The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (7 page)

Why was I so sure Montfort had not taken his own life? Why did Foley think he might be partly to blame for Montfort’s death? Plainly he didn’t mean he’d killed him directly, yet suicide brought on by melancholy over gambling debts could not explain the evidence in the room. I wondered what it was that Wallace had been poised to disclose when Robert interrupted him. Robert’s reaction had not been what I would have expected of a loving son; anger rather than grief had appeared to be his dominant emotion. Thus while he and the rest of the company seemed to assume that Montfort had committed suicide, I was far from convinced of it.

I was still examining these thoughts when, some minutes later, Constance entered with a pint of porter and a slice of meat pie sent on Mrs. Cummings’s instruction to revive me. The kitchen staff had greeted the news of Montfort’s death with shock but little real regret, for he had not been a popular master. I too felt no real sorrow, only a wish to recover from the shock of my discovery and forget the horrid image of his corpse. I smiled now at the sight of Connie’s pretty face and the refreshment she carried. “Constance—angel of mercy—a welcome distraction indeed,” I said with heartfelt sincerity.

She greeted the compliment with a brisker smile than usual.

“Is something amiss?” I asked.

“Only Mrs. Cummings going on at me. Her humor’s bad since this evening’s adventures. She’s accusing me of breaking a crystal salt and not daring to tell her.”

“It’ll pass, I’m sure. She’s a kindhearted woman.”

“A bad-tempered one more like. Any rate, I thank heaven not to have witnessed what you have done, Nathaniel.”

“Indeed, the shock of seeing that corpse has disturbed me more than I thought possible. The terrors of that room, the blood, the leeches…horrors I’ll never forget. Feel my head, have I a fever?”

At this she giggled and placed the tray on the table. “I’ve no doubt the ordeal was fearsome, but I don’t believe you’re so profoundly distressed
now.
There’s no fever to be sure, Nathaniel.” She paused, examining my forehead with a quizzical expression. “How did you come by that scar?”

“Which scar is that?”

“Why this one, there’s no other I can see,” said she, touching my forehead with her soft finger as I hoped she would.

“Ah well, ’tis a long tale, one which would weary you to hear…”

“Tell me or I swear I must go mad!”

“Well, briefly. Some years ago, I was traveling by stage to London when from the rear window I observed a dozen or more highwaymen approaching from the cover of a forest. They were armed to the teeth.” I paused dramatically—her eyes were big as saucers. “Did I not warn you this was the dreariest of tales?”

“Go on, Nathaniel—you can’t stop now.”

I gazed solemnly into her eager eyes and continued, speaking deliberately slowly at first, and then gradually faster, so as to drive her to a frenzy (or so I intended). “The driver was oblivious, and the other passengers were all asleep…. Not wishing to rouse and alarm them, I sprang from the window onto the rear postilion’s horse…then I whipped up the other horses and left the vagabonds standing, but not before one of them hit me with a pistol butt.”

I was still looking earnestly at her but was suddenly unable to prevent a broad smile from taking hold of my lips.

She smacked me playfully on the cheek. “You are trifling with me. A dozen highwaymen indeed.”

I shrugged, accepting defeat. “And, what of it? Don’t I entertain you?”

She lowered her lashes and looked at the fire. “You are entertaining enough for now, but I’ll never see you after tomorrow.”

I recognized this wistfulness as an invitation and took speedy action. “And the thought makes you sad? Come here and I’ll help you forget your sorrow.”

I reached for her waist. She giggled coquettishly, shook her head, but not so vigorously as to deter me entirely. “There’s more than you to make me sad. Mrs. Cummings says we’ll lose our posts before long,” she said, deftly removing my roving hand and changing the subject.

“What made her say such a thing?”

“Something she overheard when she took the refreshments to the saloon.”

“Tell me what then. I can see you’re bursting with it.”

She perched herself on the arm of the chair. Her skin smelled of treacle and rose water. I felt my spirits rise. Softly I placed my hand on hers. This advance seemed not to disquiet her, for she continued happily enough.

