The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (27 page)

“Come, Connie, help me please. The drawer is stuck fast.”

She had taken a goose wing from her housemaid’s box and was flicking it briskly over the bookcase. “Ask Mrs. Cummings or one of the footmen, they might know.”

“It’s you I’m asking. They’ll want to know why I need it.”

“Why
do
you need it?”

“I’ll tell you in confidence, but you’re not to say a word. Because what’s in here may shed light on Partridge’s death.”

She ceased what she was doing and regarded me. Perhaps my desperation showed and she felt sorry for me, for she seemed a little kinder. “Tried the toolshed?”

“Is there such a place?”

“Must be if I’m telling you there is.”

“Will you show me?”

“And risk another telling off if she comes and finds me not at my work? No, I will not.”

“Where is it then?”

“Beyond the dairy. Next door after the coal shed.”

I was crossing the hall heading for the outhouses when I saw Bradfield’s carriage approach and the spindly figure of Miss Alleyn, in mourning black, descend followed by the Bradfield family. Before any of them could apprehend me, I dived for the back corridor and scurried past the servants’ hall and kitchens to the toolshed. Raising the latch, I went in.

Thin winter sunshine filtered through a screen of ancient cobwebs on the window. A bluebottle and sundry smaller insects had entangled themselves in the web and remained, now shrouded in dust, suspended upon the gossamer gibbet. Amid a confusion of boxes, garden implements, an old bellows, a rusty pail, I quickly discovered the toolbox. It stood at an untidy angle, as if someone had carelessly dropped it in the middle of the floor.

Certain that with no more than a turnscrew and a file I’d have the desk drawer loosened, I crouched down and threw back the lid. As soon as I’d opened it I saw that the tools were no longer in the carefully ordered state in which I’d left them. A small hatchet lay on top of a jumble of implements. I picked it up to see more clearly beneath and noticed that the blade was fouled with some dark brownish matter. It always irks me to see good implements treated with such shameful neglect, and I took a rag from my pocket to clean it. I was holding the hatchet in one hand and my cloth in the other, shaking my head at the jumble of tools, when my eye came to rest on something curious.

I considered it for a moment with detachment before the dreadful realization struck me. As if I’d been hit by a bolt of lightning, I jolted backwards, dropping the hatchet, which clattered noisily to the stone floor. Then chastising myself roundly for being as fearful and feeble as the night before, I inched forward to take a second look. There was no mistake. Wedged at the bottom of the box between the chisels and the molding plane, curled like a shriveled blood sausage in a butcher’s tray, lay a human finger.

Even now as I write this my hand begins to tremble and it is all I can do to keep hold of the pen. I unloaded the tools pressing around it, then using the rag to protect myself—although from what I hadn’t a notion—I gingerly picked up the finger and cradled it in my hand. The nail had turned purple and the flesh was withered and blotchy, like a rotten plum that has lain for some days in wet grass.

Suddenly I was back at that frozen pond, holding my poor friend’s mutilated hand. Of course I knew without a doubt whose finger it was. Poor Partridge. I also understood now how his fingers had been severed—by this gruesome hatchet that lay beside me. I could scarcely bear to acknowledge that the debris I’d so unthinkingly wiped from the blade was my dear friend’s flesh. And so I stayed there, cradling his finger, with tears welling in my eyes. But I was not simply distressed by the thought of the agony he’d suffered, I was angry too. Angry with Partridge for dying so strangely and plunging me into this muddle, when my life had hitherto been so straightforward. Angry at myself for my shameful doubts and my own stupidity in being unable to fathom the further questions now raised. How had this finger arrived here? Why was there only one when four had been severed? Where were the rest? And finally came the question to which inevitably I returned. What reason could there be to mutilate a body—a person—my friend—so horribly?

