Before the Poison

by Peter Robinson

  The words still sounded odd coming from Louise in reference to Grace. Grandma and Grandad. But it was true. She was Randolph Fox’s daughter, after all, no matter how many name changes and tragedies the family had been through. Grace and Ernest’s granddaughter.

  ‘No doubt the police did thorough background checks on all concerned,’ I said. ‘Talked to Grace’s parents, people who had known her in Saltburn. And Morley probably did a bit of research, too. Anyway, he mentioned a broken engagement when Grace was just eighteen. To a man called Edward Cunliffe.’

  ‘I remember that bit.’

  ‘Apparently, Grace threw him over and went off with a budding poet called Thomas Murray. He ended up dying in the Spanish Civil War, but that’s probably beside the point.’

  ‘What is the point?’ Louise asked.

  ‘The way Morley puts it was that Thomas Murray was a rake, a libertine, a bad boy, no doubt consumed with admiration for Byron and the Romantics, who ran off with another woman soon after, leaving Grace with an abandoned and wronged fiancé and a bad case of shattered nerves. She was so ill she was sent to her Aunt Ethel’s in Torquay to recover.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it was pretty obvious what he meant, don’t you think? This was often the way people referred to unfortunate girls who got pregnant out of wedlock and disappeared to the country for a while to have their babies, then came home without them. It was a means of hiding a serious transgression, something that could have devastating effects on the rest of the girl’s life, especially if she came from a good family.’

  Louise stared at me. ‘You mean you think my grandmother got pregnant by this Thomas Murray?’

  ‘Not only that,’ I said, ‘but I believe she had a baby. Someone saw her talking with a young man in uniform on Castle Walk a few days before her husband’s death. Whoever saw them didn’t know who he was. It went nowhere. The fling with Murray took place in 1930, when Grace was eighteen. In late 1952, her son would have been twenty-two, about the right age. What if that was him? Grace’s son? What if his reappearance had something to do with what happened afterwards, or with her inability to defend herself?’

  We had both finished our meals now, and a young man came and collected the plates. Louise put her chin in her hands, elbows resting on the table. ‘Her son?’

  ‘You have to admit that it’s a possibility.’

  ‘But you can’t know this for certain.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just speculation.’

  Louise frowned. ‘I don’t know. It’s just so confusing. I wasn’t ready for all this detective stuff.’

  ‘OK. Maybe I am going too fast. But I know you’re interested. I know you care about your grandmother’s memory.’

  ‘Of course I do. If I can help . . . I just . . . You’re so far ahead of me. I know so little.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it and studying it for longer than you. I don’t have the blood connection you have, but I think I have some sense of what a remarkable woman your grandmother was and what injustice was done to her. You’ll have to trust me.’

  Louise contemplated me through narrowed eyes. ‘That’s a big ask.’

  ‘Maybe, but give it a try. You never know. All I’m saying is that we both think the police and the courts did a wretched job. Maybe they missed something, some essential connection or event? Let’s face it, they looked in one direction and one direction only – Grace Fox. They crucified her. Even Sam Porter was dismissed as a serious suspect pretty quickly.’

  ‘You don’t think he was involved, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve talked to him. He’s an old man now, still painting, as you know, full of memories and sadness, but his mind’s still sharp. I think he really loved your grandmother, if you want my opinion, and he never got over her and what happened. He’s as mystified as the rest of us, but he doesn’t believe she did it, either.’

  ‘You talked to him?’

  ‘Yes. In Paris.’

  ‘You went all the way to Paris to talk to Samuel Porter?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not that far. Not from here.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I wanted to meet him, to know what he thought, what he remembered.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’

  I remembered the paintings and sketches. ‘Oh, yes.’ One day I would tell her about them. Perhaps we would even visit Sam together, if he would admit me again, and she could see them for herself. Meeting Grace’s granddaughter. Sam would like that. An artist, herself, too. But not yet. She still felt a certain mistrust towards me, and I didn’t blame her. I also wasn’t entirely sure how stable she was after the terrible experiences she’d been through. I didn’t know how far I could trust her, either. But showing me Grace’s things and giving me the DVD was a strong start. I was hoping we would be able to help one another and build up trust as we went along.

