Free The Grenadillo Box: A Novel by Janet Gleeson

from the inside,” I declared, as I opened the adjacent door to the entrance hall. I stepped niftily through it, not realizing I’d left Foley still in the corridor with the door swinging back in his face.
     
    T he entrance hall gave access to the four main ground-floor reception rooms and a grand curving staircase to the first floor. The library was opposite the saloon, adjacent to the dining room. Beyond was the withdrawing room, a passage to further rooms, and the kitchens. I walked to the library door, grasped the handle firmly, and opened it.
    An icy gust carried the unmistakable whiff of gunshot to my nostrils. After the brilliance of the other rooms, a wall of blackness confronted me. I blinked and waited. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could discern the windows along the long wall opposite, the curtains of one flapping like unfilled sails in the wind. Any precise terror contained within the room remained, however, invisible in the gloom. I swiveled back in search of illumination. The hall was lit by a large brass lantern, wall sconces fitted to the paneling, and a pair of candelabra on a side table. Lord Foley, by now emerged from the corridor, saw me grasp one of these lights and turn back to the door behind. Determined to shadow my every move, he snatched its pair and followed. Thus with our lights held high did we enter the library.

Chapter Four
    A t first I was so stupefied by my discovery of Montfort’s corpse I didn’t question what might have led to his death. As in some martyr’s ghastly supplication, his arms lay outstretched at his sides, palms upturned. Close to his right hand lay a small pocket pistol, no longer than six inches, ornately decorated with a fruiting vine design. Both sleeves and cuffs were bloodstained, and clasped in his left hand was a small box about the size of a goose egg. Scarcely had I registered this last detail, however, when I remarked the leeches, and my shock transformed to revulsion which I could not contain. Thus it was only after I’d returned from retching at the window that I drew the candelabra closer and extricated the box from Montfort’s hand.
    It was carved in the form of a columned classical temple. There was something small that rattled within. Despite the horror surrounding me, I remember I held the box in my palm, pausing to admire its gleaming surface, crisp carving, the irregular whorls and tight figuring of the wood, as only a fellow craftsman can truly appreciate the intricacies of his trade. But while hinges were visible along the apex of the roof, there appeared no sign of a catch.
    I was still rotating the box in my hands in search of the mechanism to open it when Foley crouched beside me. He was once again babbling to himself, “I cannot be the cause of this. I will shoulder no blame.” He repeated these words over and over as he gazed at the dead man before him. Then, abruptly, he collected his thoughts and remarked upon my preoccupation with the box. “Let me see that,” he cried, snatching it from me.
    I stood up. My head swam and my body was beginning to shudder uncontrollably, although whether this was from shock or the bitter temperature, I cannot now be certain. I know, however, that while I felt unable to drag my eyes from the grim spectacle we had discovered, this was no ghoulish fascination. I was looking, even then, for any detail that might explain it.
    My curious and inconvenient instinct to dismantle things may have been suppressed by my learning the craft of cabinetmaking, but it has never entirely disappeared. These days, however, the demolition usually takes place in my head. I’ve learned to observe closely. I’ve taught myself to imagine taking a given object apart, rather than carrying it out in fact. Naturally enough (so it seemed to me) I now applied the same method of scrutiny to the scene before me. Close to the body, leading to the window, I observed a faint pattern of overlapping smudges. Around them perhaps thirty