The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (26 page)

I had half crossed the room, squirming on my belly, when I turned my head and remarked a second door I hadn’t previously perceived. It was situated opposite the foot of the bed and doubtless connected to a drawing room or closet. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks. There was a fair chance that it might link back to the corridor from which I had come, or that there’d be a servants’ entrance leading directly to it. I altered my course, and with a fervent entreaty to the merciful Lord that the hinges would not squeak, raised my hand and turned the handle.

The door opened, fortunately silent. I snaked through the narrowest aperture I could manage and inch by inch closed it behind me, cutting off the groans and moans that were still emanating from the bed. At last I was able to stand up. I rubbed my sore elbows, fumbled for a tinderbox, and lit a candle.

So relieved was I to be safe, or relatively safe, that I was entirely unprepared for the grim spectacle that now confronted me. The flame flared; a halo of light invaded the blinding darkness to reveal my surroundings. I looked around me and immediately felt the blood drain from my face.

The room I was standing in was furnished neither as a drawing room nor as a dressing closet but as a laboratory. Along one wall was a shelf on which were laid out an assortment of glass bowls and jars and bottles filled with shadowy forms. In the center stood a table, and it was as my eye flickered over its surface that my belly began to heave most disconcertingly. Stretched upon it, clearly visible in the tremulous amber light, I could make out the corpse of a dog. From its lolling head I thought I recognized Montfort’s lurcher. What shocked me most was the present condition of the beast. It had been laid out on its back, legs stuck in the air with leather straps secured to each to hold them apart. An incision had been made from one end of the breastbone to the base of the abdomen, and the flesh was held open by pins to expose the entrails within. Some of these appeared to have been partially dissected and lay on the edge of the table.

Of course you will by now be familiar with my weakness when it comes to such gruesome spectacles. I’m an artisan without any scientific leanings. Blood and entrails of any description do not fill me with the same raptures of fascination as they do my enlightened counterparts, rather they sicken me and fill me with dread. One look at the open carcass and the bloody coiled mass beside it was enough. My head began to swim just as it had when I’d witnessed Robert Montfort’s surgery at Bradfield’s London residence. I knew I was in danger of falling in a dead faint to the ground. Yet even as the room began to whirl and I felt darkness closing over me like a murky ocean, I forced myself to climb back, to keep a grip on reality. I could not permit myself to lose consciousness here, for if I did there’d be every chance I’d be discovered, and this was a fear more terrifying even than the ghoulish specter on the table. Thus I cast wildly about for a means to escape, and my eye fell on a door leading out towards the corridor. Without a backwards glance I staggered towards it, clenching my teeth hard together to restrain my heaving belly. The door was locked but the key was in place. I threw it open with scarcely a thought for the couple who lay only a few yards away, and teetered back to the corridor.

Appalled and exhausted by my nocturnal adventures, I groped my way along the corridor and crept into my bed. And yet, as I pulled the covers about me, I found that while I’d been petrified throughout, a little of my terror had been dispelled. I now knew what had caused the sounds I’d heard. I swore never again would I give credence to phantoms or evil presences. How much more fearsome are vague, nameless threats than those we recognize. There is, I sleepily comprehended, some consolation in understanding the nature of our fears. A moment later and I fell into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

M
y sliver of newfound courage faded quickly next morning. I was overwhelmed by chilling thoughts of how close I’d come to being discovered, and the nauseating spectacle of the dog on the table had my stomach lurching and my heart thumping once more. I knew of Robert Montfort’s fascination with science, but I’d never contemplated that his interest might manifest itself in such a macabre manner. Had Robert killed the dog after his father’s death, I wondered, or had it died naturally? I remembered the dog coiled under Montfort’s desk on the night of his death. It hadn’t moved during all the commotion of discovering his body. Was it dead all along when I’d believed it to be sleeping? I cursed myself for my cowardice in not trying to rouse the beast. Perhaps Montfort’s killer had destroyed his dog first, fearing the dog would attack if its master were threatened. This didn’t rule out either a member of the family or an interloper.