  ‘Anyway,’ I went on. ‘What do you think about my theory?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘I mean, I’ve heard of such things, like you say. But wouldn’t somebody have said something?’

  ‘Morley did. As much as was needed. Everybody who read that would have known exactly what he was inferring.’

  ‘But at the trial?’

  ‘It wasn’t relevant. It happened over twenty years before the crime they were trying. And it was a matter of character. It was the sort of thing that might have come up if Grace had entered the witness box, perhaps, but she didn’t. Her barrister wouldn’t let her. He had that much sense, at least.’

  ‘I wondered about that. Wouldn’t it have been better if she could have spoken for herself, told them the truth? I couldn’t really understand that part of the account.’

  ‘Read it again,’ I said. ‘It’s one of the things Morley is remarkably clear on.’

  Louise chewed her fingernails and thought for a moment. ‘Let’s assume you’re right, then. Or that you may be right. What do we do about it?’

  Here, I must admit, she had me stumped. Whatever my talents, trolling through records in dusty register offices, or wherever they were kept, was certainly not one of them. I neither knew where to look, nor had the patience to look when I did find out. ‘There has to be a way,’ I said.

  Louise leaned forward. ‘I might just be able to help you there.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah. I was never really into it, myself, but some of my friends back in Oz were really keen on compiling family trees. There’s software for it, books, guides, all kinds of stuff. The information’s there, all over the place. I know where to find it. We even did some of it on the computer course, just for exercises.’

  ‘So you know where to go, how to do it?’

  ‘Hold on a minute. I know some of the basics, have a few ideas. I’m not making any promises. This was in Oz, remember, but a few of the people were digging for family roots back here. With a bit of legwork and an Internet connection you can dig up quite a lot.’

  ‘And you’d be willing to do that?’

  ‘I’ve got a few days before my new job starts, though I’m heading down to Cambridge the day after tomorrow to take up my new digs. But yeah, I think I’d be able to get something going in the meantime.’

  ‘Terrific. I’ll pay any expenses, of course.’

  She gave me a stern glance. ‘You don’t need to do that. I’ve got money. Particularly since I sold you the house. Besides, if I’m doing this, I’m working with you, not for you.’

  I held my hands up. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  She gave me another long look, then nodded. ‘No offence taken,’ she said.

  ‘This is why I chose Staithes,’ Louise said as we made our way through the small clifftop cemetery. ‘I wanted to see where Grandma was buried, and it was the closest place with a decent cottage for rent.’

  We were somewhere between Staithes and Redcar. The graveyard lay at the end of a rough track a couple of miles from the road. There was nothing else ar
ound except the tiny church and a cleared area for parking beside it. Louise and I walked along the overgrown path, the wind off the North Sea howling around our exposed ears. It reminded me of St Mary’s graveyard in Whitby, where Dracula had landed, though this one was much smaller and more isolated. There were no 199 steps, and the church wasn’t open to visitors. The door was padlocked against vandals.

  Many of the tombstones were eighteenth- or nineteenth-century, and over the years the salt wind had stripped the names from those facing the sea. They were dark monoliths overgrown with moss and lichen. The newer ones were easier to read, though they were overgrown, too, and Grace’s simple stone stood angled slightly away from the sea. There were windblown flowers on the grave, no doubt from one of Louise’s previous visits, but nothing else. The inscription was simple: ‘Grace Elizabeth Fox, 15th November, 1912 to 23rd April, 1953. RIP’. Underneath was written ‘Oh for the touch of a vanished hand / And the sound of a voice that is still’. Tennyson. It brought a lump to my throat and the wind made my eyes water.

