Before the Poison Read online

  ‘Did anyone believe she hadn’t done it?’

  ‘I dare say some did, yes. But as the trial went on and the evidence mounted up, they mostly kept their own counsel. I reckon in the end almost everyone believed she’d done it, maybe when her mind was unbalanced or something, but whether they thought she deserved hanging for it was another matter.’

  ‘And you?’

  He gazed at me with his bright eyes. ‘I’ve never been a fan of state-sanctioned murder, let’s just put it that way.’

  I nodded. I never had, either, and until recently I’d lived in a state where the death penalty thrived and men languished on death row for years.

  ‘Mind if I ask you a question?’ Wilf said.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Why are you digging all this up now? Why are you interested in Grace Fox?’

  I could only shake my head. ‘I don’t really know, Wilf. It’s just . . . living in the house, finding out . . . I feel some sort of connection. There’s a painting of her in the hall, with her husband and child. She looks sad, lost. She . . .’ I was about to tell Wilf that Grace reminded me a bit of my late wife Laura, but I stopped myself. No need to go there. ‘I don’t really know what fascinates me about it all,’ I went on, ‘except it’s not every day you buy a house that belonged to a murderess. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked about the Foxes, that’s all.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember?’

  ‘Not offhand.’

  ‘What about her son? There’s a young boy in the portrait. What became of him?’

  ‘Young Randolph? He went off to live with an aunt and uncle down south after the execution, so I recollect. Grace’s younger sister Felicity. She’d married, but they had no children of their own. Last thing I heard he’d taken their name and the whole lot of them had emigrated to Australia.’

  ‘When would this have been?’

  ‘Late fifties. Ten-pound Poms.’

  ‘So this Randolph could still be alive?’

  ‘Easily. He’d only be in his sixties by now. They say sixty’s the new forty these days. I wouldn’t know. I’m seventy-seven, myself. He was only a little kid at the time, and he spent most of the trial with his Aunt Felicity and her husband.’

  ‘Do you know Felicity’s married name?’

  ‘Sorry. I never met her.’

  ‘Was Randolph in the house on the night it happened?’

  ‘Yes. He was in bed, apparently. I shouldn’t imagine the police questioned him very thoroughly, but it seems he was asleep and didn’t hear or see a thing.’ He swigged some more beer. ‘I’ll tell you someone who might know something, though.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Sam Porter.’

  ‘Grace’s lover? He’s still alive?’

  ‘Alive and living in Paris.’

  ‘Under the same name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Wilf tapped the side of his nose. ‘I still keep an eye on the papers, and he sells a painting or two every now and then. It’s still considered news in the Sunday Times arts section.’

  5

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

  Kilnsgate House stands, proud in its isolation, close to the end of a rough, unfenced lane about a mile and a half from the nearest road. The house is almost hidden from the laneway by trees and long grass, and it seemed well befitting a successful local GP when Ernest Fox brought his new wife to live there in 1936. By January, 1953, it had been their home for over seventeen years, and their only son, Randolph, had been born there. Tragically, Ernest Fox was soon to die there.

  The Yorkshire Dales is an area well known for its natural, if somewhat rugged, beauty, and in addition to the major dales, valleys carved in the landscape by the retreating glaciers many thousands of years ago, there are numerous small, hidden dales, many scarcely inhabited. Such was Kilnsgarthdale, where Kilnsgate House was built by Sir John Metcalfe in 1748, and inhabited by his family until their fortunes dwindled in the 1850s.

  After that time, a succession of owners took possession, but nobody remained there for long. Perhaps the remoteness drove them away, though Richmond was easily accessible, either by road or by country footpaths. Dr. Ernest Fox certainly never let the isolation restrict his social existence. He rode with the local hunt, was an active member of the golf club, socialised regularly at the many public houses in the area, drove every day to his practice in town, where he often lunched with the mayor and other local dignitaries, and made house calls among the many Swaledale villages. Dr. Fox was a very busy man about the dale, and beyond.

