The Grenadillo Box: A Novel

by Janet Gleeson

  Her reaction to my outburst was curious. “I have come to return your account in person,” she said, reddening slightly. “That is what the package contains. And I was never angry at you. Far from it: I’d be a half-wit not to realize how closely I brushed with death, how you saved my life. I owe you my heartfelt thanks.” As she said this, for a moment I thought I saw an expression of something warmer than mere conviviality flicker in her eyes. Then, like a moth drawn away from a candle stub by the superior light of a chandelier, she settled herself in a chair, returned her gaze to the cabinet, and switched tack completely.

  “Is it not fascinating how ordinary wood can be transformed to such an extraordinary object? It is hard for me to have any conception of what the skill and imagination of craftsmen can make of the logs and deals and blocks I sell them,” she said.

  I was baffled but wanted to see where this would lead. “Without the woods you supply we would be as helpless as an artist without his palette.”

  She smiled witheringly at my flattery, as if this was not at all what she wanted to hear. “Do you ever wonder, Nathaniel, what secrets a piece such as this might witness during its existence? How long will it endure? Will the unborn descendants of your patrons regard this cabinet with similar esteem? Or will it grow outmoded and stand in some forgotten corner as no more than a curious relic of our insignificant age?”

  Was this digression intended to provoke me? Was it some kind of test? If so, for what role was I being challenged?

  “You will think me very dull,” I said hesitantly, “but I confess I’ve never troubled myself with such matters. What concerns me most is that the patron is content with his commission and that he might return to order more.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Ever the pragmatist, Nathaniel. Then tell me something about this piece. What thoughts shaped its design? How was it crafted?”

  Although she was now deferring to my knowledge, the tone of her voice implied a criticism which galled me. I was naturally tempted to show off my expertise, to convince her I was more than the shallow character she believed me to be, but a small voice somewhere inside my head told me that would be pointless. She was too sharp-witted to be hoodwinked by boastfulness. If anything, modesty would beguile her more easily. I composed my face to convey a message of professional detachment.

  “It is constructed in three parts from a variety of tropical timbers: chiefly mahogany, ebony, and padauk. The most eye-catching decorations are the mounts made from gilt brass, but there are also morsels of mother-of-pearl and ivory; I believe Chippendale has based them on engravings from Goltzius and Berain,” I said solemnly.

  She gazed on gilded decorations formed as Nereid masks, cascading water, clusters of seashells, tied ribbons, and fronded scrolls; surfaces inlaid with wood and brass, and meticulously engraved to depict sea monsters, dolphins, temples, trailing vines and acanthus, and birds. A cabinet more decoration than structure, more gold than wood.

  “What makes the piece doubly remarkable—apart from its lavishness—is the complexity of its design. There is scarcely a straight side anywhere, and to make such a shape the structure had to be laid in pieces. The minutest drawers inside are formed from boards cut no thicker than a baby’s fingernail, with joints of similar delicacy rebated or dovetailed to hold them.”

  I looked at her again; she was sitting up in her chair, listening intently. Was she putting on a purposeful act of girlishness? Or was she as nervous to see me as I her? She was wearing a new gown of dark amethyst, which enhanced the fieriness of her hair and pallor of her complexion. No shawl or cloak, despite the time of year, as if she’d come out in a hurry. I remembered how she’d looked that day on the tower, when I’d picked her up from the roof and carried her half unconscious with pain through the park to Foley’s carriage. She had seemed docile then, so much easier to handle than this unreadable character. And yet the unpredictable has ever drawn me.

  Tiring of my knowledgeable dissertation, I concluded abruptly. “And finally there is the veneering to embellish the oak and deal beneath. You see the lively pattern the figuring brings. Each piece reflects the other, bringing balance and symmetry to the form. To create such a repeating effect, the craftsman must cut the veneers as finely as possible from a single block of wood. Of course I don’t need to tell you that the more figured the wood, the more brittle it will be, thus this too involves great skill and dexterity.” I paused and swallowed uncomfortably. My mouth was growing dry from so much explaining. I wanted her to say something so I might judge her reaction, but she remained silent. “I will not tire you with more details. Far better instead that you should admire the result for yourself.” I gestured her forward as, with the flourish of a magician, I swung back the massive outer doors to reveal the interior.

