Charlotte smiled. ‘That’s fine. And I really am sorry. I mean, I could tell you felt you’d been set up on a blind date with me, and they can be so disastrous. I knew you didn’t like me, not in that way.’
‘I like you well enough, Charlotte. Perhaps I’m just not ready for any sort of relationship yet?’
‘Perhaps not.’
I held out my hand. ‘Truce?’
She nodded. ‘Truce.’
We shook hands.
‘I wish I’d had that glass of wine now,’ said Charlotte, patting her chest.
‘There’s still time. Why don’t you? I’ll have another one with you.’
‘I shouldn’t.’
‘Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.’
‘I’m afraid I am, rather, aren’t I? A stick-in-the-mud.’
The waiter passed by and I ordered two more glasses of red. ‘There, now, you can’t let me drink both of them by myself.’
Charlotte laughed. When the wine came, we clinked glasses. ‘To Heather,’ I said.
‘To Heather. How would you like to come over on Bonfire Night? I’m having a little soirée. Drinks, just a few nibblies.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Maison Dieu. The address is on the thank-you card I sent you. Come early or you’ll miss the fireworks.’
It took me a moment to realise that she was speaking realistically, not figuratively. ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.
11
Famous Trials: Grace Elizabeth Fox, April 1953, by Sir Charles Hamilton Morley
Mrs. Patricia Compton, the Leyburn landlady, clearly belonged to that class of person most commonly referred to as ‘the salt of the earth’. Substantial in girth, fervently Methodist in opinion, she was observant of, but not in the least intimidated by, the rites and trappings of a crown court trial.
Though Mrs. Compton’s appearance did provide a certain amount of inadvertent comic relief at times, her evidence established primarily – and most importantly – that Samuel Porter and Grace Fox had, indeed, spent a night ‘in the throes of illicit passion’ at her bed and breakfast establishment in Leyburn, and that she had heard them plotting the death of Ernest Fox. This latter remark was challenged by Mr. Montague Sewell for the defence and found to be somewhat lacking in substance, but the jury had heard it, nonetheless, and it would stick in their minds.
When it came to the ugly issue of blackmail, try as he may, Mr. Sewell could not find a chink in the formidable Mrs. Compton’s armour. She was a god-fearing woman, Sir Archibald maintained, a pillar of the chapel without a stain on her character. The police had discounted Samuel Porter’s story in the first place; they merely regarded it as a weak attempt to throw them off the scent. The truth remained, as the judge was to remind the jury in his summing up, that even if Mrs. Compton had tried to blackmail the lad, reprehensible as that was, her testimony was still damaging to Grace Fox.
Where Mr. Sewell did succeed in scoring a point or two was with the flurry of forensics specialists, who duly and dully listed their findings, or lack of them, in dry, academic terms. Much was made of the missing stomach powder paper, the chloral hydrate, the syringe and potassium chloride, but in every case, Mr. Montague Sewell was able to create seeds of doubt in the expert testimony, and to show that there was nothing sinister or amiss in any of it. It would only be natural for Grace Fox, a trained nurse, to clean and tidy up such things as a used syringe and a scrap of wrapping paper, he insisted, and there was no reason whatsoever why Dr. Fox should not, himself, have taken a dose of chloral hydrate, as he was known to have done on previous occasions. Dr. Fox had also, according to Alice Lambert, exhibited symptoms of indigestion when they had dined together over the past few months.
Even the pathologist, Dr. Laurence Masefield, who insisted that he had identified two superimposed needle marks, implying that Grace Fox had first injected the potassium, and then, in an attempt to cover up her crime, the digitalis into the same spot, was ridiculed by Mr. Sewell, and Dr. Masefield had to grudgingly admit that high levels of potassium often did occur naturally in victims of cardiac infarctions. Mr. Sewell also got the doctor to admit that Ernest Fox’s heart was far from being the healthiest he had seen, to such an extent that an imminent heart attack had not been entirely out of the question.