  Though Grace Fox was a keen member of the Richmond Operatic Society and was renowned for her sweet mezzo-soprano, she perhaps led a more lonely existence after giving up nursing, especially when Randolph was sent to boarding school at the age of five, and the strain of boredom on one whose nerves were already somewhat frayed may have been a contributing factor to her subsequent behaviour.

  Whatever the reason, in July of 1952, Grace Fox took as her lover a young local odd-job man and would-be artist by the name of Samuel Porter, then aged nineteen, and as inappropriate a companion for his social standing as for his youth. Thus began the endless round of deception, sin, secrecy and guilt that was to end, as such things inevitably do end, in tragedy. Grace Fox was thirty-nine then, yet there was no doubt regarding her youth and beauty. With her long dark hair, her hourglass figure, and her beguiling eyes, Grace Fox was a remarkably attractive woman, with perhaps the only blemish on her appearance being a slight coarseness of complexion, apparently the result of overexposure to sunlight during her nursing duties overseas. This, however, was easily obscured with a little cosmetic powder.

  We must not forget what part Kilnsgarthdale’s isolation, and the dreadful weather of that January, played in our tragedy. On the fatal night, a winter snowstorm of such magnitude blew in so quickly from the north that the snow drifted to heights of six feet or more. Roads soon became impassable, and going out on foot was a sure invitation to a cold and icy death.

  As four people sat to eat, warm and sheltered in the dining room of Kilnsgate House, celebrating the new year, a fire crackling in the hearth, protected from the wind howling and snow blowing all about them outside, little could they know that one among their number would seize the moment to put into effect a dastardly plan that had been forming in her mind for some time now.

  October 2010

  If I wanted to find out any more about Grace Fox, I realised, I could always go to Paris and talk to Sam Porter. But was I willing to go that far, to expend that much time and money for a passing interest in a long-dead murderess? Some people would probably think I was crazy, but that didn’t really bother me. The money wasn’t a problem, either, but what about my piano sonata and my life at Kilnsgate? Well, I thought, the one would benefit from a little travel and fermentation, and the other was a long-term matter. A brief absence would do no harm. I had already promised Graham that I would visit him and Siobhan in Angoulême before Christmas, and it would be no problem to stop off in Paris on my way. In fact, it would be a genuine pleasure. There was no reason why I shouldn’t simply drop in on Sam Porter while I was there.

  Bernie Wilkins, a London art dealer, worked as a consultant on one of the films I scored a few years ago about an art forgery ring. He had never been to California before, so the studio flew him over, and I showed him around Hollywood, even introduced him to a couple of minor movie starlets I knew over lunch at the Ivy, in Beverly Hills, and judging by the smile on his face the following morning, he got lucky. I thought I knew him well enough to call on him for a favour. He would know where I could find Sam Porter. But first, there was the dinner party.

  On Saturday morning I drove into town and parked at the Co-op because the open-air market had taken over most of the square. As it was the third Saturday in the month, the farmer’s market was there
, too, so I was able to buy fresh local meat, cheeses and vegetables for the evening’s dinner. There would be no mahimahi – not that I could find any in Richmond, anyway – but a hearty game pie with roasted root vegetables.

  After I had picked up the fresh food, I called at the local bakery and found some crusty baguettes, then I bought my stack of newspapers at Mills’s, picked up a few staples, such as tea, cream, chocolate, wine, bread and coffee, at the Co-op, and headed home. I was able to spend some of the afternoon sitting out in my back garden sipping chilled Pinot Grigio, listening to the birds in the trees and reading through the various news and arts sections until it was time to prepare the meal.

  I had everything organised and under control by the time my guests arrived at half past seven. I had dressed casually, the way I usually do, in light tan chinos and a button-down blue Oxford, but Heather looked ravishing in a long clinging, bottle-green dress of some silky, flowing material, cut just low enough to reveal a hint of pale, freckled cleavage. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Derek seemed a bit stiff in his Burton’s best, striped tie and all, and Charlotte was attractive in a blonde, healthy, sporty way, with short hair, simple blouse and skirt, rangy figure and graceful, measured movements, like a dancer. She also proved to be intelligent and polite enough to have found out a bit about me and my work. She had obviously watched a couple of DVDs over the last week and was able to make informed comments on various themes and ask me why I had done certain things with the music. Heather had chosen well; Charlotte was good company.

