Before the Poison

9

Famous Trials: Grace Elizabeth Fox, April 1953, by Sir Charles Hamilton Morley

The formal police investigation was as thorough as such things can be over a week after an alleged crime has taken place. Unfortunately, time is frequently of the essence in these matters; evidence decays, or simply disappears; people forget; stories change. However, science does not lie, and the second post-mortem uncovered a high level of potassium in Dr. Fox’s body, along with traces of chloral hydrate, a powerful sedative. Things went badly against Grace Fox from the start, partly because of her own unwillingness to cooperate with the police. At interviews, she was evasive, distant and frequently monosyllabic. She had had plenty of time, the Crown later argued, in the intervening days between her husband’s death and the arrival of the authorities, to clean up after herself. What did she have to hide? All she was able to tell the police was that she didn’t remember very clearly what she did, that she was acting on instinct and must have tidied up, thrown the scrap of paper on the fire and cleaned and sterilised the syringe before returning it to Dr. Fox’s medical bag, along with the remaining nitroglycerine tablets and the digitalis. It was her nature to be tidy about such things, she claimed, part of her nurse’s training. She had also washed the glass Dr. Fox had used to take his stomach powder in a small amount of whisky and milk. It was what she would normally have done, she said, and who was to prove her wrong? After all, she went on, as far as she was concerned, she was not expecting to face such a rigorous investigation, or any investigation at all, for that matter, and she was overwhelmed by shock and grief over the sudden death of her husband. She said she knew nothing about the chloral hydrate, but that her husband occasionally took a sleeping draught. As soon as news of the police investigation spread, ugly rumours started doing the rounds: Grace had a string of lovers in addition to Samuel Porter, people whispered, and her latest was a handsome young soldier with a mysterious birthmark on his hairline, with whom she had been seen in deep conversation on Castle Walk only a few days before her husband’s murder. It was left up to the police to sort out the truth from the mere baseless gossip, and in the end none of this so-called ‘evidence’ of Grace Fox’s promiscuity was actually allowed in court. When it was clear that the police were quickly becoming suspicious that there may have been more to Ernest’s death than the chance misfortune of a heart attack, it was Felicity who first suggested that Grace hire a solicitor, which she immediately did. Afer this, any police interviews were carefully monitored by Mr. Rathbone, and Grace had little of interest to add to any of her earlier statements except to maintain that she had merely done her duty and had done nothing wrong. Grace Fox was finally arrested and formally charged with the murder of her husband Dr. Ernest Fox on Tuesday, 20th January, 1953. She appeared before the magistrate the following day and was remanded into custody. Even at this early stage, the evidence against her appeared damning. In the first instance, she had a clear motive. Her affair with Samuel Porter was threatened by the impending move, and they shared a mutual desire to be rid of her husband without losing access to his money. In the second instance, she had the means. Grace Fox was a trained nurse, well versed in the contents of a medical dispensary and possessed of the knowledge of how to use them. An extensive range of drugs, some of which could be fatal under certain circumstances, or under the wrong conditions, were available in Dr. Fox’s medical bag, or even at his surgery, to which Grace Fox also had easy access before the dinner on 1st January. In the third instance, Grace Fox had ample opportunity. It was she who brought him the stomach powder. Nobody saw her tend to him while he was dying; nobody actually saw her administer the nitroglycerine or the digitalis to him. The two syringes in Dr. Fox’s medical bag were both sterile, and though this did not preclude that one had been used and replaced after cleaning, it certainly could not be said to prove it, either. Digitalis and nitroglycerine were also found in his bag, but that was, of course, where one would expect them to be. Dr. Nelson confirmed that Dr. Fox usually carried two syringes, along with digitalis and nitroglycerine in case of emergencies. Sometimes, in the high dales, he said, you might be called to treat a heart attack victim, and these were usually the first lines of defence. Of course, we have only Grace Fox’s word that she did all she could to save her husband’s life. Alice Lambert admitted to seeing the paper in which Dr. Fox’s stomach powder was folded, and which may well have contained traces of chloral hydrate, too, but this was not found in any subsequent searches of Kilnsgate House. Whether Grace hastened her husband’s demise through the introduction of poison into his system was to become a subject of much contention during the trial. While the pathologist, Dr. Masefield, during his second post-mortem, did find traces of chloral hydrate in Dr. Fox’s system as well as digitalis, he did not find any fatal substances. He did remark on the relatively high level of potassium, but he also admitted that this was often the case after death, especially after a heart attack, because the blood cells burst and the tissues break down, releasing high quantities of potassium into the system. While the cold conditions under which Dr. Fox’s body had been stored slowed down this process, they did not prevent it entirely. Thus, the defence that Grace would not have preserved her husband’s body under such conditions had she wanted to destroy any evidence of poisons she may have introduced into his system was rendered void. She must have believed that she had committed the perfect crime, that there would be no investigation, until the Leyburn landlady’s suspicions piqued the police’s interest. The case that the Crown was about to bring against Grace Elizabeth Fox had all the elements to guarantee a conviction. Sir Archibald Yorke, QC, would set out to argue that the accused wanted to be rid of her husband, that she had free and easy access to chloral hydrate, which she added to the victim’s stomach powder to sedate him so that he would not feel the sting of a later injection of potassium (for to be effective as an agent of death, potassium must be injected intravenously). Whether the indigestion itself was caused by some medical agent, or simply by a certain low cunning in the devising of the evening’s rich menu, was never decided one way or the other. And so the stage was set for the trial to begin at Leeds Crown Court, on 16th March, 1953.