“Wallace the attorney said the reason for his visit was to make over a large part of Montfort’s estate to Foley in settlement of his losses. Wallace says he believes it likely Lord Montfort took his life in despair because much of the estate was mortgaged already on account of his losses. According to Mrs. Cummings, that means there’ll be almost nothing left for his wife and son, and they’ll have little alternative but to sell the house, and we’ll most likely all lose our posts.”

I furrowed my brows as I pondered her words, wondering if now was the time to kiss her. “I see their reasoning, but they didn’t see what I did in the library.”

“You deceive yourself, Nathaniel. They saw the same as you.”

“You don’t comprehend my meaning.”

“Tell me plainly and perhaps I will.”

I patted her knee fondly. “There is all the difference in the world between seeing and observing. Moonshine is brighter than fog.”

“What is the meaning of that?”

“That someone desires Montfort’s death to look as if it is a suicide, and their attempts don’t convince me. But while I don’t see how it could be suicide, I can’t make sense of what
did
happen.”

She squirmed on her perch and pushed my hand away again. My evasiveness was beginning to wear thin. If I couldn’t pacify her, an opportunity would be lost.

“What makes you believe your observation is better than anyone else’s?”

“I recognize you for your peerless attractions. I’ll wager they scarcely glance at you. Doesn’t that show you I’ve been trained to observe and they have not?”

From a faint coloring of her cheek I could see she was mollified by the compliment; but my logic didn’t entirely convince her. “You’re a cabinetmaker, Nathaniel. That’s a craft that requires clever hands, not eyes.”

I held up a finger to her lips to quieten her, touching them with feathery lightness. “When I was a child, my father—a joiner by trade—took me to the residence of a local gentleman.”

“What’s that to do with Montfort’s death?” she said, tossing her head in annoyance yet doing nothing to prevent me from stroking her cheek.

“The gentleman required a new bureau for his withdrawing room. My father was commissioned to make it. He brought me with him.”

Connie smacked my hand away and pursed her lips. “Speak plainly or I’m off.”

“We were shown the saloon where the bureau was to stand. I gazed round while my father discussed his commission. I’d never seen a grander room: looking glasses, sofas, commodes, lacquer.

“Afterwards when we returned home my father asked me what I thought of the place. ‘Very magnificent,’ I replied.

“ ‘Tell me then,’ he asked, ‘which piece most impressed you?’

“I mentioned a japanned cabinet decorated with chinoiseries that had caught my eye. My father demanded I describe a scene upon it. I could not. Then he asked me to name three other pieces in the room that pleased me. The room had seemed so remarkable, yet all its contents had vanished from my memory.”

“And what then did this teach you?” asked Connie.

I looked hard into her eyes. “Vision is a tool to be sharpened like any other.”

She followed my analogy. “Then you saw something with your sharpened eye that no one else did. Tell me, what was it?”

“I wouldn’t upset you with it.”

She pushed my shoulder playfully as if unable to remain cross. “Nathaniel, you are teasing me again.
Tell me,
I beg of you.”

“I’m not teasing,” I said, widening my eyes. “I’m not even sure myself.” I paused and thought back. “The footprints weren’t as they should be; there was blood upon the sill, and blood on both his sleeves.” I pulled her closer, intending to save myself by kissing her downy cheek. But although she permitted me this favor, I was barred from further progress. The moment I attempted an advance upon her thigh she wriggled free, Montfort’s death forgotten. The kitchen and Mrs. Cummings required her more urgently than I.

D
espite the fact that he lived only five miles distant Sir James Westleigh, the local justice, did not arrive until two hours later, at midnight. It was I who answered his knock. Since I expected to be required to speak to him on account of being the first person to discover the corpse, I’d undertaken to wait up so Mrs. Cummings and Constance and the first footman might retire to their beds. I asked Constance laughingly to keep a space warm for me. She consoled me with a prettily blown kiss, saying she’d have none of it and that her door would ever be locked against nocturnal interlopers with unexplained scars on their foreheads.

