The Grenadillo Box: A Novel

by Janet Gleeson

  Foley looked down at his feet. His brows were knitted in thought, and by the dismal downturn of his mouth I could see he too was moved.

  “And the gunshot?” said Westleigh impassively.

  “Once she had disposed of Partridge, Miss Alleyn returned her attention to Lord Montfort. She took out the gun, fired it. Then, unlocking the servants’ door to the hall, she hurried along the corridor back to the dining room, where she behaved as if she were as astonished as anyone.”

  “The three fingers discovered in my room,” interrupted Robert Montfort. “How did they arrive there?”

  I turned to him slowly. “Miss Alleyn placed them there to incriminate you in both deaths when she realized that Partridge was not seriously suspected of the killing of your father.”

  His face lengthened. “But my aunt was devoted to me,” he protested. “She often said I was the son she never had.”

  “Perhaps, but she had grown disaffected with you of late. Did I not tell you just now that she felt you neglected her predicament? I suppose she was careless when she gathered up the fingers, and that was how I came to find one of them at the bottom of the toolbox.”

  “And Madame Trenti? What were Miss Alleyn’s reasons for killing her?” asked Westleigh, taking command of the proceedings once more.

  “Vengeance for her duplicity. You will recall I described Miss Alleyn as a woman of a curious moral rectitude—it is partly this episode that caused me to describe her thus. Miss Alleyn learned of Madame Trenti’s pretense from me. Until then she believed Partridge was Lord Montfort’s child who had been sent to London to the Foundling Hospital. She didn’t know that the child died before it ever left for London.

  “Hearing that this was nothing but a fabrication, she became outraged. By then, after she had successfully killed Partridge and meddled with her brother’s corpse, death no longer seemed fearsome to her. I hazard, moreover, it afforded her an inward satisfaction, because it countered the feeling of weakness she so detested.”

  “Tell me precisely then, how was Madame Trenti’s murder accomplished?” demanded Westleigh.

  I answered as plainly as I could. “On Miss Alleyn’s next visit to London she was staying with the Bradfields as usual. She was well acquainted with the habits of that household, having stayed there many times before. She rose early, before the household was about, and ordered the groom to prepare a coach, which she drove to Golden Square. Leaving the vehicle hidden in a convenient alley, she found her way into the house through a rear entrance that leads directly to the servants’ stairs and to Madame Trenti’s chamber. This, by the way, was not a difficult matter since none of the other rooms on that floor were occupied, and most of the servants were busy downstairs in the kitchens.

  “Thus, with minimal effort but immense daring, did Miss Alleyn come upon her quarry, who we may imagine was dozing in bed after her breakfast. She tiptoed in through the servants’ door, locked the door to the main corridor, then brutally strangled her with a length of lace trimming that was conveniently to hand. Madame Trenti must have awoken as the ligature tightened about her neck, for she gave a single cry just as I stood downstairs, and while Mr. Chippendale approached the door and knocked on it. Soon afterwards he and I met upon the stairs, and returned to try the door again. Miss Alleyn at this time was probably already making her escape. She descended the servants’ stairs the way she had come in and hurried back to the waiting carriage.” I paused very briefly to draw breath, then continued on, directing my speech now towards Robert Montfort.

  “While I was outside the room, I fancied I heard the sound of light footsteps descending the back stairs. They should have told me the killer was a woman, but Miss Alleyn, continuing in her efforts to cast suspicion on you, my lord, had donned your traveling coat. That is why, when I saw her passing beneath the window after I’d found Trenti’s body, I believed she must be a man, and suspected you of the murder. Even after I learned your aunt had procured the carriage early that morning, I remembered that coat and her fondness for you, and assumed she had taken the carriage for you.”

  Robert Montfort was goggle-eyed. “I think it quite preposterous that you should even consider me capable of such a thing,” he blustered. “I have warned you before now, Hopson, that I will not tolerate your effrontery.”

  “Truth is no respecter of rank, my lord. I have been asked to explain it. That is all I am attempting to do.”

