do such a thing. Partridge was no one. He didn’t know who he was and couldn’t possibly pose a threat to Montfort, despite Madame Trenti’s assurances. Montfort would have laughed when Partridge announced himself as his son. Realizing this made my resolve wane further and my sense of inadequacy return.
My foreboding grew, and a dread beyond all others possessed me. A fog of evil seemed to surround Horseheath. And at its heart was Alice. What was I doing sitting here waiting for Foley and Wallace when she was in mortal jeopardy? Cursing my negligence, I drained my coffee and stood up.
I’d scarcely begun to step towards the door when Foley arrived, suave and unhurried as ever in his velvet-collared cape. Lagging a little behind was Wallace, looking as miserable as if he’d just sat on a wasp. I knew exactly how he must feel, for I was experiencing similar sentiments.
“Here he is, as I said he’d be,” said Foley to Wallace. “You see, it’s no trouble at all for you to come and take a coffee with us. A welcome break from the tedium of your documents rather.”
Wallace said nothing, but I judged he was far from easy to be with us in so public a place. He scurried to the furthest corner of the booth, lurking in the shadows until more coffee was ordered. His voice, when he spoke, was no more than a rasping whisper. “I really do not know why you wish me to come and speak with you. Should Robert Montfort catch sight of me, my business with him might be jeopardized. He’s an important client, one I can’t risk losing,” he hissed.
“Don’t concern yourself,” boomed Foley in a far more resonant tone than usual. “Montfort is firmly ensconced in Horseheath, I saw him there myself yesterday evening. The substance of this conversation will never reach him. And in any case, bear in mind, my good fellow, that our desire to speak to you isn’t born of idle curiosity. You might recall I’m authorized to make inquiries by our justice, Sir James Westleigh. Hopson here is assisting as my deputy.”
In desperation I broke in. “Forgive me, my lord,” said I, sitting down and standing up again. “I really think, since Mr. Wallace is uneasy, we should postpone our discussion. I believe we should lose no more time. We must proceed directly to Horseheath.”
“What?” said Foley, a little sharply. “That was not our intention. Sit down, Hopson. Horseheath and its occupants will wait.”
I sat down unthinkingly and then immediately stood again and thumped my fist on the table. “Suppose something terrible happens before we return? Suppose Miss Goodchild is murdered and mutilated as was Partridge? Even as we sit here discussing the matter, might the murderer not have her in his vicious sights? Might she not be falling prey to his foul appetite?”
Foley shrugged his shoulders in exasperation. “Quiet, Hopson, you are growing tiresome,” he said.
I would not be rebuffed. “Why did Robert Montfort engineer to have her alone with him at Horseheath last night? The story of the staircase is nothing but a fabrication, and we both know it. Upon my word, Lord Foley, listen to me. We can consult Mr. Wallace any time. Once Miss Goodchild’s life is lost, we cannot bring her back.”
He was utterly unmoved by my passion. “I say again, sit down, Hopson. Why, you are up and down more rapidly than a whore’s petticoats. And once again you are working yourself into a frenzy. Ask Wallace what it is you wish to know, it will take no more than five minutes. Then I give you my word I’ll drive you to Horseheath faster than the devil and all the horses of hell.”
Drawn by his booming tone, the students stopped their chatter and gaped at us. I had the distinct impression that Foley relished Wallace’s shiny-faced discomfiture and my anxiety, that he was toying with us both by making such a noisy spectacle of himself.
Wallace turned in my direction. “What is it you wish to know?” he mumbled.
“The details of Lord Montfort’s estate,” I replied, perching myself on the edge of the bench, unable to stop my foot tapping with impatience. “Money usually has a bearing on such sudden deaths.”
He nodded without enthusiasm. “You will understand I cannot speak specifically on such a confidential matter, but the details broadly are these: on the day of his death, Lord Montfort drew up a legal document making over a large portion of his estate, lands, and revenues thereof to Lord Foley in settlement of his gambling debts. His death does not invalidate that document, which indeed takes precedence over his previous will.”
“Did anyone apart from Lord Montfort and you know of this new document?”
“There was a witness who was unaware of its contents.”
“Who was this person?”
“Elizabeth Montfort, Lord Montfort’s wife.”
“Tell me, Mr. Wallace, whom do you believe would be most directly affected by the changes to Lord Montfort’s estate?”
“His heirs, evidently, were adversely affected. His wife, Elizabeth, was to have received a generous allowance for the remainder of her life, and as such would have been a woman of independent means for as long as she remained unmarried. The bulk of the remainder was left to Robert. Both would have received considerably less as a result of this document. And self-evidently Lord Foley was to profit.”
“What do you mean by ‘the bulk of the remainder’?”
