Before the Poison

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Sometimes it takes a lot of digging to uncover a motive.’

  ‘Even so . . .’

  ‘Everyone focused on Grace and her affair with Sam. But what about Ernest Fox? He must have had plenty of opportunities to put it about. Were there any rumours? Anything about him bedding any of the lovely ladies of Swaledale?’

  ‘Not as I recall. At least, I never heard owt about him chasing women. But he was away a lot. I mean, he could have got up to anything then, couldn’t he?’

  ‘I thought he was supposed to be a local GP?’

  ‘He was, but he did a lot of consulting. Travelled a lot. To be honest, during the war and after, Dr Nelson carried the practice.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted Ernest Fox dead?’

  ‘Plenty. But none of them were at Kilnsgate House on the night he died.’

  ‘What was Dr Nelson like?’

  ‘Cliff Nelson? He was a steady, dependable, dedicated sort, a bit dull, if truth be told. But he was a gentleman, and full of common sense. Lived down by the green. As I said, he practically carried the practice through the war, and after, for that matter. You never saw his wife Mary much. She worked behind the scenes, doing the books, keeping house, taking care of the kids.’

  ‘They had children?’

  ‘Three boys.’

  ‘There were no rumours, no gossip?’

  ‘Dr Fox and Mary? No. I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree there.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. What about Grace and Dr Nelson?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Their relationship.’

  ‘They got on well, as far as I know. Cliff used to play piano a little, too, so he and Grace had that musical connection. They were friends. I think she also felt she could talk to him. He and her husband weren’t always on the best of terms.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I should think because most of the burden fell on Cliff Nelson’s shoulders. One thing,’ Wilf went on, ‘I don’t know if it would have made any difference, but Dr Nelson told me not long after the whole business that he had offered to appear as a character reference for Grace at her trial. He was convinced she was innocent.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was told that the defence didn’t plan on using any men as character witnesses. That it wouldn’t look good.’

  ‘I suppose they had a point. Did Grace actually have many female friends?’

  ‘Not as I recall. There was Alice, and Mary, I suppose, and one or two ladies from the Operatic Society. But she was more of a man’s woman – and I don’t mean that in a bad way.’

  ‘Was she really as free and easy as people said?’

  ‘Free and easy? Depends what you mean, and how you construe it. Grace didn’t walk around town with her nose stuck in the air like some, and maybe as some would have expected from a doctor’s wife. Like I said, she’d even pass the time of day with the likes of me at a subscription concert, while the rest of them ignored anyone they felt beneath their social standing. I’m not saying Grace wasn’t a snob in some ways – she certainly appreciated her place in society – but not when it came to people. She had a big heart. She’d help anyone, talk to anyone. If that’s free and easy.’

  ‘Sleep with anyone?’

  ‘No. It was nothing but scurrilous nonsense,’ Wilf said indignantly. ‘A load of bollocks. Grace Fox was not a whore. She may have been many things, including an adulteress and a murderer, but she was not a whore. Grace and Sam had an affair, OK, but that wasn’t a symptom of bad character. He wasn’t a notch on her bedpost. They were in love, for crying out loud.’

  ‘Did you ever have an affair with Grace, Wilf?’

  ‘Me? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Were you in love with her?’

  Wilf turned away and fell silent. He grimaced and put his hand to his stomach. ‘Thanks for the Guinness,’ he said, ‘but I think you’d better leave now. I’m feeling a bit poorly.’

  Well done, Lowndes, I said to myself on the way out. Now you’ve managed to piss off one of the only two people you’ve met who actually knew Grace Fox.

