The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (32 page)

Foley shot me a murderous look, then gazed at the ceiling as if to underline the superiority of his motives. “I did not need Montfort’s money. Nor did I encourage him in any way to become indebted to me. Rather the reverse: I attempted to prevent him. He lost his fortune by his own folly. He had only himself to blame for his despair. As for Lord Bradfield and his son and our wives…why”—here he gave a mocking laugh—“the suggestion is too far-fetched to warrant a reply.” He scowled at me again. Two livid stains the size of half crowns had appeared on his cheeks.

“One thing I will say, Hopson. Before you make any further wild accusations of this kind, you might consider two things. First, that although I might discuss matters with you as an equal, the conventions of society continue to exist, and I expect circumspection from you. Second, you might do well to remind yourself that I am paying your expenses in order that you will help me get to the bottom of these deaths. Would I do so if I were responsible for them? Now, if you have finished your ridiculous postulations, I shall leave you at Horseheath, where I trust you will continue your research more soberly.”

I was chastened by what he said, but a certain pigheadedness remained. “Have I not already told you, my lord, Robert Montfort has refused to allow me to go there? He says he’ll have me branded and imprisoned as a thief.”

“And have I not already told you Robert Montfort is gone to London? He will not know of your presence until after you are gone. I’ll give you a note for Elizabeth or Miss Alleyn to ensure they raise no objections.”

I was sorely tempted to tell him to go to the devil, but despite my drunken confusion I dared not, and besides, the logic of his argument was clear to me. This might be my last chance to gain entry at Horseheath, a final opportunity to unearth material pertaining to Partridge. And so without further demur I allowed him to settle the bill and scribble a note for me. We walked outside. I was still fuming; gloom at Alice’s departure gripped me like a nagging ague.

Foley ignored me entirely in the carriage. Depositing me at the gates of Horseheath Hall, he left me to stagger up the drive, saying the walk would bring me to my senses and he would call on the morrow to see how I was progressing. I swaddled myself in my coat, my head pounding as though pressed in a vise. I longed to lie down and close my eyes and dream of Alice. I toyed with the idea of turning on my heels and pursuing her to Cambridge, then dismissed this scheme as foolish. I had no way of getting there apart from walking the ten-mile distance, and by the time I got there she would certainly be in bed asleep. I turned the corner, and the gloomy expanse of the hall came suddenly into view; against the flat, lowering sky it seemed heavy and shadowless, like a prospect drawn by an architect rather than a three-dimensional building in which people lived and wept and died.

I consoled myself with the thought that at least I would find solace in the company of Connie. I dimly recalled she had something to discuss with me, and I longed to confide in her about Alice. Now at least there would be plenty of time to talk without interruption.

But when I skulked round to the rear (a prudent measure in case Foley had misled me and Robert hadn’t gone), further disappointments greeted me. Connie had left earlier that afternoon with Elizabeth to stay overnight with friends in Cambridge. Mrs. Cummings took one look at my swaying figure and wild eyes, and said she was up to her elbows in salting hams, too busy to talk. If I wanted anything, John the footman would take me to see Miss Alleyn.

The imminent audience with that lady had a sobering effect. For all my drunkenness, I knew if I bungled the conversation I’d ruin my chances of making further discoveries concerning Partridge. As if I’d doused myself in a water trough, my head grew instantly clearer.

Miss Alleyn was in the morning room, stitching at a crewelwork counterpane. When John led me in, she greeted me cordially. She pushed away her embroidery frame, glancing regretfully down her long nose at the intricately embroidered fruit and flowers. What was it I required? she asked quietly.

I bowed, breathed deeply, and concentrated on my every word. “You will recall, madam, that the last time we spoke you mentioned that the drawer of your brother’s desk, the one that was stuck fast, contained his journals.”

“Indeed.”

I blinked at her, thanking God for her placidity, praying she hadn’t remarked the slight slurring of my words. “I wondered if I might glance at the one relating to the days immediately prior to his death? It occurs to me it may contain something that could shed light on the matter…”

She was toying with her box of yarns, twisting a sky blue skein between her long fingers. “You still pursue that matter, I see. Are you no closer to discovering why your friend died? Have you found nothing pertaining to my brother?”