“There were a handful of other bequests, to Lord Bradfield and his wife and various acquaintances. Nothing of note.”
“And what of his sister, Margaret Alleyn?�
� interrupted Foley.
“A small sum. Nothing of significance. But a stipulation she was to stay on at Horseheath as housekeeper.”
I pressed on, shooting a warning glance at Foley to prevent him interrupting with irrelevancies and delaying matters further. “At what time did you arrive at Horseheath to draw up the document?”
“Around ten.”
“And do you remember anything out of the ordinary when you did so?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did Lord Montfort seem to you? Did he expect any other visitors that day? Did anything unusual take place while you were there?”
He considered a moment. “Lord Montfort seemed less agitated than he often did. As if he knew what he desired and simply wanted to get it accomplished.” He gazed nervously at the youths, as if to reassure himself they weren’t listening. “Lord Montfort saw no visitors that I recall, but I do fancy Miss Alleyn might have entertained someone. I remember the maidservant mentioned it when she was sent to fetch her to sign the document. That was why it was Elizabeth Montfort who witnessed it.”
“Did Elizabeth say who Miss Alleyn entertained?”
“She did not.”
“And was there anything unusual in Elizabeth’s demeanor?”
“Nothing I recall. She was a little subdued, but that was her habitual appearance.”
“Anything else?”
He blinked rapidly and scratched his ear. “Yes, now I think of it. I recall Miss Alleyn came in flustered after the signing was complete. She was embarrassed to have been occupied, and I remarked that she was holding something in her hand.”
“Do you recall what it was?”
“The box that was in Lord Montfort’s hand when he died.”
I stared at him wildly, my mind seething. Bearing in mind I was certain Partridge had made the box, did this mean Miss Alleyn had been in communication with Partridge earlier that day? If so, why had she concealed this information from me?
I knew this was an important point, yet I was incapable of fixing on it. Reason was crowded out by thoughts of Alice, of how badly I wanted to see her, of how much I needed to assure myself she was safe. Nothing else mattered. I stood up abruptly. “Thank you, sir, you’ve told me everything and more than I needed to hear. That is all.”
Then I turned and made a final desperate address to Foley. “My lord, as I implored you before, I believe there is now but one thing we must do, and it should be done immediately. If you do not agree to assist me, I must do it alone.”
Foley leaned forward. “And what is that, Hopson?”
“You know as well as I, my lord. We must return directly to Horseheath and pray Miss Goodchild is safe, and that there is still time to protect her. Otherwise I fear a tragedy of the greatest magnitude will occur and we will be to blame.”
Chapter Twenty-five
The presentiment of doom that had troubled me all morning became overwhelming in Foley’s coach. I felt that I was infected by some terrible contagion, that a fever within me had yet to break, and that there was no knowing how I’d survive it. I wanted to shout, to explode, to bellow at Foley to make him understand why Wallace’s testimony had done little to shake my conviction. Robert Montfort was the murderer. Why did Foley not comprehend it, when it seemed to me as plain as the mole on his cheek? Most of all I wanted to make him understand my fear for Alice’s safety. And yet as we raced towards Horseheath with Alice uppermost in my mind, I found myself incapable of communicating these frustrations to Foley. My tongue was fettered by fear.
Now we were on our way, Foley seemed to sense something too, for his cheeks were tinged with pink and in place of his habitual languid self-possession he seemed unusually animated. We were rattling past the London milestone and had nearly reached the junction in Trumpington village where the ancient millhouse straddles the river Cam when he suddenly took a large pinch of snuff from his box and began to interrogate me.
“May I ask, Hopson, what you made of our morning’s interviews?”
I confess I was somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of this question. I turned towards him and answered spontaneously. “If I hadn’t seen Lord Montfort’s corpse with my own eyes, I think I would truly believe he’d taken his life. The state of his health, as testified by the apothecary, and the sudden alteration to his circumstances, as testified by Mr. Wallace, both point that way.”
“If he had killed himself, would you hold me culpable?”
“In what respect? He plainly didn’t kill himself. And in any case, why should you feel any blame? I understood from her ladyship that you viewed him with abhorrence.”
“Forget my relations with him; forget the details of his death. I’m speaking hypothetically. D’you believe what the apothecary told you? That it was his gambling debt to me that pitched him into melancholy, and that I should not have held him to it?”
“Do you believe that yourself?”
He lowered his eyes for a minute, then, raising his chin, turned to the window just as the lofty arches of Trumpington church flashed past. “A man may be straight in his outward appearance but warped in his spirit. I feel little pity for Montfort. The responsibility for his misfortunes lies in his own foolish actions, not mine. Besides, do not for one moment believe I would have held on to his tainted money.”
