Though the landscape was bleak and sere for the most part, it was an unusually sunny day for December in Yorkshire, and when the coast came into view near Boulby, below the high cliffs to my left, I could almost imagine it was a summer’s day. The choppy water was bluish-grey, dotted with whitecaps and long curving lines of breaking waves. A couple of tankers sailed out on the horizon, and six fluffy clouds rode almost in formation overhead on the stiff breeze like giant white chariots.
As Louise had given me directions while I drove her to her car in Richmond market square the other evening, I left the Volvo in the car park at the top of the hill and started to walk down. It was very steep, with magnificent views of the bay, the seascape and the cliffs, and I didn’t relish the climb back up. The sun belied how cold it actually was, mostly thanks to the strong winds off the North Sea, and I was glad I had brought the fleece-lined winter jacket I had picked up at Yorkshire Trading.
It was around half past eleven when I turned down the snicket Louise had told me about between the jeweller’s and the baker’s. The cottage was at the far end of the short narrow passage. Louise answered my knock and asked me in. I had to stoop to avoid banging my head on the lintel. I found myself in a small living room, very cosy, with a low ceiling and French windows leading out to a small patio. A table and two chairs stood outside, but I doubted that anyone would be sitting on them until spring. The view was stunning, across the harbour to the lifeboat station, and out to sea. But that was not what I had come for.
On the low table in front of the sofa lay strewn an array of objects that I took to be Grace’s legacy. I could hardly contain the excitement I felt, and it made me vaguely ashamed of myself for letting Grace Fox become such an obsession. Here I was, like a gourmet in front of his meal, or an alcoholic in front of a bottle, barely able to wait for permission to tuck in.
Louise was looking far healthier and more attractive than she had the first time we met. Her hair shone with gel, and she had applied a little make-up, which improved her complexion no end. Wearing jeans and a scallop-neck red top, she still had that gaunt, haunted quality, the facial metal and a deep, damaged seriousness that guaranteed she would be difficult to know and love, should anybody get close enough to try. She could also stand to put a bit more flesh on her bones. It was impossible for most people to begin to imagine what she had been through, and what reserves of strength, courage and perseverance she had had to draw on in order simply to survive intact. She seemed relaxed enough at the moment, and even chatted for a while about the history of the cottage and the Staithes fishing traditions. She could no doubt see me eyeing the table greedily, practically salivating at the prospect before me, but she talked on.
‘Help yourself,’ she said finally, gesturing to the table. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
‘OK.’ I didn’t need telling twice. She was no sooner at the sink filling the kettle than I had a wad of photographs in my hand. Black and white with deckled edges. Some had faded corners or traces of stickiness on the back, as if they had been removed from albums. Most of them featured Grace and her fellow nurses posing with wounded soldiers, many of whom had their arms in slings, bandaged heads or legs missing. The nurses were often dressed in tropical uniforms of flattering white dresses, veils and shoes, and sometimes in plain shirts and slacks, or even battledress.
It was easy to pick out Grace, though the only images of her I had seen so far were the family portrait in Kilnsgate and those painted by Sam Porter. Her dark wavy hair fell only as far as her neckline, and she wore it mostly tucked behind her ears.
There was one photograph of her that pierced my heart. She was in some sort of makeshift medical tent in her white dress and veil, stooping as she handed an emaciated patient a mug of tea, trying to place it carefully in his outstretched hands. His face was completely covered in bandages, with a small gap for the mouth and breath-holes by the nostrils. I guessed that he had probably suffered serious burns, perhaps lost his eyesight. It was so real that I could almost see his hands shaking. Grace had an expression of such mixed concentration and compassion on her features, lips compressed, eyes tender, a small furrow in her brow. In the background, outside the tent, stood an army truck with a big cross on its side. It was clear she hadn’t known she was being photographed, and I guessed that a colleague must have taken it and given it to her later.
There was another photograph of Grace with a group of friends, and they seemed to be having fun, all wearing bathing costumes, laughing and frolicking on a beach. In another she stood holding her hair back from the wind on a rocky promontory against a backdrop of rolling waves. It could have been Cornwall, I suppose, but she was wearing a white dress with epaulettes and little buttons up the front. In another, she posed astride a large motorcycle in full army battledress, tin hat cocked at a jaunty angle, a lopsided grin on her face.
There were two photographs of Grace standing outside Kilnsgate House, her hair longer, wearing a pale dress that came in tight at the waist and flared out below, buttons up the front, like her white nurse’s uniform. She was shielding her eyes from the sun and smiling at the photographer. Another showed her with her arm around the shoulder of a young boy in the garden at Kilnsgate, near the gate, pointing towards the lime kiln. He was about Randolph’s age at the time of the murder, so I wondered whether it had been taken close to that time. But Grace was wearing a summer frock, and the boy wore only short trousers and a shirt. I couldn’t see his face because he was in profile. I asked Louise about it when she brought the cups and teapot over on a tray.
She shook her head and said, ‘No, that’s not my dad. I don’t know who it is.’
Another puzzle. I had a vague idea who it might be, but I would need to do a lot of research before I could find out whether I was right. And even if I was, it was still puzzling that the photograph had so obviously been taken at Kilnsgate House.