All in all, then, it is probably fair to say that the physical evidence was proved to be rather circumstantial, if not insubstantial, and that Mr. Sewell did an excellent job of debunking said evidence and creating doubt in the minds of the jury. Yet it was not this upon which the case rested, as quickly became apparent when Samuel Porter entered the witness box.
It was not until this moment that Grace Fox betrayed any emotion. At the sight of her young lover, though, she grasped the rail so tightly that her knuckles turned white, her breath came palpably faster, in short gasps, and an expression of such infinite sadness and loss came over her features that might melt the heart of the most unromantic soul. But it melted no hearts in the courtroom that day. Mr. Porter was half her age; he made his living by odd jobs and landscape painting; and the evidence very much seemed to indicate that she had murdered her respectable, highly regarded doctor husband in order to forge a life with him. His appearance did nothing to help her cause and much to hinder it. When Mr. Porter proudly admitted, without the slightest sense of shame or embarrassment, that he and Mrs. Fox had even conducted their affair on occasion in the bedroom of Kilnsgate House while Mr. Fox was away on business, the court emitted a collective gasp. This was the ultimate outrage, cuckolding the man in his own home.
There was not much Mr. Sewell could do now to reverse the damage that Sir Archibald Yorke, QC, had wrought. The only thing that counted, as far as the jury was concerned, was that Grace Fox, who stood accused before them, and this pale, dishevelled young artist, had indulged in an adulterous relationship, had committed sexual intercourse in the woman’s own home, fornicating under the roof that her husband’s hard labour provided for her. When Samuel Porter was finally excused, and Grace’s dark eyes sadly followed his every move as he left the courtroom, the jury’s disapproval was palpable, and I would hazard a guess that it was at this point that the case for the defence was irrevocably lost.
November 2010
The ‘few nibblies’ that Charlotte had mentioned turned out to be a long table groaning under the weight of local cheeses, clusters of fruit, crusty bread, crackers, hummus and salsa dips, vegetables, and various terrines and pâtés. No doubt she had a whole stock of pies, cakes and sticky buns hidden away in the larder, too, for dessert. I was glad I hadn’t bothered with an early dinner. The wine was a decent enough Rioja. I took a sip and wandered outside.
Charlotte’s house had a spectacular view over the castle ruins and the river gardens. As I looked down from the flagged patio, feeling like the lord of all I surveyed, I realised that I had seen this very row of houses from below shortly after I had arrived in Richmond, walking by the river one day. They were so high up, I had imagined then how magnificent the view must be, and I wasn’t wrong.
It was a cool dry evening, perfect for a fireworks display, the air tinged with the acrid smell of smoke from a wood fire. Below me, I could see the meandering silvery line of the River Swale, effervescing in places as it tumbled over the low terraced falls, finally disappearing into the darkness of the woods west of town.
Built on the cliffs by the riverside, the castle walls rose steeply to their crumbling jagged edge; only the towering keep within the edifice seemed untouched by the passing of the centuries. Above it all, the sky was scattered with stars and the moon had waxed almost full.
I thought of the shadowy figure I had seen by the lime kiln and wondered again who it could have been. I had the distinct impression that whoever it was had been spying on Kilnsgate House, watching for something, or someone, but I couldn’t be certain. It hadn’t seemed like a walker, but I suppose they come in all shapes and sizes, and outfits. Even so, the hoody seemed out of place.
Maybe I was making too much of it. Perhaps I had even imagined the whole thing; I had got myself into such a state thinking about the past, about Grace Fox, murder, things that go bump in the night, and now I was starting to imagine mysterious figures spying on me.
Occasionally, a rocket zoomed up from beyond the woods in Hudswell, or from Holly Hill just over the river. The official fireworks were not due to start until seven, however, so Charlotte’s guests, about twenty of us in all, were mingling, chatting, wandering in and out to the food and drinks tables, grazing at the nibblies. Most of them seemed to know one another already, but Charlotte was a good hostess, bringing people over to introduce to me, so I was rarely alone long enough to enjoy the view before I was drawn again into a recap of my career, or some small talk about their favourite film music. John Williams and Ennio Morricone – or ‘that bloke who did the spaghetti westerns’ – were the big winners by a long chalk, which came as no surprise. They asked me mine, and when I answered Vertigo, hardly anyone had heard of it, let alone remembered the music.
