The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (34 page)

I pulled away the ligature and put my hand to her neck. She was still warm, but I could detect no vestige of a pulse. As I touched her, the loathing I’d lately felt towards her was transformed. I can’t pretend what I felt was straightforward pity, even if her frailty seemed more accentuated in death. Nor did I immediately experience the same panic or flood of emotion as I had on confronting Montfort’s or poor Partridge’s corpse. Perhaps I had become hardened to these dreadful discoveries, for fear came later. No, my only sensation was profound frustration, for Trenti had died before I managed to speak to her.

Why had someone wished her dead? The obvious answer was that she’d discovered a foundling (Partridge) and pretended he was the child she had conceived with Montfort. Foley had already suggested that someone who stood to profit from Montfort’s estate felt threatened by Partridge. Could this be the reason both men and Madame Trenti were killed? But once both Partridge and Montfort were dead, the killer’s aim had been achieved. Why then was it necessary to kill Trenti? Moreover, why kill her in broad daylight, when there was a high risk of detection? The only conclusion I could draw was a frightening one: having killed twice already, the killer was becoming more audacious and more self-assured. Murder, no matter how unfavorable the circumstances, was becoming increasingly easy.

My eye fell upon Chippendale standing frozen at the bedside, whereupon another train of thought took over. At Horseheath my fruitless questioning had convinced me he could not have been directly involved. But now I’d discovered him outside the door of the woman who’d unwittingly sent Partridge to his death, my doubts about him returned. I recalled my earlier suspicion that there was some conspiracy between Madame Trenti and him. I searched for signs of what this might be, of what he was feeling, but apart from noting that his fists were tightly clenched, and his face looked more strained than usual, I could detect no glimmer of emotion. He was impassive, impenetrable as ever.

It struck me again that there was much that was curious in his relationship with Madame Trenti. In the shop his behavior had been deferential and obsequious. The sumptuous cabinet he was making for her was an expensive item, and her luxuriously appointed saloon had been furnished with several other costly pieces supplied by him. Yet the letter she’d written to Montfort intimated that she was financially pressed and not above using extortion if necessary. I returned to the possibility that blackmail might have been Madame Trenti’s regular occupation. As I’d already observed, an actress could not afford to live in such luxury without some other means of support. It almost seemed as if
Chippendale
was supporting her, if only by providing her with furnishings that must be far beyond her means. Why? Was this because she had a wealthy benefactor who paid Chippendale for all her furnishings? It seemed likely that if this were so, the gentleman’s name would be common knowledge. Did Chippendale believe Trenti’s house was a suitable showcase for his furnishings, by which new patrons might be drawn in? But why then was the cabinet intended for her bedchamber?

The other possibility was that Chippendale was under some obligation to Trenti, that she had some hold over him that forced him to oblige her. But what could this be? I knew he couldn’t have fathered a child on her, for she had resided in Italy until recently. Perhaps she had uncovered some other transgression or weakness that permitted her to milk him for favors. Chippendale’s most obvious weakness was his concern for his reputation. He would allow nothing to threaten it. I shivered, remembering his ruthlessness towards Partridge. Perhaps Trenti had coerced furnishings from Chippendale, threatening to besmirch his name if he didn’t oblige. He would have viewed such a threat as a powerful one. But would he have retaliated by murdering her?

Another alternative came to mind, which did not necessarily preclude Chippendale. Suppose Madame Trenti knew, or thought she knew, who the murderer of Montfort and Partridge was; suppose, having failed to extort money from Montfort, she had tried the same with the killer, threatening him with exposure if he did not comply? The killer might have come here at her request to make a payment, and then committed his dreadful crime.

This thought, which seemed most credible of all to me, brought my own fears to the fore. I cast my mind back to the morning I’d been run down. It occurred to me that the attempt on my life might have been spurred by the murderer’s assumption that I knew, or was close to knowing, his identity. Now he had killed again, would he return his attention to me? As I went about my solitary investigations, was I in greater peril than ever?

It was my affection for Partridge that had driven me into this mire. I returned to the manner in which he and Montfort died, and asked myself what the methods of killing, viewed alongside Madame Trenti’s strange death, indicated about the killer’s character. The means of killing were different in each instance. This suggested either that the killer
enjoyed
experimenting,
enjoyed
death, or that he had improvised with the weapons available. Montfort’s death seemed to me distinct. It had been by gunshot—a conventional means. In contrast, the other deaths were both unusual in that the weapons employed were opportunistic. The toolbox containing the hatchet used to sever Partridge’s fingers happened to be in the library because I had left it there; Madame Trenti had been strangled with her own lace trimming, which presumably the murderer had chanced upon. If I added my own misadventure to the equation, I could surmise that the attempt on my life had taken place because I chanced to be out walking as the killer passed by.

The thought struck me then that, as well as being more conventional, Montfort’s killing was also more deliberate, more considered. The other deaths seemed haphazard, less organized by comparison. And so I asked myself the final question. If the killer was now striking so impulsively, did this mean that he was insane?

T
he unexpected clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hoofs outside interrupted my musings. I rushed to the window and looked down to the square below. It had been devoid of life when I arrived, but now a carriage drawn by a handsome pair of chestnuts tore past. I caught sight of a streak of green on the chassis and had a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s hooded head and a flash of his arm as it whipped up the horses. I knew then with dreadful certainty that this was the same vehicle that had almost run me down.

“Whose carriage is that?” I cried.

Chippendale was behind me and spied the vehicle. “It closely resembles an equipage used by Lord Montfort when he called on me. I remarked its fineness when he visited my premises last autumn,” he replied.

“How peculiar,” I murmured under my breath, before turning back to the room and the two trembling servants. “The one person who cannot possibly be driving the carriage is Lord Montfort.”