  Robert half rose from his chair, as if he would attack me. I did not drop my gaze.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, pray calm yourselves!” said Westleigh, swiftly stepping between us. “Mr. Hopson, I would be grateful if you would complete your narrative as briefly as you can. Robert, I have implored you several times already—give him leave to speak.”

  I waited while Robert sat back in his chair and turned away from me to scowl at the fire. “The only matter I have yet to describe is what I believe to have been an attempt on my life that took place on my return to London after my first visit to Horseheath. My memories of the incident are hazy, but I remember two things quite distinctly. The carriage, banded in green, was the same as the one that I saw flash beneath the window when Madame Trenti died, and the driver wore an identical garb.”

  I walked nearer to Robert Montfort, fixing him with an accusing stare. “As I have said already, there is no doubt in my mind that the person I saw from the window was your aunt, Miss Alleyn. The previous occasion, however, is altogether different. I cannot be certain whether the driver was the owner of the coat, in other words you, my lord, or whether Miss Alleyn had borrowed it.”

  Silence fell upon the room; Robert Montfort scowled more darkly than ever but refused to meet my eye. Eventually Westleigh intervened. “Whatever makes you doubt it was Miss Alleyn, Hopson?”

  “Miss Alleyn had no obvious motive at that juncture to wish me dead. Quite the contrary, I was aiding her cause by trying to discover the killer of her brother.”

  Westleigh now turned to address Robert directly. “My lord,” he said, “a challenge has been made. You are honor bound to answer it honestly. Was it you who ran down Hopson and left him for dead in the gutter?”

  Robert Montfort lifted his head but still refused to answer.

  “I order you to respond, my lord. What have you to say?” repeated Westleigh more forcefully now.

  “What difference does it make, damn it?” cried Robert at last. “If Hopson happened in my way, he has only himself to blame for any accident that befell him. Why, he’s nothing but a meddlesome upstart. He was never in peril of dying—and he deserves no better than to find himself in the gutter.”

  I came towards him, halting squarely in front of his chair. He was seated before the fireplace, beneath the picture of the fall of Icarus against which his father had been sprawled in death. I looked up at the winged figure tumbling helplessly from the sky into the azure sea beneath and the figure of Daedalus flying off to Naples or Sicily, oblivious to the fate of his unfortunate child.

  “It was far from being an accident, my lord. You intended to damage me, if not kill me. Your violent action was entirely deliberate, a way of scaring me into submission because you feared my inquiries might diminish your inheritance.”

  Puce with fury, Robert Montfort stood up and faced me, muttering numerous indecipherable insults. I turned away in disgust, but this only seemed to annoy him more intensely. How dare I have the effrontery to address him thus? How he wished I’d go to the devil. How he wished he had beaten me roundly when he had the opportunity to do so. Then he said something about Alice’s injuries being entirely my fault. I knew it was untrue, but I couldn’t contain myself. I felt no fear of his bluster, nor awe at his status. A strange emptiness seemed to pervade the room. I was oblivious to all its inhabitants save one: Robert Montfort. I turned back and hit him with all my force.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  March 14, 1755

  London

  My dear Alice,

  At last I’ve discovered from Feth
erby (who else?) the reason for your silence. He tells me you went away with your brother to take the waters at Bath and convalesce from the injuries you suffered, that the remedies of that city have worked their wonders, and that you’ve returned restored to health.

  To apprise you briefly of what has passed since my last chapter: the madness that made me attack Robert Montfort got me thrown into prison like a common criminal, till Foley paid to have me released. I returned to London without Chippendale’s drawings, which Foley refused to hand me despite his earlier promises. He said that since I had yet to take up the matter of Partridge with Chippendale he was taking it upon himself to make a stand. It was no more punishment than Chippendale deserved to be deprived of the designs, and since Elizabeth and Robert Montfort expressed no interest in having them back, and he, Foley, valued them highly, he thought it only just that he should hold on to them.

