Authors: Peter Robinson
Before the Poison (26 page)
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.’
I laughed. One of the things I liked about Heather, I realised, was that she made me laugh. Laura was the only other woman I had known who had been able to do that. Conventional wisdom has it that women like men who make them laugh, but I can vouch that it works the other way, too. ‘I didn’t doubt it for a moment,’ I said. ‘But did you get any useful information? Did he give up the goods for a . . . for a what?’
‘A pint of Stella? Not exactly, but he gave me enough to make one or two further enquiries of my own. That’s how I spent most of my afternoon. Michael’s firm has handled the Fox family’s affairs for ever, and I know one or two of their retired partners and associates. It’s a small town, and I’ve been around here long enough to be a pretty good information hound, you know.’
‘I’m sure you have. What exactly did you dig out?’
‘Ooh, look. My glass is empty and it’s a long story.’
So was mine. I poured us both a refill. ‘Did you find out who owned Kilnsgate House?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I did. And I think you’ll find it very interesting indeed.’
I pushed my almost empty plate away. ‘Go on.’
Heather leaned forward, excited by the story she was about to tell. The childlike enthusiasm in her expression, her hand gestures and her eyes were infectious. I leaned forward too, and it seemed as if an invisible canopy formed over us, and the rest of the world was somehow
out there
and couldn’t get in. Luckily, this was Yorkshire, so we didn’t have to worry about waiters coming over every five minutes to ask whether everything was all right with our meals.
‘Well, you know that Grace and Ernest’s son was called Randolph? Randolph Fox.’
I nodded.
‘He’d just turned seven when his father died. He was in the house at the time but was deemed too young to give evidence in court. The police talked to him, but he had nothing to tell them. He slept through it all.’
‘You paid a whole pint of Stella for this?’
‘No, this is what I dug out myself, later. Idiot. I’m trying to piece it all together in chronological order. I’m telling a story. Do you want to hear it or not?’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
‘During the trial and the period leading up to Grace’s execution, Randolph stayed with his aunt and uncle, Felicity and Alfred Middleton. Felicity was Grace’s younger sister by seven years. They couldn’t have any children of their own, and had always liked young Randolph, so after Grace was . . . well, you know . . . hanged . . . the necessary arrangements were made.’
‘Felicity and Alfred adopted Randolph Fox?’
‘Yes. Loved him as their own. He became Randolph Middleton. They lived in Canterbury. Alfred Middleton was an architect. He made a decent living. Felicity was what they used to call a housewife. The boy had every advantage.’
‘I’m sure it was a good life for him. What happened?’
‘Opportunity knocked. Alfred worked on a project for his firm that took him to Melbourne. He fell in love with the place and the possibilities there, and they offered him a job at the branch. This would be the late fifties, when Randolph was thirteen or fourteen.’