Westleigh was a jovial man whose breath reeked of onions and porter. With all the panache of a regular footman, I ushered him to the saloon and stood at the door awaiting further instruction. He was an old acquaintance of Miss Alleyn’s. Seeing her pallor and realizing he had been called out on account of some calamity, he shook her hand vigorously, inquiring, “My dear lady, tell me what has upset you so. Not a family matter, I trust?”

To spare Miss Alleyn the ordeal of an explanation, Foley interrupted. “Come this way if you would, Sir James. I believe Miss Alleyn is about to retire.” Then as an afterthought he gestured to me. “Nathaniel, perhaps you would accompany us also, since you were the person who stumbled on the corpse.”

Foley led Westleigh into the library, where the body of Montfort still lay spread-eagled as we’d found it. Westleigh peered briefly at the cadaver before settling himself in a thronelike armchair. I wondered to see the still-dormant dog behind the desk chair, but Westleigh appeared not to remark it. He looked expectantly at Foley, who cleared his throat before beginning to speak.

“It is the view of Montfort’s attorney Mr. Wallace, of Lord Bradfield, a fellow guest here, and of Robert, Lord Montfort’s unfortunate son, that Henry Montfort shot himself in despair at his gambling losses, which were due for settlement a week from today,” he began gravely. “I was his chief creditor. He called in Wallace to make documents in my favor. However, I believe that Hopson here has other views upon the matter. He tells me he’s certain the death isn’t one of self-murder.”

“And you, Lord Foley? You counted yourself a friend and neighbor. You were the second person to see him dead. What is your opinion?” inquired Westleigh.

“My mind as yet is uncertain. I am curious to hear what light Hopson can shed for us,” he replied.

In a firm but amiable tone Westleigh then demanded that I explain myself.

I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as I opened my mouth to speak. “It is my conviction—or rather my view,” I replied hesitantly, “from what I observe in this room, that the death of Lord Montfort couldn’t have been suicide.”

Westleigh looked at the prostrate figure and frowned. “Explain yourself properly, Mr. Hopson. What precisely do you perceive that makes you so certain?”

I flushed deeper—I was beginning to burble, and I could feel my embarrassment worsen under this examination. Clenching my fists, I walked towards the cadaver and forced myself to speak clearly and plainly.

“First the pistol. I believe I trod on it, and it was that which made me fall. I remember distinctly having the impression of traveling forward before I fell. I estimate I skidded a distance of some three feet, and surmise the pistol was under my foot when I did so. Thus, although we found it close to his right hand, I believe that was misleading. The pistol was beyond Lord Montfort’s reach.”

“But the pistol might have fallen some distance away after he fired it,” said Foley, tapping his shoe impatiently on the floor. “I don’t see that that is proof of anything at all, Hopson.”

I tried not to feel humiliated as I continued. “Second, examine his body if you will, sir.” Both Foley and Westleigh directed their eyes towards the side of Montfort’s head at which I pointed.

“You see blood not only on his right side, where he was shot, but also several stains here.” At this juncture I moved round the corpse and pointed to the clearly visible blood on his left arm and cuff. “It is this I find inexplicable. Admittedly there is less blood on the left than the right side. But the fact is, there shouldn’t be any at all.” I stopped and looked at Foley and Westleigh, waiting for their response, waiting to see if they would draw the same conclusion as I.

“How would
you
explain it, Mr. Hopson?” questioned Westleigh, a note of irritation creeping into his tone.

“The possibilities are plentiful.”

“Name them.”

“The one that springs most immediately to mind is that someone else attempted to shoot him as he tried to wrest the gun away with both hands. Then there
would
be blood on both sleeves.”

Foley gaped. “Are you suggesting, Hopson, that some other person entered the library, held a gun to Montfort’s head, and shot him
while we were at dinner
?”