The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (31 page)

W
e returned to the inn to dine—a hearty repast of pigeon pie and ale, which our landlord, Samuel Morton, didn’t stint in supplying. Since Alice was still angry and awkward, I fell into conversation with him. Having exchanged routine pleasantries regarding the inclement weather and the monuments of interest in the area, I asked him if he knew anyone by the name of Figgins living in these parts. A cloud seemed to sweep across his jovial face when he registered the name, and his eyes became oddly guarded.

“She’s no friend of yours?”

“What makes you say so?”

“The little I’ve learned of her. I’ve often heard her name—though I thank God I don’t know her. She’s not one to tangle with, of that much I can be sure. You’d be advised to stay clear.”

“What can you tell me of her?”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Not a great deal, though she’s lived in these parts ever since I can remember. People are wary of her, always have been. She’s odd, they say, and by some accounts grows odder as the years pass.”

“What do they find so strange about her?”

“I can’t rightly say. For a time she worked up at the hall at Horseheath. She left under some sort of a cloud. I’ve no doubt it had to do with thieving or drink—her family are no strangers to either.”

“Did you ever hear of her caring for children, as a nurse?”

“Don’t recall it, but that don’t mean that she didn’t. Though I’d pity any infant left in her care.”

“Does she live alone?”

“Husband died some years back. There’s a son—a man now—aged nineteen or twenty, works in the woods as a bodger by summer. During winter months he stays with her and makes a living from poaching. He’s no better than she. Most round here keep away from them both.”

He had little more to say on the subject, except to give me directions to her dwelling—a hut somewhat out of the village on the road back to Horseheath Hall.

Alice retired to her room immediately after dinner, leaving me alone, dejected, and with little else to do but call on Mrs. Figgins.

The weather had turned cold again, overcast and bleak with a keen wind that chilled the tip of my nose and threatened snow at any moment. My path took me beyond the shop and church and genteel houses I’d observed last night, towards the outskirts of the village. Samuel Morton had instructed me to take a turn that doubled back parallel to the village green. The course brought me to a stagnant corner of the village, as different from the rest as the front of a fine piece of furniture differs from its unpolished back.

The dwellings here were tumbledown constructions of wattle and daub, with holes in their walls and crooked chimneys from which wisps of smoke melted in the January air. Beyond the cottages, the terrain rose again to an area of common ground on which some scrawny beasts were forlornly tethered among clumps of reeds and a few sparse bushes. Between the houses the land was swampy and had claimed occasional casualties among the livestock. On the far borders, two great dark slimy carcasses protruded from the pools of brown frozen mud, like shipwrecks revealed by an ebbing tide.

I circled the marsh and headed towards the last hovel in the row, as Samuel Morton had directed me. I could now see that of all these dismal dwellings this was the most vile. A putrid smell assailed me as I approached—a combination of dampness, dung, and decomposition. The windows were crudely boarded; nothing but a few small apertures allowed light to filter inside. Mold invaded the walls, spreading upwards from the foundations, where it doubtless flourished due to the dankness of the surroundings. Here and there the moisture had dissolved the fabric of the walls, which had melted away, leaving scars through which the wooden structure was visible.

I made my way towards the door, called out, and when that raised no answer, thumped upon it. After some minutes, when still no reply had come, I lifted the latch and went in.

I entered a small, low-ceilinged room. Everything in it was encrusted with the grime of ages and in the same advanced stages of decay as the building outside. The walls were brown with filth, the scant furnishings broken and poorly mended, the floor strewn with damp rushes that had clearly not been changed for months. At the far end of the room an old crone sat staring at the dead ashes of the fire. So hunched and wizened and small was she that at first I took her for a bundle of rags.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “I am searching for a Mrs. Figgins. Would you be that lady?”

From the glare she darted at me I could see there was no fear in her. Far from it. She muttered to herself, held up a gnarled finger, and boldly beckoned me closer, as if she wanted to confide in me.

“Do you wish to tell me something, mother?” I said. Remembering Samuel’s warnings, I approached her cautiously, although I couldn’t believe this decrepit hag could pose me any threat.

She muttered an unintelligible reply and urged me closer still. I stepped towards her. “What’s that you say?”

