Authors: Peter Robinson
Before the Poison (42 page)
‘There must have been some very hard times,’ I said.
‘I’ll say. It’s not an easy life, farming. Probably the worst was about ten years ago, just after Dad died and we were struggling to keep going. I suppose you remember the foot-and-mouth outbreak of 2001? It brought the whole country to a halt. We lost pretty much everything, just as we were starting out. Every cow and sheep slaughtered. Those were the darkest days, I’d say.’ He looked up at Jill, who nodded and squeezed his hand.
‘I suppose it must have been tough during the war, too, with quotas and rationing and everything?’ I said. ‘Not that you’d remember it, of course.’
Tony laughed. ‘Believe me, I’ve heard all about it. It was one of Grandad’s hobby-horses, wasn’t it, love?’
Jill smiled.
‘We all had it easy, according to him. You hadn’t lived until you’d lived through the war, as if we should all somehow go back in time and do it, just to toughen ourselves up to his standards.’
I laughed. ‘Yes. I was reading up on a bit of history about Kilnsgate,’ I said. ‘The Foxes were living there then, weren’t they?’
‘That’s the woman who got hanged, isn’t it?’ said Jill, instinctively touching her neck.
‘That’s right.’
‘Come to think of it,’ Tony said, narrowing his eyes, ‘I’ve heard somewhere that you’ve become interested in Grace Fox’s story, asking questions all over the place.’
‘
Mea culpa
,’ I said. ‘Not much else to do around here.’
‘You can come up here and give us a hand whenever you feel like it,’ Jill said, with a smile to soften the implied criticism. Talk to farmers, and you’d think they’re the only ones who ever do any hard work; the rest of us are soft and lazy. Still, it was a silly thing to say, and I regretted it the minute it was out. I just smiled.
‘I can’t for the life of me remember who told me,’ said Tony.
‘Wilf Pelham, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. He was a friend of Grandad’s. We bump into each other now and then in town.’
‘Did your grandfather know the Foxes?’
‘I suppose he must have,’ said Tony, ‘but he never said much about them. They weren’t farmers.’
‘What about the trial?’
‘It never really interested him much. He was far too busy on the farm to pay attention to things like that. And I wasn’t even born.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Wilf was telling me how your grandad blamed the military at Kilnsgate for everything, even the foot-and-mouth outbreak.’
Tony laughed. ‘It was one of the many bees in his bonnet, yes. He used to go on about them years after, mostly I think because they blocked off the dale with barbed wire and put out sentries, so he couldn’t go for his usual morning constitutional, or graze his cattle down there. Once you got Grandad started on the war, there was no stopping him. He didn’t like the folks at Kilnsgate, it’s true. Even blamed them for the disappearance of some disabled local chappie.’
‘Nat Bunting?’
Tony’s eyes widened. ‘You
have
done your research, haven’t you?’
‘His name’s cropped up once or twice. What did your grandfather say?’
Tony shrugged. ‘He said he’d seen this Bunting fellow
inside
the Kilnsgate compound, beyond the barbed wire. As I said, Grandad was annoyed most of all because he used to have free access to that land himself. To see someone else there . . . well, it naturally annoyed him.’
‘What did he do about it?’
‘Do? Nothing. What could you do? This was wartime. The military could do whatever they wanted and shoot you if you got in their way. No, he just grumbled, and eventually people got tired of listening to him.’
‘Any idea what Nat Bunting might have been doing in there? I mean, from what I’ve heard, it was well guarded, and he was hardly a fifth columnist.’
‘No idea. I never heard any more about it.’
‘Do you remember your grandad saying
when
this happened?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I’m not even sure that he did. I mean, when he went into his rants, they were hardly dated and timed.’
‘Of course not. What about the foot-and-mouth outbreak?’
‘Now that I do know. It was April 1942. Things like that tend to be etched in the family’s collective memory. Grandad lost his whole herd. I don’t even know if he got much compensation. And, of course, he blamed the military for that, too.’ Tony frowned. ‘But from what I can piece together, he ought to have thanked them. It was them that saved our bacon.’ He laughed. ‘Well, beef, I suppose I should say.’
‘How?’