October 2010

The evening after my dinner with Sam Porter, I took the train from Paris Montparnasse to Angouleme, and my brother Graham was waiting for me at the station. It was spotting with rain as we drove through narrow streets past the Romanesque buildings, the beautiful Cathedral of St Pierre, high on the cone-shaped hill, a dark shadow hulking over us. Graham lived outside a village in the Charente valley, about half an hour’s drive from town, not far from the river itself, and his cottage had a view of the distant meadows and vineyards. It was a beautiful rural landscape, but not at all like the Yorkshire Dales. I had spent most of the day walking around Paris, including visits to the Cimitiere de Montparnasse, the riverside bookstalls Laura used to love, and the Luxemburg Gardens, which I loved, followed by a long lunch on the Boulevard St Germain at a cafe with a glassed-in dining area at the front, people-watching.

It was well after dark when we got to the old stone farmhouse. Graham led me through to the kitchen, where Siobhan was already busy over the old Aga-style stove. She put down her oven mitts and hurried forward to give me a big hug. ‘You’re looking good, Chris,’ she said, prodding my belly. ‘Been losing weight?’

‘I doubt it. And I’ve been very sloppy about exercising regularly, too.’

‘We’ll soon put a bit more meat on your bones tonight,’ she said, turning back to the stove.

Siobhan was a terrific cook, as Laura and I had told her on the many occasions we had dined there over the years, and tonight she said she was concocting a rabbit stew with red wine, shallots, locally picked mushrooms and her special mix of herbs from the garden. It smelled delicious. I knew there would be a plate of wonderful cheeses after the main course, too, and perhaps a bisque or foie gras with crusty bread to start.

‘Dinner won’t be long,’ said Graham, ushering me into the lounge. ‘In the meantime we’ll leave Siobhan to work her magic and have a splash of vino.’

‘Honestly, you lot drink even more than the English, and that’s saying something,’ I said.

‘Now don’t you go bringing your American New Age Puritanism rubbish over here. It won’t go down at all well, you know. Anyone would say you’ve been in California too long.’

I laughed as he passed me the bottle. ‘They make wine there, too, you know, or are you lot just too snobbish to acknowledge it?’

‘New World wines have their place,’ said Graham, and left it at that.

The bottle didn’t have a label, but I knew it would be good. The first taste told me it was. Graham doesn’t make his own wine – he insists that home-made wine always tastes like home-made wine – but he does know a lot of people in the business, as he was once a successful wine merchant in Oxford.

We relaxed in the well-worn armchairs by the fireplace, in which logs were blazing away, there being a bit of an autumn chill in the valley. Graham shared my love of music, classical in particular – he was quite a good pianist himself – and I recognised the Elgar violin sonata playing softly in the background. The lamps were shaded, filtering the light to a warm orange glow. A well-thumbed paperback copy of Balzac’s Lost Illusions lay face down on the table beside the chair, about a third read. Occasionally a log shifted and sighed, or crackled and spat out sparks on to the hearth.

I could feel the city life and the stress of travel drop away like weights from my shoulders as I sipped the wine and massaged the back of my neck with my free hand. ‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘how two city boys like us have both ended up living in the country.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Graham. ‘It was never really my intention, but… too good a bargain to pass up. And I must say, I don’t miss the city at all.’