  ‘Who chose this particular cemetery?’ I asked.

  ‘No idea,’ said Louise. ‘I wasn’t even born in 1982. I imagine Dad made enquiries, found out where she came from, and this is what they offered. Maybe it wasn’t every churchyard would take a body transplanted from a prison cemetery?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said. I looked at the squat stone church and wondered whether Grace had ever had any connection with the place. Nobody had mentioned that she had been religious at all, though Sam Porter had told me that the Fox family went to church in Richmond, like most prominent local families did back then. Grace was hardly that much of a rebel that she would fly in the face of that convention. She would probably have paid lip-service, at least.

  I pulled my collar tight around my throat. The wind was sharp and seemed to get in between every seam and button. ‘Want to go?’ Louise asked.

  I looked again at the simple stone, then out to sea, the churning grey waters, the dark clouds of a storm massing on the horizon, and nodded.

  18

  Extract from the journal of Grace Elizabeth Fox (ed. Louise King), February, 1942. Singapore

  Friday, 13th February, 1942

  Today the order came down for all the remaining sisters to evacuate the hospital. I could not believe that we were being asked to abandon our patients, though I know the civilian nurses and the V.A.D.s will do their best to care for them until the Japanese arrive. Then, who knows? Perhaps they will be killed. I tried to do my rounds one last time, mopping brows, stroking hands, administering morphia, but it was too hard in the end, and I could not go on.

  We were collected at midday, allowed only one small suitcase each, and taken to the Cricket Club. Most of the senior members of the services were there, the Matrons, and our Home Sister from the Alexandra. There were about fifty of us in all, including some Indian nurses. At four o’clock, we were taken by ambulances to the Naval Dockyard. The smell of untreated sewage was all around us. Near the docks, I saw a man drive a Hispano-Suizo into the sea so the Japanese could not take it. I made sure my journal was secure and waterproofed in its oilskin around my neck. I would hate to lose it now. It has become like another friend to me.

  There was an air raid at the docks while we were in the launches heading for our ships, and the Japanese machine-gunned us. They carried on attacking us even after we had boarded the ship, with wave after wave of aircraft. Several people were killed or wounded, and bomb splinters killed two civilian nurses and destroyed one of the lifeboats. I have never experienced anything as terrible or as terrifying as this before, but there was no time to dwell on it. We had work to do. Even before we left harbour, we were already up to our elbows in blood, bandaging wounds while the children cried and the injured groaned in agony around us in the mingled smells of burning oil, cordite and sewage.

  We finally set sail at about seven o’clock. As I look back from our ship, the SS Kuala, I can see Singapore in ruins and flames. Singapore, the city that had seemed so beautiful only months ago, with its endless sunshine, blue skies, palm trees, busy markets, beautiful green parks and golf courses and the white wedding-cake elegance of its buildings. Now filthy black smoke from the burning oil reserves fills the air, and artillery flashes light up the evening sky. There are hundreds of us crowded together on this small ship, mostly women and children. We are dirty, frightened, bedraggled and heartbroken, and we have no idea what will become of us.

  Saturday, 14th February, 1942

  St Valentine’s Day. Hard to believe it could be such a harbinger of doom. We awoke at dawn to find ourselves at anchor next to the Tien Kwang in the lea of a small island, having sailed through the night to avoid detection. I knew we could not be far away from Singapore, as this old ship does not move very fast. One of the officers we had nursed in the Alexandra Hospital offered Brenda and me a camp bed on the officers’ deck, so we passed a reasonably comfortable night, though it was terribly hot and humid. We have little but the clothes we are wearing, and they are constantly soaked with sweat. Fresh water is strictly rationed.

  At about eight o’clock this morning, the Japanese aircraft appeared, and suddenly there was an almighty explosion, and smoke and fire burst out everywhere. People were running around the deck screaming, mothers trying to find their children amidst the smoke and chaos, the wounded writhing and screaming in agony, the decks slippery with blood.