Another indecipherable whisper. I thought I could make out the words “Give it mouth, wind…come here.” But I couldn’t be certain. I placed my hand on the armrest of her chair and leaned down. An instant later, from the ragged folds of her skirt she whisked out a long, narrow-bladed knife of the sort butchers use for filleting meat. She drew it across the back of my hand, so swiftly I felt only the faintest sear of pain. Then she brandished the point towards my eye. “One move and I’ll have you. And it’ll be quicker than you know!” she cried, suddenly lucid. “God damn you! What devilish wind has brought you here? Come to steal from an old woman, have you?” She grinned, as if the irony of this remark amused her.

I drew back in shock, tucking my wounded hand into my armpit, where I could feel it begin to smart. “I can assure you, madam, I’ve no intention of stealing from you. On the contrary, I’ve something for you, if you are Mrs. Figgins.”

“Something for me?” she said, growing suddenly confused. “Something for me?” The knife was now waving dangerously about.

“Put down the knife and I’ll show you.”

“A secret to take, and I’ll put it down…a secret, that’s it, a secret.” She kept repeating this meaningless ditty to herself, still clutching the knife.

I could see she’d never put it down unless I distracted her. With my good hand I felt in my pocket, took out the bottle of gin I’d procured from Samuel Morton, and handed it to her. As soon as she saw it she dropped the knife and grabbed the bottle from me. She gazed lovingly at it for a long moment before tearing her rheumy eyes away and looking up sharply. “Who are you to bring me gifts?”

“A friend.”

“You want something.”

“I merely wish to talk to you.”

“Do I know you?”

“I’ve come to ask about your days of nursing. You did work as nurse to Lord Montfort, I understand?”

“Montfort.” She spat out the name as if it were a piece of rotten meat. “May he rot in hell with the devil for his wife.”

“He’s gone, ma’am, though whether to hell or heaven I cannot judge. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Gone, gone? Heaven, hell?” She grew vacant again and turned towards the ashes.

“I mean he’s dead.” I faltered, wondering if she was as demented as she seemed, or what mischief she might be concocting. “I have come because I should like to know what you can tell me of the child you looked after for Lord Montfort. What became of him?”

As suddenly as it had appeared, the vacant look vanished and I thought I saw a sly flash in her eye. But either I’d imagined it or she was deliberately ignoring me, for there was a long pause. I pressed her again.

“I am most anxious to find this child. I can offer you money if you can recall anything at all. He was newborn, I believe, when he came to you.”

“If you know, why ask?” she sneered.

“I should like to know what else you recall.”

“Have you more of this?” She gestured to the bottle.

“If you wish it.”

It was while she was still pondering what she would divulge to me that a shadow fell over the room. I looked up and saw the hulking figure of a man framed in the rotten doorway. He wore a torn piece of dirty blanket lashed up with twine in place of a coat. Where his hat should have been, a grimy rag was wound turbanlike round his head. He carried a dead rabbit in one hand, and in the other a club matted with fur and blood.

“What the devil’s this, Ma?” he cried, flinging the rabbit down on the table and pointing his bloodstained club in my direction. “More vermin, is it? Shall I deal with him?”

“Jack, is that you? It’s no vermin, son. ’Tis a visitor, come with questions and bringing us liquor,” replied his mother, signaling to the bottle in her lap.

I shivered as I felt his eyes fall upon me. His skin was bristly and encrusted with dirt, and one side of his mouth was yanked down by a long scar running from his cheekbone to his lip. He must have sensed my repulsion, for he leered close to me. “Not as fair as you, am I, sir? What d’you want coming here?”

I swayed a little and stepped back from him. “I did not wish to disturb you or your mother. I came only to ask about the child she looked after for Lord Montfort.”

“Montfort? Why’s that? He’s dead, I heard.”

“The child?”

He spat on the floor disdainfully. “What of the child?”

“That child may be a friend of mine. I am trying to discover the truth. What became of the child? He must have been about the same age as you. Do you recall him? Does your mother never speak of him?”

“Don’t need to. We were reared together, she nursed the two of us…. He got the milk, I got the pap. It’s ’cause of him I got this.” He pointed a grimy finger towards the scar.

“How’s that?”

“We fought.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

He shrugged indifferently and spat again, this time aiming at the fire. A ball of spittle hissed as it hit the embers.

I pressed on. “For how long did he live with you?”

“Not so fast. If you want to know so much, it don’t come for naught. You pay for it.”

I delved in my pocket and handed him a florin, which he took as eagerly as his mother grasped the bottle.

“Four years, maybe five.”

“Then what happened?”

“She was told by his lordship to take the child to London. To a hospital that would care for him.”

