‘Montparnasse. Lived in the same flat for years, apparently. Maybe ever since he first arrived in Paris.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh, before my time. Mid-fifties, I think. When are you planning on going over to see him?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Well, best of luck. There’s nothing wrong with his memory, as far as I know, so it all depends what sort of mood you catch him in. He’s very stubborn, Samuel. If he doesn’t want to talk about something he won’t do it.’
‘I’ll use my charm.’
Bernie smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, then. Coffee?’
I felt a bit shaken after my dinner with Bernie. He had questioned my motives even more severely than Wilf Pelham or Heather had, and he had even warned of the damage such a quest could do to me and to others. I hadn’t thought of that. Whatever the reason, the double espresso, the cheese, the wine, the conversation, I felt jumpy and restless, and I knew there was no point in going back to my hotel room just yet. Instead, I started to walk around Soho, almost oblivious to my surroundings, but somehow just registering the bright lights of neon signs, the knots of people standing outside pubs or sitting at the cafes, some drunk by now, others deep in private conversations, the smells of espresso coffee and cigarette smoke, marijuana, the couples holding hands.
At least I had Samuel Porter’s address in my pocket, and tomorrow I would head to Paris to talk to him. The anticipation of that meeting thrilled me in a way I would never have expected. It was a step closer to Grace, who, I realised, had become a mystery I had to unravel, if for no other reason than it seemed that no one else had tried. So far, she remained a remote and enigmatic figure, but I hoped, through talking to her ex-lover, to add some substance to fill in a few details of the faint outline I had.
I had come full circle and found myself in Frith Street again, still too wired to go to my room. The Dog and Duck was still going strong, as was the gay club next door. People were piling out of restaurants into pubs and clubs. Taxis dropped off well-dressed men and women outside anonymous doors which seemed to open magically to their touch.
I found myself drawn to Ronnie Scott’s to catch a late set. I didn’t recognise the advertised singer’s name, but I was willing to give her a try. I remembered the greats I had seen there years ago: Stan Getz, Ella Fitzgerald, Bill Evans, Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan. Too many to mention. All dead now. I paid and went in, found a seat at the bar at the back, just beyond the tables clustered around the stage, and ordered a glass of wine. It was between sets and animated conversations buzzed around me, but no one was talking to me, so I was free to drift.
I thought of Kilnsgate House, as empty at this moment as it had been over the years. But not quite. At least there were signs of occupation, of new life. A coffee-making machine in the kitchen, scribbled sheet music strewn around the piano, music that had never existed before, my clothes in the bedroom wardrobe and the cupboard by the door, a few bottles of choice wine on the rack in the TV room, where my DVDs almost filled the small tower. I was making it home, and I felt an odd wrench at being away for the first time, more than I ever had on leaving LA.
Ted Welland and Wilf Pelham had given me a start, but I still had a lot of work to do if I was to find out the truth about Grace Fox – and if I knew one thing, it was that it wasn’t to be found in any trial accounts, newspaper articles or town gossip. I had to dig deeper than that, examine the little details, study Grace’s character, find out what hadn’t been said or what had been glossed over. Like houses, small towns and villages have their secrets, and they are often difficult to pry out. But pry I would. Until something gave.
The audience applauded and a trio of stand-up bass, soprano saxophone and piano struck up, then a young woman in a long black gown walked into the spotlight and the applause grew louder. She was about thirty, with beautiful chocolate satin skin and glossy black curls, and she had a deep, slightly husky voice that seemed to be caressing me with each warm, undulating syllable. She started to sing Billie Holiday’s ‘I’ll Look Around’ and I was hers for the rest of the set.
