The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (38 page)

Suddenly I had no appetite for supper. I pushed away the tray, turning disconsolately to the table, where in order to distract myself from my rambling fears, I picked up the first volume that came to hand, an album of engravings after Italian old masters. The cover inside was beautifully dedicated in copperplate script, “To Jane from your loving friend Margaret on the occasion of your birthday, November 1754.” I was halfway through the pages when I heard a soft step behind me. Lady Foley had entered the room to ensure I had all I required. She saw the book in my hand and smiled.

“You have discovered something of interest, Mr. Hopson?” she said, locking her eyes on mine.

“Forgive…forgive me, my lady,” said I, stumbling over the words in my confusion. “I didn’t mean to pry among your belongings. His lordship bade me read what I chose and I happened upon this book to distract me from my concerns.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Hopson, you are welcome to look at it. And as for your concerns, I take it they are regarding Horseheath. I don’t know all that goes on in that house, but the little I have heard is enough to unsettle me too. Miss Alleyn, you see from the inscription in that book, is an old friend of mine, thus I am apprised of some of it.”

“What has she told you?”

“Nothing of late. Since her brother Montfort’s death that night I have not seen or heard from her. She has passed some time in London, Foley tells me. I pray, however, that she is happier now than she was before her brother’s death.” She halted for a minute and looked attentively at my face. “I did what I could to help her, though sadly I must own it was not a great deal, for Foley opposed me. You see, I asked him several times to help Miss Alleyn, but he always refused. Her position in that house was dreadfully precarious.”

My face must have shown my puzzlement. “I had understood her brother was most solicitous of her, that he stipulated particularly that her future in the household should always be secure.”

Jane Foley shook her head. “Then I fear you have been misinformed. Montfort blighted her life.”

“In what way?”

“She was engaged to be married once. It was a short-lived engagement, for Montfort’s first wife, Robert’s mother, died soon after she became betrothed. Her brother, finding himself in need of a housekeeper and someone to raise his infant son, demanded that she leave the small cottage where she lived happily as a companion to a distant elderly relative and come and run his household. She didn’t conceive, when she agreed, that her brother would take every opportunity to involve himself with her husband-to-be and ultimately to dissuade him from marrying her. I do not know precisely what passed between them, only that at some stage Montfort encouraged her betrothed to join his gaming activities and cheated him in some way. Within a month of coming here she found herself no longer betrothed, without a chance of rearing a family of her own. Instead she became what she has been ever since: a spinster housekeeper.”

I felt sympathy now for Miss Alleyn’s plight, for the selfish way her brother had treated her. I now comprehended her unusual nervousness; but it didn’t alter my conviction. She had been duped by Robert to abet him in the murder of Madame Trenti. Robert lay at the root of all this. “Did not her affection for her nephew, Robert, compensate for her brother’s unpleasantness?”

“If you believe that then you deceive yourself, Mr. Hopson. Miss Alleyn was fond of her nephew, it is true. But that did not outweigh the fact that her brother was a notorious bully who delighted in making her feel her dependence on him. I wanted Foley to help her, but whenever I raised the matter he said the Montfort family was no better than a nest of adders, no more deserving of sympathy, no more susceptible to guidance…”

I nodded sympathetically. I could almost hear Foley saying it, although I was surprised to learn that he had always been so unfeeling towards the Montforts. Hitherto I’d assumed it was only the gambling debt that had cooled the relationship, and that prior to that he and Lord Montfort had been the closest of friends.

“Miss Alleyn explained a little of her predicament to me quite recently, though she gave me no inkling she was so unhappy in her position.”

“She’s a woman of extraordinary resolve, Mr. Hopson. Imagine the two decades she has spent living under Montfort’s roof. Imagine the daily humiliations, the frustrations of realizing that if she had only refused his demand to live with him, she might have enjoyed the happiness of wedlock and a family of her own. In return for her unselfishness, how has she been repaid? The only outlet she has had for her maternal warmth is Robert, whom she regards as her own son. Furthermore, when Lord Montfort married Elizabeth, she was kindness personified towards her. That is why I hold her in high esteem and wish to assist her.”

“And have you done so?”

“Not yet. But perhaps now that Montfort is dead everything may change. If, as I trust he will, Robert repays his aunt with but a fraction of the kindness she has shown him, her security will be assured and her old age will be a happy one.”

“Do you think he will?”

