Before the Poison

by Peter Robinson

  She had also washed the glass Dr. Fox had used to take his stomach powder in a small amount of whisky and milk. It was what she would normally have done, she said, and who was to prove her wrong? After all, she went on, as far as she was concerned, she was not expecting to face such a rigorous investigation, or any investigation at all, for that matter, and she was overwhelmed by shock and grief over the sudden death of her husband. She said she knew nothing about the chloral hydrate, but that her husband occasionally took a sleeping draught.

  As soon as news of the police investigation spread, ugly rumours started doing the rounds: Grace had a string of lovers in addition to Samuel Porter, people whispered, and her latest was a handsome young soldier with a mysterious birthmark on his hairline, with whom she had been seen in deep conversation on Castle Walk only a few days before her husband’s murder. It was left up to the police to sort out the truth from the mere baseless gossip, and in the end none of this so-called ‘evidence’ of Grace Fox’s promiscuity was actually allowed in court.

  When it was clear that the police were quickly becoming suspicious that there may have been more to Ernest’s death than the chance misfortune of a heart attack, it was Felicity who first suggested that Grace hire a solicitor, which she immediately did. Afer this, any police interviews were carefully monitored by Mr. Rathbone, and Grace had little of interest to add to any of her earlier statements except to maintain that she had merely done her duty and had done nothing wrong.

  Grace Fox was finally arrested and formally charged with the murder of her husband Dr. Ernest Fox on Tuesday, 20th January, 1953. She appeared before the magistrate the following day and was remanded into custody.

  Even at this early stage, the evidence against her appeared damning. In the first instance, she had a clear motive. Her affair with Samuel Porter was threatened by the impending move, and they shared a mutual desire to be rid of her husband without losing access to his money. In the second instance, she had the means. Grace Fox was a trained nurse, well versed in the contents of a medical dispensary and possessed of the knowledge of how to use them. An extensive range of drugs, some of which could be fatal under certain circumstances, or under the wrong conditions, were available in Dr. Fox’s medical bag, or even at his surgery, to which Grace Fox also had easy access before the dinner on 1st January. In the third instance, Grace Fox had ample opportunity. It was she who brought him the stomach powder. Nobody saw her tend to him while he was dying; nobody actually saw her administer the nitroglycerine or the digitalis to him.

  The two syringes in Dr. Fox’s medical bag were both sterile, and though this did not preclude that one had been used and replaced after cleaning, it certainly could not be said to prove it, either. Digitalis and nitroglycerine were also found in his bag, but that was, of course, where one would expect them to be. Dr. Nelson confirmed that Dr. Fox usually carried two syringes, along with digitalis and nitroglycerine in case of emergencies. Sometimes, in the high dales, he said, you might be called to treat a heart attack victim, and these were usually the first lines of defence. Of course, we have only Grace Fox’s word that she did all she could to save her husband’s life. Alice Lambert admitted to seeing the paper in which Dr. Fox’s stomach powder was folded, and which may well have contained traces of chloral hydrate, too, but this was not found in any subsequent searches of Kilnsgate House.

  Whether Grace hastened her husband’s demise through the introduction of poison into his system was to become a subject of much contention during the trial. While the pathologist, Dr. Masefield, during his second post-mortem, did find traces of chloral hydrate in Dr. Fox’s system as well as digitalis, he did not find any fatal substances. He did remark on the relatively high level of potassium, but he also admitted that this was often the case after death, especially after a heart attack, because the blood cells burst and the tissues break down, releasing high quantities of potassium into the system. While the cold conditions under which Dr. Fox’s body had been stored slowed down this process, they did not prevent it entirely. Thus, the defence that Grace would not have preserved her husband’s body under such conditions had she wanted to destroy any evidence of poisons she may have introduced into his system was rendered void. She must have believed that she had committed the perfect crime, that there would be no investigation, until the Leyburn landlady’s suspicions piqued the police’s interest.

