The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (18 page)

A shadow now crossed Bradfield’s rotund face. “I confess, Foley, I have yet to tell him you have my support in this. I feel it would not be prudent yet to remind him that I was there when Montfort pledged you the sum and saw you win it fair and square.”

“Why do you hold back?”

“Because it will assist your investigations to know what he is thinking and I can only discover that by feigning to concur with him. We do not know much of Robert, but do not forget, Foley, in all probability he is no more principled than his father. He will play a cunning game.”

“Perhaps you have reason, Bradfield. I thank you for your discretion.”

Bradfield flushed as he warmed to his theme. “You recall how Montfort cheated me of my prize hunter? I’ve never forgiven him for it. If you’re not paid, it will be a grave iniquity…”

Foley raised his hand to halt the flow. “In that respect, Bradfield, you and I are trees grown from different soil. I never sought Montfort’s money and hadn’t planned to keep it. You will recall, however, that the document also makes over to me the contents of Montfort’s library. This, unlike the money, I greatly desire. Which brings me to the reason for my call.”

Bradfield was incredulous. “Upon my word, I can’t comprehend your attitude, Foley—how you could value a set of books above a fortune. What is it you wish to know?”

“A curious matter has come to light concerning the cabinetmaker Chippendale. It seems he too has claims upon a portion of the library.” Foley paused to brush a speck of dirt from his stocking. “You’ll recall the drawings of tables and chairs discovered by Montfort’s body?”

Bradfield nodded.

“Chippendale says they are rightfully his. That Montfort lent him money to publish a book, held the drawings as security, and when the loan was repaid refused to return them.”

A gust of mirthless laughter burst from Bradfield’s lips. “Why a set of carpentry scribbles should concern either Montfort or you is beyond me. Give them back if he’s a civil fellow; burn them and damn him if not!” he cried.

Foley tightened his grip on his chair. “Bradfield, you must comprehend that I value those drawings as highly as you regarded your favorite hunter. I would keep them myself to add to my collection. But equally I adhere to certain scruples and won’t stoop to Montfort’s level. I wouldn’t rob a man of what rightfully belongs to him, any more, I assume, than you would defraud another man of his horse. So what I wish to know is whether Montfort mentioned this matter of the loan and Chippendale to you.”

Bradfield was chastened by the sharpness of Foley’s tone. “I have heard him speak of Chippendale often enough, boasting of his commissions, complaining of the man’s tardiness concerning the library. But drawings—no—I do not believe they came into it. Why, Foley, God’s teeth, if you’d have ’em, keep ’em.”

Foley smiled grimly. “On what grounds should I do so if he has a rightful claim?”

“On the grounds that your rank places your word above his,” responded Bradfield, ripe with fervor. “I’ve heard Chippendale is a man of grandiose ambition who aspires to set himself up as a gentleman. In all probability he regrets selling Montfort the drawings and now wishes for them back at no cost so he can sell them again. I see no reason why you shouldn’t hold on to them.”

Forgetting my recent disaffection with my master, I began to seethe. How dare Bradfield cast such aspersions on his integrity? I longed to demand that Foley show Bradfield the documents supporting Chippendale’s claim. But then it occurred to me that perhaps if he held back there was some reason for his reticence and I’d be wiser not to intervene. And so I sat there, biting my tongue, boiling with annoyance at Bradfield.

To distract myself from their conversation, I returned to my blunder with Alice. How would I resolve it? Why wouldn’t she listen or believe me when I tried to explain? Most ladies of my acquaintance readily accepted my explanations (even when these were plainly sparing with the truth) so long as their dignity was preserved. But Alice was more impulsive, less pliant, and the injustice of her assumption that there was something improper in my rendezvous with Madame Trenti irked me even more than Bradfield’s ramblings.

I cursed the wretched Madame Trenti. Of course Alice had reason to cast aspersions on her reputation. An actress such as she was bound to inhabit a seamy world of scandal and pandering and excess. But I had no desire to join this world. Madame Trenti held no allure for me. My only interest in her was in the light she could shed on Partridge. It occurred to me then that Madame Trenti was a curious figure. In Chippendale’s dingy parlor, she’d appeared an exotic bloom in a wasteland, and he had accorded her as much homage as a duchess. Yet what was the reason for his deference? How could an actress such as she afford the lavish furnishings he supplied? Perhaps she had some secret wealthy benefactor of whom Chippendale was in awe. I could explain Trenti’s insistence that Partridge should take charge of her cabinet on the grounds of her belief (or claim) that he was her son. But why had Chippendale appeared so troubled by her mention of Partridge? Because he was jealous of Partridge’s talents? Unlikely—for Partridge was already dead by then. Because Partridge posed some threat to him? Impossible. It was then that a sudden realization dawned. There was some hidden intrigue between Trenti and Chippendale of which I was entirely ignorant.