  On discovering I’d come back empty-handed, my master was true to his threats. He flew into a terrible rage (which reminded me somewhat of Robert Montfort and his father) and without further ado dismissed me. In two respects his gesture was fortuitous. First, it gave me time to compose my account for you of all that had happened. Second, it prompted me to tell Chippendale what I thought of him for the way he treated Partridge. I no longer feared losing my job since I’d already lost it. During our exchange he seemed entirely unabashed. “You are judging a matter you don’t begin to comprehend,” he declared, lofty as ever, “and your ignorance gives you no right at all to pronounce a verdict.”

  “If I am ignorant it’s because you’ve failed to explain yourself,” I said. “I can only judge by what I see and learn. Partridge’s and your sister Dorothy’s letters have taught me all I need to know of your cruelty. I saw you outside Madame Trenti’s boudoir when there was no reason for such a call. Did she hold some malicious sway over you? Was that why you supplied her with so many furnishings?”

  But he refused to answer me, saying only that the truth didn’t arrive to those who simply sat there and asked for it like a beggar with his hand out. Truth, like everything else in God’s world, had to be earned.

  So to the real purpose of the letter. The thousand pardons I owe you. I trust that with the passage of time you’ve forgiven me the harm I allowed to befall you. I curse myself still for my clumsiness, though I confess it strikes me as strangely curious that the same ham-fistedness that began these events concluded them too.

  I must tell you here that through all my recent troubles an unlikely source of comfort has been Foley. Putting aside his awkwardness over the drawings, the man who once irritated me beyond description has turned out to be a patron I might almost describe as benevolent. You know that it was his carriage and his wife that took you so speedily to Cambridge, where Lady Foley ensured that Townes attended to your injuries. When Foley discovered I’d been dismissed, he offered to advance me sufficient funds to begin my own enterprise. When I asked him why he was being so philanthropic, he told me, a little sharply, it was only shrewd investing that allowed him to lead a life of indolence and that I might take or leave his offer as I chose. I take this to mean he feels a little pang of remorse for holding on to the drawings and losing me my employment. But now I’m gone, I’m glad to be free of Chippendale. I think I shall accept the offer.

  Thus, Alice, I take my bow with the fervent hope that if you’ve not done so already this letter might spur you to forgive me enough to read my history of our adventure. Should you do so, I beg you to write and let me know what you make of it.

  I am yours, affectionate as ever,

  Nathaniel

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  When Alice arrived, she was the last person I expected to see. It was midafternoon on a Sunday, two weeks since I’d dispatched my last letter and sent her my account of all that had passed. I was alone, whistling a tune I’d heard at the playhouse, sifting through mounds of furniture components in search of a missing saw. Had she arrived a few moments earlier, she’d have found Chippendale hanging at my heels. Since my dismissal he’d barred me from the premises and refused adamantly to allow me to retrieve my toolbox. It was only after I suggested I might let slip to his friend the justice that his account of the day Madame Trenti died wasn’t as accurate as it might have been that he’d been persuaded to let me take it.

  When I’d entered his premises, he’d glowered over my every move. But after a short time he grew impatient; he hadn’t succeeded in intimidating me in the least, and there were things he must attend to in his office. So he’d left me to my own devices. He would examine my boxes once they were packed. If I dared help myself to anything that wasn’t mine, he’d summon the watch and make sure I was transported for it.

  So there I was, crouching with chisel in one hand, two-foot rule in the other, gawking idiotically at a graveyard of furniture. Mahogany feet carved with claws, deal bed heads, oak tabletops, and panels of veneer. Would I ever amass such a heap of parts, I wondered.

  “It is not often I come upon you and find you whistling a tune, and with no pretty companion in your lap.”

  I recognized the clear tone instantly. She was standing in the doorway holding a package wrapped in brown paper. I felt myself flush to the roots of my hair. How long had she observed me?

  Nonchalantly as I could, I stood up and bowed. “I cannot think what you mean,” I replied, at once annoyed to find she still had the power to disturb me and relieved to see her looking so well.

