Before the Poison (21 page)

They invited me to come and spend Christmas with them, especially as Mother was honouring them with her presence this year. They usually had a big dinner at the farmhouse with their children and grandchildren, along with some members of Siobhan’s family from Ireland. I said I wasn’t sure, that I’d like to spend my first Christmas in Kilnsgate, and assured them I would be OK. If I felt lonely, I promised, I would catch the first flight over there, then Siobhan gave me a big hug and Graham drove me to the station.

Though each individual journey was hardly more than two or three hours, what with all the delays and hanging around at stations, it took me nearly all day to get home, and it was well after dark by the time the taxi pulled up outside Kilnsgate House, which was waiting for me like a neglected lover, with a mingled mood of sadness and anger. No doubt I was projecting again.

Perhaps I was also projecting about the slight, hooded figure I thought I saw standing by the lime kiln, because by the time I got out of the taxi and hurried to the packhorse bridge, there was nobody there. Nonetheless, the incident shook me a little, and I wondered just how vulnerable I was out here. What if it was a burglar casing the place? What if there was a gang with their eyes on Kilnsgate? I remembered the terrifying scene in
A Clockwork Orange
when Alex and his ‘droogs’ visit a house in the country, and shuddered.

I had left a couple of the lamps on timers to discourage burglars, so the house wasn’t in complete darkness when I went in. I locked and bolted the door behind me and made a quick check of the rooms to reassure myself that everything was all right. It certainly didn’t look as if anything had been disturbed during my absence.

I had left the heat at a low setting, which meant it wouldn’t take long to warm up, especially with the fire I planned on starting in the living room. That would cheer the dear old place up a bit and take the edge off her chilliness and my jitters. Security checks finished, I picked up the post and wandered through to the living room, where I put some lights on and set about making a fire in the grate. It didn’t take long – with the help of firelighters – before the logs were blazing away just as they had in Graham’s house all those miles away. It was much cooler in Yorkshire, of course, and from what I could see outside, the sky was covered with clouds.

As the old wartime posters used to ask, was my journey really necessary? I didn’t know. I felt that I had learned a lot from Sam Porter, but when I thought about what, it didn’t really add up to much.

I had seen the drawings and paintings of Grace, of course, and they were probably worth the trip in themselves. Also, Sam had given me a personal insight into Grace that I couldn’t have got from anyone else, and that was invaluable. I had seen the images, could picture her walking the coastal path at Whitby hand in hand with him, pointing out a seascape, pausing to feel the wind through her hair, her cheeks flushed. I could see her crying as she gazed on a painting or listened to a symphony. She was more vivid, more real than she had ever been to me before. I had already seen her tiny neat handwriting and Vivian Mountjoy’s rather pale version of her, but now I felt I could almost imagine her voice and the feel of her skin.

I checked for phone messages and found none, put on Liszt’s
Années de pèlerinage
, poured myself a cranberry juice to offset all the booze I’d been drinking lately and settled down with the post. Besides the polite thank-you cards from Heather and Derek, and from Charlotte, there was nothing much else, though I was happy to receive a couple of utility bills at long last. Now I was legitimate. I could prove that I existed. I could go to one of the other banks in the market square and open an account, which would make life a lot easier. There were a couple of invitations to concerts and premieres back in LA, which I tipped into the flames along with a request for extending the warranty on my television.

For the moment, being home in front of a warm fire with Liszt’s music and the latest issues of
Gramophone
and
Sight & Sound
to browse through would suit me fine.

I walked across the little packhorse bridge, then up past the lime kiln and through the fields that led me, eventually, to the old racecourse. It was a clear enough morning, crisp but not too cold, and I certainly needed the exercise. The fine dining I had done in London and France was beginning to take its toll, and if I wanted to keep eating well and not restrict myself to a diet of rabbit food and carrot juice, then I needed to burn off a few calories. I was already discovering that the kind of health regimes one seems to adopt naturally in LA don’t necessarily travel well to Yorkshire. I also had a few letters to post in town.