I
n due course the formalities that the discovery of Madame Trenti’s body necessitated were neatly resolved. Chippendale summoned a justice with whom he was well acquainted, stating it was common knowledge that in this modern city the detection of crime relies upon fortuitous acquaintance. I remembered Westleigh’s rapport with the Montfort family and nodded. No sooner had the justice arrived and surveyed the scene than my master preempted his questions by offering a detailed statement. In it he declared that Madame Trenti was a well-known actress with a large coterie of admirers, one of whom had almost certainly become disaffected and perpetrated this wicked deed. He had arrived here with me on a business matter shortly before ten (here he introduced me as his journeyman). We had failed to raise Madame Trenti and, when we found her door locked, the servants had shown us the back stairs entrance.

When we entered we’d found her dead but still warm. The maidservant had stated that Madame Trenti was alive and well when she took in her breakfast, at nine, though she was uncertain whether or not the main door was locked. Thus whoever committed this crime had done so within the last hour, in all probability as we approached her door, since a shriek had been heard that might well have been her death cry. The killer must have crept in by the rear entrance adjacent to the kitchens (whose door the footman told us was always left open), ascended to her room unnoticed via the back stairs, strangled the unfortunate Madame Trenti, and left by the same way he had come in.

All the while he made this statement I scrutinized Chippendale to see if I could detect some chink in his carapace. And yet, as before, he seemed to draw upon his remarkable capacity (which I don’t believe I shall ever master) to put all his feelings aside. Not once did his voice waver or his composure lapse, not even when he described the moment we entered Trenti’s room and found her sprawled upon her bed.

I suppose this coolness shouldn’t have surprised me, for he had displayed the same detachment when I’d told him of Partridge’s demise. And yet I own that, having often seen him in a frenzy over some matter pertaining to business, in my heart of hearts I expected something more.

In any event, his version of events satisfied the justice and, after a quiet exchange in which I believe I heard Chippendale offer him a purse “to cover his inconvenience,” he was content to summon his deputy to interrogate the servants in greater detail and permit Chippendale and myself to leave.

So relieved was I to be free to keep my rendezvous with Alice that it was only some time later, as I made my way along the Strand, that it occurred to me Chippendale’s behavior was unusual in several respects. As soon as the justice had released us, he had scurried off in the direction of St. Martin’s Lane, without a word to me. The account he had given to the justice was far from honest. Why pretend we’d arrived together when we both knew he’d been descending the stairs as I arrived? The offer of the purse was a further troubling detail. Was it usual to compensate officers of the law for inconvenience when they were merely carrying out their duties?

I returned to my earlier notion of some intrigue between Madame Trenti and Chippendale, and wondered again if he’d had a hand in her demise. I added up possible signals of his involvement. His flustered demeanor when I met him might well have had a sinister cause. The extraordinary lengths to which he’d gone to satisfy Madame Trenti were possible proof of her hold over him. Taken together, they seemed impossible to read as anything other than ominous pointers of guilt.

But like scratches on a polished surface, the flaws in this theory emerged. I had seen the carriage and had heard descending footsteps as we approached Madame Trenti’s chamber. The steps were those of the murderer. The carriage was the means by which the murderer had made his escape. Chippendale might know more than he’d disclosed, he might have some involvement with Madame Trenti that he wished to remain hidden, but he could not be the person I sought.

I
arrived at the Goodchild warehouse to be told Alice had already departed and had left word she’d meet me at the Theatre Royal. As I bade my driver make haste up Drury Lane, the sun sagged behind the buildings, staining the sky with a sulfurous halo.

As we drew closer, the crowd became dense and then all but impassable; at length I had no choice but to descend and make my way on foot. I pushed ahead urgently towards the doors, fretting that I’d never find her. Would she be among the hundreds clustered outside the entrance, or amid the finely dressed throng within? Finding no sign of her, I paid half a crown for a ticket at a turnstile and allowed myself to be swept through the barriers by the tide of people pressing from behind.

Lit by hundreds of tallow candles in ring chandeliers, the auditorium already seethed with people gossiping and drinking and sitting on the benches in the pit and gallery. An orchestra was playing on the stage, and a sizable crowd had gathered to watch. I had combed the entire arena several times before I finally caught sight of her.

Instead of waiting for me in the pit or the gallery as I expected, she had somehow found her way into a gentleman’s box and was now sitting in comfort, searching the throng clustered around an orange seller for my arrival. I began to push my way through the crowd towards her, waving to attract her attention, for I was eager to extract her from the box without causing her embarrassment.

But even when I came closer and waved madly she looked straight through me and seemed to be gesturing at some other person behind. I turned to see what drew her. A tall, velvet-cloaked gentleman in an immaculate powdered wig emerged from the crowd. He was holding a plump orange. Entering the box, he greeted her with an easy bow and a kiss on the hand. I could see him smilingly incline his head towards her lips, as if to hear what she said above the hubbub. I could see the bloom of her cheeks, the dazzle of her hair, her eyes shining brighter than the myriad chandeliers. If I had been too warm from the heat of the crowd, my blood was now turned to ice. The gentleman with whom Alice was conversing in such companionable intimacy was none other than Lord Foley.

They were so engrossed with each other that I was thumping on the balustrade in front of them before they acknowledged my presence.

“Why, Hopson,” said Foley as coolly as if we’d dined together that very day, “Miss Goodchild promised we should find you here.”

Fuming with frustration, I nodded curtly at him and turned to Alice. “Miss Goodchild,” I said, “how pleasant to see you again. May I take it you received my message?”

I was rewarded with a flicker of a smile. “I received it, but since you neglected to mention a time or a place for the rendezvous, and since Lord Foley was most anxious to find you, I asked him to accompany me here, and he kindly accepted.”