Free The Grenadillo Box: A Novel by Janet Gleeson Page A

or more papers were strewn. These, I now saw, were drawings from Mr. Chippendale’s famous volume, The Gentleman and Cabinet Maker’s Director, which had lately brought him great fame.
    I confess their presence shocked me deeply. I knew that Chippendale greatly treasured his drawings, often displaying them to select patrons prior to publication, as a means of cajoling them into commissioning something grander than they originally intended. It occurred to me that these were the same drawings to which Montfort had referred in his threatening outburst of the previous day. But why Chippendale had given something that was so precious to him to Montfort I could not fathom.
    There were sheets of designs—girandoles, daybeds, cabinets, and card tables. I gathered them one by one, intending to place them together on the desk. As I did so I discovered among them a clutch of drawings by a hand I recognized as that of my friend Partridge. The reason for their presence among the Chippendale drawings was equally mystifying. The thought of Partridge made me conscious of how far I was from my familiar surroundings, and how strange was my present situation. What would Partridge make of it if he could see me here holding his drawings? I stepped forward with the bundle of pages, placed it on the desk, then halted abruptly. Montfort’s fearsome dog was curled behind the desk chair in the deep shadow. I trod gingerly round it before hastening away to trace the smudges leading from Montfort’s body. Halfway across the room the footprints became invisible, but by then I’d decided they led towards the window closest to where Montfort lay.
    The sash was already open. I’d left it thus to allow the final coat of varnish to dry. I raised the sash further and peered out to see if there was any sign of footprints continuing outside. The ground floor of Horseheath is raised up some six feet above the garden level. Even from this distance, however, I could make out that there was indeed a trail of heavy prints on the frosty earth below, which seemed to lead off in the direction of the Italian Garden. Leaning out to look more closely, I rested my palm on the sill for support—and recoiled immediately. My hand had touched something sticky and wet. Lowering my light to the sill, I saw a thick pool of semicoagulated blood, wider than my fist. So much blood that it had dripped down the wall, leaving, I now saw, dark streaks on the damask covering. Revulsion and nausea surged again in my belly. I staggered round towards Foley, holding my bloodstained palm outstretched in front of me as if I myself was savagely wounded.
    Foley was still occupied with the box. He’d turned it, twisted it, shaken it, and taken a paper knife in an attempt to prize it open. The contents rattled mockingly, but still the catch remained invisible and unyielding. Now, seeing my bloodstained predicament, he placed the box on the desk and addressed me sensibly.
    “What have you done? Cut yourself?”
    “It is not my blood…. There is blood…see for yourself,” I stammered.
    Foley’s brows shot up in astonishment at my agitation. “Compose yourself, Mr. Hopson. Take this. Clean yourself.” He handed me his silk handkerchief and walked to the window. I was in such distress I wrapped it over my hand, without a thought for the value of such an article. After a minute or two he drew down the sash with an air of finality, before turning back to me. His face was impassive, his voice, when he spoke, dispassionate. “Hopson. Go immediately and summon the family and guests. Do not divulge to them what we have discovered. Request only that they come here immediately.”
    The coolness with which these orders were issued brought me quickly to my senses. Pushing his handkerchief deep in my pocket—already uncomfortable about staining such an item, how could I return it now it was sullied with blood?—I did as he bade me.
     
    W hen I returned to the dining room, I found it deathly