Before the Poison

by Peter Robinson

  ‘They only name Simak and Fletcher.’

  ‘That’s the firm I dealt with.’

  ‘Maybe if I took a utility bill and asked them nicely?’

  Heather laughed. ‘I think it would take more than a utility bill in this case.’

  ‘What about Charlotte? Could she help?’

  Heather shook her head. ‘Family law. She doesn’t do conveyancing. But why does it matter? Are you thinking this mysterious stranger you saw was the old owner come to check out the new one?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’d like to find out who it is and where he or she lives. It’s just another mystery I’d like to get to the bottom of, that’s all.’

  ‘Anyone would think you were a private detective and not a composer.’ Heather remained silent for a moment, then went on. ‘I’ll try. No promises, but I happen to know one of the partners, Michael Simak.’ She gave me a sidelong glance. ‘As a matter of fact, he rather fancies me. Tried to feel me up at a Christmas party once.’

  ‘Charming. I’m not asking you to prostitute yourself for me.’

  ‘I should hope not. Don’t worry, I can handle him. Michael has a loose tongue. A couple of drinks after work one day . . .’

  ‘I’ll pay the bar bill.’

  ‘It’s just here.’ Heather pointed ahead.

  I pulled up on a street of old limestone semis up the hill about half a mile from Charlotte’s house. Somehow, I couldn’t see Heather living here. She didn’t seem to fit in with the pebble-dash and prefab conservatory crowd. She had said she was going to walk home, but it was dark, I told her, the hill was steep, and it was on my way. Besides, I liked to think of myself as chivalrous. I’d only had a couple of glasses of wine all evening, and I had to drive back to Kilnsgate House, anyway.

  I noticed how quiet she had become as we approached the house and remembered what Charlotte had said about her marital problems. Had they had a row about going to the party? Was that why Derek hadn’t been there? ‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

  Heather sighed, then nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you. It’s been a lovely evening.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But I could see even in the streetlight’s weak glow that there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Heather?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  I touched her cheek. It was damp. Then I put two fingers under her chin and turned her face towards me. She unbuckled her seat belt, and the next thing I knew we were kissing. It was a tender and sweet kiss, but there was no mistaking the promise, the need. Her hand curved around my neck, pulling me gently down to her mouth, her tongue flicking under my upper lip. Thinking about the kiss later, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who had initiated it.

  When we moved apart, Heather just stared at me for a long moment, the tears still glistening in her sad eyes, then she got out of the car and ran a few yards down the street to one of the houses. She didn’t look back. I waited until the front door had opened and closed, then I reversed out of the street and continued on my way. Whatever it was, I reflected, it had begun. But who did I think I was fooling? It had begun the moment I had first clapped eyes on her.

  I parked opposite the dark eye of the lime kiln in the light of the moon, but there was nobody up there watching tonight. Inside the house, there were no mysterious figures, either, no signs of a break-in, only the chilly, empty rooms waiting for me. I turned up the thermostat and went into the living room, where I lit a log fire. It was still quite early, only around nine o’clock, and I wasn’t at all tired. I sat at the piano and thought of Heather’s touch, her tears and her kiss, and wished for a moment that I’d invited her back and that she were here with me now, naked on the sheepskin rug before the fire with her red hair spread out in a halo around her head.

  I felt desperately lonely and horny, and, for a moment, the isolation of Kilnsgarthdale I had sought and come to love so much became oppressive and claustrophobic. I longed for America again, for the Californian sun and its special quality of light, its open spaces, longed for Santa Monica, the streets, the ocean, the pier with its carousel, my apartment, my friends, even for the excitement of a rough-cut viewing or a mixing session. And for Laura, always for Laura.

  Foolish thoughts. I dismissed them. I had promised both Charlotte and myself that there would be no affair between Heather and me, and now here I was wavering in my resolve at the first fleeting physical contact. The problem was that I felt right around Heather. I couldn’t really explain it to myself any better than that. Not necessarily comfortable, or even happy – she didn’t drive Laura from my mind – just right.