The Dales landscape always made me think of my father. We had visited the area frequently when I was a child, most often in summer, when we would walk the high moors and watch for curlews and lapwings – tewits, he called them – or wander through meadows full of buttercups and clover, where I would watch the swallows swoop and glide. I loved to watch the swallows. Sometimes I would just stand there for hours, it seemed, the only still point, and feel the air from their wings as they wheeled around and above me in ever-changing, ever more complex patterns, flying so close to the ground sometimes you would think they would crash and tumble over. Why was it that those summer days of my memory were always sunny, the still, honeyed air droning with insects and filled with the scents of cut grass and wild flowers?

I do remember one autumn visit, though, on a day very much like this one, when I ran down a country lane joyfully kicking up the heaps of fallen, crisp leaves, delighting in the sound and the spinning kaleidoscope of colour I had created, while my father moved slowly behind me with his walking stick, that small smile no doubt on his face, taking it all in. He was a countryman at heart, forced, like so many, to move to the city for work after the war, and never so happy as when he could walk the lanes or lean on a drystone wall as he admired the view. He could name all the trees, wild flowers and birds. I like to think I have something of his country soul in me, though I was city born and raised.

After queuing for some time in the post office – it seems that some people conduct all their business there except buying stamps and posting packages – I turned left at the square, intending to go the King’s Head for lunch, and almost bumped into Charlotte coming the other way.

‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘I thought it was you.’

‘Hi, Charlotte. Thanks for the card.’

‘It was a lovely evening.’

That wasn’t exactly my memory, but I didn’t say anything.

‘Look,’ Charlotte gushed on, ‘I’ve been wanting to have a word . . . you know . . . if you’ve got a moment.’ She seemed to be pushing her hair back from her forehead as she spoke – it was quite windy by now – even though she didn’t need to. It was an attractive pose, rather like the cover of an old
Health and Efficiency
magazine, but with clothes on, and it showed off her slim, athletic body.

I could have said no, I suppose, that I was busy and had to get back to Kilnsgate House, but I’ve never been a good liar, except to myself. I could probably convince myself black was white if I wanted to, but nobody else would believe me. Besides, I was intrigued, and the prospect of lunch with an attractive woman is not something you turn down so cavalierly at my age. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I was just going to have lunch. Care to join me?’

‘That would be super.’

Who on earth says ‘super’ these days? Well, Charlotte does. That is the kind of woman she is, with her sporty good looks and layered blonde hair. She looked as if she ought to have a tennis racket or a golf club in her hand, but she had a Stead and Simpson bag.

‘Had you anywhere in mind?’

‘What? Oh, lunch. No, not really. King’s Head?’

‘How about Rustique? My treat.’

So we went to Rustique, just off the square, on Finkle Street. We sat in the glassed-over courtyard, with its tiled floor, framed French posters and wall mural of a nude fan dancer. I wanted some wine with lunch, but Charlotte declined, so I decided to stick with water and coffee myself. I’d been a good boy yesterday, hadn’t touched a drop of anything alcoholic, so I could do the same today as well.

‘So what have you been up to lately?’ Charlotte asked.

I told her about my visit to Sam Porter in Paris, careful to make it sound as if my brother Graham, not Sam, was the real reason for my crossing the Channel. The waiter came and we gave him our orders. I quickly forgot my earlier resolve and ordered a glass of Costières de Nîmes. Charlotte asked for a diet bitter lemon. That’s the problem. I don’t like fizzy or diet drinks, coffee’s for mornings, and water just doesn’t quite do the trick, so it has to be wine or beer, really. At least, that’s my excuse.

We talked about my Grace Fox theories for a while. When I came to mention Grace’s lack of motive, Charlotte said, ‘And you don’t believe she had a good one in this Sam Porter?’

‘No. They existed in a kind of fantasy world.’

‘But surely a fantasy world can have its dark side?’

‘I suppose it can, but that’s not the impression I got. I will admit that a lot of it so far is just my take on things, my sense of Grace, the kind of woman she was.’

‘You certainly make her sound beguiling. Are you sure you’re not a little bit in love with her?’

