The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (6 page)

“Locked from the inside,” I declared, as I opened the adjacent door to the entrance hall. I stepped niftily through it, not realizing I’d left Foley still in the corridor with the door swinging back in his face.

T
he entrance hall gave access to the four main ground-floor reception rooms and a grand curving staircase to the first floor. The library was opposite the saloon, adjacent to the dining room. Beyond was the withdrawing room, a passage to further rooms, and the kitchens. I walked to the library door, grasped the handle firmly, and opened it.

An icy gust carried the unmistakable whiff of gunshot to my nostrils. After the brilliance of the other rooms, a wall of blackness confronted me. I blinked and waited. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could discern the windows along the long wall opposite, the curtains of one flapping like unfilled sails in the wind. Any precise terror contained within the room remained, however, invisible in the gloom. I swiveled back in search of illumination. The hall was lit by a large brass lantern, wall sconces fitted to the paneling, and a pair of candelabra on a side table. Lord Foley, by now emerged from the corridor, saw me grasp one of these lights and turn back to the door behind. Determined to shadow my every move, he snatched its pair and followed. Thus with our lights held high did we enter the library.

A
t first I was so stupefied by my discovery of Montfort’s corpse I didn’t question what might have led to his death. As in some martyr’s ghastly supplication, his arms lay outstretched at his sides, palms upturned. Close to his right hand lay a small pocket pistol, no longer than six inches, ornately decorated with a fruiting vine design. Both sleeves and cuffs were bloodstained, and clasped in his left hand was a small box about the size of a goose egg. Scarcely had I registered this last detail, however, when I remarked the leeches, and my shock transformed to revulsion which I could not contain. Thus it was only after I’d returned from retching at the window that I drew the candelabra closer and extricated the box from Montfort’s hand.

It was carved in the form of a columned classical temple. There was something small that rattled within. Despite the horror surrounding me, I remember I held the box in my palm, pausing to admire its gleaming surface, crisp carving, the irregular whorls and tight figuring of the wood, as only a fellow craftsman can truly appreciate the intricacies of his trade. But while hinges were visible along the apex of the roof, there appeared no sign of a catch.

I was still rotating the box in my hands in search of the mechanism to open it when Foley crouched beside me. He was once again babbling to himself, “I cannot be the cause of this. I will shoulder no blame.” He repeated these words over and over as he gazed at the dead man before him. Then, abruptly, he collected his thoughts and remarked upon my preoccupation with the box. “Let me see that,” he cried, snatching it from me.

I stood up. My head swam and my body was beginning to shudder uncontrollably, although whether this was from shock or the bitter temperature, I cannot now be certain. I know, however, that while I felt unable to drag my eyes from the grim spectacle we had discovered, this was no ghoulish fascination. I was looking, even then, for any detail that might explain it.

My curious and inconvenient instinct to dismantle things may have been suppressed by my learning the craft of cabinetmaking, but it has never entirely disappeared. These days, however, the demolition usually takes place in my head. I’ve learned to observe closely. I’ve taught myself to
imagine
taking a given object apart, rather than carrying it out in fact. Naturally enough (so it seemed to me) I now applied the same method of scrutiny to the scene before me. Close to the body, leading to the window, I observed a faint pattern of overlapping smudges. Around them perhaps thirty or more papers were strewn. These, I now saw, were drawings from Mr. Chippendale’s famous volume,
The Gentleman and Cabinet Maker’s Director,
which had lately brought him great fame.

I confess their presence shocked me deeply. I knew that Chippendale greatly treasured his drawings, often displaying them to select patrons prior to publication, as a means of cajoling them into commissioning something grander than they originally intended. It occurred to me that these were the same drawings to which Montfort had referred in his threatening outburst of the previous day. But why Chippendale had given something that was so precious to him to Montfort I could not fathom.

There were sheets of designs—girandoles, daybeds, cabinets, and card tables. I gathered them one by one, intending to place them together on the desk. As I did so I discovered among them a clutch of drawings by a hand I recognized as that of my friend Partridge. The reason for their presence among the Chippendale drawings was equally mystifying. The thought of Partridge made me conscious of how far I was from my familiar surroundings, and how strange was my present situation. What would Partridge make of it if he could see me here holding his drawings? I stepped forward with the bundle of pages, placed it on the desk, then halted abruptly. Montfort’s fearsome dog was curled behind the desk chair in the deep shadow. I trod gingerly round it before hastening away to trace the smudges leading from Montfort’s body. Halfway across the room the footprints became invisible, but by then I’d decided they led towards the window closest to where Montfort lay.