She gave me a level look. Her face betrayed nothing. “I wish I knew, Mr. Hopson, for it would ease me greatly to know she was well cared for. My fear is that Robert resembles his father in many respects, not least in the ingratitude he shows towards his aunt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll send the maidservant for the tray.”

L
eft to my own devices, I speedily forgot Miss Alleyn as my impatience grew for Foley’s return. What was detaining him at Horseheath? Had he handled Alice discreetly as I’d bade him, or had he stirred up her rebelliousness? I paced the room, then finding this exercise only made my blood race more, took a seat at his table to calm myself.

Looking back, I cannot now be sure whether it was the conversation regarding Miss Alleyn’s tribulations that focused my mind on Montfort’s warped character, or whether instead the breadth of Foley’s collection—artifacts of antiquity and science mingled together—made me concentrate on the conundrum of Montfort’s death in a new manner. In any event, it crossed my mind that all my actions to date had centered on my desire to discover the reason for
Partridge’s
murder. I had begun in an entirely ridiculous manner, by searching the distant past for his lost history, ignoring recent details, making matters more complex than necessary. Once I’d realized this error, I’d pursued more recent events pertaining to my friend. I’d discovered the reason for his journey to Horseheath, the connection between Partridge, Montfort, and Madame Trenti, whose death had led me to the discovery that Robert Montfort was to blame.

Yet all this time I’d regarded the problem from a single vantage point, that of Partridge. I had yet to consider in any depth the other death that had taken place the night Partridge died—the death of Montfort. And yet the scene at Montfort’s death brimmed with evidence. And all of it, with the exception of the grenadillo box, I had neglected to pursue.

Robert Montfort had a clear enough motive to wish his father dead. With Montfort out of the way, he would inherit his estate; he would be free to pursue his interest in science and his passion for Elizabeth. He had two equally strong motives for wanting to murder Partridge. He believed Partridge had a claim on his father—and Partridge dead provided a useful culprit for his father’s murder. But although this theory satisfied me, there was a fundamental matter I had yet to fathom.
How
had the murders of Montfort and Partridge been achieved, when as far as I recalled Robert was present at the dinner table, apart from the briefest absence before the gun blast?

In the center of Foley’s table was a small pile of blank writing paper and a silver inkstand: all I needed to occupy myself. I took up the quill, charging it with ink. I confined my attentions to the night Lord Montfort and John Partridge died and began to compose a list of the main points I might usefully address.

Beneath these I drew a line, before adding:

I was scratching my head, wondering what else I might add to it, when Foley appeared. He was alone. There was no sign of Alice. He smiled wryly when he saw me seated at his desk, writing with his pen.

“Good evening, Hopson. I see you have forgotten your worries and made yourself at home as I bade you.”

“I am no less concerned than I was. Where is Miss Goodchild? She will arrive directly by carriage, I take it?”

He lowered himself into an armchair and stretched towards the fire. “The visit did not go entirely as we expected or hoped. I was unable to speak to Connie. She left for London two days ago and has yet to return. Robert Montfort was in the foulest of humors when he saw me.”

“And Alice?”

“As for our dear Miss Goodchild, yes, I saw her. Yes, I endeavored to pass on your concerns. Only I regret to say she was far from amenable to them.”

I glared at him. “What d’you mean?”

“Merely that the moment I handed her your letter and mentioned you were staying with me, and were worried for her safety, she scoffed. She said she was convinced any danger was a convenient exaggeration dreamed up by you to prevent her involvement. I replied that she had only to read your note to see that your fears for her safety were well founded. You had found out that Robert had driven the carriage you had seen on the morning of Madame Trenti’s death. He was to blame for the deaths of his father, Partridge, and Madame Trenti, and for the attempt on your life. Thus you were sick with worry that the reason he had invited her to Horseheath was because he intended, for his own demented purposes, to kill her.”

“And what was her response to hearing all this? Didn’t she read my letter? Surely she must have felt some glimmer of apprehension?”

“Far from it. She replied merely that your postulations were all very well, but that she regarded herself to be as able as you in reading a character. Robert Montfort didn’t strike her as a maniac, and it wasn’t he who’d invited her to Horseheath. It was Miss Alleyn. Did that make Miss Alleyn a maniac?”

I sensed the ridicule Alice intended even as Foley repeated her words. Speechless at such folly, I shook my head.

“The only concession she’d make was to say she’d bolt the door and stay where she was, for she was quite well able to take care of herself.” Foley hesitated.