‘Me neither, so far,’ I said, thinking more of Los Angeles, or Santa Monica, than of anywhere else. After all, it had been my home for over thirty years. And Santa Monica was fine in its way. Small enough, far enough from Hollywood, with plenty of excellent local restaurants and pubs, the Pacific Ocean rolling in practically at my feet, and a climate that suited my British blood perfectly, though it was too cold for many Angelinos. But it was true that I didn’t miss the place, that I hardly thought about it at all, and when I did it was because I was thinking of Laura. Even then, my memories veered more towards Milwaukee, where we had met, or to our holidays in New England, where her family lived, Boston mostly, with its snowbound winters and chill winds off the Atlantic. No, I didn’t miss America, but I missed my wife.

Graham’s living room was no place for such mawkish reminiscence and recrimination. I soon polished off the first glass of wine, and Graham poured me a second as we continued talking about country life. I had seen the village, about half a mile down the road, many times, and it was like a cliche of French provincial life. A stretch of sere, well-trodden grass shaded by trees, where old men in berets played boules, a cafe with rickety tables outside where everyone sat and shared local gossip, the boulangerie, which, of course, made the best baguettes in the whole of France, a charcuterie, a small epicerie full of local seasonal produce and a few imported items, and a more modern minimart, which sold everything from paper clips to wine. Then, of course, there was the ancient eglise, that other essential hub of the French village. By eight in the evening the centre was usually deserted as people watched their TVs at home, apart from a few late diners and pipe-smokers outside the cafe, if it was a particularly warm evening, no doubt arguing the merits of Proust over Flaubert. If you wanted a night on the town, you went to Angouleme. Even Cognac wasn’t that far away. If you really wanted to push the boat out, you went to Poitiers or La Rochelle.

But in Graham’s little farmhouse, even the village felt distant, and all I could hear outside was the wind in the trees and the occasional call of a night bird.

Over a delicious dinner, we caught up with family gossip – Mother, my kids and theirs. The cheese plate was excellent, as expected: runny Camembert, a rich Roquefort and tasty Port Salut. Graham and I cleared away the dishes and put them in the machine, then Siobhan said it was time for her to go to bed.

Graham looked at me. ‘Tired, little brother?’

‘Not particularly,’ I said.

He stood up. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s you and me have a serious nightcap and a bit of man talk.’

Siobhan rolled her eyes, gave us each a peck on the cheek and said goodnight.

I followed Graham into the living room.

Graham selected a bottle of cognac and a couple of crystal glasses from his well-stocked liquor cabinet, then he put a couple more logs on the fire and slipped in a Cecilia Bartoli CD. Graham might love his music, but he hasn’t quite caught up with the iPod generation yet.

‘So,’ he said, pouring a couple of large shots before we settled down in our respective armchairs. ‘Are you still chasing your ghosts?’

‘I don’t think I ever was,’ I said. ‘But if you mean am I still interested in the Grace Fox case, then the answer’s yes. Perhaps even more so now than ever.’

‘Why would that be?’

I told him all about my conversation with Sam Porter and the conclusions I had drawn about Grace’s innocence. I also mentioned the noises in Kilnsgate and the piano I thought I’d heard. Graham might dismiss these as the products of an overheated imagination, but at least he wouldn’t laugh at me.

‘Well, I don’t suppose he would be biased at all, would he?’ Graham said. ‘Plus the fact that he must be about ninety by now, and he’s probably gaga.’

‘Very funny. He may be biased. But that’s beside the point. You’d expect someone in his position to defend the woman he loves no matter what. I understand that, too. But Sam’s level headed enough, and there’s nothing wrong with his memory as far as I can tell. And, by the way, he’s seventy-eight.’

Graham whistled between his teeth. ‘Wow. A toyboy.’

‘He certainly was sixty years ago. But no matter what you call him, his feelings for Grace were genuine enough.’

‘Don’t be so defensive, little brother. I wasn’t saying they weren’t. So you think she was innocent, too?’

‘All I can say is that the more I get to know her, the less I can envisage her murdering her husband. I know it sounds vague, but… there it is. And Sam has no reason to lie. Especially not now, so long after the events.’

