Robert scowled and sat down in a chair by the fire. Westleigh nodded curtly towards me. I needed no more encouragement to begin my address.
“On New Year’s Day, Lord Montfort was filled with despair. He had lost a considerable sum to Lord Foley and spent the morning with Mr. Wallace, his lawyer, arranging the settlement of the debt. To him, life without such a substantial portion of his estate seemed worthless. In recent weeks he had often considered taking his own life, but he resolved to do it not simply as a means of relieving his misery but also as an act of vengeance. The final gamble was that if he killed himself he stood to cheat Lord Foley of his winnings. I think if we question Mr. Wallace he will verify that Lord Montfort was much preoccupied by how the manner of his death might affect the validity of the documents he had drawn up immediately prior to it. At the dinner table that night, I overheard a snatch of conversation suggesting they had recently discussed the matter at some length.”
Wallace nodded his affirmation. “Indeed, you are correct, Mr. Hopson. Lord Montfort asked me repeatedly what might happen if he died that night.”
“But what was the purpose of meddling with the corpse? Why did my aunt act as she did?” interrupted Robert harshly.
“Her motive was simple enough, bearing in mind her predicament. Remember, since becoming a housekeeper here, Miss Alleyn had found herself in an embarrassing position. Her brother treated her little better than a servant, delighting in tormenting her with threats of casting her out.” I turned to where Elizabeth Montfort was seated. “You, my lady, battling under your own preoccupations, offered her little support.” I looked at Robert. “You, whom she’d treated as a son, were no more solicitous. Consider then how this impotence, this apparent ingratitude, must have eaten away at her. Consider how she must have yearned to alter her circumstances, to have what she believed she justly deserved.”
“Do you accuse Elizabeth and myself of being unkind to her and turning her demented?” said Robert sharply.
I replied unfalteringly, for no longer did he hold any fear for me. “No, my lord, I am merely explaining what took place. I am trying to make you comprehend the logic in her actions. To continue: your aunt spoke of her tribulations to Lady Foley, who in turn discussed the matter with her husband. Lord Foley pondered the situation and when, soon after that, he beat Lord Montfort at cards, he promised Miss Alleyn that the winnings should be hers. This was his revenge for a slight committed by Montfort some twenty years earlier.”
“Then Foley was to blame…,” interposed Robert Montfort.
At this Westleigh stamped a boot upon the floor. “Silence, sir, I beg of you! Allow Mr. Hopson to speak without further intrusion. The time for apportioning blame will come later, when we have heard all he has to say.”
I hurried on, avoiding Robert Montfort’s eye. “Once Lord Foley’s offer was made, Miss Alleyn saw the independence she craved come within her reach. Then, some time before the settlement date arrived, she made a calamitous discovery. Perhaps she overheard a conversation between her brother and Wallace, or perhaps she was present at a consultation between her brother and the apothecary Townes. In any event, by whatever means, she fathomed beyond any doubt that her brother intended to kill himself.”
I hesitated and surveyed my audience one by one. Their gazes were on me; they were engrossed by my discourse. “Suicides, as all of you are doubtless aware, are generally declared non compos mentis in order to prevent their estates being claimed by the crown. Miss Alleyn certainly realized this. She also comprehended that if her brother were declared insane, his agreement of debt with Lord Foley could be called into question and she might never receive the money she had been promised. Thus it was desperation that prompted her to act as she did.”
“But if Montfort shot himself, how did Miss Alleyn have time to meddle with the body? She appeared in the dining room a minute or two after the shot was fired, did she not?” said Westleigh.
“Lord Montfort did not shoot himself. He killed himself with a dose of laudanum, having ascertained a lethal dose by first killing his dog. The valet Forbes observed that the medicine bottle disappeared from Lord Montfort’s closet early in the evening of the night he died. In all probability he took a draft before dinner, dosing his dog at the same time. And a second after he left the room. The alcohol he had consumed would have speeded the effects of the dose.” I paused, waiting for a reaction, but Westleigh merely waved his hand as if urging me to continue.