  13

  Extract from the journal of Grace Elizabeth Fox (ed. Louise King), July–August, 1940. Liverpool and at sea

  Monday, 29th July, 1940

  Well, here I am, at sea finally, heading Lord knows where. I set off from the training hospital in Netley under cover of darkness two days ago, after being woken and told to pack in the middle of the night. We arrived in Liverpool late the following morning. I was billeted in a terrible hotel near the docks, sharing with a girl called Kathleen, whom I had met during training. Kathleen is a statuesque blonde, very beautiful, but somewhat austere. I have already heard one of the officers call her an ‘ice maiden’, which I do not think fair. She has a terrific sense of humour and a most startling laugh, rather like the braying of a horse. The hotel was so bad that we had to wedge a chair under our door handle every night to keep out the sailors who thought we were there for their pleasure. We could not get a wink of sleep, but we did laugh a lot.

  This afternoon we boarded the Empress of Australia, a luxury ocean liner converted into a troop carrier. Luckily for us, the luxury has not all been stripped away, like the fine china and crystal, to be stored safely until the end of the war. I am to share a first-class cabin with Brenda, another girl I met during training. Brenda is a great deal more untidy than I am, and it will be a hard task to get her to pick her clothes up from the floor and chairs and keep her toiletries from spreading all over the bathroom.

  Brenda and Kathleen and my other friend, Doris, are all single, and they seemed most surprised to hear that I am married, and that I would leave my husband to go to war. I told them that if the men could leave their wives at home, then I could leave my husband. What use would I be back there, anyway, buried in the Yorkshire countryside, when it is out here that men are dying and there are lives to be saved? Besides, I know that Hetty will take good care of Ernest.

  There are fifty-five sisters on board and Lord knows how many officers and serving men. Lots of the sisters are thrilled at the prospect of all these handsome young men paying them attention. There will be dances, dinners and romance, no doubt. Matron has already singled me out and has given me a stern talking to. I am to be the responsible one. I am to set an example. I am to keep my eye on some of the flightier, more wayward girls and direct them away from any foolish courses of action they might consider in the heat of shipboard romance. Lucky me! How boring! Already there is talk of finding a pool of talent and putting on a small concert in a few days. Doris blabbed about my playing the piano and singing, so I have already been approached and roped in by the committee. Some of the officers who play instruments are forming a small dance band.

  We are sailing in darkness with an escort of destroyers because of the U-boat danger. The vast dark sea surrounds us, moonlight sparkling on its surface, the lights of England fast disappearing behind us. The motion of the ship is easy and very calming as I lie here in my soft bed and write this. I can hardly wait until tomorrow to explore the ship. Lord only knows where we are going and what awaits us at the end of our voyage!

  Friday, 2nd August, 1940

  The weather started out quite dull and cool for this time of year, the sea became rough, and some of the less hardy women and men were terribly seasick. It was also quite chilly on deck, but with every day, it has been getting warmer outside, and now the ocean is less grey, more aquamarine and turquoise, and much more placid. We have been at sea for four days now, and I still have no idea where we are. We have not been told what our course is, or where it will take us. Sometimes the other ships in the convoy seem close enough to see us wave at them; other times we can’t see them at all and worry in case they have been attacked by U-boats.

  Yesterday we passed a distant group of islands. Someone said it was the Azores, but I am not sure that is true. Could we have travelled that far so quickly? You would be
surprised how many rumours do the rounds every day in the close confines of a ship where nobody knows their destination! I have looked at maps and a compass, and all I can tell is that we are heading generally south-west, so it may have been the Canaries or the Madeira Islands, and we must be on our way to Africa. Last night I saw phosphorescence in the ocean, a green will-o’-the-wisp shimmering over the water’s surface, like Coleridge’s poem come to life, all under a canopy of sparkling stars and a sickle moon.

  The days pass in a glorious haze of indolence and pleasure. We have lectures, and duties to perform in the sick bay, of course, but there are no serious cases, and we have plenty of time to ourselves. First thing every morning, a drill sergeant leads us in physical training exercises on deck. It is remarkable how so many of the men seem to be up and around so early, pretending to stare out to sea! After breakfast and lectures, I play tennis, usually with Brenda or Kathleen, but I am quite thrilled to find myself able to beat some of the strapping young male officers. Doris, too, is enjoying herself, swimming in the large pool, reading, writing letters to her sweetheart every day. She says she feels like royalty.