‘How about to protect his old lover’s memory? Or he may believe he’s telling the truth. It’s amazing the things you can convince yourself are true over the years if you repeat them to yourself often enough. I was in New York when Woodstock happened, you know, and I used to tell the girls back in England that I’d been there. Impressed the hell out of them all the way to the bedroom. I hadn’t, of course, but in the end I even sort of half-believed it myself. I could see and hear Hendrix playing the “Star Spangled Banner” in my sleep. Maybe Sam Porter has convinced himself over the years that Grace Fox was pure as the driven snow?’

‘I don’t think so. Grace had her problems. But she was certainly no slut. Or a murderess.’

Graham paused and sipped some cognac. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s one big question you’re raising by refusing to believe the official version.’

‘I think I know where you’re going.’

‘If Grace didn’t do it, then who did?’

‘I don’t see why anyone had to have done it. I don’t know all the details yet, but I don’t see why it couldn’t have been natural causes. She tried to save him, but she was too late.’

‘Clearly the police and the pathologist didn’t think so.’

‘Because they were only looking for evidence to make a case against Grace. What if they were wrong?’

‘But what if it was murder? Who could have done it but Grace?’

‘Well, the Foxes had some friends over for dinner that night. I don’t know how many. There was also a maidservant.’

‘So you’re saying there are other suspects?’

‘I’m saying there could be, that’s all. If it wasn’t natural causes.’

‘Did any of them have a motive?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘So what do you think really happened?’

‘A miscarriage of justice. I think that after the landlady’s accusation, the police started to look for evidence to fit their theory. It’s hardly unusual, that sort of blinkered approach. Remember, it was only after she came forward that any suspicions at all were raised. Before that, everyone was quite happy to accept the verdict of a heart attack.’

‘But let’s face it, Chris, in real life, if there’s a murder, ninety-nine per cent of the time it was done by someone close to the victim. The husband or the wife. The police know that. They probably even knew it in 1953. Here,’ Graham said, getting up and bringing the bottle over. ‘Have a drop more.’ I held out my glass. He poured me more than a drop, then some for himself, and sat down again. ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, Chris. Maybe I’m just playing devil’s advocate. But don’t you think you ought to be careful not to get obsessed by this?’

‘Do you think I’m obsessed?’

‘You’re certainly letting your imagination run away with you on very little basis in fact, but then you always did. These things that go bump in the night. The piano. I’ve often thought that you have a degree or two more sensitivity to the twilight zone than most of us do. Ever since you were a child.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t you remember what happened when you were four?’

‘Obviously not.’

He pointed to my hand, to the long scar in the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Don’t you remember where you got that?’

I looked at the curving white line. As far as I knew, I had always had it. ‘No,’ I said, feeling a little apprehensive, as if I were on the verge of a revelation from which there was no return. ‘I take it you remember. Care to tell me about it?’

A log shifted in the grate. Graham put another one on, and it started to crackle and spit smoke. Shadows cast by the flames flickered over the walls. The curtains were open, and I could see stars in the clear night sky.

‘You were four,’ Graham began, ‘and we were on our summer holidays, staying at a bed and board in Scarborough. It was a large house behind the seafront on the North Beach.’

‘We always stayed on the North Beach,’ I said. ‘Mum and Dad thought it was far more genteel, remember? We wanted to be near the amusements and the shops, but they said the South Beach was too common.’

‘That was later, when you were a bit older, but yes, we always stayed on the North Beach. You liked the open-air swimming pool and Peasholme Park well enough.’

‘I don’t remember it at all.’

‘As I said, you were only four.’

‘What did I do, fill the bath to overflowing?’

Graham chuckled. My childhood misadventures were well known in the family, though fortunately they hadn’t followed me into adulthood. Well, not many of them. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Anyway, as I said, we were staying at a guest house in Scarborough. Breakfast and evening meal, six o’clock on the dot or you went hungry. I suppose I’d have been eleven. Anyway, we had a room of our own, two single beds, adjoining Mum and Dad’s. They always kept the door ajar at night so they could keep a check on us. You slept like a log, and I hid under the sheets with a torch reading Sherlock Holmes. There was no telly, but they had a wireless in the lounge, and sometimes Mum and Dad would send you off to bed and let me stay up a bit later to listen to Appointment with Fear or Riders of the Range.