The sash was already open. I’d left it thus to allow the final coat of varnish to dry. I raised the sash further and peered out to see if there was any sign of footprints continuing outside. The ground floor of Horseheath is raised up some six feet above the garden level. Even from this distance, however, I could make out that there was indeed a trail of heavy prints on the frosty earth below, which seemed to lead off in the direction of the Italian Garden. Leaning out to look more closely, I rested my palm on the sill for support—and recoiled immediately. My hand had touched something sticky and wet. Lowering my light to the sill, I saw a thick pool of semicoagulated blood, wider than my fist. So much blood that it had dripped down the wall, leaving, I now saw, dark streaks on the damask covering. Revulsion and nausea surged again in my belly. I staggered round towards Foley, holding my bloodstained palm outstretched in front of me as if I myself was savagely wounded.

Foley was still occupied with the box. He’d turned it, twisted it, shaken it, and taken a paper knife in an attempt to prize it open. The contents rattled mockingly, but still the catch remained invisible and unyielding. Now, seeing my bloodstained predicament, he placed the box on the desk and addressed me sensibly.

“What have you done? Cut yourself?”

“It is not my blood…. There is blood…see for yourself,” I stammered.

Foley’s brows shot up in astonishment at my agitation. “Compose yourself, Mr. Hopson. Take this. Clean yourself.” He handed me his silk handkerchief and walked to the window. I was in such distress I wrapped it over my hand, without a thought for the value of such an article. After a minute or two he drew down the sash with an air of finality, before turning back to me. His face was impassive, his voice, when he spoke, dispassionate. “Hopson. Go immediately and summon the family and guests. Do not divulge to them what we have discovered. Request only that they come here immediately.”

The coolness with which these orders were issued brought me quickly to my senses. Pushing his handkerchief deep in my pocket—already uncomfortable about staining such an item, how could I return it now it was sullied with blood?—I did as he bade me.

W
hen I returned to the dining room, I found it deathly silent. Six remaining diners were seated around the table fidgeting uncomfortably, avoiding one another’s eyes. Only Robert—the new Lord Montfort—stood, legs braced in front of the dying fire, gazing fixedly at Elizabeth, who was turned to face the window and the invisible landscape beyond.

The grand dinner for which such careful preparation had been made was now a sorry sight. I was oddly reminded of a painting I’d once seen in Lord Chandos’s London mansion, by an Italian master, of a bacchanal in which Bacchus and various attending nymphs and satyrs sit frozen around the detritus of their meal. In this case, collapsing custards and melting syllabubs, fractured nut husks and wilting fruit peelings were strewn about like flotsam from the tide.

Six heads turned inquiringly towards me as I entered. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, “Lord Foley requests that you join him in the library without delay.” As Foley had directed, I gave them no hint of what awaited. Yet by the paleness of my countenance and the faltering of my voice they might easily have suspected some calamity. Nonetheless not one of them was consumed by curiosity about what was happening to them. Docile as children, they rose to their feet and followed me along the hall to the library.

Lady Montfort led the straggling group as I opened the door, thus it was she who first caught sight of her husband’s body. I confess her reaction startled me profoundly. I had expected tears, shrieking hysteria, a violent outpouring of emotion. But she betrayed no shock or fright. She didn’t tremble, nor did she shiver as I had seen her do earlier. Indeed she displayed no sign of any sentiment whatsoever. For perhaps half a minute she gazed unflinchingly at her husband’s corpse. Only when the rest of the group clustered behind her and began to express astonishment and dismay did the full horror strike her. Her legs seemed suddenly to give way, and she toppled forward and would have struck herself had not Bradfield stepped in to save her.

Miss Alleyn’s response to her brother’s death was as voluble as Elizabeth’s was silent. She uttered a shrill birdlike cry, and began manically twirling the fringes of her shawl between her bony fingers. Wallace the lawyer placed a comforting arm about her shoulder, his feet braced, his brow furrowed. After a few moments he mumbled something inaudible.

“What’s that you said?” cried Foley impatiently. “Speak louder, man!”

“Only that while I take no responsibility for the present tragedy, there is something I must divulge which may have a bearing upon it.”