  The SS Kuala was sinking fast, listing to the stern, and I heard a distant voice coming through the chaos, giving the order to abandon ship. I could not find Brenda in the crowds and the oily smoke, so I jumped. We were close to an island, but the currents were flowing in the opposite direction, and I could see people being swept out to sea, helplessly waving their arms and screaming for help, then going under the waves. There was nothing I could do for them. I knew that Brenda was a strong swimmer, and that if she made it off the ship she would have a good chance.

  The crew tossed lifebelts and everything that would float over the side, and people were clinging to whatever bits and pieces they could find. The lifeboats were full. I swam as strongly as I could against the current. Severed arms and legs bobbed on the water’s surface, along with dead fish, and kept bumping into me as I swam by. Once I saw a woman’s head floating, its eyes bulging. I worried that the sharks might get me, but I realised that they had probably been scared away for the moment by the bombs.

  The Japanese aircraft attacked again and strafed us in the water with their machine guns. I could never have imagined that anyone could be so cruel. I do not think I have ever hated anyone as much in my life as I hated them at that moment. Didn’t they know we were just defenceless women and children, the wounded and the sick? We were struggling for our lives in shark-infested waters against strong currents, and they were firing their machine guns at us.

  I was lucky. Like Brenda, I am a strong swimmer. I struggled on and found space in a lifeboat. We rowed hard against the current to the shore. Behind us, we could just see the last of the SS Kuala sinking under the waves. The Tien Kwang was already gone. The shore was too steep and rocky for us to land, so we continued around the island until we were lucky enough to find a beach on the other side.

  When we got there, I staggered out of the boat on to the sand and collapsed, exhausted. My legs were wobbly, my arms ached and I felt dizzy. I just lay there for a while staring into the burning sky, gasping for breath. It had all happened so quickly, yet it had felt like an eternity, too.

  I quickly realised that I was half-naked. I had shed most of my outer clothing when I was swimming, to prevent the weight of it from adding to the current’s pull, but I was relieved to feel my oilskin still around my neck. The others from the lifeboat flopped on the sand all around me, many of them bleeding from bullet or shrapnel wounds. There had been about nine hundred people altogether on those two ships, I thought, and I wondered how many were left. I could hear the aircraft continuing to strafe the survivors, but we were on the other side of t
he island, and I could not see them.

  That situation did not last long. It was a small island, and the Japanese decided to give us one more bombing before they left. Some of the bombs exploded quite close to us, and afterwards my ears were ringing, and I noticed that I was bleeding from a deep cut on my arm. I tore a strip from what was left of my underwear and used it as a bandage.

  As soon as I had got my breath back and listened to make sure the aircraft had gone, I got to work and started examining the other survivors around me. One or two were beyond help, but many just had minor wounds or concussions. The poor babies were crying, and some of the little children were wandering around calling for their mothers.

  After ten or fifteen minutes of trying to create some order out of the chaos, I found Brenda. She was stunned and had a nasty gash on her forehead, which would require stitches, but otherwise she was all right. I hugged her, and she revived quickly enough. She told me that she had clung to a mattress until she came close enough to one of the lifeboats to climb on board.

  So here we are, marooned on Pompong Island, as one of the Malayan women tells us. With Brenda’s help, I found some more sisters and two doctors, and together we did the best we could for the injured and dying. Brenda thinks there are about five hundred of us on here altogether, which means that we lost almost half our number in the attacks.

  All we want now is for the Japanese to stay away and let us sleep, but there is still much to be done while the daylight is still with us. Those who have searched already say there is no food on the island and only one small fresh water spring. We are still managing to salvage quite a lot from the ships, including a chest containing some of the crew’s work clothes, though I do not find the seaman’s uniform someone gave me very becoming, and it is far too large for me. Still, it covers up what needs to be covered up, I suppose, and it is better than running around in my knickers, which were all I had left to wear!