“Was there something else?”

“She said she was eager to help resolve the matter, and would certainly not be so easily deviated from that task as you have shown yourself to be.”

I put down my pen and looked at my hands. My heart was thumping steadily. This was the realization of my worst fears. The fact that Miss Alleyn had tendered the invitation made not one jot of difference. Had not the stable boy told me she had procured the carriage that Robert had driven? The likelihood was therefore that she had been coerced into aiding her nephew again.

Foley noticed the effect of his reply and felt perhaps a glimmer of chagrin, for he tried his best to distract me. “Now tell me, Hopson,” he said in a brisker tone, “what were you writing about?”

“I was preparing a plan of action for tomorrow. I expected that Alice would be safely here and believed, with a little effort and your cooperation, we might then resolve the matter speedily,” I said.

“Hopson, I am growing mightily weary, but before I retire to bed let me put your mind at rest once and for all. I may have failed to persuade Miss Goodchild to come here, but that is partly because I allowed her to refuse my offer. Had I
really
been convinced she was in danger, I would have
insisted
upon it. Do not think me unfeeling. I do not disregard your concerns, but the reason I am without qualms is that I have seen Alice and witnessed the arrangements in the house. Mrs. Cummings is present, as are several other servants. Alice has promised to bolt her door. Tomorrow morning Miss Alleyn, Elizabeth, the Bradfields, and Connie will return. If Robert wishes to dispose of Miss Goodchild, he won’t do it tonight, and tomorrow morning there will be others around to protect her. No, he will wait for the right moment, by which time we will have returned to Horseheath and resolved the matter.”

His words did little to console me; on the contrary, I felt myself falling further into the grip of such fear as I hadn’t felt since the night when I’d wandered into Robert Montfort’s room. Only now my dread was not vague imaginings about my own safety but frustrated terror for Alice. How was I ever to persuade her of the peril she was in if she refused to hear me? How could I save her when she would not allow herself to be saved?

N
ext morning I descended from Foley’s carriage in Bridge Street, Cambridge, amid slanting motes of winter sun and a sewery stench that reminded me of London. The sense of helplessness that had descended upon me last night lingered on. I had passed a wakeful night, and this morning felt barely master of my faculties. By contrast Foley at breakfast appeared calm and irrefutably in control. He refused to countenance my appeal to go immediately to Horseheath Hall. He had pondered the matter all night, and upon reflection declared he was unconvinced that Robert Montfort was to blame for the murders. Granted, he could see strong motives for Robert to wish both his father and Partridge dead; granted, Robert stood to gain most from his father’s demise; granted, if he accepted Partridge as his illegitimate half brother he also had a motive to wish Madame Trenti dead, for he may have feared his father would make over part of his inheritance to her as well as to the new interloper. That said, he could see no way to explain
how
the Horseheath murders were accomplished. The night of Montfort’s death Robert had followed Foley out of the room. Foley was as sure as he could be that Robert had been in his sight all the time he was not at the dining table.

“But, my lord,” I declared helplessly, “it would be an easy matter for a man such as Robert Montfort to procure an agent to kill both his father and Partridge.”

“An agent whom not a soul in the house saw or heard? That is most implausible, I think, Hopson.”

“But I have proved beyond doubt that Robert drove the coach I saw on the morning of Madame Trenti’s death. And that it was he who ran me down.”

“Hopson, there is a difference between proof and assumption. What you have discovered is interesting; it places suspicion on Robert,
but it does not prove anything.
Recap a moment. What you discovered was that Miss Alleyn took the coach and that soon afterwards the groom saw a gentleman driving it. There is no proof at all the gentleman was Robert Montfort.” Putting down his toast, he then waved the list I’d made under my nose like an accusation, and insisted we investigate systematically the matters I’d raised. Only then would we stand a chance of proving once and for all the question of Robert Montfort’s guilt and resolving our quest.

“But what if you are mistaken?” I cried frantically. “Suppose he did slip away and you didn’t remark it, suppose even now he is plotting Alice’s death…”

He shook his head firmly and said we’d been over all this the night before. The only concession he made was to send Lady Foley to Horseheath to watch over Miss Goodchild till our arrival. If she discovered anything untoward, she would send word to Cambridge that we should come immediately. In the meantime I was to question Townes, the apothecary physician who had regularly treated Lord Montfort. I should recall, said Foley, that Robert Montfort had also intended to call upon Townes to garner support for his theory of suicide. Thus, as well as inquiring about Montfort’s condition, it would be interesting to discover what questions Robert had asked.