I couldn’t help wondering how it could be that both Foley and Wallace felt that they were somehow to blame for this death. Surely both couldn’t be responsible, or were they in conspiracy together? Before Wallace could shed light on this perplexing matter, Robert Montfort pushed his way from the rear. Seeing his father’s corpse for the first time, he fell to his knees, and taking a linen kerchief from his sleeve, dabbed at the gunshot wound on his father’s head. He then took his father’s left hand and pressed it to his lips. “I cannot believe he would take his life. Why did he not speak to me of his melancholy?” he exclaimed, rising stiffly to his feet. “I blame you for this, Foley. You now have an obligation to explain yourself.”

Foley met his accusing stare directly but said nothing. The culpability he had voiced earlier seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps I imagined it, but his expression seemed to me more akin to triumph.

“Take his life, what do you mean?” interjected Miss Alleyn.

“See here, the gun has dropped from his hand. Is that not proof enough, taken together with his melancholy and his strange humor this evening?” said Robert.

“I do not believe that your father took his life,” I said, realizing Robert Montfort’s drift and intending to console him.

He swiveled round and glowered at me. “Hopson the carpenter, is it? Do you presume to know something of this?” He spat.

“I…I…forgive me, for I do not mean to presume, sir,” I stammered. “It is only that when I came into the room I stumbled and I believe—”

“This is a family tragedy, and one that does not in any way concern you, Hopson,” he cut in rudely. “I thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. You may remove the leeches from my father’s body. Then leave this room immediately. Foley, I await your explanation.”

I must have looked dazed by his order, for I did not move until Miss Alleyn came forward and thrust a small stone jar with a perforated lid into my hands. “You may place them in here,” she murmured, patting me kindly on the shoulder.

I crouched down before the corpse, pressing my palms against the cool sides of the jar to suppress my revulsion. One by one I plucked the creatures from Montfort’s neck—they were as soft as overripe berries—and with a trembling hand dropped them in the jar.

In between removing each beast I glanced up at Foley. I could say it was a way of distracting myself from my horrid task, but it would be more truthful to confess that even though Montfort’s death was no concern of mine, I was caught up in it and intrigued to know what Foley would say. His expression surprised me. There was no glimmer of the compassion you might expect a man to feel if his close friend had just died, nor did I see the earlier gleam of victory I’d imagined. His eyes were cold and empty.

“I believe your father’s earlier ill-humor was caused by a hefty gaming loss,” he said, addressing Robert. “You must already know of his passion for cards. For the past years we—Bradfield, your father, and I—have met at White’s for evenings of play. On occasion all of us have been unlucky, but the evening we last met—two weeks ago—was spectacularly unfortunate.” Foley paused while I, biting my cheek to control my revulsion, captured the last leech.

“Spectacularly unfortunate for all of you, Lord Foley?” whispered Elizabeth, who had recovered from her earlier shock and was now listening with rapt interest.

“Chiefly for your husband, madam. We were not, I should add, alone. We played faro; I was banker. Half a dozen other gentlemen were present and will vouch for my account. As the evening wore on, anticipating the turn of events, Bradfield and I urged him to be prudent, little knowing that this advice would spur him to follow the opposite course.” Foley’s dark eyes burned; he paused, seeming unwilling to continue.

“And the extent of his losses, Lord Foley?” demanded Elizabeth.

“Considerable, madam. In excess of ten thousand pounds, and the bills he gave me were due for settlement in a week’s time. I fancy that is why he called Wallace here today.”

At this information Wallace reddened, but before he could reply Elizabeth swooned and everyone formed a comforting circle around her. Miss Alleyn took out her salts and wafted them underneath her sister-in-law’s nose. I took advantage of the interruption to deposit the jar on the desk and depart. I was closing the door when Foley came after me. Catching my elbow, he walked with me into the hall, out of earshot of the others. “I should like you to explain to me your conviction that Montfort’s death could not be suicide,” he murmured quietly, before instructing me in a louder voice to ensure that word was sent to Sir James Westleigh, the local justice, to come immediately.

Having relayed the instructions as ordered, I washed in the pantry, then anxious for solitude, returned to the sanctuary of the servants’ hall. Grateful to find the room deserted—the other servants were still occupied in the kitchen—I replenished the fire, puffing the embers until the flames flickered and burned steadily. Then I settled myself in the high-backed chair and closed my eyes to better contemplate the extraordinary events I had just witnessed.