Authors: Peter Robinson
Before the Poison (23 page)
‘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 other 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.’
‘They only name Simak and Fletcher.’
‘That’s the firm I dealt with.’
‘Maybe if I took a utility bill and asked them nicely?’
Heather laughed. ‘I think it would take more than a utility bill in this case.’
‘What about Charlotte? Could she help?’
Heather shook her head. ‘Family law. She doesn’t do conveyancing. But why does it matter? Are you thinking this mysterious stranger you saw was the old owner come to check out the new one?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’d like to find out who it is and where he or she lives. It’s just another mystery I’d like to get to the bottom of, that’s all.’
‘Anyone would think you were a private detective and not a composer.’ Heather remained silent for a moment, then went on. ‘I’ll try. No promises, but I happen to know one of the partners, Michael Simak.’ She gave me a sidelong glance. ‘As a matter of fact, he rather fancies me. Tried to feel me up at a Christmas party once.’
‘Charming. I’m not asking you to prostitute yourself for me.’
‘I should hope not. Don’t worry, I can handle him. Michael has a loose tongue. A couple of drinks after work one day . . .’
‘I’ll pay the bar bill.’
‘It’s just here.’ Heather pointed ahead.
I pulled up on a street of old limestone semis up the hill about half a mile from Charlotte’s house. Somehow, I couldn’t see Heather living here. She didn’t seem to fit in with the pebble-dash and prefab conservatory crowd. She had said she was going to walk home, but it was dark, I told her, the hill was steep, and it was on my way. Besides, I liked to think of myself as chivalrous. I’d only had a couple of glasses of wine all evening, and I had to drive back to Kilnsgate House, anyway.
I noticed how quiet she had become as we approached the house and remembered what Charlotte had said about her marital problems. Had they had a row about going to the party? Was that why Derek hadn’t been there? ‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
Heather sighed, then nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you. It’s been a lovely evening.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
But I could see even in the streetlight’s weak glow that there were tears in her eyes.
‘Heather?’
‘It’s nothing.’
I touched her cheek. It was damp. Then I put two fingers under her chin and turned her face towards me. She unbuckled her seat belt, and the next thing I knew we were kissing. It was a tender and sweet kiss, but there was no mistaking the promise, the need. Her hand curved around my neck, pulling me gently down to her mouth, her tongue flicking under my upper lip. Thinking about the kiss later, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who had initiated it.
When we moved apart, Heather just stared at me for a long moment, the tears still glistening in her sad eyes, then she got out of the car and ran a few yards down the street to one of the houses. She didn’t look back. I waited until the front door had opened and closed, then I reversed out of the street and continued on my way. Whatever it was, I reflected, it had begun. But who did I think I was fooling? It had begun the moment I had first clapped eyes on her.
I parked opposite the dark eye of the lime kiln in the light of the moon, but there was nobody up there watching tonight. Inside the house, there were no mysterious figures, either, no signs of a break-in, only the chilly, empty rooms waiting for me. I turned up the thermostat and went into the living room, where I lit a log fire. It was still quite early, only around nine o’clock, and I wasn’t at all tired. I sat at the piano and thought of Heather’s touch, her tears and her kiss, and wished for a moment that I’d invited her back and that she were here with me now, naked on the sheepskin rug before the fire with her red hair spread out in a halo around her head.
I felt desperately lonely and horny, and, for a moment, the isolation of Kilnsgarthdale I had sought and come to love so much became oppressive and claustrophobic. I longed for America again, for the Californian sun and its special quality of light, its open spaces, longed for Santa Monica, the streets, the ocean, the pier with its carousel, my apartment, my friends, even for the excitement of a rough-cut viewing or a mixing session. And for Laura, always for Laura.
Foolish thoughts. I dismissed them. I had promised both Charlotte and myself that there would be no affair between Heather and me, and now here I was wavering in my resolve at the first fleeting physical contact. The problem was that I felt
right
around Heather. I couldn’t really explain it to myself any better than that. Not necessarily comfortable, or even happy – she didn’t drive Laura from my mind – just
right
.
I remembered Laura telling me time after time in her long and painful journey towards death that when she was gone I should get on with my life, have girlfriends, have fun, whatever, even remarry if I wanted. I had assured her tearfully that I would, but so far I hadn’t had the impulse. About six months after Laura died, there had been one rather sordid drunken night with a fading B-list actress I knew vaguely, but that was all. Now this. If I were to be honest with myself, I probably felt more guilty because of Laura than because Heather was married. If Charlotte were to be believed, the marriage was on its last legs. I had seen the same thing happen to enough couples back in LA to know that there are some brinks you just don’t come back from.
But so far it had only been a kiss, I told myself, and a kiss is just a kiss, as the man sang. The decent thing would be to stop at that before things went too far. As Charlotte had already told me, Heather was vulnerable. I could tell that myself by the games she played and by the flip, flirtatious persona she adopted to mask her pain and her insecurity. Stripping that away would only expose her to the raw pain and confusion of the failing marriage, of which I had seen some expression in her tears tonight. I had always been faithful to Laura, and even if Heather and Derek were on the outs, I was not a marriage breaker.
I had planned on doing a little work on the sonata, but it just wouldn’t come tonight. I was too restless, too distracted. Instead, I put on Charlie Haden and Pat Metheny, poured myself a glass of wine and sat in an armchair by the fire, staring into the flames, haunted by memories of those long-ago childhood Bonfire Nights and of Laura’s face in the glow of 4th July fireworks. It morphed into Grace Fox’s face, and I knew I was lost.