“What would you have done with it?”
His lips curled in an enigmatic smile. “Something to rectify the havoc he’d wrought,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.
“And yet he considered you his friend?”
Foley gave a snort of scornful laughter. “Montfort had no notion of friendship, only rivalry. He surrounded himself with neighbors of similar rank out of self-conceit, not sociability. Engendering envy of his wealth, his young wife, his library, his collections, was the greatest source of delight to him. Other than that he took little pleasure in either family or friends or possessions.”
I felt as if a firm hand had grasped me by the collar and forced me to stare at something I’d previously ignored. Until this juncture I’d mostly believed Foley to be the very embodiment of detachment and composure. Granted, he was not afraid to resort to ruthless manipulation where required. I hadn’t forgotten the threats with which he had forced me to embroil myself in this tangle, or how he’d deliberately withheld Partridge’s letter, or the time he’d encouraged me to witness Robert Montfort’s surgical operations. But in general his humor had always seemed smooth as windless water. Hence the sudden glimpse of emotion took me by surprise. What was it precisely he felt towards Montfort? Envy? A desire for revenge, signaling some hidden bitterness between Montfort and himself? I remembered how he’d scoffed when I was bold enough to suggest he had a powerful motive for wishing Montfort dead. Had I been foolish to allow myself to be deflected by ridicule from following this track? Had I made a grave misjudgment in ignoring the history of their association?
“When did you first become acquainted with Lord Montfort, my lord?”
“I have known him since my youth. Did I never tell you that when Bradfield, Montfort, and I were all young men we traveled together to Italy? Madame Trenti, the unfortunate wretch, was discovered by me, and for a time I believed myself in love with her. Our liaison lasted until Montfort intervened. He seduced her, not very kindly, I believe, and then, as you have seen, abandoned her and deprived her of her child. That was the character of the man.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Madame Trenti scarcely led a blameless life. She was not above extortion when it suited her. She treated Partridge abominably and brought about his death.”
“Does that exonerate Montfort from blame for what he did? Perhaps his depravity helped to taint her; perhaps he made her what she was.”
I half smiled as if I didn’t disagree entirely, then pursued another course. “If you held him in such low regard, is it not an indictment of your own character that you continued to accept his invitations?”
There was a lengthy silence, and his voice when he resp
onded was somber. “Have you not considered, Hopson, that I may have had other motives for so doing?”
“Are you telling me you courted his hospitality because you intended to take revenge on him? That you see his death as your salvation? That you were responsible for it?”
He smiled superciliously, rubbing his nose with an extravagant flourish of his silk handkerchief. “Calm yourself, Hopson. We’ve covered this ground before, have we not? You know as well as I Montfort couldn’t have died by my hand.”
“I know no such thing. As I recall, you were absent from the table when the shot was fired. I have only your word that Robert Montfort was with you all the time you were outside the room. Perhaps the reason for your insistence is to provide you rather than him with an alibi. You may rest assured I intend to quiz him on the matter at the earliest opportunity.”
“But I wasn’t in the carriage that ran you down, or that you saw from the window of Madame Trenti’s bedchamber. Of that you can be sure, can you not?”
“Not necessarily. I told you I couldn’t see the person who ran me down. All I saw was a coat. On the morning Trenti died, Miss Alleyn might have procured the carriage for you. It might as well have been you wearing the coat I saw.”
“What conceivable motive could I have?”
I stared back wordlessly, unable to think of a reason, yet unconvinced by his argument. He waited a while and when I remained silent, shook his head, as if exasperated by my obtuseness. “In any case you are missing the point entirely,” he said, meeting my accusing glare. “What I mean you to understand is that we are all guilty of duplicity in some form or other. Servants and gentlefolk are made of the same flesh and blood. Even you, Hopson, cannot claim immunity from the sin.”
“I would not feign friendship with a man I despise,” I retorted.
“You say not. Yet is it any better to continue in the employ of the man you believe has indirectly brought about the death of your dearest friend? You address Chippendale with as much deference as ever. I’ll wager you have never even raised the manner of Partridge’s departure with him. Is that not a greater hypocrisy—treachery even—than if I enjoyed dinner with Montfort after I’d beaten him at cards? Depriving Montfort of his money was all the revenge I needed for the wrong he did Madame Trenti and myself all those years ago, because money was what mattered most to him. The proof of this is that, as you have seen, the loss of his fortune propelled him into melancholy. You, in contrast, have done nothing to right the wrong Thomas Chippendale did your friend. I have given you the chance to aid me in bringing the perpetrator of Partridge’s death to justice, and yet, at every opportunity, you concede defeat and scurry back to London. Are your actions so entirely commendable?”
The Grenadillo Box: A Novel Page 36
