Before the Poison (10 page)

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.’

I had known from the start that Heather was trying to set me up with Charlotte, but the odd thing was that it became clear as the evening went on that the real attraction was between Heather and me. Even Charlotte could see that. Derek, I’m not too sure about. Husbands can be remarkably thick sometimes, and my feeling was that Derek was thicker than most. Besides, the impression I got was that he saw only himself.

I had to disappear into the kitchen a while later to plate the desserts, and I hadn’t been there more than a minute or two before I heard the door from the dining area swing open and shut behind me.

‘I thought I’d keep you company,’ Heather said. ‘They’re talking about the stock market.’ She made a face and leaned back against the fridge. One long strand of hair trailed over the front of her dress. She’d brought her drink with her, and she sipped some wine. ‘Do you like Charlotte?’

‘She’s very nice,’ I said.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘She’s very nice.’

‘You . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand you. This thing about Grace Fox. She isn’t real, you know. She isn’t a real, warm, living human being. She doesn’t
need
anything from you. There’s nothing you can do for
her
.’

I had to get some ice cream from the freezer, and when Heather saw me coming closer, she held her ground and looked me in the eye. I could tell from her body language, the way she seemed to move, to open for me, that I could have taken her in my arms at that moment and kissed her. Our lips were that close, and I think she wanted me to. I think we both wanted it. I could smell the wine and game on her breath and feel her heat, the sparks jumping between us, the sap stirring. I was
that
close.

You could say I bottled out, but her husband was in the dining room, and I was still a grieving widower. I’m no saint, but I’m not that much of a bastard, either. Heather obviously didn’t agree. When she saw that nothing was going to happen, she slipped away sidewards and headed out of the kitchen in a huff, towards the toilet, I guessed, without a word or a backward glance, slamming the door behind her.

Back in the dining room with cheese and dessert, I noted that the atmosphere had changed, and I could tell that Heather was angry and embarrassed. She accepted a generous measure of cognac, as did Derek, though Charlotte turned it down, preferring coffee. Everyone was full, so most of the cheese remained uneaten. No matter; it would do tomorrow, along with the last sliver of pie. We heard the rain start pattering against the windows.

Heather checked her watch. ‘Is that really the time?’ She knocked back the rest of her cognac and turned to her husband. ‘We really must be going. We’ve kept Chris up far too late already.’

‘Not at all,’ I said.

‘Perhaps he has a tryst with his ghost?’ said Derek.

Everyone ignored that.

They picked up their coats in the hall. Derek tottered a little, putting his on. I offered umbrellas, but nobody wanted one, the car they had all come in being just outside the gate, and the garden path sheltered by trees. Besides, it wasn’t raining very hard. Heather stumbled slightly as she headed down the uneven path, and I heard her and Derek start arguing about who was going to drive. Sensibly, Charlotte stepped in and took the keys from Derek. I waved as she drove them away and breathed a sigh of relief. That was one group I wouldn’t be hosting again in a long time. Then I shut the door behind me and leaned against the wood.

Maybe I shouldn’t have turned Heather down. God knows, it had been a long time since I had felt a woman’s body warm and soft against me, and it wasn’t that I had no interest in her. But where would that kiss have led? A hotel room? An invitation to come with me to London and Paris? Afternoon delights here at Kilnsgate House? Either way it would mean deception, secrecy, guilt. The usual machinery of infidelity. No, I told myself firmly. I had done the right thing. If I was going to find another woman, I was going to find her on my own, and she wouldn’t be married to someone else. Magnetic attraction happens all the time – it’s a fact of nature, pheromones, or whatever – but it can be resisted, and resist it I would. The last thing I needed right now was to be stuck in the middle of someone’s marital problems.

I thought about Heather’s taunt. Was I really in love with a ghost? Maybe I was, but it wasn’t Grace Fox’s, though perhaps somewhere in my mind I was mixing up Grace with Laura. After all, I had so little of meaning in my life – at least until this interminable cloud of grief passed and let the light in again – that my piano sonata and my ‘investigation’ of Grace Fox’s story had become the mainstays of my existence. Heather was jealous, I concluded. Simple as that. Jealous of a ghost.