  She gasped at the profusion of niches and pigeonholes before her.

  “That is not all,” I said, enjoying her sudden loss of composure. I handed her a key. “Take this and open the door of the central compartment.” She went to do as I instructed but turned back to me.

  “There’s no lock.”

  “Another marvel,” I said, grinning at her confusion. “The keyholes are hidden in the inlays and can only be opened by touching a particular spot to activate a pressure point.” I touched a cherub’s hand; the keyhole opened. I inserted the key into the lock and opened the door of the interior compartment. A small cavity was now revealed. “In here alone, Chippendale says, are a dozen more hidden compartments that may be opened only if you know how to release the catches holding the sliding panels. At our last meeting, when he dismissed me, he challenged me to find them before I go.”

  “Did you try?”

  “I confess I did not.”

  “And yet I would have thought you of all people would know where his secret compartments will be hidden.”

  “It is not the challenge that daunts me,” I said, “for I’ve no doubt I’d find every space easily enough. What holds me back is knowing that if I accepted the challenge, Chippendale would view it as a tacit admission of his supremacy and be gratified. After all that has gone on, I see no reason to humor him.”

  She murmured some inaudible response, but she was hardly listening, for she had turned her attention to the inlay on the tiny inner compartments and was bending low to scrutinize them at close quarters. “Here’s a curious thing,” she said, squinting at one drawer front after another.

  “What is curious?” I said, a little annoyed that she’d grown so quickly distracted and turned away from me.

  She stood up straight and caught my gaze. “Have you not remarked the wood bandings?”

  I shrugged my shoulders before reluctantly stepping forward and bending down to look as she had done.

  “It’s partridge wood,” she said without waiting for me to speak.

  Our eyes locked in mutual comprehension and puzzlement. “That is indeed unexpected,” I conceded.

  “There have been no consignments in recent months. None that I recall since I have taken over the business.”

  “Then he must have kept some in store.” My eyes still held hers.

  “Do you not think, bearing in mind the significance of this timber, you should accept Chippendale’s challenge after all, and see what secrets his cabinet contains?” she said.

  I am, as I’ve said, expert in divining where even the most artful craftsman might conceal a hidden space. I took out every drawer of the central section and ran my fingers over the aperture beneath, feeling for a bump or a join which might indicate a sliding panel. It took me nearly half an hour to find all the ingenious mechanisms and hidden catches, and to release them with the aid of a cluster of small spiked instruments and keys attached to the fob. At length I’d extracted twelve small drawers from the center and laid them out on the nearby table, leaving a hollow like a mouth behind. We looked at the drawers spread before us. All of them were lined with scarlet velvet as if they were intended to hold medals or coins or jewels. All were empty save one. It
contained half a plain gold ring.

  As I picked it up and held it in my hand, I felt chilled to the marrow. Removed from its luxurious bed of velvet, held up before the sumptuous golden cabinet, the ring seemed somehow diminished in luster, oddly dull and small.

  “What is it?” said Alice.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, it is the other half of the ring Foley and I discovered when we opened Partridge’s grenadillo box. I don’t believe you ever saw it.”

  I turned the crescent of metal over in my hand. It was inscribed, as the other portion had been, on the inner surface.

  “And now I wish only that I had the other piece so I could read the entire inscription properly. From what I remember, the other piece read ‘To C’; this reads ‘from T. C.’ ” Alice had turned her attentions to the tiny drawers I’d retracted. She was picking up each one from where I’d laid them to examine the wood.

  “A considerable quantity of timber would be required to band such a quantity of drawers.”