I swallowed uncomfortably. “A little perhaps. I now know for certain that Partridge was
not
Madame Trenti and your brother’s child. I think I mentioned that lady to you and voiced my doubts concerning her truthfulness.”

Miss Alleyn looked down at the tangled mass of vivid yarns in her box. Even though I was having difficulty in focusing, her expression of bewilderment didn’t escape me.

“Not their child?”

My reactions were becoming quicker now. “I believe pretending Partridge was your brother’s child was a deliberate deception dreamed up by Madame Trenti for venal motives. The child she bore your brother, the child raised by Mrs. Figgins, did not survive early childhood, and was certainly not my friend Partridge.”

“How can you be sure?”

I hesitated. I saw no reason not to tell her. “I traced Mrs. Figgins. She—or rather her son—confessed that the child she raised for your brother died. He was never taken to London to the hospital. Madame Trenti simply employed Partridge—who was reared at the hospital—as a convenient substitute to apply pressure to your brother.”

“Was Partridge involved in the subterfuge?”

“No. He was entirely innocent. Madame Trenti duped him, knowing he knew nothing of his origins and would believe the tale she spun him.”

She shook her head slowly. “Then your friend was most unfortunate. Such villainy as Madame Trenti has displayed is hard to comprehend…and all the worse in a female.”

I felt more confident now to divulge my theory. “Madame Trenti is an adventuress, a stranger to moral probity. Now that her looks are fading, her concern is to secure her future. She believed your brother might be coerced into helping her achieve that aim. And in order to do so she sent Partridge here to his death.”

Miss Alleyn tutted disapprovingly, clearly most put out by what I was telling her. I think she would have pursued the matter more, only I cut her off. “To return to the journal—I wonder if I might see it?”

Although distracted by what I’d told her, she willingly escorted me to the library and indicated that I might open the drawer in question. My head was still pulsating, but not so badly that I didn’t notice a striking change in the appearance of the desk. Where before the drawer had been tightly jammed, now I noticed it jutted proud of the carcass, as if it had been recently opened and could not be pushed back in. I tugged at the drawer. Unlike the others, it moved stiffly on its runners. There was a dark stain covering half the drawer lining. Some liquid had recently spilled inside, causing the wood to swell so that the drawer would not close. It had a faintly cheesy smell. I blinked when I saw inside, as if my eyes might be deceiving me. The drawer was empty.

“The journals are no longer here. Have you removed them to save them from the damp?” I queried.

“What can you mean?” replied Miss Alleyn, her thin cheeks coloring with confusion. “The journals were there. I saw them myself.”

“It would seem then, madam, that some other person has removed them. Perhaps on account of the spillage. Is it milk? Could you hazard a guess as to who might have removed them?”

“Why,” she replied swiftly, “I haven’t a notion whether it’s milk, though I agree there is a smell of something noxious. As for the journals, I don’t believe Elizabeth would have meddled with them, for how could she have opened a drawer that you were unable to shift? Lord and Lady Bradfield rarely come here alone. I can only presume therefore that Robert must have taken them. He has recently displayed a fascination for his dead father’s papers that I never saw when he was alive. I fancy he hopes to find some trace of his father’s affection for him. Poor boy. My brother never displayed much fondness towards any member of his family. Robert’s mother died when he was an infant. That is why he has always displayed a tender disposition towards me; I believe that’s also why he has grown close to Elizabeth.”

Even in my somewhat addled state the thought crossed my mind that Robert Montfort was the last person I would describe as having a tender disposition, and that he had other, less pure reasons for his interest in Elizabeth. But I held my tongue.

“I’m sorry to hear it. Might he have taken the journals with him to London?”

“It is possible but unlikely, I think. Most probably he has left them in his room. You may look there if you wish.”

I recalled his fury at my previous visit to his laboratory and shivered apprehensively. “Will he not object?”

“Why should he?” she replied patiently, as if she were addressing a child.