As I was contemplating the nature of this intrigue, I became aware of a strange gurgling coming from a room nearby. I tried for the sake of politeness to ignore it, but the sound continued, growing in volume until it resembled a series of agonized shrieks. At length even Foley acknowledged it.

“What is that sound, Bradfield? Is someone taken ill?”

“As I told you, Robert and Elizabeth are staying with me.”

Foley looked alarmed. “Are they indisposed? Is one of them making those dreadful sounds?”

Bradfield smiled benevolently and stood up. “I had quite neglected to inform you. It transpires Robert Montfort is something of an amateur surgeon.”

“A surgeon?”

“I discovered it only this morning when one of the servants complained of a pain in his tooth. Robert heard him and charitably offered to operate for no charge when the man had completed his duties. He took up his scalpel some minutes before your arrival, and Elizabeth assists him. Judging from the noise, the operation is currently under way. Come. Perhaps it will divert you to see for yourselves.”

He led us to the gloomy hall and then down the back stairs to the kitchens, where a small anteroom used for polishing silver was serving as an operating theater. The patient, a man in his middle years, lay stripped to the waist, stretched out on a table. Three leather straps were tied across his ankles, middle, and throat to secure him. There was an open bottle of brandy on the table and beside it a bowl of bloodstained liquor with a rotten tooth floating in its midst. At the moment of our entry, Robert Montfort, clad in a bloodstained leather apron, was pouring the brandy through a brass funnel into the man’s mouth. Elizabeth was holding his mouth open with a wooden wedge. Whether or not she was a willing helper it was impossible to say, for although she was clearly engrossed by her role, her face was pale and entirely expressionless, as if she were in a waking sleep. No such serenity was visible in the patient; the poor man was wide-eyed, gnashing on the wood like some rabid beast, a mixture of blood, brandy, and foaming sputum streaming from the corners of his mouth and bubbling from his nostrils.

“How d’you progress, Robert?” said Bradfield. “I have brought some spectators. Is the offending tooth removed?”

“I have indeed succeeded,” said Robert, eyes shining with triumph, “but the fool has at least half a dozen more that require extraction and refuses to lie still while I operate. Elizabeth is too feeble to hold him.”

Suddenly his eye fell upon me.

“Ah, Hopson the carpenter, I see. You will surely have the brawn required to hold his head, and I’ll finish the task in a few minutes.”

I looked again at the man and the bowl and Robert Montfort. I felt the same chill creep over me as the day I’d discovered Montfort’s corpse. The room began to spin, and my legs grew unsteady. I tried to retreat to the door, but it was no good; the entrance was blocked by the bulky form of Bradfield, who ordered me to follow Montfort’s instruction.

Elizabeth gestured to me to stand in her place at the man’s head. Robert Montfort leaned over the man’s gaping jaw with his slender blade in one hand and a wrench in the other. I watched in horrified fascination as he incised the gum, grasped a tooth with his pliers, and twisted. The man writhed in agony. There was a ghastly crunch, and the tooth jerked free. Montfort waved it aloft, its pronged roots resembling pleading arms. My stomach heaved. The room, the man’s head, the table, and the blood turned gray and merged to one. My legs crumpled beneath me just as from what seemed a long distance off I heard Foley’s voice declare, “Great heavens, Bradfield! It seems Mr. Hopson now is indisposed.”

T
he next thing I knew, Foley was slapping me hard on the face and wafting salts under my nostrils to revive me. As I coughed and spluttered my way back to consciousness, I was aware that he was still talking to me. “Come, Mr. Hopson, rouse yourself. My driver will take you to your premises. On the way there is something I have yet to give you. I’ve held it back till now for I knew it might disturb you.”

My brain was still addled by my fainting, so that this announcement did not affect me as it should have. I staggered to my feet and allowed a footman to bundle me into the carriage while Foley took his leave of the Bradfields. When we were bowling through the park, he took out his gold snuffbox and opened it. A shaft of sun reflected off the shiny inner surface of the lid and shone directly in my eye as he addressed me. “Are you quite sensible, Hopson?”

I squinted into the splinter of light. “I am, my lord. Forgive me for fainting…it was the sight of the man’s agony and the blood. I couldn’t abide it.”

“It’s of no consequence now,” he said carelessly. “I myself was quite disgusted by the spectacle, though I chose not to display my feelings as overtly as you. Now listen well. You may be surprised to learn that among Partridge’s effects was an unsealed letter which he intended for you.”

“A letter to me? What does it say? I take it you have read it?” I stuttered. I was still confused by the episode at Bradfield’s.

“I will leave it to you to discover.”

Foley placed a folded sheet in my lap. For several minutes I stared at it in bewilderment, unable to believe the evidence of my own eyes. The heavy, spiky script was indeed that of my dear friend. With a trembling hand I picked up the letter and unfolded it.