  I was hardly listening, for something else was troubling me. My knowledge of my master’s virtuoso skill, together with some vague inkling in my gut, told me finding the ring had been too easy. Chippendale wouldn’t place every secret cavity in a single area and provide the instruments to open them, for then they’d be no more than sham secrets, cavities you were meant to discover to stop you from looking elsewhere. With this thought came the conviction that there was something I still hadn’t unearthed, something more to find.

  I turned my attention to the area behind the writing flap, which was divided into a plethora of pigeonholes, and applied the same careful examination to the panels dividing each compartment. I was halfway up the second space when my forefinger touched on a minute but discernible ridge. I peered into the desk. A line no heavier than one inscribed with a pin dissected the panel. The wood had been joined on this side, while on the other there was nothing. I pressed my finger at each end near to the join, and then at each corner in turn. On my third attempt there was a small click, a catch yielded, and the panel came away. Tucked inside, so far back it was all but invisible, was a small slender box, about the length of my little finger.

  “What is it?” Alice said.

  I gently pulled out the box and opened it. Inside lay a fragment of paper, covered in writing. But as if it had once been drenched in water, the words were blurred and in some parts illegible. I screwed up my eyes to focus them. The script seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen it before.

  “It’s almost impossible to decipher,” I said, as she peered over my shoulder. Falteringly at first I read out the few phrases I could.

  “…extremely uneasy at your lengthy silence…I have hardly the strength to hold a pen after illness that overcomes…very weak still, almost to death. I expect every hour…a good woman here has told me of a place…they will care tolerably…if you remember me, remember also our son…will suffer most severely…have sent him with the…recognize him. The block and this…”

  I halted. Even as I uttered the words, their significance had struck me. I looked at Alice. She was slumped inert in her chair, apparently lost in thought, hardly listening to me.

  “Do you not realize what this is?” I cried, waving the paper under her nose like a flag. “Proof positive of something we never considered.”

  She took the letter, looked at it hard, and then grew pale. “And what might that be?” she asked quietly.

  “Partridge was Chippendale’s son.” I paused theatrically, expecting her to cry out in astonishment. She said nothing.

  I persisted in a louder tone. “Do you not see, this letter can only have been written by Partridge’s unfortunate mother on her deathbed? It’s here because she sent it to Chippendale. That was why Chippendale couldn’t allow Partridge to marry Dorothy, his sister. Dorothy was his aunt. That was what he meant when he said they were ‘too close.’ ”

  Still Alice was silent. She sat bolt upright in the chair, letter in her lap, staring dead ahead, as expressionless as if I’d said nothing.

  “Alice, do you not comprehend me?” I repeated. “Partridge was Chippendale’s child. The letter here proves it. The wood is another link, and the initials T. C. in the ring must refer to Thomas Chippendale—”

  Suddenly she stood and held up her hand to halt my tirade. “I heard you, Nathaniel,” she said almost wearily. “I’d reached the same conclusion. And, what is more, I believe I know who the unfortunate mother was.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Alice explained then that the handwriting was that of her aunt Charlotte, the same relative who’d made the mirror hanging in her parlor. I realized then why the writing had seemed familiar. I’d seen it before on the design we’d consulted to identify the wood from which the temple box was made.

  Alice had never known the reason for her aunt Charlotte’s sudden departure from London. She had been an infant of scarcely two years when it took place. Afterwards, whenever her aunt’s name was mentioned, it was said she’d acted against the advice of her family, left home under a cloud of disgrace, and died soon after from consumption. The whereabouts of her grave and the identity of her fickle betrothed were never discussed, nor, and here Alice was quite adamant, had any mention of a child ever been made.