“This I believe is what happened: Miss Alleyn found her brother dead or dying in his library. As I said before, she had anticipated such an eventuality, having overheard his threats of suicide. Thus she had formulated a plan and was ready to implement it when the need arose. The necessary equipment had been secreted in the library—I’m speaking here of the leeches, a table salt, some milk in a saucer (necessary, I understand, to make the creatures bite), and a small pistol, which doubtless belonged to Miss Alleyn, and which she was adept at firing.”
“How did she know he would kill himself in that particular room, on that particular night?” quizzed Westleigh.
“Naturally she could not be entirely certain. But the equipment was easily portable; once she’d assembled it she could have moved it anywhere she chose. In any case, the library was the most likely choice, given the inordinate significance he attached to the new furnishings. And furthermore, on the very day when he was expected to display the room to his guests, he ordered Miss Alleyn to tell the servants that the room was to be left dark and the fire unlit. What more obvious sign could he give that this was when and where he intended to kill himself?”
“Very well,” said Westleigh, a trifle begrudgingly, “continue. What happened when she found Montfort dead?”
“First, she locked the doors to the servants’ corridor and the hall to avoid interruption, then she attended to the corpse. Blood was necessary to confuse the scene, thus her next action was to administer the leeches, using milk to encourage them to bite more readily. After some minutes she poured salt on the leeches and thus garnered enough blood to spill some of it on the body and use the rest to form the faint footprints leading to the window. Then she hid the empty salt in the bookcase, where Constance Lovatt later discovered it, and secreted the milk in a drawer of the desk, where it spilled and caused the wood to swell. I noticed the stiffness of the drawer and a strange cheesy smell when I examined the desk recently.”
“And the gunshot?” said Westleigh.
“Only when all the arrangements were in place did she shoot Lord Montfort with her own gun.”
“But would not the wound from the gun provide all the blood she needed? Why trouble herself with the leeches?” he persisted.
“Because the gunshot would instantly alert the household. It was imperative that immediately afterwards she return to the dining room. There would be no time to make any adjustments to the body, she had to have everything prepared beforehand. She had to leave her brother’s body arranged in such a manner that there would be no doubt he had been murdered, and make it appear that the murderer was an intruder, someone outside the household, thus averting suspicion from herself.”
Until now Foley had been remarkably subdued. Since my return from the tower he’d sat morosely by the fire, eyes closed as if lost in thought. Hearing Westleigh’s last inquiry, he seemed to rouse himself a little and join in. “But she didn’t entirely succeed, did she, Hopson? For there has been doubt all along as to whether Montfort killed himself. Why did she leave the gun so close to his hand? For it was that which made us doubt the manner of his death.”
“Therein lies the irony of the whole episode,” I said. “She left the gun some distance away. It was I, in my clumsiness, who stepped on it in the dark and skidded forward, moving the gun within Lord Montfort’s reach. I tried to say as much on the evening of the dinner, but Robert Montfort wouldn’t hear me. Of course, when Miss Alleyn entered and saw the body, this confused her. She couldn’t comprehend how the scene she’d created had been
so crucially altered.”
Foley was still perplexed. “Whose were the shoes that made the footprints, and why were they different from those outside?” he demanded.
“The footprints inside were made by Miss Alleyn, using her brother’s shoes. She took them off his feet, smeared them with blood from the leeches, and then I believe put them on her own feet to walk across the floor. Again this was a detail designed to make us believe an intruder had entered, murdered her brother, and escaped.”
Foley scratched his beaklike nose pensively. “But, as I recall, Montfort’s shoes were pristine.”
“Indeed,” I said, “but the valet Forbes remarked that the shoes Lord Montfort was wearing when he dressed for the evening were not the same blue slippers he was wearing when we found his body. The first pair have disappeared, along with the medicine flask. Thus I surmised that after she’d used his shoes to make the prints leading to the window, Miss Alleyn must have disposed of them and put slippers on Lord Montfort’s feet in their place.”