  “I feared I’d be too late,” she said, artlessly proffering her hand.

  Forgetting that I was covered with grime, I stumbled eagerly to kiss it, leaving a black imprint on her flawless kid glove. “Are you quite recovered? Late for what?”

  She ignored the reference to her health as if it was a matter of little consequence. “I feared that you might have gone.”

  “How did you know?”

  “The carter Fetherby mentioned you’d be returning today, but he was uncertain when exactly.”

  “His garrulousness has at last worked in my favor.”

  She stared at me levelly, mysterious as ever. “I am glad you believe so. But he didn’t know where you were going, nor for what you were exchanging all of this.” Here she waved at the disorderly surroundings, as if to imply I were quitting a palace rather than a dust-strewn garret that stank of turpentine, linseed, and boiled animal bones.

  “I’ve taken Foley’s offer of assistance and found premises in St. Martin’s Lane. I open them tomorrow.”

  “A new beginning?”

  “Indeed. But Chippendale is here…if you wish to speak with him.”

  “Have I not already made it clear it’s you I’ve come to see?”

  There was silence as I shuffled uncomfortably in the wood shavings, wondering at the purpose of her visit and what I should say and do. The weather had grown warm in recent days, and I cursed myself for not choosing my coat more wisely. My hair felt damp in its ribbon, and perspiration began to prickle my brow. I thought I read disapproval in her glance, a suggestion she was waiting for me to say something more. An instant later it seemed I was mistaken and that she’d sensed my discomposure and taken pity on me, for she asked me to take her somewhere we might talk.

  The downstairs shop was unlocked, and I led her back across the empty cobbled yard to a silent showroom furnished as a saloon of the grandest proportions. She wove her way among sofas, chaises, daybeds, and commodes, gliding a hand over damask upholstery and carved and gilded backs, brilliant polish and marble tops. When she spoke it was not at all what I expected.

  “And what will you fabricate in your new premises? Will you attempt anything as sumptuous as this?” By now she had traversed the room and, having placed the package on a table, stood looking up at the gargantuan writing cabinet Chippendale had designed for Madame Trenti.

  Since Madame Trenti’s death and the cabinet’s completion it had been placed in the shop: a striking advertisement of the skill and refinement of which Chippendale’s establishment was
capable. I looked at the cabinet and then back to Alice. Set against its daunting scale, she seemed smaller than she really was, and for some reason its florid design repulsed me even more than usual.

  I still didn’t fully understand what had been the purpose of Chippendale’s visit to Madame Trenti’s on the morning of her death, or the reason he had planned to supply her with the most spectacular object he’d ever created when she clearly didn’t have the means to pay for it. I still supposed she must have had some secret hold over him, although what that might have been I hadn’t fathomed.

  “I don’t know if I will ever aspire to such extravagant heights. But simpler pieces may bring equal satisfaction and to greater numbers. Do you not agree?” I said.

  She stared thoughtfully at the cabinet and then threw a challenging smile at me. “I agree your appetite for dispute is undiminished.”

  “And you haven’t lost your directness,” I retorted.

  “I’m sad to find you so unfeeling.”

  There was a playfulness in her tone, but I chose to ignore it. “For what reason am I so cruelly accused?” I demanded peevishly.

  “Your expression suggests either I or the cabinet displease you greatly.”

  Without pausing to reflect, I fell straight in her snare. “You’ve never displeased me, Alice. As for the cabinet, I confess when I look at it I cannot help thinking of Chippendale, and the thought disturbs me. You already know my antipathy towards him is well founded.” I paused, met her eyes directly, and screwed up courage to continue. “As for my feelings towards you—the silence between us for the last weeks has been of your instigation, not mine. I sent you letters and my history of all that had happened; I was sure that, having played such a significant part in it, you’d be curious to hear of its conclusion, even if you were angry with me for causing you hurt. Yet you have never responded. It is I who should accuse you of coldness.”