  We also have a small library on board. At first I was disappointed to find nothing I have not already read by Mr. Greene, Mr. Waugh or Mr. Maugham, and far too many books by Mrs. Christie and her ilk, but on Doris’s recommendation, I have finally settled on Trollope, whom I have avoided for years, perhaps because of his unfortunate name. Anyway, I have started Can You Forgive Her? and I am already deeply fascinated by the Palliser family. I find Trollope perfect company for the long days at sea. He is so very English, too, and almost makes me feel homesick at times. The news we hear from home is not very encouraging. There seem to be regular bombing raids on our cities, though I am sure that Ernest will be quite safe in Kilnsgate.

  November 2010

  Heather rang me around six o’clock a couple of days after I had talked with Wilf Pelham.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said.

  ‘Heather. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Good.’

  ‘Have you managed to get any information about the vendor?’

  ‘Is that all you’re interested in?’

  ‘Of course not. I just thought . . .’

  ‘Oh, never mind. Yes, I think I might have some information for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not so fast. What’s it worth?’

  ‘Heather, stop teasing.’

  ‘Buy me dinner tonight and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘What about Derek?’

  Heather fell silent for a moment, then said stonily, ‘Golf club dinner.’

  ‘You’re not invited?’

  ‘Golf bores me.’

  ‘OK. Where and when?’

  ‘Try not to sound so thrilled by the prospect. I’m just about finished with a viewing in the Garrison,’ Heather said. ‘How about you meet me at the Station in half an hour?’

  ‘Half an hour? Fine. I’ll see you there.’

  I hadn’t been out since talking to Wilf, had mostly wandered the house from room to room, task to task, the sonata, emails to friends in the US, a phone call to my mother, another to Graham and Siobhan, a chat with my director friend Dave Packer about a possible future project, that sort of thing. I had also invited Dave and his wife Melissa for Christmas, though I doubted they would be able to come. Even if Dave were free, which was unlikely, Melissa was a very big movie star and probably wouldn’t be able to get away, or even want to come to remote, wintry Yorkshire, for that matter.

  The previous evening I had watched a young Diana Dors in Yield to the Night and enjoyed it every bit as much as Tread Softly Stranger. Blonde Sinner, they called Yield to the Night in America, where they always did have a flair for avoiding the poetic. Diana Dors never did very well over there, anyway; there were too many other blonde bombshells around America in the fifties. But she was terrific in this tale of lust, jealousy and murder, spending most of the time looking rather dowdy in a condemned cell, reflecting upon the events that led her there. It was a little like the Ruth Ellis case, and much too close to Grace Fox’s story. It disturbed me, and I slept badly that night, troubled by vivid dreams and eerie noises. I couldn’t figure out whether they were part of the dreams or part of the house.

  It was, of course, pitch dark and pouring down outside when I set off to meet Heather. By habit, I glanced towards the hump of the lime kiln as I got into the Volvo, but saw no shadowy figure. It had been a while since the visitation, and I was beginning to believe that Heather was right, that it had simply been a lost tourist or an archaeologist.

  The Station really had been the local railway station until Dr Beeching’s cuts in the sixties, and the branch line to Darlington had been closed in 1969. Now the small 1850s building was home to a kind of cultural centre, with exhibitions of local paintings on its open upper level, on the gallery above the restaurant, occasional antiquarian book fairs, two small cinemas showing relatively new movies, and even a bakery, the smell from which was enticing.

  It took me a while to find a parking spot, but I finally managed to get one down by the swimming pool and the Liberty Health Centre, which I had so far put off joining. I was still about five minutes early, even after I made the dash through the rain to the entrance, so I got a glass of wine from the bar and took a table at the back of the restaurant.

  Heather was only ten minutes late. I saw her lower her umbrella and scan the area for me as she entered the building. She finally saw me through one of the gaps in the hangings that partially screen off the restaurant, waved and headed over. She was wearing black slacks and a matching jacket, narrowed at the waist, over a plain white blouse, very businesslike. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, which showed off the freckles over her nose and made her look about ten years younger, and she carried a leather briefcase.