“And the flask was similarly discarded?”
“Yes,” I said. “I own, Lord Foley, I have been as blind as a baby in all this, but it was these trifling details that finally provided the key to my understanding. I thought back to my conversation with the apothecary. He was adamant Lord Montfort was in low spirits and preoccupied with the idea of taking his own life. I remembered Lord Montfort’s conversation with Wallace during dinner, when he’d asked if the document would stand even if he killed himself, and how interested Miss Alleyn had been in their exchange. And yet never once did I suspect Lord Montfort actually had taken his own life, until earlier today when I went to his room.”
“And what did you find there?” demanded Robert, unable to contain himself an instant longer.
I put my hand to my breast pocket, pulled out the two papers I’d discovered, and handed him the one his father had written in his last moments. “I found this, my lord. I believe it to be your father’s suicide note. I took it from his letter book. It is fortunate for us that Miss Alleyn did not realize he kept some of his private correspondence in his bedchamber while his library was being installed, for undoubtedly, had she found it, she would have destroyed it.”
While he read his father’s last words, I stood up and walked to the window, from where the tower was just visible between two clumps of trees. In my mind’s eye I relived the terrible events of that morning. I imagined the figures of Miss Alleyn and Alice poised on the parapet. I saw myself lumbering towards them, sword aloft, the awful shrillness of Miss Alleyn’s voice at the moment of confrontation. I saw Alice’s terrified face as she comprehended Miss Alleyn’s intention; Alice falling; and then the final haunting cry as Miss Alleyn tumbled from the parapet….
“And what is the other letter you hold?” demanded Robert. “Did you also remove that from my father’s room?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “It was in his same letter book. It is a letter from my friend Partridge addressed to Miss Alleyn. It was this letter along with your father’s that gave me the key to unravel the whole matter, for it showed me that your aunt had arranged for Partridge to be present the night of Lord Montfort’s dinner.”
Robert held out his arm, clicking his fingers impatiently to indicate I should hand it to him. He read it quickly, then with a shrug of annoyance handed it to Foley, who having perused it, passed it on to Westleigh.
I couldn’t tell them how my heart wrenched every time I looked at the paper bearing Partridge’s hand. Or how I could picture him sitting in his room writing that letter so innocently to the treacherous woman who would bring about his death.
“Why did Miss Alleyn hand this letter to her brother?” demanded Westleigh.
“I would like to think it was because she wanted to help poor Partridge, but I think it more probable she simply intended it to add to Lord Montfort’s distress. He had tormented her for years; she felt justified in tormenting him with evidence of another claimant for his wealth.”
“What then was her reason for killing Partridge? He posed no threat to her.”
“The killing of Partridge happened inadvertently. Remember, in all this the character of Miss Alleyn is central. She was a deeply troubled woman, consumed by a need to secure her future. She was not prone to sudden outbursts of rage or despair as Lord Montfort was, rather she was cunning and manipulative; a woman of warped moral rectitude, but rectitude nonetheless. She had a great capacity for kindness—I will never forget that she insisted Partridge have a proper burial at Horseheath (perhaps remorse prompted her action), yet she was also capable of acting with rash brutality when threatened. Her unhappy history, you are all familiar with. The loss of her fiancé, her humiliation at her brother’s hands, and her desperation to be free of him propelled her actions. She did not intend to kill when she embarked on her scheme, though it was always her intention to incriminate an innocent man. She must have known that Partridge might end at the gallows, for no other reason than that it suited her purpose.”
“But why did she pick on Partridge?” said Westleigh.