12
Famous Trials: Grace Elizabeth Fox, April 1953, by Sir Charles Hamilton Morley
Denying the jury and the world at large the opportunity to hear at first hand Grace Fox’s account, in her own words, of what really happened in Kilnsgate House on the night of the 1st of January, 1953, might seem to some an oversight in the extreme, but we must bear in mind that there is no legal requirement for the plaintiff to appear in the witness box, and that the burden is on the prosecution to prove their case against the defendant beyond a reasonable doubt.
The placing of the accused in the witness box, thereby bringing the matter of her character into the proceedings and opening her to cross-examination by the Crown, has always been a matter of contention in the circles of criminal law, and perhaps the general opinion of most barristers is that the defendant should definitely not appear in his or her own defence, odd as this may sound to the layperson.
Some would argue that putting the defendant in the witness box is a strategy far more often regretted when not done than it is celebrated when done. ‘If only the jury had had the opportunity to see for themselves what an honest, sensitive and upright character my client really is,’ the disappointed barrister may often chide himself after a failure. Yet even the most honest, sensitive and upright among us may tremble, quail and even crack under the strain of a relentless cross-examination by a determined Crown barrister such as Sir Archibald Yorke, QC, and Mr. Sewell knew nothing if he did not know his opponent and his reputation. On the whole, Mr. Sewell put up a valiant effort in Grace’s defence, and he did indeed gain much ground towards the end, but he had too little ammunition at his disposal, and he simply failed to capitalise on his competent destruction of the medical evidence, which was possibly his finest moment.
As minor facts are given major significance, as little white lies and omissions loom as large as the shadow of the gallows, as our every word and deed is subject to the most detailed and merciless probing and interpretation – tell me, who among us would not quake at such a prospect?
In general principle, then, putting the accused before her accusers is frowned upon because it exposes the
character
and magnifies all blemishes. Why, then, the gentle reader may ask, would a barrister
ever
decide to put his client on the stand? Because, on occasion, there is the faintest chance that testimony from the accused may tug at the heartstrings of the jury and may thereby tip the delicate balance of mercy in her favour. The accused’s testimony may create compassion on the part of certain jury members and engender seeds of reasonable doubt which, in the deliberations that follow, may result in the jury being unable to come to a unanimous verdict of twelve, as required by law. Might this have happened in the case of Grace Fox? We will never know.
Mr. Sewell had clearly decided that it was not worth the risk of finding out. If the aloofness and lack of interest exhibited by Grace Fox in court were also features of Mr. Sewell’s private meetings with her, then one can only applaud his judgement. Juries may be willing to forgive a contrite and repentant adulteress, but not an arrogant and detached one. Juries want tears, protestations of innocence, much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but Grace Fox had not given them that, and there was no reason to assume that she would be any different in the witness box. So she remained a lonely and forlorn figure in the dock.
Mr. Justice Venable’s summing up was as fair and unbiased with regard to matters of law as we have come to expect from the members of our senior judiciary. He apportioned the correct weight to each scrap of evidence presented to the court, and his summary was a model of conciseness and clarity from which we could all learn a great deal.
On the other hand, it is perhaps fair to say that the judge demonstrated little sympathy for the characters of Grace Fox and Samuel Porter. If Grace did, as the police and the prosecution contended, administer to her husband a large dose of deadly potassium chloride after first sedating him with chloral hydrate, then this, in itself, Mr. Justice Venables declared, was a devilish plot, which must have taken a great deal of planning and cunning to bring to fruition, evidence in itself of the killer’s determination and cold-blooded premeditation.
According to the Crown, Grace Fox had also selected witnesses to her cleverly staged and cynical attempt to revive her husband for show, the judge said, when in fact she wanted him dead. Mr. Justice Venables also alluded to Grace’s capability as a nurse, the knowledge she had gained when she had worked for a spell in a hospital dispensary during her training. She had access to her husband’s surgery, and she clearly knew the properties of the various lethal substances therein.
Mr. Justice Venables also spoke at length of the night that Grace and Samuel had spent at Mrs. Compton’s guest house in Leyburn, of the frenzied orgy of sexual intercourse they had clearly experienced there, and asked whether it were not reasonable to assume that a woman under the sway of such a passion would not undertake such a desperate course of action as murder if she found herself under threat of imminent separation from the object of her ardour?
The judge also dealt with another important legal matter in his summing up. Not calling the defendant raises its own problems, not the least of which being that the jury assumes the accused, by not standing up and speaking out for herself, has something to hide and must, therefore, be guilty. The judge was careful to discount this. When it came to Grace Fox’s silence, he was quick to remind the jury that, while they had not heard from the accused herself, they were not to take this as any indication whatsoever of her guilt. It was a legal matter, purely, and perfectly within her rights. He also went on to warn them that he could understand why they might have no sympathy for an immoral woman like Grace Fox, but that however much they found her character and actions abhorrent, they should lay this prejudice aside, and this serious defect in her character should not necessarily make them more ready to convict her of the crime, unless they felt compelled to do so by the evidence they had heard.
So it ended. The jury was out for one hour and seventeen minutes before returning with a verdict of guilty. Mr. Justice Venables grimaced, called for his black cap and pronounced sentence of death. Grace Fox gripped the rail, and one tear rolled over the lower rim of her left eye and down her cheek. Then she was taken down by the bailiffs.