7
Famous Trials: Grace Elizabeth Fox, April 1953, by Sir Charles Hamilton Morley
After Hetty Larkin had cleared the table of the remains of the rhubarb pie and custard, she delivered the port and Stilton. Ernest Fox and Jeremy Lambert lit cigars at the dinner table while their wives adjourned back to the hearthside in the living room and Hetty Larkin busied herself with the clearing up. About ten minutes later, according to Jeremy Lambert, Ernest Fox complained of heartburn, a painful condition to which he was apparently no stranger, and the two of them stubbed out their cigars and went through to join the women. Dr. Fox there suffered for some time, then excused himself from the company and said he would take himself to bed. Grace promised to follow with a glass of whisky and milk and a preparation of the stomach powder he sometimes took for relief, as she had done on previous occasions. This she did, then promptly returned to the living room, where she assured her guests that her husband was resting comfortably, and remained by the hearth chatting with the Lamberts about local matters until they, too, decided it was time to retire. It was now close to midnight. Young Randolph was fast asleep. Hetty Larkin had finished clearing up and taken herself off to her room near the back of the house some time ago and was also asleep, no doubt dreaming of some strapping young farmer lad. The Lamberts had just retired and were preparing themselves for bed. Ernest Fox, everyone assumed, was sleeping soundly, having taken the stomach powder his wife had prepared for him. It was another half an hour before Alice Lambert, who lay reading, unable to fall immediately asleep, heard Grace come up the stairs to bed. What she had been doing during the interceding time we shall never know, for in her initial statement to the police, Grace said that she had simply been sitting there in front of the fire, thinking, occasionally walking over to the window to watch the snow falling outside. Who was to gainsay her? According to Grace, it was about an hour after she had retired that she thought she heard a noise from her husband’s bedroom. She had been reading, she said, finding it difficult to get to sleep, and had been a little worried by his earlier symptoms. Nobody else heard a sound, all being fast asleep by then. Grace said that she crossed the gallery to Ernest’s room and found him sitting up in bed clutching his left arm and grimacing with pain. He was dripping with perspiration, she said, and he complained of a burning tightness like a hot iron band around his chest, making it impossible for him to breathe. Grace had worked as a Queen Alexandra’s nurse during the war, as we have already learned, and she understood the symptoms of a heart attack every bit as well as her doctor husband. Loosening his clothes and leaving him there, she hurried as fast as she could to his downstairs study, where he kept his doctor’s bag, the one he always carried with him on his rounds, and returned upstairs with it. Though Ernest Fox had no history of heart disease, he was, like many doctors, inclined to neglect himself the kind of rigorous regular medical check-ups that he urged on all his patients, and several people had lately noticed the increased incidences of indigestion and heartburn and a certain shortness of breath in the doctor, all possible symptoms of cardiac problems. Following her training, Grace Fox told the coroner that she searched her husband’s bag for nitroglycerine, often effective in curtailing the onset of angina pectoris – and placed a tablet under her husband’s tongue. By this time, though, she feared she was too late, as her husband now seemed listless, and she could find only a weak and fluttery pulse. Loath to leave him again, she went on, she had no recourse but to dash down to the telephone, which stood on a stand in the large vestibule area. But as soon as she started to dial 999 and heard only silence, it became clear that the telephone wires were down. Grace told the police that she then returned to her husband, and prepared an injection of digitalis, the nitroglycerine having had no effect. She then waited and sat by him at the bedside with her finger on his pulse as the digitalis entered his system, but it was to no avail. His poor heart fluttered like a dying bird in a cage, and finally gave up the ghost. Alice Lambert, a light sleeper at the best of times, had heard the dashing up and down stairs and left her bedroom to see what was happening. The door to Grace’s room stood wide open, the covers of her bed thrown back in disarray, and Grace herself appeared in the doorway of her husband’s bedroom opposite. She seemed surprised to see Alice standing there, but shook her head slowly and said, ‘He’s gone, Alice. He’s gone.’ Alice knelt by Ernest Fox’s bedside and felt for a pulse. She found none; nor did the small mirror Grace brought from her room mist over with breath when placed near his mouth. Alice could see the bottle of sublingual nitroglycerine quite clearly on the bedside table, and she also noticed the paper in which the stomach powder had been wrapped, along with the syringe from which Grace had administered the digitalis. These objects were not in evidence two days later when the police and the mortuary van were able to get through the snowdrifts and examine the room. They were, in fact, never seen again, and nobody thought anything more of them until the arrest and trial. The fire in the hearth burned