I
t took me some time to compose myself sufficiently to report my find to Mrs. Cummings. She said she’d tell the butler, Yarrow, who’d tell Miss Alleyn as soon as there was a spare moment. I didn’t know when that might be, so I drifted aimlessly around the kitchens, not daring to go back to the library now that the Bradfields and Miss Alleyn had returned and quite probably Robert Montfort and Elizabeth were risen from their slumbers. In any case I found the clatter and bustle of the kitchens strangely soothing; it saved me from being alone and dwelling on my thoughts. It was a panacea for the horrific images that once again clamored in my brain.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon that I spoke to any member of the Montfort family. I was with Connie, who was rubbing Elizabeth Montfort’s kid gloves with a mixture of ammonia, turpentine, and pumice powder to clean them, when Miss Alleyn came in.

“Ah, Mr. Hopson, I’ve learned of your fearful discovery.” She looked even paler than usual, and as shocked as anyone would be by the news. “There was only one…digit, I understand?”

“Indeed, ma’am,” I said, rising to my feet and bowing to her.

She waited a moment, as if lost in thought, then kindly gestured me to sit.

“And what were you about in the toolshed? Mrs. Cummings was somewhat vague on the subject.”

“It was Lord Foley, ma’am,” I replied, blushing under this gentle scrutiny. “He directed me to sort through the papers in the library, the drawings found when your brother died…”

She looked puzzled. “But I understood he had taken them already?”

I felt a small prick of shame to be deceiving such a kindly lady, but since she’d cornered me I took no more than an instant to compose a suitable reply.

“Lord Foley believed several were missing, ma’am. That was the reason he asked me to come. There was a drawer jammed in the desk. I thought there might be other drawings in it.”

Fortunately this lame explanation appeared to satisfy her; in any event she was distracted by Foley’s name.

“Of course I’ve told Foley he may take as many drawings as he pleases from that room. Elizabeth and Robert have no interest in them.”

“He would not wish to deprive you of anything that is rightfully yours.”

“I think you mean rightfully belonging to the Montfort family, Mr. Hopson. I am merely a custodian here. Though, as you will find, I guard my domain assiduously.”

“I understand, ma’am. And may I take the opportunity of offering you my heartfelt thanks for taking charge of poor Partridge’s funeral. Lord Foley told me it was you that had him laid in the churchyard in the village, and I’m most grateful to you.”

Miss Alleyn gave a slight smile in recognition of my thanks. “May I ask have you discovered anything more about your dead friend’s circumstances?”

Doubtless it was the shock of my discovery that made me reply so unthinkingly, so rashly. “Indeed, ma’am, there is some progress. I’ve learned that Partridge believed himself to be your brother’s son.” I paused an instant, and against my better judgment forced myself on. “There is an Italian actress in London by the name of Madame Trenti who claims she is the mother. I think you are acquainted with her?”

As soon as I’d spoken these words I realized I’d overstepped the mark, and my cheeks flamed with shame.

Miss Alleyn was plainly astounded by my assumption, and it threw her into turmoil. “Partridge was my brother’s son? By an Italian actress? I most certainly know nothing of the matter. I do not consort with
actresses,
Mr. Hopson.” Her tone had abruptly changed to a more strident timbre.

Notwithstanding my discomfiture, I knew this was a lie. Had I not seen the letter penned by her own hand in Madame Trenti’s salon? It dawned on me then that perhaps she was feigning ignorance because of Connie’s presence. It would be entirely understandable for her to wish to hide the history of her brother’s dalliances from the servants. How idiotic I’d been to raise the subject while Connie was in the room. Now I was in such a spot I’d have to leave the matter be. I had no wish to mention the letter, for it would only embarrass her and make her less willing to talk to me. I gave up probing and acted the remorseful fool.

“My apologies for my confusion, ma’am. And for being so bold as to suggest your brother might have fathered an illegitimate child…. Plainly the woman is a liar and I should not have given her credence.”

But Miss Alleyn would not let the matter drop. “Did you say she ‘claims’ Partridge was her child? Do I take it that you doubt her?”

“As yet I have no proof she is telling the truth. Certainly Partridge did not know the identity of his parents until she told him.”

“But what do you think, Mr. Hopson?” she pressed.