I descended to the kitchens to be greeted by Connie, who had arrived early to assist Mrs. Cummings in making ready the house for the family’s return later that day. I confess I rejoiced to see her, for she offered welcome diversion from my apprehensions. Over breakfast I told Mrs. Cummings about the noises I’d heard in the night and how I’d come across the laboratory and found the dog.

“That’s Lord Robert’s private room,” said Mrs. Cummings. “Lord knows how you stumbled in there, for no one’s allowed in without his permission and he usually keeps the door from the corridor locked.”

I felt my face turn scarlet, but I didn’t trouble to explain that I’d got in through the door from Robert Montfort’s bedchamber. The thought struck me, however, that I’d left the door to the corridor unlocked. I’d no way of rectifying the matter now. Sooner or later Robert would surely discover his sanctum had been breached.

“The dog on the table. It resembled Montfort’s lurcher?”

“It was. Died the same day as its master. Miss Alleyn told the gardener to bury it, but Robert said he’d dispose of it himself. I guessed he wanted it for his experiments. His room’s filled with medical books, he’ll dissect whatever he can lay his hands on. He intended to study at university, only his father wouldn’t allow it. Said it wasn’t a fitting occupation for a gentleman. Doubtless that’ll change now.”

“How did the dog die?”

“Dead in its sleep the same night Lord M. died. Curious, was it not?”

I remembered how the dog had remained immobile throughout the disturbance. “Was it old?”

“Not more than two years.”

“Never mind the dog. The sounds you heard were doubtless caused by Lord Robert and Lady Elizabeth Montfort arriving earlier than expected,” interrupted Connie, “which is why Mrs. C. sent for me to come back early as well.”

As quickly as she said this, fear yielded to gallantry. “And delighted I am that you did,” said I. “But why did just the two of them come? Where’s Miss Alleyn?”

“Expected to return with Lord and Lady Bradfield and their son, George, later today. The Bradfields are to stay and assist Miss Alleyn in sorting through her brother’s affairs. Though I believe the truth of it is that Lord Bradfield hopes to get his hands on the hunter Lord Montfort won from him a few months back.”

“Is it not strange that Miss Alleyn didn’t travel with her nephew and sister-in-law?”

Mrs. Cummings shrugged her ample shoulders. “I’ve too much to do to waste time thinking about the strangeness of who comes with who,” she replied a trifle crossly.

“Perhaps Lord Robert and Lady Elizabeth were eager to have time alone together,” said Connie, giggling and winking at me.

I raised an innocent eyebrow. “Is there something between them?”

Connie shot me a knowing look. “I’d say so judging by the linen I’ve changed.”

“That’s enough, Connie,” snapped Mrs. Cummings.

But Connie had the bit between her teeth and refused to be daunted. “What she sees in him Lord only knows. She’s soft in the head for sure.”

“They are of similar age, perhaps she enjoys his company?” I hazarded.

She gave me a withering glare. “Whatever for, when she could have her pick of Cambridge and London now she’s a woman of independent means? Wouldn’t you think she’d have learned her lesson by now?”

“And what if Foley takes it all?”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head as if I’d confirmed my stupidity beyond a shadow of doubt. “Then Robert’ll have naught either, so she’ll still be best off without him.”

By now Mrs. Cummings was fuming at the freedom of our exchange.

“Constance Lovatt,” she bellowed, “there’s enough mischief taken place in this house without you adding to it. Now take your box and be about your duties lest I warm your behind and send you packing before anyone else does. And as for you, Mr. Hopson, shame on you for encouraging her.”

T
hus censured, I began my investigation of the library. Confident that their tardy arrival and energetic nocturnal activities would make them sleep till noon, I presumed there was little chance I’d be interrupted by Robert and Elizabeth. The only hindrance in my investigations was Connie, who, directed by Mrs. Cummings to make ready the room, had accompanied me. She opened shutters, hauled all the movable furniture to the center of the room, and took up the hearth rug to shake it from the window. I meanwhile took a random folio from the bookcase, seated myself at the desk, and began leafing through it, feigning avid interest in its pages, as if this was what I’d come to do all along.