  I remembered Laura telling me time after time in her long and painful journey towards death that when she was gone I should get on with my life, have girlfriends, have fun, whatever, even remarry if I wanted. I had assured her tearfully that I would, but so far I hadn’t had the impulse. About six months after Laura died, there had been one rather sordid drunken night with a fading B-list actress I knew vaguely, but that was all. Now this. If I were to be honest with myself, I probably felt more guilty because of Laura than because Heather was married. If Charlotte were to be believed, the marriage was on its last legs. I had seen the same thing happen to enough couples back in LA to know that there are some brinks you just don’t come back from.

  But so far it had only been a kiss, I told myself, and a kiss is just a kiss, as the man sang. The decent thing would be to stop at that before things went too far. As Charlotte had already told me, Heather was vulnerable. I could tell that myself by the games she played and by the flip, flirtatious persona she adopted to mask her pain and her insecurity. Stripping that away would only expose her to the raw pain and confusion of the failing marriage, of which I had seen some expression in her tears tonight. I had always been faithful to Laura, and even if Heather and Derek were on the outs, I was not a marriage breaker.

  I had planned on doing a little work on the sonata, but it just wouldn’t come tonight. I was too restless, too distracted. Instead, I put on Charlie Haden and Pat Metheny, poured myself a glass of wine and sat in an armchair by the fire, staring into the flames, haunted by memories of those long-ago childhood Bonfire Nights and of Laura’s face in the glow of 4th July fireworks. It morphed into Grace Fox’s face, and I knew I was lost.

  12

  Famous Trials: Grace Elizabeth Fox, April 1953, by Sir Charles Hamilton Morley

  Denying the jury and the world at large the opportunity to hear at first hand Grace Fox’s account, in her own words, of what really happened in Kilnsgate House on the night of the 1st of January, 1953, might seem to some an oversight in the extreme, but we must bear in mind that there is no legal requirement for the plaintiff to appear in the witness box, and that the burden is on the prosecution to prove their case against the defendant beyond a reasonable doubt.

  The placing of the accused in the witness box, thereby bringing the matter of her character into the proceedings and opening her to cross-examination by the Crown, has always been a matter of contention in the circles of criminal law, and perhaps the general opinion of most barristers is that the defendant should definitely not appear in his or her own defence, odd as this may sound to the layperson.

  Some would argue that putting the defendant in the witness box is a strategy far more often regretted when not done than it is celebrated when done. ‘If only the jury had had the opportunity to see for themselves what an honest, sensitive and upright character my client really is,’ the disappointed barrister may often chide himself after a failure. Yet even the most honest, sensitive and upright among us may tremble, quail and even crack under the strain of a relentless cross-examination by a determined Crown barrister such as Sir Archibald Yorke, QC, and Mr. Sewell knew nothing if he did not know his opponent and his reputation. On the whole, Mr. Sewell put up a valiant effort in Grace’s defence, and he did indeed gain much ground towards the end, but he had too little ammunition at his disposal, and
he simply failed to capitalise on his competent destruction of the medical evidence, which was possibly his finest moment.

  As minor facts are given major significance, as little white lies and omissions loom as large as the shadow of the gallows, as our every word and deed is subject to the most detailed and merciless probing and interpretation – tell me, who among us would not quake at such a prospect?

  In general principle, then, putting the accused before her accusers is frowned upon because it exposes the character and magnifies all blemishes. Why, then, the gentle reader may ask, would a barrister ever decide to put his client on the stand? Because, on occasion, there is the faintest chance that testimony from the accused may tug at the heartstrings of the jury and may thereby tip the delicate balance of mercy in her favour. The accused’s testimony may create compassion on the part of certain jury members and engender seeds of reasonable doubt which, in the deliberations that follow, may result in the jury being unable to come to a unanimous verdict of twelve, as required by law. Might this have happened in the case of Grace Fox? We will never know.

  Mr. Sewell had clearly decided that it was not worth the risk of finding out. If the aloofness and lack of interest exhibited by Grace Fox in court were also features of Mr. Sewell’s private meetings with her, then one can only applaud his judgement. Juries may be willing to forgive a contrite and repentant adulteress, but not an arrogant and detached one. Juries want tears, protestations of innocence, much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but Grace Fox had not given them that, and there was no reason to assume that she would be any different in the witness box. So she remained a lonely and forlorn figure in the dock.