  It wasn’t warm enough to sit outside by then, but nor was it cold enough to light both fires. I settled on the one in the dining area for atmosphere. We first sat in the living room to enjoy the champagne, with Angela Hewitt playing Bach softly in the background. A sacrilege, really, but music has many purposes, as I, of all people, should know. I love the Who and Bob Dylan, too, but I would hardly play Live at Leeds or Blonde on Blonde at a dinner party.

  The grand piano was an obvious talking point, and I let myself be bullied into picking out a theme or two from my repertoire, just to show them how good it sounded now that it had been professionally tuned. I threw in one of Satie’s Gymnopédies to prove that I could also play music people wanted to listen to, and it sounded a lot better than it had on my previous attempt. My audience of three applauded politely, but I could see that Heather was genuinely impressed.

  ‘That was lovely,’ she said. ‘You should have been a concert pianist.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ I said. ‘Oh, my teachers said I had the makings, but I didn’t have the confidence, and I was too lazy. I didn’t have the dedication or the stamina it takes to make the grade at that level, either. Besides, I was more interested in composition.’

  ‘Then maybe you should have been a composer?’

  ‘I am.’

  She blushed. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Derek laughed. ‘There you go, darling, putting your foot in it again,’ he said in a haughty manner. I recognised a put-down when I heard one. Heather’s lips tightened. There was a definite atmosphere.

  I picked up my glass, walked over to the armchair and smiled to let her know I wasn’t offended. ‘Yes, I do know what you mean,’ I said. ‘“Promising young composer tempted away by the siren song of Hollywood”. That’s what one of the newspapers wrote when I left.’

  ‘Was it true?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Was it the money and the fame that lured you away from your true path?’

  ‘No. It was a load of bollocks, really,’ I said, perching on the arm of my chair. ‘I wasn’t all that promising. I’d had a couple of minor works performed, but that was as far as it went. Anyway, what was I supposed to do? Starve in a garret? Teach? I loved movies, loved the music. I knew it was something I could do well. It was a challenge.’

  ‘Well, bravo for you,’ Heather said, without irony. ‘And we’re fortunate enough to have you to play for us in your living room, too.’

  When it was time for dinner, we adjourned to the dining area by the crackling fire at the other end of the room, where it was easy for me to slip back and forth from the kitchen whenever I needed to. I sat next to Charlotte and opposite Heather. I dimmed the lights and put candles on the table. The flames from the fireplace cast silhouettes over the walls and ceiling, creating a slightly eerie effect.

  Inevitably, somewhere between the main course and the salad, conversation turned to Grace Fox. Heather knew I was interested in the case, and she was determined to tease me about it; I could tell by the mischievous glint in her eyes. I think I had just been in and out of the kitchen to deliver the roasted vegetables while people helped themselves to the game pie when she said, ‘Of course, in Grace Fox’s day there would have been a cook or a servant to help you at a dinner like this. You wouldn’t have had to do it all yourself.’

  ‘Hetty Larkin,’ I said.

  This clearly surprised Heather. ‘Who?’

  ‘Maidservant. Chief cook and bottle washer. Whatever. Hetty Larkin was her name. She was the one who helped Grace and Ernest Fox around the house.’

  ‘My, my, you’re a fast worker. Who told you that?’

  ‘Wilf Pelham.’

  ‘Wilf Pelham!’ Derek exclaimed. ‘That old tosspot. I’d think twice about believing a word he says, mate. He’s just a useless piss-artist.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, rather coldly. ‘But I like him, and I don’t think he was drunk when I talked to him. And it’s hardly the sort of thing you’d lie about, is it? I mean, why? Hetty Larkin worked at Kilnsgate House as a general maidservant, and sometimes she stayed overnight, when they had guests for dinner, or if she had extra work to do, and so on. She was there on the night it happened.’