‘There was a huge wardrobe in our room. Oak or something. Very heavy and very old. The floors of the room were uneven, so if you didn’t turn the key, the wardrobe door would swing open slowly with a creaking sound. It used to scare the living daylights out of you. Inside the door was a full-sized mirror. You didn’t like that wardrobe at all, even when it was secured. Am I ringing any bells?’

‘I don’t remember any of it,’ I said, puzzled by Graham’s story. Was this four-year-old boy scared of a wardrobe really me? I began to feel that familiar chill of recognition, as if I not only knew what was coming but had experienced something similar recently, in the guest bedroom at Kilnsgate. It wasn’t quite deja vu, but that was what it felt like, in a strange way. ‘Yes, but you know what it’s like when you’re kids,’ I argued. ‘You imagine monsters under the bed, in the cupboards, at the bottom of the garden, God knows where.’

‘Yes. Well, one day – it had been a hot one, I remember – and we’d been on the beach all afternoon. It was crowded. You were playing with your bucket and spade, building sandcastles, making friends with some of the other kids, going for a paddle occasionally – all under Dad’s eagle eye, of course – and I… well, I don’t know, really. I’d probably been reading a western or something, wishing I was off with my mates having adventures. But the point is, you were especially tired when we got back to the guest house. You could hardly stay awake through dinner. Mum and Dad packed you off to bed early, and we spent a while in the lounge listening to the wireless, Dad reading his paper. There weren’t many other guests, and most of them seemed to have wandered off to the pub, except for one old lady who sat nodding off in the armchair. And the woman who ran the place, of course – Mrs Gooch, I think she was called – cleaning up in the kitchen.

‘It must have been shortly after eight o’clock – there was some science-fiction serial I was following on the wireless, I remember – when we all heard this almighty crash and the sound of breaking glass and someone screaming – you screaming – from upstairs. Dad was first to his feet, I think, shortly followed by me. We dashed up the stairs two, three at a time, probably both of us with the same thought in our heads – the wardrobe had somehow come open or fallen over and some terrible accident had resulted, that maybe you were hurt.

‘Anyway, we ran into the room, me just behind Dad, and there you were, just standing there looking terrified, blood streaming from your hand. The curtains were closed, but they were made of thin material and it was still light outside, so the room wasn’t in complete darkness. The wardrobe door was swinging open and the mirror lay smashed in pieces all over the floor, as if someone had slammed the door shut too hard.’

‘Jesus!’ I said. ‘Was it me?’

‘You said it was an accident. We worked out that you must have been asleep and heard it creaking open, or had a bad dream or something, and got out of bed to shut it, but you slammed it too hard and the mirror broke.’

‘And?’

‘Well, nobody could think of any other explanation, though it must have been one hell of a push. I mean, you were only a little kid. We bandaged your hand and Dad took you to the hospital, where they stitched you up. Then Dad came back and calmed Mrs Gooch down – he knew he’d have to pay for the mirror, of course – and I think you slept in their room that night. Things were a bit frosty over breakfast the next couple of days, then we went home.’

‘I don’t remember any of this. And I don’t see-’

Graham held his hand up. ‘Wait. I haven’t finished yet.’

I felt a strange kind of tightness in my chest. I didn’t know what he was going to say, but I sensed that it was going to change things, make me feel differently about myself. I almost wanted to tell him to stop, but I couldn’t. Cecilia Bartoli was singing Panis Angelicus, and I took a deep breath and let the music calm me down.

Graham went on. ‘We also shared a room back home in Armley, remember? I think I was twelve or thirteen before we moved to the new estate and got a room each. Anyway, the first night back after the holiday, you couldn’t sleep. Your tossing and turning kept me awake. I asked what was wrong. That was when you told me what happened in Scarborough. You said that you got up to go to the toilet – I think you’d had far too much pop that afternoon – and you noticed that the door to the wardrobe was open. As you passed it to go out to the landing, you caught a glimpse of a reflection. There was something odd about it, you said, so you stepped back and stood in front of the mirror to see. It wasn’t you. That’s what you told me. You couldn’t see your own reflection but that of a young woman, and she seemed to be floating there, reaching out to you, calling you in, as if she wanted to tell you something. Drag you into the wardrobe mirror with her. That was when you slammed the door, out of pure terror, and the mirror smashed.’

I held my breath. A log shifted on the fire. Cecilia sang on.

‘You look pale, little brother. Have another sip of your cognac.’