There were no wedding photographs, in fact no images of Ernest Fox at all, and only a few of Randolph, ranging from age two or three to five and six. There was one photo of Grace and a female friend in Richmond market square that showed an old tenement building by Trinity Church and the obelisk. It certainly wasn’t there now. I didn’t know who the friend was. Could it have been Alice Lambert? Grace had other female friends in town, too, I assumed, women she had met through the operatic and dramatic societies, for example, or from the subscription concerts she went to, but I hadn’t heard anything about them. Clearly, none of them had played a relevant role in the events of January 1953, though I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d had a friend close enough to be a confidante, someone to whom she had told all her troubles and indiscretions. I realised it wouldn’t help me if she had, though. If the friend was Grace’s age, she would be pushing a century now and mostly likely dead.
That thought made my whole endeavour seem suddenly futile, and a wave of tiredness and depression surged through me. What was I trying to prove? Why? What did it matter? I glanced at Louise and wondered how much the truth would really mean to her, assuming I found it and it differed from the official version. Would the truth make Louise any happier, or would it damage what fragile balance she had worked so hard to achieve? Maybe Bernie had been right all those weeks ago in Soho when he had told me it was sometimes best to leave the past well alone. Was I doing this all for myself? Was it all about Grace, or was it really about me? Was it only me who needed the explanation to be different from the official verdict? I didn’t know the answer to any of these questions.
I shook off the melancholy, put the photos back down on the table and picked up the small leather-bound journal. The cover was soft and scuffed. Some of the pages were stained. Blood, tea, water, wine, I had no idea. On the front flyleaf Grace had written, ‘If lost, please return to Grace Fox, Kilnsgate House, Kilnsgate Lane, Kilnsgarthdale, nr Richmond, North Riding of Yorkshire, England’.
When I opened the volume to the first entry and saw Grace’s tiny, precise hand, just like the notations on the Schubert, I felt a
shiver run up my spine. I also realised that there was no possible way I could read this in the short length of time I would be spending in Staithes, and I felt a sense of panic creep up inside me. Most of it seemed to have been written in pencil, with the occasional entry clearly in fountain pen. Ballpoint pens hadn’t been invented then, I supposed, and a fountain pen would have been too difficult to maintain in some of the conditions Grace had had to endure.
It was with slight disappointment that I found the journal covered only the years 1940 to 1945 and did not stretch as far as 1952 or 1953. Even so, I knew it would make fascinating reading, and it might contain a hidden gem of information or two, some missing pieces. Also, from what I could see on a brief perusal, she had skipped over whole periods, months sometimes. Most of the entries were brief, almost note form, but some were quite lengthy, and there were only three or four empty pages at the end. She had just made it. Some pages were smudged and unreadable.
I put the journal down, sipped some tea and examined some of the other things. There was a copy of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair – perhaps the last novel Grace had ever read – along with a small collection of jewellery in a black velvet pouch from a Richmond jeweller’s. From what I could see, it was of tasteful and good quality, but not very expensive: earrings, a heart-shaped pendant with no photographs or locks of hair inside, a simple chain bracelet, semi-precious stones, a necklace of Whitby jet. There were no wedding or engagement rings. There was also a medal, a Maltese cross with red arms and a circular gold centre. On the arms were written Faith, Hope and Charity, and, on the bottom one, the date 1883. The ribbon was dark blue with crimson edging.
‘It’s a Royal Red Cross,’ said Louise. ‘I looked it up. It was given for special exertion in nursing sick and wounded soldiers or sailors. Florence Nightingale was the first woman to get one. It’s the highest honour a military nurse can earn. There were only two hundred and sixteen given in the whole war.’
‘Nobody I’ve talked to has mentioned it to me. Not Wilf, not Sam.’
Louise shrugged. ‘Maybe she didn’t tell anyone.’
There remained one more object, an engraved silver cigarette case. When I studied it more closely, I could see that the engraving was of a pastoral scene showing a young man playing pan pipes and a young woman nearby languishing against a tree. There was a small town or village in the distance, along a winding path. It was difficult to make out because the silver was tarnished and worn. There was some sort of inscription, so I took out the drugstore reading glasses I always carry for such occasions – such as perusing CD covers and crossword puzzles – and read: ‘Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!’ It was Keats, ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’, one of the poems I had been forced to memorise at school. No names, no dedication. Sam’s only present to Grace. The one she dared risk keeping. I remembered the Everyman editions in the sewing room. Shelley. Keats. Grace had clearly loved Keats, as had Laura, who had quoted him with almost her last breath. I opened the box. It was empty, but I fancied I could still smell tobacco in it. On the bottom was written:
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’
Louise was watching me with a peculiar half-smile on her face. ‘What?’ I asked, looking up.
‘Nothing. You look like a detective poring over clues, that’s all.’
‘The journal. Would it be possible to—’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t let it out of my possession. I won’t let any of this out of my possession. Surely you can understand that?’
‘I can. It’s just that I was hoping . . .’