  Now she came to think on it, however, Alice recalled that as soon as Chippendale established his business and began to thrive, her father had manifested a curious antipathy towards him. This first showed itself in the unusually sharp tone of his voice when Chippendale came to buy wood, then in a marked reluctance to provide him with supplies unless it was stock of inferior quality—worm-eaten or rotten or poorly seasoned—that he couldn’t sell elsewhere. He had never offered any reason for this dislike, and once Chippendale realized the poor service he was receiving, he took his trade elsewhere. It was only after her father had left on his travels and she learned of the flourishing Chippendale concern that she’d taken it upon herself to reestablish a rapport with his workshop. Now she regretted her actions.

  “You cannot blame yourself for your ignorance,” I said.

  “Had I known, though, I would have felt exactly the same as he. I should never have courted Chippendale’s trade.” She hesitated. “I only wonder why my father never took care of the child after his sister died.”

  “Perhaps he knew nothing of it. Your aunt may have been so shamed by her situation that she was unwilling to confide in anyone after Chippendale rejected her. Or perhaps when she was dying and wrote to Chippendale, telling him of the child’s existence, he assured her he’d take care of the child and she believed it would be unnecessary to bring further disgrace on her own family.”

  Alice sighed heavily, as if she couldn’t quite convince herself. “Could my father have rejected his own sister, Nathaniel? I shudder to believe it of him. Yet if he did not, why was her name so rarely mentioned? Surely being jilted and falling ill would not be sufficient to have made him shy from speaking of her?”

  The confusion in her face made me see she was facing disillusionment in the same way I had on learning of Chippendale’s deception. I loved the way her expressions changed so rapidly and reflected her thoughts so frankly. Watching her now, the realization that, just occasionally, I could understand her spurred me to do my utmost to distract her.

  “We cannot know for certain why Chippendale took on Partridge as an apprentice. Let us view it in the best possible light and believe that he did so deliberately, knowing this talented youth was his son. The fact that he kept Charlotte’s ring and letter for all those years and secreted them in the writing cabinet bears out this theory, does it not? It proves he did feel some pang of remorse.”

  Alice thought about this for a moment. “How can you speak of remorse, bearing in mind the way he treated Partridge? He never viewed him in the same way as his legitimate children. Chippendale may have decided to rid himself of Partridge because he wanted to marry Dorothy, but that was merely an excuse he’d been searching for for some time. Quite
simply, he was jealous of Partridge’s talent and worried that if Partridge stayed in his workshop his own position, and later that of his legitimate offspring, would be usurped.”

  “As jealous of his talented son as Daedalus was of Talos?” I said wryly.

  “Perhaps. Though I still hold the relevance of that story to be no more than a strange coincidence. If you deal a pack of cards on a table or roll a pair of dice, sequences may repeat themselves. Is it destiny, or God, or merely blind chance if a pair of sixes appears twice?”

  Suddenly I didn’t disagree. “You may be right, for there’s another reason that might explain it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Madame Trenti. She was prepared to blackmail Montfort on the subject of his illegitimate child. Who’s to say she didn’t uncover the truth about Partridge and try the same with Chippendale? Perhaps on her visit to the Foundling Hospital she found evidence linking Partridge to Chippendale. She removed the evidence, fearing that if it remained her story that Partridge was Montfort’s son would be ruined. But she used the discovery nonetheless. Knowing how Chippendale’s reputation was of paramount importance to him, she threatened him with the scandal of his illicit liaison. And that would explain his reason for creating for her such a lavish piece of furniture, would it not?”

  I had scarcely finished speaking when I heard the creak of an upstairs door and the slow thud of Chippendale’s boots descending the stair.

  “Hopson, is that your voice I hear? Who’s with you? What are you about? Not thieving my stock, I trust.”

  Instead of calling out to him, I fixed my eyes on Alice’s, held a finger to my lips, and gestured towards the door. She nodded back at me, roundeyed and docile. Taking her hand, I led her out through the side door to the street. “Wait here,” I whispered. “I shan’t keep you long.”

  I stepped back inside and came face-to-face with Chippendale. He was looking down at the writing cabinet’s drawers still spread over the table, and back at the gaping hole from where we’d removed them.