‘He had to destroy all his livestock, true enough, but that’s as far as it went. The military acted fast and put a stop to the outbreak before it spread around the county, or the country – and you know how fast foot-and-mouth can spread. If that had happened, a lot more people would have lost their livelihoods, and nobody would have been in a position to help Grandad get back on his feet again, which is what they did. Whatever the military were doing, they acted quickly and decisively, and we were lucky they were there. It’s not often you can say that.’
‘I’ll say. Did no one else do medical checks? The Ministry of Agriculture? The local vet?’
‘From what I could gather from Grandad between his rants, we were quarantined immediately, and the people from Kilnsgate took care of everything. Slaughter, disposal, the lot.’
‘How did they dispose of the bodies? Fire?’
‘Apparently they put them in pits and scattered quicklime over them. Of course, they didn’t have all those European Union rules and regulations to deal with back then. You saw a problem, you dealt with it.’
‘Now, darling . . .’ said Jill, giving him a playful tap on the arm. ‘Don’t you get on
your
hobby-horse. I’m sure Mr Lowndes doesn’t want to hear your opinions on the EU.’
I smiled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind,’ I said, glancing at my watch, ‘but I’m afraid I do have to be going.’
We all stood up, and Jill said we would have to get together again, for a longer and more leisurely chat next time, perhaps over dinner. I said that would be a wonderful idea, then, after saying goodbye to them both, the dog and the children, I made it past the barking collies to my car without slipping and breaking my neck, and headed back to Kilnsgate.
22
Extract from the journal of Grace Elizabeth Fox (ed. Louise King), June, 1944. Normandy
Friday, 30th June, 1944
A curious thing happened today. Lt. Maddox, one of the surgeons, chose Dorothy and me to accompany him on a special mission. In charge was a man introduced to us only as Meers, and a couple of strong, silent corporals I can only describe as thugs. I did not like Meers. I did not even recognise the uniform he was wearing. He was cold and had a cruel twist to his mouth. I could tell by the way he acted towards Dorothy and me that he does not like women and would not have taken us with him if he had his way. He hardly spoke, and when he did, he only talked to Lt. Maddox. He did not even look at Dorothy or me. I made certain he never spotted my journal. He was the kind of man who would have confiscated and destroyed it with great pleasure.
We could see the devastation of the beautiful French countryside from the jeep. Roofless farmhouses, fields full of bomb and shell craters, dead livestock scattered everywhere. How the poor French people must hate us all, Allies and Germans alike. Even in freeing them we are destroying their homes and livelihoods. Still, I suppose these can be rebuilt, whereas a future of Nazi rule is not something to be contemplated with equanimity.
We arrived at a grand chateau, which reminded me of one of our English stately homes, surrounded by a high wall with wrought-iron gates, an arched entrance and acres of grounds. Here and there lay a dead cow, and someone had dug a pit in which more bodies of livestock were burning. The smell was terrible. There was some bomb damage to one of the wings, and the ruins were still smouldering. Meers spoke to the officer at the gate, who scrutinised all our identity cards before letting us through. Dot and I had butterflies in our stomachs.
There were a number of military vehicles in the grounds, and groups of soldiers standing around smoking, as if detailed to be there simply to keep an eye on things. Without a word, Meers jumped out of the jeep the moment it came to a halt. Lt. Maddox shrugged, and we all followed Meers and the corporals inside. We were issued face masks and surgical gloves as we entered. It was a grand place, full of vast echoing halls, wainscoting, gold leaf, ornate cornices and chandeliers, broad, curving staircases with thick patterned carpets. The one odd thing I noticed was there were no paintings on the walls. It was clear that there had once been some by the discoloration in certain areas, so perhaps the owners had hidden them in the cellar to prevent them from being damaged.
In many of the rooms and halls were rows of empty makeshift cots and beds, which made me think the place had been used as a hospital of some kind. Meers led us through a maze of imposing corridors, down some stone stairs, and we ended up at a reinforced door with a black skull and crossbones, like the Jolly Roger, on it, and a sign that read EINGANG VERBOTEN. Even I knew enough German to realise that meant NO ENTRY.