  Mr. Justice Venable’s summing up was as fair and unbiased with regard to matters of law as we have come to expect from the members of our senior judiciary. He apportioned the correct weight to each scrap of evidence presented to the court, and his summary was a model of conciseness and clarity from which we could all learn a great deal.

  On the other hand, it is perhaps fair to say that the judge demonstrated little sympathy for the characters of Grace Fox and Samuel Porter. If Grace did, as the police and the prosecution contended, administer to her husband a large dose of deadly potassium chloride after first sedating him with chloral hydrate, then this, in itself, Mr. Justice Venables declared, was a devilish plot, which must have taken a great deal of planning and cunning to bring to fruition, evidence in itself of the killer’s determination and cold-blooded premeditation.

  According to the Crown, Grace Fox had also selected witnesses to her cleverly staged and cynical attempt to revive her husband for show, the judge said, when in fact she wanted him dead. Mr. Justice Venables also alluded to Grace’s capability as a nurse, the knowledge she had gained when she had worked for a spell in a hospital dispensary during her training. She had access to her husband’s surgery, and she clearly knew the properties of the various lethal substances therein.

  Mr. Justice Venables also spoke at length of the night that Grace and Samuel had spent at Mrs. Compton’s guest house in Leyburn, of the frenzied orgy of sexual intercourse they had clearly experienced there, and asked whether it were not reasonable to assume that a woman under the sway of such a passion would not undertake such a desperate course of action as murder if she found herself under threat of imminent separation from the object of her ardour?

  The judge also dealt with another important legal matter in his summing up. Not calling the defendant raises its own problems, not the least of which being that the jury assumes the accused, by not standing up and speaking out for herself, has something to hide and must, therefore, be guilty. The judge was careful to discount this. When it came to Grace Fox’s silence, he was quick to remind the jury that, while they had not heard from the accused herself, they were not to take this as any indication whatsoever of her guilt. It was a legal matter, purely, and perfectly within her rights. He also went on to warn them that he could understand why they might have no sympathy for an immoral woman like Grace Fox, but that however much they found her character and actions abhorrent, they should lay this prejudice aside, and this serious defect in her character should not necessarily make them more ready to convict her of the crime, unless they felt compelled to do so by the evidence they had heard.

  So it ended. The jury was out for one hour and seventeen minutes before returning with a verdict of guilty. Mr. Justice Venables grimaced, called for his black cap and pronounced sentence of death. Grace Fox gripped the rail, and one tear rolled over the lower rim of her left eye and down her cheek. Then she was taken down by the bailiffs.

  November 2010

  Over the next few days, the weather took a turn for the worse, with gale-force winds, heavy rains, and hailstones the size of cricket balls. I didn’t go out much, but I did make one quick foray into town when the man from Richmond Books phoned to tell me that he had got hold of the edition of Famous Trials I had asked for. He recognised me straight away and brought out the rather tattered old paperback, for which he wanted £3.50, which seemed reasonable to me. I also bought a couple of other books, as my reading material was running low: Alan Sillitoe’s Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, because I hadn’t read it since I was at school, and Kazuo Ishigura’s Nocturnes because I was a sucker for stories with a musical context.

  Back at Kilnsgate, with the rain hammering against the French windows, I sat by the fire and spent the rest of the afternoon reading Sir Charles Hamilton Morley’s account of Grace’s trial. When I had finished, I was not much the wiser as regards what made Grace tick, but I did know a lot more about the evidence against her and the way the trial had been conducted.

  The prosecution presented a strong case based on very little evidence and a great deal of innuendo, and, to my mind, the defence was lacklustre. The evidence was at best circumstantial, more a matter of absences rather than presences, but the prosecution made a good of job of presenting it in a damning light, and the defence barrister did very little to demolish the house of cards he built except for a few of the more outrageous scientific theories.