“Because he barred me from this house…”

She regarded me in thoughtful silence. “I have few secrets from my dear nephew, Robert, and would do nothing willingly to disturb him, but in this instance, in order to aid you in the search for the truth, I feel justified in giving you my word—I will not divulge your visit to this house.”

I offered her my profound thanks, although I felt cold all over at the thought of entering Robert Montfort’s room. I held back an instant, whereupon she urged me on, reassuring me once more that Robert was nowhere in the vicinity and that she would willingly accompany me. Thus, reluctantly, did I acquiesce.

We mounted the fine carved staircase to the main landing and proceeded, beneath the beady-eyed animal heads, to the door I had so fatefully opened a few evenings before. With Robert gone the room seemed oddly impersonal. The silver boxes and bottles and brushes which had previously littered his dressing chest were either stowed in the inner compartments or had been taken with him. Only the wig stand remained, a bald wooden orb gleaming in the dwindling light of a solitary candlestick.

Miss Alleyn unlocked the door leading to the laboratory with one of the keys from a large bunch attached to her chain. She handed me a pair of lights and suggested I begin by searching the shelves while she glanced through his dressing chest. I nodded, listening carefully for an instant, though I knew it was unnecessary to do so, for there was no one in the house to threaten me. Then in silence, for my heart thumped too wildly to allow me to speak, I walked into the room.

Mercifully there was no longer any sign of the eviscerated dog. The table was scrubbed bare, a few brownish patches the only indication of its gruesome purpose. I positioned one of my lights on the table and, holding the other aloft, looked about me. Behind the table, lining one wall, were two shelves. The upper was filled with what I can only describe as large scientific curiosities: fossils and shells and jars of liquid in which floated various unsavory specimens—a large pinkish beetle, a lamb’s head, a heart and other unidentifiable, ragged organs. I glanced along the shelf below. This was less fearsome, ranged with various boxes and papers and books. With Miss Alleyn urging me to search as thoroughly as I pleased, I began by standing on a chair to scour the upper shelves, pulling out each jar to see that nothing lay behind it. Nothing did.

It felt most strange to be trespassing through Robert’s private rooms under the approving eye of Miss Alleyn. Yet now I’d overcome my initial trepidation, my wine-fueled bravado seemed to return. Having fruitlessly combed the upper stage, I turned to the lower one. At one end lay a folio containing engravings of the human anatomy and various past editions published by the Royal Society. Again no sign of the journals. Next was a pile of shagreen-bound notebooks. I opened the pages of the first, wondering if these were the volumes I sought—only to find it contained accounts and annotated drawings of various experiments, presumably those conducted in this very chamber. One was a detailed anatomical section of a dog, another of a human jawbone. Tucked in beside the notebooks was a small wooden casket bound with brass.

I lifted out the casket for closer examination. It was a simple receptacle, probably intended to store letters or surgical implements, or even, I thought eagerly, the journals I was looking for. The clasp was unfastened. I opened it.

At first sight the cavity I looked into appeared to be stuffed with nothing but a jumble of torn cotton rags. Were they bandages for Robert Montfort’s surgical operations? It occurred to me they could not have been there long because as soon as I released them from the pressure of the lid they sprang up and cascaded over the side. With the expectant curiosity of a child who unwraps a gift, I lifted them away. The lower rags were not clean and white and springy like those on top but stiff and stained dirty brown. Even as I removed them my stomach began to clench in anticipation of some as yet unknown fright.

A moment later and I’d recognized the horror with the wretched familiarity of a recurring nightmare. Wedged along the base of the box, as neatly as spoons in a cutlery tray, was a cluster of severed fingers, three in all—though I scarcely needed to count them to know it. With the sight of those poor dismembered fingers, my wine-soaked pluckiness vanished. Yet my responses were distanced, as if I were merely viewing an unpleasant picture, or witnessing a harrowing scene on a stage; what I’d seen was nasty, yet also fantastic. My feelings of numbness were not, however, impregnable. My eyes blurred, my head grew dizzy with panic. I gripped the top of the table for support and closed my eyes, hoping that I was in some kind of foggy dream, and that when I opened them again I’d be somewhere else, or gazing on some entirely innocuous object, rather than at these shriveled portions of my friend.