Louise held up her hand and stood. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, and left the room. I could hear the wooden stairs creaking as she went up them. When she came back, she was carrying my copy of Famous Trials and a computer disk. ‘I finished the book, thank you,’ she said, ‘and I thought you might be interested in this.’
‘What is it?’
‘When I got this stuff’ – she gestured at the table – ‘I realised how fragile it was, and how unique. The journal and the photos especially. As you can see, some of them are already in poor condition. It seemed sensible to get it all scanned and put it in the computer.’ She handed me the disk. ‘That’s a DVD. A copy. It’s got everything on it. Photos, journal, digital photographs of the other objects. You can print it all out for yourself.’
I held the disk in my hand, astonished. ‘Go on, then,’ Louise said. ‘Take it. It’s yours. To keep.’
‘I . . . thank you,’ I managed to stammer, putting the disk and book in the battered leather briefcase I always carried, my ‘manbag’, as Laura had teasingly called it. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘can I buy you lunch somewhere?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. I’m starving.’
‘I passed a pub on my way. Is that OK?’
‘No problem. Not much else here, especially at this time of year. And maybe after that you’d like me to show you my grandmother’s grave?’
Louise slung her fur-hooded parka on the bench beside her while I bought her a diet bitter lemon, contemplated joining her, then decided on a pint of Black Sheep instead. In my excitement over Grace’s legacy, I had forgotten about her alcoholism, but it seemed that being around drinkers didn’t bother her. I picked up a couple of lunch menus at the bar. No fresh-caught seafood, but Louise assured me that the Cumberland sausage and mashed potato was usually pretty good, so I went for that. She ordered a beefburger and chips.
The pub was quite empty at the moment, but I could imagine what a popular spot it would be for the tourists in season. A few locals in fisherman’s jerseys stood chatting around the bar, the landlord throwing in the occasional comment, and two elderly couples, retirees by the looks of them, sat eating at other tables. There were old framed pictures of groups of fishermen on the walls, and some photographs of a storm that had hit Staithes badly. I could hardly imagine what sort of hell that must have been. Even today’s wind was bad enough for me. If I’d been out at sea I would have been throwing up over the side.
February 1953, I saw on the caption. That stopped me in my tracks. Grace would have been in custody then, awaiting her trial. She must surely have heard about the storm. It had no doubt hit Saltburn, too, maybe the whole coastline, and she would probably have been worried about her family and friends there. What about Sam Porter? Had he been in Staithes with his artist friends, trying to come to terms with the terrible cost of his affair with Grace?
I pointed the photo out to Louise, and she seemed also to realise its significance immediately.
‘What did you think of the Famous Trials book?’
Louise snorted. ‘Typical men,’ she said. ‘I honestly don’t know whether she did it or not, but it sounds to me as if they made a meal out of her morality, or lack of it. If it hadn’t been for that bloody woman from Leyburn blabbing, making it clear they’d had a good shag in her B and B, I’ll bet it would never have come to trial. The forensic evidence was a joke. Apart from the chloral hydrate, which Ernest Fox could easily have taken himself, there was nothing to show that my grandmother had done anything wrong at all except try to save his life.’ She shook her head.
‘My opinion exactly,’ I said. ‘Though the prosecution did make a very convincing case out of what little they had, and the defence was a bit lacklustre, I thought.’
‘Lacklustre? Bloody spineless, if you ask me. It was just a bloody game to them. I suppose the jury was all male, too? They probably had a good wank thinking about her every night and hated themselves for it, so they had her strung up.’
I shouldn’t have been, given Louise’s history, but I was shocked by her angry outburst. ‘It reflected the morality of the times,’ I said.
‘“Morality of the times”. Now there’s a phrase that covers many evils. So did the Roman bloody Empire chucking Christians to the lions reflect the morality of the times? And what about slavery and concentration camps, too? Were they all right be
cause of the morality of the times? Hiroshima? Nagasaki? How about sending convicts to Australia in chains in cramped conditions in stinking, disease-ridden, overcrowded ships? Was that just the morality of the times, too? If it was, it doesn’t excuse them, it doesn’t mean they were good things. And if you really think this “morality of the times” has really progressed that much, then look at Zimbabwe, North Korea, Iran, Afghanistan. I could go on.’
‘I’m not saying they were right,’ I argued. Why did I suddenly feel like a defender of fifties morality? Especially when I’d spent the last thirty years in the relatively footloose and fancy-free world of southern California? I might not be a revolutionary, but I was no reactionary, either. I thought of myself as fairly liberal, a liberal humanist, in US terms a Democrat, over here . . . well, certainly not pro-Coalition.
‘Sorry,’ Louise said, seeing my frustration. ‘I know it’s not your fault. It just makes me so bloody angry, that’s all. I’m just letting off steam.’
The food came, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I could hear the waves crashing against the harbour wall and the buzz of conversations around us, occasional laughter.
‘One of the things Morley mentioned in his account of the trial grabbed my attention,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t part of the evidence in the case. It came quite early on.’
‘Yes, I noticed he gave a bit of background on Grandma and Grandad. Those were the most interesting bits. I don’t know where he got them from.’
Before the Poison Page 27