‘It would be easy, wouldn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘To be in love with someone who no longer exists. The perfect escape from the reality of commitment. No pressures, no tough decisions to make, no sacrifices. Like a sort of inflatable doll. No demands. Especially for someone in such a “fragile” state as me.’

Charlotte reddened. ‘Oh, gosh. I didn’t mean that,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just being flippant.’

She really said ‘gosh’ as well as ‘super’. I wondered whether she sometimes said ‘golly’ and ‘brill’ too. How can you be hard on someone who says ‘gosh’ and ‘super’? I smiled and touched her hand to let her know it was OK. ‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘you’re probably right in an abstract, harmless sort of way. Here I am, to all intents and purposes a sensible, reasonable, successful man, spending my time trying to prove the innocence of a woman who was hanged nearly sixty years ago. Insane, isn’t it?’

‘Is that what you’re doing? Trying to prove her innocence?’

‘I didn’t think so when I set out, but I seem to be heading that way, don’t I?’

‘And if you succeed?’

‘I haven’t thought that far ahead. Tell the authorities, I suppose. Official pardon, apology, and all that. It’s too late to do anyone any good, I know, but isn’t that how it goes?’

‘I suppose it is. All I can do is wish you good luck, then.’

‘Thanks. You said you wanted a word with me?’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte gave a quick shake of her head. ‘It’s nothing, really . . . I mean, it’s not important or anything, just a bit . . . well, delicate . . .’

Our lunch arrived, and we paused while the waiter put the plates down and asked us whether we needed anything else.

‘You’ve got me interested,’ I said to Charlotte when he’d gone. ‘You might as well go on.’

‘Well, it’s about Heather. We’ve been friends for a long time. Went to school together, in fact. Jolly hockey sticks and all that. We’ve had our ups and downs over the years, and some long periods apart, but I like to think we’re still the best of friends.’

‘I’m happy to hear it,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing like that. Well . . . perhaps it is.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Isn’t it silly? Now I’m here, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Just say it.’

‘All right.’ She put her knife and fork down. ‘I just don’t want her to get hurt, that’s all.’

Though I had an inkling of what she might be talking about, remembered the tension at the dinner party, the little charade in the kitchen, I said, ‘What do you mean? Why should she get hurt?’

‘She might not seem it. She puts on a tough front, I know. She’s got a hard exterior. Comes with the territory in her line of work. But she’s really very vulnerable, not at all as sure as she likes to pretend to be about things.’

We both concentrated on our food for a minute or so. I sipped some wine. I think I already knew what Charlotte had just told me about Heather.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Heather and Derek are going through a rather difficult patch in their marriage right now. They had a brief separation two years ago then got back together again, but it doesn’t appear to be taking. Things don’t look good, to be perfectly frank. All in all, it’s a very tough time for Heather.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. If there’s anything I—’

‘You can stay away from her,’ Charlotte said.

‘I? . . . What? What has she said?’

‘She hasn’t said anything. And I’m sorry if that sounded so brutal, but I’m just not very good at these things. It was obvious to me at dinner the other night that you weren’t interested in me, that the two of you were . . . that there was something between you.’

‘There’s nothing between us,’ I said.

‘Are you sure? Do you mean it?’

‘Heather was a little drunk, that’s all. She was flirting.’

‘But there seemed to be . . . I mean, I thought you were having an affair.’

‘An affair? Good Lord, no. I haven’t been in town ten minutes. I’m not that fast a worker.’

‘Oh. I suppose I’m not very good at spotting what’s going on, am I? But I know she likes you. I can tell. I’ve known her long enough to recognise the signs. I suppose what I’m saying is that I think she’d
like to
have an affair with you, and I’m asking you not to lead her into it. It would be bad for her. She’s too fragile.’

‘What about me?’ I said.

‘Sorry? What do you mean?’

‘Aren’t I supposed to be fragile, too? After all, I’m the recent widower.’

Charlotte put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean . . . I am so sorry. Forgive me. I’m putting my foot in it again. I shouldn’t have . . . I mean, I was just thinking of Heather.’