“Partly because of his link with Lord Montfort. At the time he appeared here unexpectedly she honestly believed he was her brother’s son. Had he not become enmeshed in her scheme, doubtless a member of staff would have sufficed; perhaps she would even have attempted to lay the shadow of suspicion upon me. At any rate, the unfortunate Partridge was an ideal culprit, with an all-too-convincing motive for murder after his confrontation with Lord Montfort. Thus she lured him back to the house, on a false pretext of helping him—the arrangement is mentioned in this letter. Her real intention, however, was to make Partridge appear responsible for Lord Montfort’s “murder.” For this reason, she placed the grenadillo box in Lord Montfort’s hand and scattered his drawings on the floor, alongside designs by Mr. Chippendale, thus ensuring that the story of Partridge’s earlier visit and Lord Montfort’s rudeness to him emerged. Remember, Miss Alleyn was very quick to tell us of that disagreement once Partridge’s body had been found.”
“Why then did she kill Partridge so gruesomely?” asked Foley dubiously.
“Because her plan didn’t run as smoothly as she intended. She expected that Partridge would appear after the gunshot was fired. But I believe that while Partridge stood waiting in the Italian Garden, he saw lights flickering in the dark windows of the library. He approached the house in the belief that this was the signal he awaited, and that Lord Montfort was now amenable to his petition. Instead, when he scrambled up to the windowsill and looked in, he witnessed Miss Alleyn tampering with her brother’s corpse. Perhaps she was poised with the gun at the very moment Partridge caught sight of her, only he couldn’t know Lord Montfort was already dead. Imagine then how frantic he must have been to see her holding a gun at the head of the man whom he believed might be his father. Naturally he attempted to intervene. He tried to enter by the window, which I’d left open. At that point Miss Alleyn must have heard him. Realizing that Partridge had witnessed her actions and was on the point of entering the room, she briskly altered her plan. Partridge would still serve as a scapegoat, but she would silence him first.”
I broke off then and went to stand by the window where the pool of blood had been. Night had fallen swiftly; there was now no parkland prospect, no Italian Garden, only dark nothingness beyond my own haggard reflection mirrored in the glass.
“I hold myself partly culpable for what happened next. Foolishly I’d left the toolbox by the window. Had I not done so, perhaps Partridge would be with us still. Picture him trying to clamber in from the ground that is some six feet below this room; he must have scrabbled at the wooden frame of the sash here.” I pointed to the frame in front of me. “And held on to it like so.” Here I made a clawed grip onto the back of a chair. “Seeing him suspended thus, poised to enter and destroy her carefully laid plans, Miss Alleyn was driven by instinct rather than reason.” I brought my other hand down in a chopping motion. “She slammed down the sash ferociously on his hand
s, thus pinioning him to the sill by his palms, and causing the bruising on the backs and palms of his hands that Townes later observed. Then she cast about for a weapon; for some means of getting rid of him. Her eye fell upon the tools left lying there since I had used them, and she picked up a small hatchet.”
I faltered again and closed my eyes, trying to banish the hideous image from my mind. “After several brutal blows, she severed the fingers of his right hand. Then she raised the sash again and watched Partridge fall back to the ground, knowing that he might bleed to death, and that even if he survived no one would believe his story. Next she gathered up the severed fingers and hid them in the bottom of the toolbox. The pool of blood on the sill was now the only marker of her butchery, and she hoped it would be read as further confusing evidence that her brother had been murdered after a struggle in which his assailant was wounded.”
“Then the bloody mess on the windowsill was made by Partridge, not by Montfort at all?” said Westleigh sharply.
“Yes.”
“And the footprints outside were Partridge’s?”
I explained slowly. “After he had been attacked, Partridge stumbled away. There was no trail of blood because he’d thrust the wounded hand in his pocket in an attempt to stanch the flow—his coat was heavily bloodstained when we recovered him. But the trauma of his wounds coupled with the cold was too much for him to survive. He walked only a few yards before he became faint. He staggered to the pond, intending perhaps to use the parapet surrounding it as support while he recovered his strength. One of the undergardeners remarked seeing a man leaning over the pond in the early evening. But poor Partridge did not recover his strength. Instead, dizzy from loss of blood, he fell into the pond, where if he was not dead already, he drowned or froze to death. A miserable end for a man who asked no more from life than to know his origins, wouldn’t you say?”
The Grenadillo Box: A Novel Page 39