The folio contained a selection of amateur sketches of churches. I turned tedious page after tedious page of steeples and towers, belfries and shingle spires. I was scarcely looking at what was in front of me. My mind was all on what I wanted to know and what I had to do, and how to go about it without causing a rumpus. In the end my sham studying became so intolerable I resolved to brazen it out.

“Connie, can I ask you a question?”

“What’s stopping you? Gone shy suddenly?”

“Has Mr. Chippendale, my master, ever been here?”

She stood up for a moment and stretched her back. “He came last year, when Lord Montfort was planning his library. Not since then.”

“Certain?”

“Certain.”

I sighed. She’d given the same negative response as Mrs. Cummings. And yet I was undeterred. I could not forget the strange tale Alice had told me, nor could I dispel my conviction that it must have some relevance in this matter, that my master
must
therefore somehow be bound up in all this. The fact that neither Connie nor Mrs. Cummings had seen Chippendale didn’t make me waver. For, as I’d told myself before, it signified only that he must have come in secret. But I could not banish reason indefinitely. I couldn’t help asking myself, Was such a thing possible? Could Chippendale have come to Horseheath and killed Partridge without being observed? Moreover, why did he choose to follow Partridge from London when it would have been so much easier to do away with him in London? And what bearing did Montfort have on all this? I could no more conceive an answer to these problems than when I’d wearily contemplated them the night before. Thus, while I couldn’t shake my conviction that Chippendale must be to blame for Partridge’s tragedy, small doubts began to intrude on my certitude.

Uneasily I returned to the matter in hand. I was curious to discover the letter book in which Foley had said he’d discovered the letter from Madame Trenti threatening Montfort. Perhaps there was more contained within it that might help my investigation. Dare I begin my search of the desk? I looked across at Connie; she was humming softly to herself, sprinkling moist tea leaves over the carpet to raise the dust, and sweeping them up again.

Surreptitiously I drew back my chair a little and looked down at the front of the desk. There were three drawers spanning its width, and underneath on each side two deeper drawers. One by one I opened the three in the top rank. They slid easily on their runners with so little sound that Connie heard nothing. But they contained nothing unusual: a few bills, pounce, quills, ink, sticks of wax, a couple of knives, a length of twine. I decided to work my way down the two remaining drawers on the left side. I opened the first, my eye flickering expectantly over the contents: small ledgers pertaining to expenses of the household, and several pamphlets. Then the lower drawer: it held only packets of writing paper and a rolled map of the estate tied with a red ribbon. I moved across to the right and slid open the first drawer: a bottle of ink and a plain rectangular wooden box. Could this hold the letter book for which I searched?

Filled with anticipation, I lifted the catch of the box and opened it. It contained a pair of dueling pistols far larger than the weapon we had found near Montfort at the time of his death. I knew already from Miss Alleyn’s testimony that that gun belonged to Montfort, and that he kept it here for self-defense. Strange, I thought, as I snapped the box shut and closed the drawer, to keep a further set in the same room.

Only one lower drawer remained to be searched. With a sense of mounting anticipation I pulled it briskly. It didn’t yield. I pulled again, this time more forcefully. Nothing. The drawer refused to budge. I lowered my head and looked closer. There was no visible keyhole. The drawer wasn’t locked; something wedged it closed.

The obstruction didn’t deter me. I knew how to release it easily enough, but I needed tools to do so. I coughed. Connie stopped humming and looked up. “Are you finished?”

“Almost but not quite. Tell me, where is the gentleman’s toolbox I used to install the library?”

“How should I know—and why d’you need it? According to Mrs. Cummings, you aren’t supposed to be
making
anything, only looking at some drawings. She gave strict instructions you were to disturb nothing else without the family’s permission.”