His mother seemed suddenly to catch on to our conversation. “Hospital, aye, hospital,” she echoed. “That was it, of course he told me to take him there.”

“Do you remember?” I said, addressing myself now to her directly.

I saw a furtive exchange of glances. The woman’s eye clouded over and she fell silent.

“Do you recall taking the child to London?” I repeated more insistently.

Still she said nothing. I looked helplessly at her son. “I have another florin,” I said, chinking the coins in my pocket.

“Tell him, Ma,” he urged her. “Montfort’s dead, there’s no harm can come to us now.”

But the old woman had turned deaf as well as dumb and gave no sign of responding.

“Do you know what happened?” I said, looking now at her son. I was still turning the money over in my hand so he could hear it.

There was a long pause while he thumped the club gently on the table. I watched his face, mesmerized, waiting for him to speak, willing him to relent, to tell me what he knew. And yet, even though my attention was all on him, I was entirely unprepared for what happened next. Without warning he let his weapon fall, then he reached out with his other hand, seized me by my collar, and held me close to his grimy face.

“The child is
dead.
She never took him to London. Is that the truth you wanted? Now we’ve naught further to say. I’ll have the coins before you leave…unless you wish me to make your face a little more like mine, or end up cold and stiff as this rabbit?”

With a violent thrust he ripped my hand from my pocket, grabbed the coins, then hurled me backwards. I fell sprawling in the mud as the door slammed in my face.

I
picked myself up from the mire and hastened back to the inn to tell Alice what I’d found. I mounted the stairs to her room three steps at a time and thumped on her door. My earlier trepidation had been replaced with an acute sense of urgency; I was impatient to tell her that my hypothesis had now been proved beyond doubt. I was not the fool she believed me. My instinct was correct: Partridge was not Montfort’s child.

In a sense my discovery resurrected my confidence in my friendship with Partridge. I remembered the raucous sound of his laugh, the fun of our trips together on the river. I remembered the firmness of his handshake, how his brow furrowed when something angered him, and how swiftly he gulped his ale. I had restored him to what I’d believed him to be. There had been no hidden side to his character, no family secret, no concealment. Partridge was an anonymous foundling still. He was the child taken in by James Barrow, tended at the hospital until he was of an age to be apprenticed.

Nevertheless, when I considered Partridge I found my sentiments towards him had shifted perceptibly. A distance had grown between us, like a boat untied from the quay drifting on the ebbing tide. At the same time I felt older and more purposeful, less daunted by the task that confronted me, as if the divide liberated me from burdensome emotion, allowing me to view his death with a clearer, more judicious eye.

“There must have been two children intended for the hospital,” I explained to Alice after telling her of all that had passed with Mrs. Figgins. “They chanced to be about the same age. One was my friend, John Partridge, who was left by his ailing mother on the steps of the hospital with the morsel of wood and the portion of ring. This was the child James Barrow discovered, took in, and later apprenticed to Chippendale.”

“And the other child?” With relief I noted that Alice was captivated by my information, her earlier aloofness apparently forgotten.

“The other child was Montfort and Trenti’s, the child tended by Mrs. Figgins. This child died while still in Figgins’s care, before he ever reached the hospital.”

“Why then did Miss Alleyn tell Madame Trenti the child had been taken to the hospital? Why did she not tell her the child was dead?”

“Because she
believed
she was telling the truth. Neither she nor her brother knew the child was dead. That was Mrs. Figgins’s secret.”

“What reason did she have to conceal the child’s death?”

“Put simply, money. She was being paid by Montfort to nurture his child. The child perished in his infancy, perhaps from neglect, for I can’t believe she was ever a diligent guardian. But Mrs. Figgins knew that once Montfort learned his child was dead the payments she received for tending him would cease. And so she claimed her allowance for as long as possible, until she was told to leave the child in London. Doubtless she pretended to Montfort she had done as he ordered, and neither he nor his sister ever learned the child was dead.”

“And Madame Trenti mistakenly believed Partridge was the child taken to the hospital?”

“No. There is nothing to connect Partridge in all this. Partridge merely served Madame Trenti as a convenient stand-in when she could not trace her own child. She must have discovered that he was a foundling from something Chippendale said and then used the information for her own selfish purpose.”