  I put the volume aside and went up to the old sewing room, where I tracked down on my laptop what I could about the author of the piece: Sir Charles Hamilton Morley. He was born in Edinburgh in 1891, the son of a Scottish banker and an English noblewoman. Educated at Eton and Oxford, he was called to the bar in 1913. After surviving the First World War, in which he was awarded a Military Cross, he enjoyed a distinguished legal career in which he first took silk and was then appointed to the bench in 1936. He retired owing to ill health in 1947, at the age of fifty-six, then turned his talents to writing, producing several potboilers in the John Buchan mould, a three-volume history of the English legal system, and a number of volumes in the Famous Trials series. Ill-health or not, he lived to the ripe old age of eighty-three and died peacefully at his country house in Buckinghamshire in 1974. One unusual fact about him emerged: Sir Charles was known for his strong opposition to the death penalty in his later years.

  Perhaps I was typecasting Morley, but it wasn’t hard to imagine what a man from such a rigorously disciplined and privileged background as his would make of a woman like Grace Fox. Still, I reminded myself, Morley wasn’t the judge at her trial; he wasn’t the one who sentenced her to death; he was merely the voice that brought it all to life.

  Over the following couple of days, I worked on the sonata and made a few minor harmonic breakthroughs, skirting the edges of atonality, but not quite crossing the borderline. Sometimes I spent a little time in the TV room watching old movies: This Sporting Life, The Go-Between and Whistle Down the Wind, with its haunting theme by Malcolm Arnold. Now there was man who had written plenty of music people listened to. I remembered what Bernard Herrmann had said about there being no such thing as a ‘film composer’, that you were either a composer or you were not. That made me feel a bit better about myself and more confident about the sonata. I was a composer, I told myself.

  In the evenings, I lit a fire in the living
room and read a story from Nocturnes, or reread sections of Morley. The more I read it, the more I became certain that Sam Porter was right, and that the authorities had decided in advance that Grace was guilty, then set out a case to prove it. They hadn’t even bothered to investigate any other lines of enquiry, the possibility that someone else may have done it, or that Ernest Fox may have died of natural causes.

  I remember talking to an acquaintance at a party once – a high-profile criminal lawyer who had defended a number of Hollywood celebrities – and he told me what a dangerous tactic it was for the defence to conduct its case by trying to implicate somebody other than the defendant. You certainly couldn’t rely on the kind of witness-box confessions that Perry Mason always seemed to winkle out of some apparently innocent bystander who couldn’t keep his or her mouth shut.

  The main problem, my lawyer acquaintance said, was that if you tried to suggest that someone else did it, and you failed, then the jury’s suspicion would inevitably fall back on the only other person involved: the accused. It is also, my acquaintance told me, practically impossible to conduct a two-pronged approach – defence of the client and prosecution of another – without the DA’s, or in this case the Crown’s, resources. Montague Sewell, Grace Fox’s barrister, hadn’t had such resources, so he had simply done the best job he could under the circumstances. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t a very good one, and even Morley seemed to regard him as somewhat of a lightweight.

  Why hadn’t Grace spoken out? That was the one thing that still bothered me in all the accounts I had come across so far – Wilf Pelham’s, Sam Porter’s, Sir Charles Hamilton Morley’s. Grace’s silence. Why hadn’t she stood up there, in court, in the police station, in the street, on the rooftops, and shouted it out for all to hear, ‘I am innocent! I didn’t do it! I did not murder my husband!’

  No doubt she had her reasons, but still her silence, easily mistaken for indifference, bothered me. Maybe Grace had felt confident that the whole world would see she was innocent and set her free, at least during the early stages of the trial. She hadn’t gone in pleading not guilty and expecting to be hanged, but her attempts to prove her own innocence had been half-hearted, to say the least. I understood the arguments Morley had laid out against the defendant entering the witness box and exposing herself to questions of character from the prosecution, but surely, I thought, Grace’s presence in front of the jury, her honesty, directness, beauty and tenderness, might have played on their heartstrings, helped convince the twelve people good and true that she wasn’t a murderess? We would at least have heard her voice, heard her story, and not been left with only this troubling silence.