In a rare few moments alone, I was standing by the edge of the patio admiring the view and working on my wine, when I felt a light touch on my arm. I turned and saw that it was Heather, her long red hair hanging over the fringed green and silver shawl she wore around her shoulders. ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘You weren’t looking in the right direction.’
She stood close enough to me that I could smell the freshness of her breath, and when a light breeze blew, a strand of her hair brushed against the scar on my hand. ‘Well, you must admit,’ I said, ‘it is a stunning view.’
‘Yes.’ Heather wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. ‘Don’t say I didn’t try to set you up with Charlotte. Just think, all this could be yours.’
‘I’m happy at Kilnsgate House.’
‘Alone with your ghosts?’
‘There may be another one,’ I said, and told her about the figure I had seen.
When I had finished, Heather said, ‘Probably just a lost tourist checking out the mysterious house, or some anorak historian studying the lime kiln. It happens sometimes.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. I scanned the group of people out on the patio. I didn’t know any of them. ‘But it was dark at the time. Talking about people being lost, where’s Derek tonight?’
‘He doesn’t like parties. I’m all on my own.’ Her tone was clipped, and it was clear that the subject was closed.
The thought of her coming here alone both excited and frightened me. ‘You must know plenty of people here?’
She rested her hip against the stone wall, adjusted her shawl and affected a bored tone. ‘Oh, sure, I know most of them. Tell me about Paris.’
I noticed that she didn’t have a glass in her hand. ‘Would you like a drink first?’ I asked.
‘How kind of you to ask. White, please.’
She turned and rested her palms on the top of the rough wall to lean and gaze down on the scene below while I went inside to the drinks table. Charlotte was playing the perfect hostess. She frowned when she saw me pouring a glass of white wine after the red. She had no doubt noticed Heather arrive and knew exactly who it was for, but she was too busy talking to an elderly academic-looking man in a tweed jacket and silver-rimmed glasses to come over and warn me off. I found myself beginning to resent her interference and disapproval, evident in the angry and frustrated glance she gave me. After all, Heather and I were both adults, and Charlotte seemed to be treating us like wayward children. Was Heather some kind of man eater, or did I have the unearned reputation of being a womaniser because I’d come from Hollywood and worked in the movie business? I was hardly Warren Beatty, after all.
I carried the drinks outside, still feeling a little resentful over Charlotte’s disapproving glance. Maybe she was madly in love with me and jealous of her friend. I doubted it.
Heather was where I had left her, talking to a middle-aged couple who turned out to be connected with one of the art shops in the town centre. I joined them and let my thoughts drift to other things and my eyes drift over the view while I nodded in all the right places and made all the right noises. I was aware of Heather looking at me from time to time. There was an intensity to her gaze that demanded it be returned. I didn’t return it. Finally, the couple drifted on. ‘You forgot to tell me about Paris,’ Heather said.
I told her, playing down the conversations I’d had with Sam Porter about Grace Fox, and instead concentrating on the sights and meals of the city. I left out any mention of the sketches and paintings Sam had shown me.
‘I wish I’d been with you,’ she said. ‘Think what a time we could have had. It’s been perfectly miserable back here.’
‘Stop it, Heather.’
‘But it has. You have no idea.’
I went on to tell her about visiting my brother’s farmhouse in Angoulême and the walks we had in the woods and by the river, the local wine we drank, the game of boules on the village green. But I didn’t tell her about the figure in the mirror I had broken the night I got my scar. She probably thought I was crazy enough already when it came to seeing things.
‘How exciting to have a brother with a farmhouse in France,’ she said. ‘My brother lives in a two-up two-down in Scunthorpe.’
I paused for a moment, not sure whether she meant it seriously, then I saw the muscles of her face had tensed in an effort to keep from laughing. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed first, and she joined me.
