The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (17 page)

With scant regard for propriety, I took my leave of her, promising to return as soon as I was able. I rejoiced to find myself stepping out of her door, gulping sour London air. Here there was no powder and perfume to hide the grime; you could see the dung heaps and the puddles and walk round them. It was as I was turning out of the square that I suddenly became aware of a carriage thundering up behind me. My heart began to race with fear that this was another mad driver bent on destroying me. I darted towards the nearest entrance, where I reckoned I would be protected, and watched as a hackney drew to an abrupt halt beside me. The occupant’s gloved hand—female—emerged to press down the tin window.

Alice appeared in the aperture. She was holding my box towards me.

“Mr. Hopson, good afternoon,” she said, returning my smile of relief with a worrying aloofness. “I came to inform you that the locksmith says he cannot help you with this box until you can show him the keyhole. He has never seen another mechanism like it.” Almost without drawing breath she continued frostily, “How and with whom you pass your time is no concern of mine. But since I am here, perhaps I should make it clear that I do not wish you to call on me again for matters of a personal nature. Nor do my brother and I wish to attend the theater with you.”

“I don’t understand,” said I, taking the box from her hand. “Have I done something to distress you?”

“I doubt very much you have it in your capacity to distress me. You know of my reputation for plain speaking—now since you provoke me you shall sample it. You have just passed the afternoon in the company of a woman whose services are well known to be easier to hire than a hackney carriage.”

I was hurt to the quick by her assumption. Did she honestly believe I’d ever consider any intimacy with Madame Trenti? “That remark is utterly unfounded. Madame Trenti is a patroness of Chippendale. I called upon her to discover what she knew of Partridge.”

“Was that why I observed you earlier standing naked at her window? Look at you now—dressed like her pet monkey. If this is your method of unraveling your unfortunate friend’s fate, I will not be party to it.”

“She offered me these clothes only because—”

Without hearing my response, she banged on the back of her compartment with her fist. The driver whipped up the horse, and the carriage sped off into the swirling mist, leaving me gazing after the disappearing lantern at its rear in utter bewilderment.

F
oley arrived next morning. Before he could ask for me he was spied by Chippendale, who wouldn’t allow such a finely dressed (if unknown) gentleman to call upon his premises without greeting him personally. I should say here that my master derived the greatest enjoyment from spying new customers as they entered his showroom. To reach his door they would have traveled half the length of St. Martin’s Lane, traversing a stew of resident actors, architects, sculptors, quacks, wags, and wits, stepping over puddles and ordure, towards a deceivingly ordinary façade. What a contrast they beheld when the door of Chippendale’s establishment was opened to them. In here the air was fragranced by porcelain pastille burners, and gilded looking glasses adorned the walls, magnifying and multiplying the furniture, carpets, bronzes, and chandeliers of every conceivable form.

Yet I noticed as I approached that Foley seemed all but oblivious to his surroundings. He displayed none of the usual amazement Chippendale delighted in observing, although the habitual nonchalance he affected had been replaced by a gleam of urgency. Was this because he’d discovered something momentous, I wondered. The instant he caught sight of me, Foley’s expression altered and told me, as clear as any words, that he needed saving from Chippendale. The master was in the midst of an energetic performance.

“Permit me if you will, sir, to show you this small novelty: a set of transforming library steps that can double as a footstool, fitted as you see with a bookrest—as ingenious an invention as any devised—”

“Indeed, Mr. Chippendale,” interrupted Foley, knitting his brows with impatience, “it is exceedingly fine and will suit my purpose admirably. But since Mr. Hopson is already known to me, I believe it may be prudent to show him my premises before placing an order.”

Chippendale was plainly taken aback. “Hopson is known to you, sir?”

“Indeed. I am Lord Foley of Whitely Court, Cambridge, the estate neighboring Lord Montfort’s. Hopson and I became acquainted during his recent sojourn there.”

Chippendale’s eyes flickered. Perhaps he recalled that I’d told him Foley might be the custodian of his precious drawings I’d found with Lord Montfort’s corpse, drawings he believed were essential to his second edition, for he was now at even greater pains to humor him. “Of course Hopson shall accompany you, my lord. But permit me if you will to discuss some urgent business matters with him before he departs. If you would be so kind as to wait just a minute…”

Foley nodded curtly. He sat himself on a sofa, crossed his legs, and gazed at the ceiling, while Chippendale ushered me to his office.

His instructions were briskly given and came as no great surprise. I was handed the documents referring to the loan and a letter from Montfort corroborating the agreement over the drawings, and ordered to discover their exact whereabouts and advise Foley of the claim.

Moments later I was in Foley’s carriage, heading not to his premises, which I knew to be in St. James’s, but in the opposite direction, down Fleet Street, towards East Cheap. He spoke little in the carriage, except to declare that since the morning was dry and he had an urge to walk, he’d take me on a promenade and save his news till then. I was still somewhat drained from my adventures the previous afternoon, and my unfortunate encounter with Alice had left me in downcast spirits, yet I couldn’t help pondering on the reason for his urgency. Compared with my last recollections of him at Horseheath, on the night I tumbled over Montfort’s body and the following day after I’d discovered poor Partridge, when he had been gruff and arrogant, he appeared more animated, more approachable in his demeanor. I wondered what had effected this change. Had he mellowed because he wanted to nurture my trust in him? This seemed unlikely, and I returned to my earlier notion of some new discovery concerning the circumstances of Montfort’s or Partridge’s death as being the cause of his animation. What might this be? I considered the scene at Montfort’s long-awaited dinner: Montfort irascible towards his guests and family and storming from the room, never to be seen alive again. Montfort dead in the unlit library, a pistol by one hand, a mysterious box in the other, leeches swarming over his neck, surrounded by bloody footprints and strewn papers. There was so much detail at the scene, so much to distract and confuse; I could conceive of nothing that Foley might have uncovered to unravel it.

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 undertake 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.”