  ‘Can you imagine the scene?’ Charlotte said, the candlelight flickering in her lively brown eyes. ‘A group of people sitting at dinner, just like we are now.’

  ‘In the same spot we are,’ I added.

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ said Derek. ‘How can you possibly know that?’

  ‘It’s an informed guess. I don’t think that this part of the room, or the kitchen, has been structurally altered. I think this always was the dining room, though it was probably separated from the living area by a wall. There may even have been two or three large rooms at the back of the house in Grace’s day, and since then someone has knocked them into one. Besides, it makes sense, with the kitchen door being here, by the dining table. It’s a very old door. You can see that much. No sense walking the long way around to bring out the food.’

  ‘And the piano?’ Heather asked.

  ‘I think it was Grace’s,’ I said. ‘Back then, it was probably in a room of its own. The music room. Between here and the living room. At least, that’s my guess. The tuner said it was old, 1930s probably. It makes sense. I know that Grace was an accomplished amateur musician. There’s sheet music inside the bench with her notations on it. A woman’s hand, at any rate, by the looks of it.’

  Heather rolled her eyes.

  ‘All innocently eating their dinners and talking,’ Charlotte continued, glancing from one to the other of us with wide eyes, ‘just like we are, but with the snow falling outside, then all of a sudden, one of them clutches his chest and drops dead.’ She mimicked clutching her chest and slumping sideways.

  Even I had to laugh. ‘I don’t think it happened quite like that, Charlotte,’ I said, ‘but it’s an interesting image.’

  ‘Can’t you just imagine the music?’

  ‘Discord. Crescendo. Tympani!’ I said. ‘But seriously, you’re right. They would most likely have been eating here, exactly where we are. The decor would have been a bit different, of course, wallpaper, and the table and chairs. But no doubt the fire was lit. It was a cold winter’s night.’

  Charlotte gave a little shudder. The candles flickered in a draught and the shadows danced.

  ‘So Grace played the piano, did she?’ Heather said.

  I poured more wine. Everyone had helped themselves
to extra game pie, and the dish was almost empty. It was good, if I say so myself. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Was it an accomplishment?’ Derek taunted. ‘Did women have accomplishments back then?’ By the sound of his voice, he had already had too much to drink.

  ‘Longer ago, I should think,’ I said. ‘A Victorian thing. But I’d imagine it was still quite an accomplishment. I should think she had more time on her hands to practise than her husband did. He was a busy doctor.’

  But Derek wasn’t listening to my answer. His attention had wandered to the ceiling.

  ‘But how do you know all this?’ Heather asked, flashing her husband a withering glance.

  ‘Wilf told me. Grace was very active in the local music societies. He’s heard her sing and play.’

  Heather wrinkled her nose. ‘Cheat.’

  She was a bit tipsy, too; I could tell by the way she spoke. I wondered who was going to drive. Charlotte, perhaps. I sensed a growing distance and coolness between Heather and Derek, and the general snappishness you find between married couples who aren’t getting along very well. I was sure that by now Charlotte must have noticed it, too, if she hadn’t before.

  ‘Anyway,’ I added. ‘Maybe it would also surprise you all to know that Sam Porter, Grace’s young lover at the time, is still alive and living in Paris.’

  ‘Never,’ said Derek. ‘I told you, most of the time Wilf Pelham’s so pissed he can’t remember what day of the week it is.’

  ‘It can be checked,’ I said. ‘I’m going there next week, so I think I’ll go and have a chat with him if I can find him, and I think I can.’

  Heather was quiet, looking at me in a peculiar way, her eyes narrowed. ‘To Paris? You’re certainly going to some lengths in this business, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘What is it all about? Have you fallen in love with a ghost?’

  An awkward silence followed, then I said, ‘That sounds like an idea for a really bad movie.’

  ‘With terrible music,’ Charlotte added, then we were away from dangerous waters, laughing, imitating a bad soundtrack, back sailing on calmer seas. ‘Did you sell Chris a haunted house, Heather?’ Charlotte asked. ‘How careless of you.’