  The case that the Crown was about to bring against Grace Elizabeth Fox had all the elements to guarantee a conviction. Sir Archibald Yorke, QC, would set out to argue that the accused wanted to be rid of her husband, that she had free and easy access to chloral hydrate, which she added to the victim’s stomach powder to sedate him so that he would not feel the sting of a later injection of potassium (for to be effective as an agent of death, potassium must be injected intravenously). Whether the indigestion itself was caused by some medical agent, or simply by a certain low cunning in the devising of the evening’s rich menu, was never decided one way or the other.

  And so the stage was set for the trial to begin at Leeds Crown Court, on 16th March, 1953.

  October 2010

  The evening after my dinner with Sam Porter, I took the train from Paris Montparnasse to Angoulême, and my brother Graham was waiting for me at the station. It was spotting with rain as we drove through narrow streets past the Romanesque buildings, the beautiful Cathedral of St Pierre, high on the cone-shaped hill, a dark shadow hulking over us. Graham lived outside a village in the Charente valley, about half an hour’s drive from town, not far from the river itself, and his cottage had a view of the distant meadows and vineyards. It was a beautiful rural landscape, but not at all like the Yorkshire Dales. I had spent most of the day walking around Paris, including visits to the Cimitière de Montparnasse, the riverside bookstalls Laura used to love, and the Luxemburg Gardens, which I loved, followed by a long lunch on the Boulevard St Germain at a café with a glassed-in dining area at the front, people-watching.

  It was well after dark when we got to the old stone farmhouse. Graham led me through to the kitchen, where Siobhan was already busy over the old Aga-style stove. She put down her oven mitts and hurried forward to give me a big hug. ‘You’re looking good, Chris,’ she said, prodding my belly. ‘Been losing weight?’

  ‘I doubt it. And I’ve been very sloppy about exercising regularly, too.’

  ‘We’ll soon put a bit more meat on your bones tonight,’ she said, turning back to the stove.

  Siobhan was a terrific cook, as Laura and I had told her on the many occasions we had dined there over the years, and tonight she said she was concocting a rabbit stew with red wine, shallots, locally picked mushrooms and her special mix of herbs from the garden. It smelled delicious. I knew there would be a plate of wonderful cheeses after the main course, too, and perhaps a bisque or foie gras with crusty bread to start.

  ‘Dinner won’t be long,’ said Graham, ushering me into the lounge. ‘In the meantime we’ll leave Siobhan to work her magic and have a splash of vino.’

  ‘Honestly, you lot drink even more than the English, and that’s saying something,’ I said.

  ‘Now don’t you go bringing your American New Age Puritanism rubbish over here. It won’t go down at all well, you know. Anyone would say you’ve been in California too long.’

  I laughed as he passed me the bottle. ‘They make wine there, too, you know, or are you lot just too snobbish to acknowledge it?’

  ‘New World wines have their place,’ said Graham, and left it at that.

  The bottle didn’t have a label, but I knew it would be good. The first taste told me it was. Graham doesn’t make his own wine – he insists that home-made wine always tastes like home-made wine – but he does know a lot of people in the business, as he was once a successful wine merchant in Oxford.

  We relaxed in the well-worn armchairs by the fireplace, in which logs were blazing away, there being a bit of an autumn chill in the valley. Graham shared my love of music, classical in particular
– he was quite a good pianist himself – and I recognised the Elgar violin sonata playing softly in the background. The lamps were shaded, filtering the light to a warm orange glow. A well-thumbed paperback copy of Balzac’s Lost Illusions lay face down on the table beside the chair, about a third read. Occasionally a log shifted and sighed, or crackled and spat out sparks on to the hearth.

  I could feel the city life and the stress of travel drop away like weights from my shoulders as I sipped the wine and massaged the back of my neck with my free hand. ‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘how two city boys like us have both ended up living in the country.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Graham. ‘It was never really my intention, but . . . too good a bargain to pass up. And I must say, I don’t miss the city at all.’