Alice nodded thoughtfully. As yet she had given me no inkling of whether she’d forgiven me. Nevertheless, the fact that she was freely discussing the implications of my findings with me, and that I had been allowed to sit in her chamber for half an hour, led me to presume our altercation was at least fading from her memory, and before long our intimacy would advance once more. So it was that, after we’d discussed the matter at some length, I felt confident enough to propose descending to take a glass of wine and continue our discussion over supper.

We came down to the parlor to find Lord Foley seated in an armchair waiting for us. He stood and raised a somewhat quizzical brow as I escorted Alice towards him. “Charming, quite charming,” he murmured so loudly it was perfectly audible to us both. Then he took her hand, bowed chivalrously low, and expressed his profound gratitude for her invaluable assistance in this mysterious quest. She took this homage in her stride, although from the gleam in her eye I’d say she was flattered that a gentleman clad in a coat of such impeccable cut should treat her so gallantly.

I don’t know why but the exchange of pleasantries between them unnerved me, and it was some relief when it were over. Afterwards we wandered to the parlor to order supper; while I began to recount all we’d discovered, Alice excused herself to attend to matters in her chamber. She would see us presently. It was half an hour later, when the waiting woman appeared to tell us our collops of veal awaited us, that I saw the table was set for two rather than three and inquired as to the whereabouts of Miss Goodchild.

“Why, sir,” returned the bemused serving woman, “didn’t you know that the young lady altered her plans? She left some half hour ago, in Mr. Morton’s gig, saying that an unforeseen occurrence compelled her to return immediately to London, and she would not sup after all. She arranged for the stable groom to drive her directly to Cambridge, from where she’ll take the stage to London.”

I was, I own, flabbergasted at this information. “Did she receive any communication that made her alter her plans?”

“None that I know of, sir.”

I joined Foley at the table feeling utterly downcast. What conclusion could I draw from her actions but an inauspicious one? In hurrying away without so much as a cursory good-bye she left me in no doubt that, far from forgiving me, she had decided I was an unsuitable companion, not worthy of even the smallest courtesy. Not worthy of bidding farewell.

The realization threw me into first a fit of despondency and then an impulsive urge to relieve it. I longed to follow her to Cambridge, to demand an explanation for her sudden disappearance. Nonetheless I doubted such a course was prudent. I told myself sternly I’d be better to act as if her precipitate departure was the most normal thing in the world. Rather than confront her in person, it would be preferable to write a long letter in which I stated my case. By the time she read it, distanced from me, her irritation would be more likely to have subsided, in which case she might take my words to heart. This thought no sooner occurred to me than I dismissed it. Far better to go myself in person. To reiterate my mistakes, declare my sentiments. For the frustrations and misunderstandings in our friendship had done nothing to deter me. Quite the contrary. My desire was inflamed by every obstacle she raised. My feelings towards her were more profound than any I had previously experienced towards a member of the female sex, and come what may she should know it.

This hurricane of emotions served to curb my usual appetite. I toyed with my meal, swallowing only the merest morsel of meat and pudding. An excellent shrub wine offered the only salve for my jangling nerves, although its calming effect didn’t prevent me mulling over my dilemma as I drank and drank, uttering scarcely a word to Foley. Conversation was beyond me. In any case Foley was the last person with whom I wished to converse. His arrival had precipitated Alice’s departure. If he hadn’t come she might still be here. So I kept my troubles to myself and replied only with brusque grunts to Foley’s attempts to rouse me. He seemed to accept my ill-humor, and it was only when two courses of his dinner were done, and he was dabbing at his mouth with his napkin before the final assault on a fruit compote, that he barged his way into my thoughts.

“I passed by Horseheath Hall on my journey here. You will be relieved to learn that Robert Montfort was leaving for a two-day sojourn in town. Elizabeth has remained at Horseheath with Miss Alleyn.”

I shrugged indifferently. “I too should return to London and continue the quest from there. There seems little purpose in remaining here when I’m barred from the house.”

“On the contrary, Hopson, I would urge you rather to return to Horseheath Hall now the coast is clear, for I am convinced we have barely begun to uncover the secrets concealed within that house.”

I pushed my half-finished plate to one side, took another gulp of wine, and tried to banish Alice from my thoughts. Her disappearance and the wine I’d consumed had demolished my earlier optimism and purposefulness. “Perhaps so,” I mumbled. “But I’ve been barred from going there by Robert Montfort, and threatened with all kinds of castigation if I ignore the warning. And in any event, I confess that each new discovery makes me more rather than less confused as to what befell Montfort and Partridge. I feel as if I am wandering deeper into a maze, becoming more hopelessly entwined with each step.”