As Meers started to open the door, he turned to Lt. Maddox and told him there were some men inside the room, and if anything could be done for them, especially anything that might make them capable of talking, we should do it. That was why we had been brought here. Lt. Maddox looked at us and nodded. This was our job, after all, no matter who they were.
It soon became obvious, however, that there was nothing to be done for anyone in that room. It was large and cool, with damp stone walls, and had perhaps once been a wine cellar or some sort of storage area, but now it was a makeshift hospital ward, with rows of beds full of dead patients, about thirty or more of them, all men, and all emaciated. Some lay half out of bed, some completely on the floor. We checked them all, and not one showed signs of life.
It was not immediately clear what had killed them. There were no signs of bullet wounds or the usual battlefield injuries. Many had terrible rashes and what looked like scald marks or electrode burns on their skin, sores and pustules, but nothing that appeared serious enough to have caused death. Still, we were not there to perform autopsies; we were there to see what could be done, and clearly nothing could.
While we were checking the men, I noticed that the corporals had turned up with a handcart, and Meers was tossing the contents of the filing cabinets into it. Some of the files lay strewn on the floor, some partially burned, so it looked as if the Germans had tried to destroy them before deciding that a quick flight was the better option. Meers also forced open the medicine cabinets and added their contents to the cart. I noticed a bottle labelled SARIN and another TABUN. I had never heard of these medicines, but then my German was not that good. Meers was very careful in his handling of them, though, and he managed to find a compartmented wooden box of the kind used for shipping wine, and slotted each bottle in an individual compartment.
After a brief consultation with Lt. Maddox about the hopeless state of the patients, Meers called over one of the corporals to take us back to the hospital. That was all. We were dismissed.
Lt. Maddox said something about finding a cause of death, but Meers told him that was not his problem. As long as no one could be saved, then we had done our jobs and we could go. Lt. Maddox insisted that we should at least try to identify the men, so that we could inform their next of kin. Meers said that was not important, that they were probably just Jews or Polish slave labourers. The lieutenant argued that he would have to conduct more extensive tests to make sure they were not the victims of infectious diseases, but Meers would have none of it. He said that the bodies would be burned and gave the corporal a brisk nod. I felt that if we did not do as we were told, and leave now, the corporal would pull out their sidearms. Things were that tense. So we left. When we got back to the hospital, they were packing up for a move, so we all got stuck into it and the incident was briefly forgotten.
January 2011
I thought I had mastered the art of sleeping on planes, but that night as we droned somewhere over the Sahara Desert, I just couldn’t do it, despite the dimmed lights and the spacious business-class seat. I had dozed just long enough to miss the end of the movie I was watching, and the flight attendant had surreptitiously removed my half-full glass of wine from the tray. Now I was wide awake again. I reached for the touch-screen, desperately seeking something else to watch, but there was nothing that interested me, especially not
Death Knows My Name
, and though my eyes weren’t heavy enough to close in sleep, they were too tired to read. Instead, I plugged the headphones into my iPhone and went back to the late Beethoven string quartets I’d been listening to earlier.
Even then, my mind wasn’t so much on the music as it was thinking forward to the meeting I was hoping for. Louise had done a great job, though it had taken her a couple of weeks, and it was now the end of January. She had tracked Billy Strang through his father, the shoe shop manager, finding an address and birth details. Then she had gone on to work her magic and, after a short period of despair, when the trail seemed simply to end, she found that he had done his National Service between 1952 and 1954, then emigrated to Rhodesia in 1956 and moved to South Africa in 1980. He now lived near Cape Town. It was simply the outline of a life story, and though I could imagine some of the details myself, given the dates, it would be interesting to get to Billy himself and hear his story to fill in the blanks.
After talking to Louise, I had booked a flight as quickly as possible, but I had deliberately not tried to get in touch with Billy for the same reason I hadn’t phoned Sam Porter before my trip to Paris. It’s a lot easier to say no to someone from a few thousand miles away, over the telephone, than it is if he’s standing on your doorstep. Again, I knew this was a risk. He could be out of town, could even be dead – though Louise assured me the public records showed he was still alive and paying taxes – but the risk of alerting him and of having him simply refuse to talk to me at all was too much to contemplate, so I decided to play it by ear.