I did as Graham suggested. I was starting to feel a little drunk.

‘I wasn’t trying to scare you,’ he went on. ‘I was only trying to tell you how you’ve always been over-imaginative, morbidly sensitive, that’s all, the same as with this Grace Fox business.’

‘Yeah, like you’re saying I see dead people. Is that it?’

Graham laughed. ‘Not quite. Maybe you’re sensitive to traces. I don’t know.’

‘Sounds like a load of bollocks to me, big brother,’ I said, with rather more bravado than I felt. ‘Did I tell you what she looked like, this woman?’

‘No. Just that she seemed young and sad. I think you might have mentioned that she was wearing a long nightie. Don’t worry, you weren’t having visions or premonitions of Grace Fox. That’s not why I’m telling you all this.’

‘Then why? What did you make of it?’

‘Well, naturally, I thought you’d awoken from a bad dream involving this young woman in distress, got out of bed half asleep, that somehow the door had come open and you saw your own reflection, maybe thought it was the monster coming out of the wardrobe, and you panicked.’

‘That would seem to be the logical conclusion,’ I said slowly, swirling the rest of my cognac in the large glass.

‘And that’s probably exactly what happened,’ Graham went on. ‘Except…’

I felt a sense of panic. ‘Except what?’

‘No, that’s probably exactly how it happened.’

‘Tell me,’ I pleaded. ‘You can’t lead me this far and then leave me stranded.’

‘It was just something I overheard Dad say later. I don’t think I was supposed to hear it.’

‘What?’

‘Well, the incident gave Mrs Gooch a hell of a shock. It wasn’t just the money. That’s basically what she was telling Dad the next day. But she had a daughter, and that used to be her room before her mother turned the place into a bed and board.’

‘So? There’s nothing odd about that. The daughter got married and left home, and her mother and father converted the house into a guest house rather than move to somewhere smaller. Makes sense. Scarborough attracts a lot of visitors.’

‘Yes. Only that wasn’t quite the way it happened.’

‘Oh?’

‘No. The daughter had a few problems. She was a highly strung girl. She got jilted by her fiance, a soldier, and she… well, she hanged herself in that room. Naturally, Mrs Gooch would hardly tell her guests such a thing, but as I said, she was so upset by the mirror incident that she did let it slip to Dad. The wardrobe door was open at the time, and she saw the reflection of her daughter’s body in the mirror first, before she saw her actual daughter hanging there. What happened to you just brought it all back, that’s all.’

I could think of nothing to say. An icy sensation flooded through me. ‘So you believe that events leave traces?’

‘I never said that. I admit the whole thing puzzles me, and it would be very easy to grasp on to a supernatural explanation.’

‘Couldn’t I have heard about what happened before? Imagined it?’

‘It’s possible, but I don’t see how. You were only four. Even I didn’t really understand what I overheard, but it stuck in my memory. Years later, when I was at grammar school, I tracked down the story in the newspaper archive. It happened in 1945. It would appear, reading between the lines, that an American GI had got the girl pregnant, promised to marry her and take her back to Kansas or wherever with him, then he just abandoned her. She couldn’t face the shame, life without him… whatever, and she snapped.’

‘And that’s who you think I saw in the mirror? Her?’

‘There’s no way of knowing that,’ said Graham. ‘Maybe you imagined the whole thing in the half-darkness. Maybe it was the carry-over from a bad dream.’

‘Or places have memories and I can read them?’

‘Now you are being fanciful. I just don’t want all this Grace Fox business to drive you over the edge, that’s all I’m saying. You’re fragile enough already after the grief you’ve been through over Laura.’

That was exactly what Bernie Wilkins had said, and it annoyed me. ‘It’s not about the noises or the shadowy figures I sometimes think I glimpse,’ I said. ‘Or the piano I hear. They’re all exactly what you say they are, phantoms of an overworked imagination playing on the natural sounds and shadows in an old house. Special effects. It just happens that the house has a history and they heighten it, or vice versa. They don’t bother me at all. They just keep me awake sometimes. I’m not sleeping well.’

‘Most old houses have a history.’

‘Who knows? Maybe I am seeking something to distract me, a mystery to lose myself in. Maybe I am getting a bit obsessed. If I stand back and take stock of myself honestly, I find it hard to know how I got so drawn in, what my motives are, or how deeply I am in. I don’t know where it’s all heading, but I do want to know what happened. I’m not at all convinced, through what I’ve heard from Wilf Pelham and Sam Porter, that Grace Fox really did murder her husband. And even if she did, I want to know it for myself. Does that sound so weird?’