  ‘Well, hello again, you. What a day.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  Heather sat down opposite me. ‘Just busy. Mostly on your behalf, by the way. I could murder a glass of Chardonnay.’

  Not one to miss my cue, I went to the counter and got her a large glass. It was an odd sort of set-up for a restaurant, because you had to go over to the counter to order your meal and to get your wine. But then I had spent many years in America, where you get used to waiters or waitresses bringing you drinks, even in fake English pubs. The meals, mercifully, are delivered to the table. We browsed the menu, and Heather asked for a salmon and crayfish salad while I went for a cheese and bacon burger. When I went back to the counter to order, I also picked up a bottle of wine. It would save me any more trips. I had been drinking red, but I knew that Heather preferred white, and Chardonnay was fine with me.

  ‘So what’s this information you’ve got for me?’ I asked after I had sat down again.

  Heather flashed me with her green eyes. ‘Hold your horses. Don’t you want to know how I’m doing first?’

  I smiled. ‘How are you doing, Heather?’

  ‘Not so bad, thank you for asking.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘About the other night . . .’

  She put a finger to her lips. ‘Ssshhh. Let’s not talk about that.’

  I didn’t know whether she meant the tears or the kiss. I wanted to talk about both. Maybe I’d been living in America for too long and had picked up too many foreign ways, but I was quickly remembering that Yorkshiremen don’t talk about things like that. About anything emotional, for that matter. Yorkshirewomen neither, it seemed. ‘Whatever you say.’

  We sipped our wine in silence for a while, not exactly tense, but not comfortable, either. Conversations and laughter ebbed and flowed around us. Heather gestured over to the movie theatres behind me. ‘Did you notice what’s playing?’

  I shook my head. It had been dark and raining, and I hadn’t bothered to look.

  ‘Death Knows My Name,’ she said.

  I put my hands to my head and groaned. ‘Oh, my God, no.’ It was the most recent movie Dave and I had done together
, a couple of biggish names, including Dave’s wife Melissa, a bunch of young hopefuls, and a very old-fashioned score to suit an old-fashioned atmospheric thriller. There were chases, love scenes, fear, panic, creepy moments, sudden reversals, unexpected climaxes, all mirrored in the music. It wasn’t exactly done by rote, but it hadn’t taken a great deal of originality or soul-searching. Which was just as well, as I hadn’t been able to muster any originality or soul-searching in the months after Laura’s death, when I had written it. Definitely not one of my favourites, but as it happened, it was a big hit. The American public had seemed to enjoy it, and it had done extremely well at the box office. It had only just been released in the UK.

  ‘Maybe we can go and see it after dinner?’ Heather said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know. Go to the movies. Me and you. Sit on the back row and neck.’

  I must have blushed because she laughed and touched my arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’m only teasing. I won’t molest you. I just think it would be really cool to go and see a movie with the guy who wrote the music, that’s all. Won’t you indulge me? Just this once.’

  ‘I’ve already seen it.’

  ‘Chris, please?’

  The way her green eyes were imploring me as she spoke, I couldn’t find it in myself to say no. I already knew that my own opinions of my work often didn’t match those of the public or the critics, or even my friends, so there was no sense in telling her it wasn’t a movie I was especially proud of. I’d get through it somehow. ‘Sure,’ I said, and smiled at her. Our food arrived. ‘As long as you actually listen to the music. There’ll be a test afterwards. Now, tell me what you’ve discovered.’

  ‘I had lunch with Michael Simak,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘I thought it might be easier than after-work drinks . . . you know . . . they can sometimes lead to dinner and . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘And dinner can lead to?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘Movies?’

  Heather laughed and dug her fork into the salad. ‘That’s it. Movies. Or the expectation of movies. Anyway, I managed to get away with my virtue intact, you’ll be glad to hear.’