‘You should have seen your face,’ she said. ‘It’s not true, of course. Barry lives in a semi in Dorchester, but Scunthorpe just sounds so . . . desperate. Do you remember the old joke about Scunthorpe?’
‘Which one?’
‘If Typhoo put the “T” in Britain, who put the—’
‘Heather, darling.’ It was Charlotte, escaped from her academic at last and worming her way between us, draping a possessive and restraining arm over Heather’s shoulders. ‘So good to see you. I do hope Chris here isn’t monopolising you?’
‘Not at all. I was just telling him that if he’d played his cards right at dinner the other night all this could have been his.’
Charlotte blushed. ‘Heather!’
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ Heather said. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m not being serious. Actually, I was just telling Chris an old joke about Scunthorpe. If Typhoo—’
The first fireworks lit up the sky with bursts of red, gold and blue. The guests all moved out on to the patio, which soon became crowded. Heather and I were pushed together close to the wall. We had a great view, and our bodies couldn’t help but touch. Heather turned halfway towards me, and I felt the firmness of her breast against my arm. We just about had room to lift our drinks to our mouths. Charlotte was somewhere behind us, drawn into the crowd, chatting away to someone else, no doubt keeping a sharp eye on us, annoyed that she couldn’t get close enough to intervene.
Laura had loved fireworks, and as I watched the display, a familiar melancholy made its way through my veins like a soporific. I could see her face in my mind’s eye, like a child’s, lit up by the fireworks, yes, but with an inner light, too, shining out of her. She had looked like that at the very end as she lay dying, holding my hand, before the light was extinguished, quoting one of her favourite poems. ‘Don’t feel sad, my love. I am already “half in love with easeful death”.’
From behind the castle walls, bursts of red and green fire continued to shoot high into the air and explode into shapes like dragons’ tails or enormous globes, then crackle or bang, leaving wispy trails behind as they fell to earth. I tried to turn away from my melancholy, remembering the Bonfire Nights of my childhood. We never had anything like this, of course. All the kids in the neighbourhood saved up for months to buy their meagre supplies of volcanoes, rockets, jumping crackers, Catherine wheels and threepenny bangers, while we amassed our piles of chumps, carefully guarded against raids from othe
r gangs. On the night itself, the fire was lit in the middle of the cobbled street – there were few cars in the neighbourhood then – and everyone, old and young, gathered around for parkin and treacle toffee and potatoes baked in tinfoil on the fire. We set off our own fireworks, shooting rockets from milk bottles, nailing the Catherine wheels to wooden fences.
I felt a hand rest on mine. ‘Penny for them,’ a soft voice said in my ear.
I turned, summoned back from my melancholy and nostalgia. Heather’s face was close to mine, illuminated in the multicoloured light from the sky. It felt like a moment from To Catch a Thief. Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. Unmemorable score by Lyn Murray. I could have kissed Heather right there and then, and I would have, but we were surrounded by people she knew, people who no doubt also knew her husband. She knew it, too. I gave her hand a light squeeze. She squeezed back and let go. ‘You seemed miles away,’ she said. ‘Were you thinking about your wife?’
‘No, I was just remembering Bonfire Nights when I was a kid,’ I said, editing out my thoughts of Laura. ‘It wasn’t all so organised then.’
‘It’s always been like this for me,’ Heather said wistfully, glancing up at the sky. ‘Oh, I don’t mean being here, like this, just organised. You know, you pay to go in, sometimes they have a band, you get drunk, someone’s sick all over your shoes, maybe you have sex in the bushes, there’s a fight . . .’ She gave a slight shiver and wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders.
‘Cold?’ I said.
‘No. A goose just walked over my grave.’
Later, driving her home in the car, I asked, ‘Do you think you could do me a small favour?’
‘Depends.’
‘Could you try and find out who the last owner of Kilnsgate House was?’
‘I’m not sure I can. He or she seemed to want to remain anonymous.’
‘But surely there must be records?’
‘You’ve got the deeds.’
Before the Poison Page 18