Graham sat up and put his empty glass down on the small round table beside his chair. ‘No, as long as that’s how it stays. You’ve got time on your hands. I wish you luck, little brother. Just don’t get too carried away with it, that’s all. I wouldn’t want you running amok and smashing up Kilnsgate House. Or this place, for that matter.’ He looked around at the farmhouse I knew he and Siobhan loved dearly. ‘This place has its history, too, you know, its memories. Not to mention its night noises.’

I smiled and stood up. ‘I’ll try not to let them drive me to destruction,’ I said. ‘Goodnight, Graham, and thanks for the cognac. And the story.’

Graham nodded. ‘See you in the morning.’

I was definitely feeling a little drunk as I made my way over the uneven stone flags to the creaky wooden stairs. Graham was right; this was an old house, and it no doubt had a few stories to tell of its own. I wasn’t in the mood for them tonight, though; all I wanted was sleep.

But, of course, sleep wouldn’t come. The room I was in was the one where I slept with Laura when we visited. The same bed. It felt much lonelier than the bed at Kilnsgate, in which I had never slept with anyone. Thoughts like this spiralled in my mind, the way they do when you’re a bit drunk, and began to turn into thoughts about the conversation I had just had with Graham.

I thought of taking out my iPod and listening to some soothing music, or to a story. I had an unabridged audio book of Far From the Madding Crowd that I was very much enjoying. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Graham’s story haunted me, though it still sounded very much like something that had happened to someone else. Still, the scar was there, on my hand, and sometimes it itched.

Had I really seen a young woman’s figure in the mirror and smashed the glass out of fear? Had it really been the image of a woman who had hanged herself in that very room several years earlier, or had I simply awoken from a bad dream and imagined it all? I didn’t know. And how could I ever know? It was the same with the figure I’d glimpsed in the wardrobe mirror at Kilnsgate. I’d put it down to a trick of the moonlight, but was it something else? Was it Grace? I hadn’t told Graham about it. I hadn’t told anyone. Why? Because I couldn’t explain it rationally? Because it would make them think I was going mad?

I trusted Graham. He had no reason to lie to me about something as momentous as this, but nobody could really know what happened in that room except me, and I couldn’t remember. My father was dead, so he couldn’t help me, and Mrs Gooch was no doubt long since departed, too. I supposed I could ask Mother and check the newspaper archives, as Graham himself had done later, but what was the point of that, if I believed him? It would only confirm the truth about the suicide, not that I had seen anything unusual in the mirror. Graham had told me everything I needed to know. Only through remembering could I be certain what happened that night.

All these questions circled in my mind like birds of prey while I tried to get to sleep. What did it all have to do with Grace Fox and Kilnsgate House? I wondered. I had thought it was my choice to become interested in Grace’s story, but was it? I remembered the sense I had had on first approaching Kilnsgate that the house was somehow waiting for me. Had I been pushed into my investigation by forces I didn’t understand? I found it hard to accept that powers beyond my own will were playing me like a puppet. It all seemed a bit too Don’t Look Now . Donald Sutherland thinks he sees his wife on the prow of a funeral boat in Venice when she’s supposed to be out of town, and it turns out to be his own funeral. He was psychic but he didn’t know it. Music by Pino Donaggio.

I heard creaking noises outside in the corridor, then realised that it was probably just Graham going to the toilet. A few moments later, I heard a flush and more creaking as he went back to his room. His story had got me edgy, and I found myself jumping at every little thing.

I pictured Grace again, and this time her image was calming. She appeared just as she did in one of Sam’s best portraits: pensive, distant, but still sensual and alluring, her mouth downturned slightly at the edges, eyes like midnight lakes you just wanted to plunge into and drown in, the tangle of waves framing her oval face, her shoulders pale and naked. I felt myself drifting towards sleep. Grace opened her arms to me. Then the image changed into Laura, the snowflakes melting on her cheeks, in her golden hair as she took off the fur hat, then it became someone else, someone I didn’t recognise. Perhaps the girl from the mirror. I could smell cocoa and hear the wind outside scraping some fallen leaves across the courtyard. The image in my mind started to say something to me but, mercifully, oblivion came at last.