“I do not know what to think, ma’am. It is partly that matter I want to investigate, for I am convinced it has some bearing on all this.”

She nodded silently, staring at the table where Connie sat still cleaning the gloves. Connie herself was pretending to be engrossed by her chores, though to judge by the slowness with which she rubbed the fingers she was riveted by the turn our conversation was taking.

“This is a delicate matter, Mr. Hopson. Not something I’d wish bandied about. And yet I agree with you it deserves our attention. Lovatt,” said Miss Alleyn, suddenly wheeling round on Connie, “would you leave us alone?”

After Connie had curtsied and disappeared, Miss Alleyn paced about the room looking thoughtful. She picked up the gloves Connie had left behind, then switching them on the palm of her hand, chose her words with caution.

“There
is
something I learned recently that may be of interest to you, for it may relate to your friend. When I was sorting my brother’s papers, I saw he had a ledger for household accounts in his desk.” Her eyes rested on me for a moment. “But I daresay you are already aware of that?”

“Well…yes,” I blustered, trying to stem the tide of guilt.

“And to save you the trouble of opening the stubborn drawer, I will tell you what it contains. There are no drawings inside. Merely journals that are no concern of yours. I’m sure you take my meaning.” She put the gloves down on the table and turned to look sharply at me.

“It was Lord Foley who instructed me to undertake the investigation, ma’am. I wouldn’t have presumed to look inside the desk unless he’d ordered me,” I protested.

She airily waved away my explanation as if it was of no consequence. “Perhaps before I tell you of what I found pertaining to my brother, I should begin by telling you a little of my own history, Mr. Hopson. It may be helpful to your understanding of my knowledge of this household’s workings.

“I have been a housekeeper to my brother for the past eighteen years. I came here after his first wife, Robert’s mother, died when Robert was still an infant. Perhaps you wonder why I stayed so long,” she continued quietly. “Having no means of my own, I had little choice in the matter. Offering me the position of housekeeper was my brother’s way of taking care of me. Even after his marriage to Elizabeth, he allowed me to remain here because he knew I lacked the means to be independent. By then I’d become something of a mother to Robert, and Elizabeth was so young she had little inclination to take over the administering of this house.”

I nodded, feeling rather sorry for her. If Montfort had been truly solicitous, he might have given her an allowance. I’d not forgotten the rude way in which he spoke to her on the evening of his dinner. But then, I reminded myself, he addressed everyone in a similar vein and she seemed happy enough with the arrangement. In any case, while it shed an interesting light on the Horseheath household, I was unsure of its relevance.

As if she anticipated my thoughts, Miss Alleyn continued. “The reason I tell you this is in order that you comprehend why I’m well acquainted with my brother’s affairs over the last eighteen years, but less familiar with the history of his youthful dalliances. As I said, when I began sorting through my brother’s papers, I glanced through the ledgers, happening to open the book relating to the period before I joined him.”

“And you saw something in the ledgers?” I was anxious that she should return to Partridge. After all it was he that interested me, not her arrangement with Montfort or her fondness for Robert or Elizabeth’s inexperience at housekeeping.

“There were payments.”

“What manner of payments?”

“For a nurse.”

“A nurse?”

“A person other than the one employed for Robert. The entries in the ledger read “For Figgins, Hindlesham, nurse.” The woman employed to take care of Robert was May Bloxam; I know that because she was still here when I joined the household. I confess I didn’t give the matter a great deal of thought at the time. But what you’ve just told me has caused me to recall it.”

“Forgive me, madam, I don’t follow your meaning.”

She picked up the kid gloves again and wafted them against her palm, as if savoring their softness. “My meaning is quite simple, Mr. Hopson. Your probings have raised the possibility that my brother may have sired an illegitimate child, your friend Partridge, with an Italian actress. You expressed certain doubts about the veracity of that lady’s testimony. In the light of your researches, the question we might justifiably ask ourselves is this: Why would my brother make payments to a nurse if the child she was caring for were not his own?”