T
he shop crouched in a dark alley between a printer’s and the Rose Inn. The building was heavily gabled, with oak beams and lattice windows, and a peeling signboard that had once been emblazoned with a rhinoceros and a figure of Apollo vanquishing the dragon of disease. Inside, the acrid stench of chemicals mingled with perfumed unguents and dust. Dust veiled every surface, from a stuffed crocodile clutching a medicine bottle propped in the window to rows of jars filled with mysterious substances—oil of absinthe, syrup of violets, syrup of meconium, oil of earthworms—and a chest of minute drawers in which remedies such as King Agrippa’s ointment, Vandour’s pills, gum tragac, and James’s fever powder were stored.

In a back room a hunched, gray-haired figure ground powders in a mortar. He noticed me watching him and shuffled into the shop, carrying his stone mortar before him as reverentially as a chalice. He was a man of broad stature, with yellowish skin hanging loosely about a tortoiselike head and heavy-lidded eyes. Ignoring my presence, he took out a fragile balance and set to decanting the powder into one side, loading and unloading small brass weights on the other to counter it. Only when this delicate process was complete did he turn his eyes on me.

“Fine morning, is it not?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And what can I do for you, sir?”

Despite my preoccupations I marveled at his directness. How different from the endless obsequious pleasantries with which Chippendale greeted his customers.

“It is knowledge rather than medicine I seek, sir.”

His eyes rested on me. I fancied I saw a crafty expression in his wide, wrinkled face. “Knowledge? In the case of ignorance that too may be a curative of sorts. What variety of knowledge do you seek?”

I informed him I’d come on the authority of Lord Foley and Sir James Westleigh to investigate the events surrounding the recent demise of Lord Montfort. There were doubts concerning the manner of his death; we desired that he might tell us something of Montfort’s medical condition prior to his death, for this might have some bearing on the matter.

“What is it you wish to know?”

“When did you last see Lord Montfort?”

“The day before he died.”

“He sent for you?”

“Not that day, no. He’d been unwell for some weeks, and I’d attended him regularly.”

“What precisely was the nature of his ailment?”

“Aching of the head, sleeplessness, fatigue, restlessness.”

“Your diagnosis?”

“Melancholy, despair, call it what you will.”

“Was the condition a chronic one?”

“His recent, unfortunate gambling losses I believe sparked this bout, although the disposition has always been there. It is a common enough affliction among those in his comfortable circumstances.”

“Do I divine you were not entirely sympathetic towards the complainant?”

Townes paused, turned back to the scales, and began scooping the powder from the tray into papers, which he folded into careful symmetrical squares. “If you or I suffered from the same we’d be chastised for idleness and set to work harder,” he said neutrally. “It is a disease, true enough, but one that I’ve remarked breeds strongest amid luxury, dissipation, and indolence.”

“And the treatment?”

“The usual for the complaint. Bleeding, an amulet of peony root, and a potent sleeping draft.”

“And you bled him with leeches the day before he died?”

“No. When I bled him it was by cupping, a speedier method. Lately he’d grown more demanding, insisting on some treatment he could administer himself the days I didn’t come. To satisfy him I supplied a jar of leeches.”

“Who was to administer them?”

“His sister or his wife, I believe.”

“And the leeches remained with him?”

“He paid five shillings for twenty of the finest beasts, the very same as these.” He gestured to a gallon jar of greenish water alive with the same writhing black creatures as I’d removed from Montfort’s neck.

“And what directions did you supply with them?”

“I demonstrated how to place the leeches on the temple or neck when the ache was bad. I explained how when they’d done their work they fell off and then the bites should be bathed with water to stop them bleeding further. The leeches could be returned to the jar, or placed in a dish of salt to vomit the blood.”

“How often?”

“I suggested a wait of at least two days after my visit. I’d taken two pints, sufficient to last some time; to take more would weaken him and worsen his symptoms. In the meantime, if the headaches troubled him I recommended he retire to bed with a dose of his sleeping draft to alleviate the pain.”

“In other words, had he followed your instruction he would not have administered the leeches the next evening?”

“There was no reason for him to do so. Furthermore, I’d warned him clearly against it.”

I considered this information, perplexed as to why Montfort had so deliberately flouted his instructions. Failing to muster a solution, I pursued another avenue. “In which room did the bleeding usually take place?”