  ‘Me neither, so far,’ I said, thinking more of Los Angeles, or Santa Monica, than of anywhere else. After all, it had been my home for over thirty years. And Santa Monica was fine in its way. Small enough, far enough from Hollywood, with plenty of excellent local restaurants and pubs, the Pacific Ocean rolling in practically at my feet, and a climate that suited my British blood perfectly, though it was too cold for many Angelinos. But it was true that I didn’t miss the place, that I hardly thought about it at all, and when I did it was because I was thinking of Laura. Even then, my memories veered more towards Milwaukee, where we had met, or to our holidays in New England, where her family lived, Boston mostly, with its snowbound winters and chill winds off the Atlantic. No, I didn’t miss America, but I missed my wife.

  Graham’s living room was no place for such mawkish reminiscence and recrimination. I soon polished off the first glass of wine, and Graham poured me a second as we continued talking about country life. I had seen the village, about half a mile down the road, many times, and it was like a cliché of French provincial life. A stretch of sere, well-trodden grass shaded by trees, where old men in berets played boules, a café with rickety tables outside where everyone sat and shared local gossip, the boulangerie, which, of course, made the best baguettes in the whole of France, a charcuterie, a small épicerie full of local seasonal produce and a few imported items, and a more modern minimart, which sold everything from paper clips to wine. Then, of course, there was the ancient église, that other essential hub of the French village. By eight in the evening the centre was usually deserted as people watched their TVs at home, apart from a few late diners and pipe-smokers outside the café, if it was a particularly warm evening, no doubt arguing the merits of Proust over Flaubert. If you wanted a night on the town, you went to Angoulême. Even Cognac wasn’t that far away. If you really wanted to push the boat out, you went to Poitiers or La Rochelle.

  But in Graham’s little farmhouse, even the village felt distant, and all I could hear outside was the wind in the trees and the occasional call of a night bird.

  Over a delicious dinner, we caught up with family gossip – Mother, my kids and theirs. The cheese plate was excellent, as expected: runny Camembert, a rich Roquefort and tasty Port Salut. Graham and I cleared away the dishes and put them in the machine, then Siobhan said it was time for her to go to bed.

  Graham looked at me. ‘Tired, little brother?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ I said.

  He stood up. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s you and me have a serious nightcap and a bit of man talk.’

  Siobhan rolled her eyes, gave us each a peck on the cheek and said goodnight.

  I followed Graham into the living room.

  Graham selected a bottle of cognac and a couple of crystal glasses from his well-stocked liquor cabinet, then he put a couple more logs on the fire and slipped in a Cecilia Bartoli CD. Graham might love his music, but he hasn’t quite caught up with the iPod generation yet.

  ‘So,’ he said, pouring a couple of large shots before we settled down in our respective armchairs. ‘Are you still chasing your ghosts?’

  ‘I don’t think I ever was,’ I said. ‘But if you mean am I still interested in the Grace Fox case, then the answer’s yes. Perhaps even more so now than ever.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  I told him all about my conversation with Sam Porter and the conclusions I had drawn about Grace’s innocence. I also mentioned the noises in Kilnsgate and the piano I thought I’d heard. Graham might dismiss these as the products of an overheated imagination, but at least he wouldn’t laugh at me.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose he would be biased at all, would he?’ Graham said. ‘Plus the fact that he must be about ninety by now, and he’s probably gaga.’

  ‘Very funny. He may be biased. But that’s beside the point. You’d expect someone in his position to defend the woman he loves no matter what. I understand that, too. But Sam’s level headed enough, and there’s nothing wrong with his memory as far as I can tell. And, by the way, he’s seventy-eight.’

  Graham whistled between his teeth. ‘Wow. A toyboy.’

  ‘He certainly was sixty years ago. But no matter what you call him, his feelings for Grace were genuine enough.’