Foley curled his lip in a patronizing semblance of a smile, as if my consternation were a source of amusement. “Rest assured, my dear fellow, that this is merely the dark before the dawn,” he returned with mock conviviality. “I’ve every faith in your ability to discover the source of all this intrigue. Look at the progress you’ve made today. If you lack anything, it is not intellect or insight but tenacity. Surely what counts now is not
whether
or not Partridge was related to Montfort (for we know now he was not) but who
believed
him to be.”

I emptied my glass and filled it again. He was confusing me, and his composure irked me. He must have observed my dismal expression, yet he paid no heed to it, as if I, a mere hireling of his, were somehow not entitled to the luxury of sentiment. I considered the generous allowance he’d paid me for my assistance so far, but it did nothing to appease my annoyance. Why should sentiment be the prerogative of privilege along with fine carriages, fancy clothes, and large houses? I gulped my wine again, struggling to keep hold of my temper. “What d’you mean?” I said sharply.

“If Partridge presented himself to Montfort as his long-lost son, who else knew of it?”

“Any member of the family, anyone in the house.”

“Precisely.”

“And perhaps any one of them who stood to benefit from Lord Montfort’s death, or who depended on him in some way, might have felt sufficiently threatened by Partridge’s claim to want to dispose of him.”

“That,” said Foley, as if I’d only reiterated a conclusion he’d arrived at aeons earlier, “is what I now believe.”

The wine was adding self-assurance to my irritation. I could see no reason for deference to him. On the contrary, it occurred to me that if I annoyed him sufficiently he might send me packing back to London sooner rather than later, which would suit my purpose admirably. My tone became more overtly caustic and audacious. “What do you make of them all? I take it you have detected a…fondness…between Robert and his stepmother?”

Foley’s eyebrows knitted in concentration. “It should not surprise us, I think. After all, Elizabeth is closer in age to her stepson than to her erstwhile husband.”

I finished the wine and called for a tankard of ale. Drinking coupled with my addled frame of mind was making it increasingly difficult for me to articulate my thoughts. “Elizabeth Montfort…always keeps herself private…but I’ve a feeling that she’s a woman of considerable force and passion. She was held in check by her husband, who, I’d say, she plainly detested and feared.” I sighed deeply, gathering further ill-considered thoughts. “Now Robert Montfort…He seems to me a frustrated young man. Frustrated by his passion for his stepmother, and moreover by his father’s objections to his interest in science.”

“And Miss Alleyn?”

“Protective of them all. Frustrated mother? No less complicated than the rest.”

“What d’you mean, no less complicated?” The muscles in Foley’s jaw had frozen; he was staring intently at me.

“On the first occasion that I broached the subject with her, she was anxious to conceal her brother’s relations with Madame Trenti. She pretended she’d never heard of the woman, even though Trenti herself showed me a letter from Miss Alleyn dated not two months earlier. Later, when I told her Partridge might be her brother’s child, she became more forthcoming. She informed me of her brother’s payments to Mrs. Figgins and hinted that he
had
most probably made them on account of an illegitimate child. That is most curious, is it not? Why should she deny knowledge of Madame Trenti, yet be unafraid to tell me of Lord Montfort’s child?”

I paused to slake my thirst, not troubling to explain to Foley what I had already concluded, that Connie’s presence during the first part of our conversation was the reason for Miss Alleyn’s earlier denials. I noted with some satisfaction that Foley seemed discomfited by my ponderings. I wanted to unsettle him further, to show him I did not think him quite as high and mighty as he believed. “Of course there were others in the household who might equally be involved.”

“Such as?”

“Lord Bradfield…Lady Bradfield, their son, George, Lady Foley…yourself.”

At this Lord Foley’s usually sallow complexion whitened alarmingly. “Hopson, you forget yourself. Are you suggesting that my wife and I might somehow be involved in Montfort’s death? I trust it is the wine you have consumed that makes you utter such a ludicrous impertinence.”

I drained the tankard. My head was beginning to swim, and I had to concentrate hard on what I would say.

“Surely, my lord, the purpose of this investigation is to discover the truth. Is that not what you told me on the very first day you asked me to become involved? Is that not why you persisted in demanding that I assist you? There is no guarantee that the truth will be pleasant or what you want it to be. You cannot deny an interest in Lord Montfort’s affairs. After all,
you
are the chief beneficiary of the changes to his will.”