“In Lord Montfort’s upstairs closet.”

Here too I was baffled. Why then had Montfort bled himself in the library?

“And the sleeping draft consisted of what?”

“A liquor containing laudanum mixed with sage leaves, seeds of anise, powder of orris, and powder of pearls. One dram would be sufficient to deaden any pain and make him sleep soundly for several hours.”

“And more?”

“I cautioned against it. To drink more would be dangerous, for it contained grains of poppy.”

“How quickly would a fatal dose take effect?”

“Two hours—less if alcohol had been taken…”

“Tell me,” I broke in, “do you believe Montfort shot himself?”

He looked up from his powders and pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “I can tell you only what I know. His mind was turbulent enough for self-murder to be possible, probable even. However, I know nothing of the circumstances of the event.”

“Has anyone else inquired after Montfort’s death?”

“Only his son.”

“What did he want to know?”

“The same as you. His father’s state of mind, and if I thought it likely he killed himself.”

“Did he ask after the other person who died—John Partridge?”

“Not him, no. It was Westleigh who summoned me to attend that body, and I believe Lord Foley was there as well.”

“And what did you find?”

“They wanted my opinion of the wounds. I told them the amputation of the fingers was crudely done. Not enough to kill him outright, had he stanched the flow of blood, but since he did not—I believe it was loss of blood caused him to lose consciousness, whereupon he fell in the water and died either from loss of blood, being frozen alive, or drowning.”

I shivered to hear him pick over Partridge’s fate with such detachment. “What do you mean, the amputation was crudely done?”

“I mean it was not the work of a surgeon or a butcher. A blade of some description had been used, but something else as well.”

“You are very detailed in your analysis.”

He glanced sharply at me with a slight shake of his head. “My opinion was confirmed by what I saw of the fingers in the casket. The bones were hacked through, not cut cleanly as someone with strength or knowledge would have done. They weren’t severed at the joints, d’you see, simply hacked. Moreover, there were livid bruises on the backs and palms of both hands, as if something blunt but heavy had struck them with great force.”

“Could you hazard what that might have been?”

He shook his head firmly.

“Come, Mr. Townes, try and think. Could it have been a riding crop perchance?” I said.

“I doubt it was a riding crop, nor any weapon I know. I told you I don’t know what it was. I’ve never seen wounds like them, and hope never to again.”

As chance would have it, just then a young woman with a wailing infant entered. I left the apothecary mixing an ointment of hare’s brine and capon grease to ease the child’s teething pains.

I
crossed the street and strode off towards the Turk’s Head, a coffeehouse in Trinity Street. Foley had agreed that, while I interrogated Mr. Townes, he would call on Lord Montfort’s attorney, Wallace, and persuade him to join us here. Once we’d questioned him on the delicate matter of Montfort’s estate, we would proceed immediately to Horseheath.

With every moment that passed, the gravity and precariousness of Alice’s situation loomed larger in my mind. It was insupportable to leave her in such jeopardy. The moment I saw Foley I’d tell him I couldn’t continue here; I’d insist we abandon our plan and proceed straight to Horseheath. I would naturally prefer him to accompany me and endeavor to protect me from Robert Montfort’s wrath, but if he refused he could stay with Wallace. I’d find my own means of transport and take my chances with Robert.

But when I stepped inside the dark, pungently scented room, I detected no trace of either man. A handful of youths, university students perhaps, sat round a table poring over a newspaper, laughing at an electioneering cartoon and its gross depiction of the king, bare-bottomed and seated upon a commode while sundry ministers looked on. There was no one else. I took up another journal and began to turn its pages. But so engrossed was I by other thoughts the words before me were gibberish.

What had made Montfort storm from the table and apply the leeches in his
library
? The only reason I could conceive was that he’d been maddened with pain, forgotten the instruction, and applied them. But even this seemed unlikely. The leech jar was probably kept in his upstairs closet, where he was usually bled. There was no plausible reason for him to go upstairs, bring the leeches down to a unlit library, and employ them there. In any case, if the ache to his head had returned, why not take the sleeping draft as Townes had directed and retire to bed?

But what if someone else—his killer—had placed the leeches on him? Why would he do so? Leeches were never fatal; what reason could there be to put them on a man you were about to shoot? Because you were pretending to help him? Because you wanted to see his blood seeping from him the instant before he died?