  ‘Don’t be so defensive, little brother. I wasn’t saying they weren’t. So you think she was innocent, too?’

  ‘All I can say is that the more I get to know her, the less I can envisage her murdering her husband. I know it sounds vague, but . . . there it is. And Sam has no reason to lie. Especially not now, so long after the events.’

  ‘How about to protect his old lover’s memory? Or he may believe he’s telling the truth. It’s amazing the things you can convince yourself are true over the years if you repeat them to yourself often enough. I was in New York when Woodstock happened, you know, and I used to tell the girls back in England that I’d been there. Impressed the hell out of them all the way to the bedroom. I hadn’t, of course, but in the end I even sort of half-believed it myself. I could see and hear Hendrix playing the “Star Spangled Banner” in my sleep. Maybe Sam Porter has convinced himself over the years that Grace Fox was pure as the driven snow?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Grace had her problems. But she was certainly no slut. Or a murderess.’

  Graham paused and sipped some cognac. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s one big question you’re raising by refusing to believe the official version.’

  ‘I think I know where you’re going.’

  ‘If Grace didn’t do it, then who did?’

  ‘I don’t see why anyone had to have done it. I don’t know all the details yet, but I don’t see why it couldn’t have been natural causes. She tried to save him, but she was too late.’

  ‘Clearly the police and the pathologist didn’t think so.’

  ‘Because they were only looking for evidence to make a case against Grace. What if they were wrong?’

  ‘But what if it was murder? Who could have done it but Grace?’

  ‘Well, the Foxes had some friends over for dinner that night. I don’t know how many. There was also a maidservant.’

  ‘So you’re saying there are other suspects?’

  ‘I’m saying there could be, that’s all. If it wasn’t natural causes.’

  ‘Did any of them have a motive?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’

  ‘So what do you think really happened?’

  ‘A miscarriage of justice. I think that after the landlady’s accusation, the police started to look for evidence to fit their theory. It’s hardly unusual, that sort of blinkered approach. Remember, it was only after she came forward that any suspicions at all were raised. Before that, everyone was quite happy to accept the verdict of a heart attack.’

  ‘But let’s face it, Chris, in real life, if there’s a murder, ninety-nine per cent of the time it was done by someone close to the victim. The husband or the wife. The police know that. They probably even knew it in 1953. Here,’ Graham said, getting up and bringing the bottle over. ‘Have a drop more.’ I held out my glass. He poured me more than a drop, then some for himself, and sat down again. ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, Chris. Maybe I’m just
playing devil’s advocate. But don’t you think you ought to be careful not to get obsessed by this?’

  ‘Do you think I’m obsessed?’

  ‘You’re certainly letting your imagination run away with you on very little basis in fact, but then you always did. These things that go bump in the night. The piano. I’ve often thought that you have a degree or two more sensitivity to the twilight zone than most of us do. Ever since you were a child.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you remember what happened when you were four?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  He pointed to my hand, to the long scar in the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Don’t you remember where you got that?’

  I looked at the curving white line. As far as I knew, I had always had it. ‘No,’ I said, feeling a little apprehensive, as if I were on the verge of a revelation from which there was no return. ‘I take it you remember. Care to tell me about it?’

  A log shifted in the grate. Graham put another one on, and it started to crackle and spit smoke. Shadows cast by the flames flickered over the walls. The curtains were open, and I could see stars in the clear night sky.

  ‘You were four,’ Graham began, ‘and we were on our summer holidays, staying at a bed and board in Scarborough. It was a large house behind the seafront on the North Beach.’

  ‘We always stayed on the North Beach,’ I said. ‘Mum and Dad thought it was far more genteel, remember? We wanted to be near the amusements and the shops, but they said the South Beach was too common.’

  ‘That was later, when you were a bit older, but yes, we always stayed on the North Beach. You liked the open-air swimming pool and Peasholme Park well enough.’