‘They moved Grace Fox’s grave?’
‘Yes. Reburied somewhere on the coast near where she grew up. Ralph was there for the reinterment. Now I really must go.’
‘Wait. Lift?’
‘Not tonight. I’ve got my own car. See you.’
Then she was off, umbrella up, slipping away into the darkness. ‘Goodnight,’ I whispered to the disappearing shadow. ‘And thank you again.’
The garden gate was open at Kilnsgate. I clearly remembered shutting it, as I always did, and the latch was strong enough that the wind couldn’t blow it open. So what, or who, had opened it? I glanced behind me but could make out no one by the lime kiln.
The house didn’t look any different from the outside. The lights I had left on were still visible, and no others shone. I did a quick check around the perimeter and saw no sign of broken windows or forced doors. Once inside, I had no sense of any alien presence, either, or that someone had been there in my absence.
I shrugged it off, went upstairs, got out of my wet clothes, then dried myself, put on a dressing gown and went into the living room to light a fire. I felt unusually aware of the empty rooms above and around me. It was true that Kilnsgate was far too big for me, and the sense of space was very different from that in California. There, the space was all bright, open and airy. Here, it was dim, shadowy and claustrophobic, full of other presences just beyond my reach. Or so it seemed. Sometimes I heard them and caught fleeting glimpses on the landing at night, but mostly I could just sense their presence. I told myself that the isolation was getting to me, or the stupid film I’d just seen, which was about a serial killer in a remote coastal village in northern California. A bit like Hitchcock, the way my music was a lot like Bernard Herrmann’s.
I had enjoyed my visit to the cinema with Heather, I had to admit. I didn’t go to the movies much these days, which must sound odd coming from someone in my profession. I used to love going when I was young – that love was what accounts for what I do today, after all – but it was a habit I had got out of over the years. There were enough private screening rooms available to me in LA that I never needed to go to a public cinema. I did occasionally, of course – sometimes I just had to experience the big screen and the blast of my music with a live audience – but I became quite happy with the home theatre alternatives.
All through my adolescence in Leeds, I had watched my favourite cinemas turned into bingo halls, carpet warehouses, Sikh temples or mosques – the Lyric, Lyceum, Clifton, Clock, Western, Crown and Palace, all gone. It seemed hardly a week went by without one of them disappearing for good. Darkened auditoriums where I had stolen my first kisses, dared to put my hand under a girl’s blouse, where I’d captained missions to outer space and fought bug-eyed monsters with Flash Gordon, ridden the western plains under a hot sun with Hopalong Cassidy, fought the Germans on land, air and sea with John Mills or Jack Hawkins, the Japanese with John Wayne and Audie Murphy, and visited that gloomy castle high on its hill, lightning flashing all around, while the mad Vincent Price pursued his obsession of the moment, or Christopher Lee sought yet another victim’s blood. The magic had stayed with me, but the channel of its power had changed. Still, tonight had been good.
As the fire crackled to life, I poured myself a small single malt and put on Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On. I was in a mood for something other than classical music, and Marvin Gaye fitted the bill. I even turned up the volume. There were no neighbours to hear it. Instead of going up to work in my study, which tonight seemed even more than ever filled with Grace’s spirit and her absence, I brought the MacBook down with me and sat by the fire, my feet propped on a stool.
Heather was right. Mr G knew a hell of a lot more than most of us gave him credit for, if we knew where to look for it, and as I typed up notes from what she had told me, I went on little Internet excursions here and there to fill in as much detail as I could. I didn’t know what it all meant, but I certainly had a fuller picture than I’d had before at the end of a couple of hours, by which time Marvin Gaye had long finished, and my eyes were starting to close. I thought that what I had learned was leading me somewhere, but I didn’t know where. I didn’t even know whether I wanted to go there.
There was a small armchair in the corner of my study, and when I took the MacBook back up, I could have sworn for a moment there was a figure sitting in it, a woman. But when I looked again, I saw that it was empty.
I had been intending to go to bed, but the vision, or whatever it was, had shaken me, and I knew that sleep wouldn’t come easily. Instead, I went back down to the dying fire, put on another log and poured another whisky. This time I put on my Ella Fitzgerald playlist.
As I sat there staring into the flames listening to ‘When Your Lover Has Gone’, the Scotch burning my lips and tongue, my imagination filled in the outline of the figure I had seen upstairs. It became the image of Grace, just sitting there dressed all in white with some sewing in her hands, the needle slowly moving in and out of the silky material, just waiting. She looked up at me expectantly with those dark eyes of hers, dark waves framing her pale oval face, then slowly turned her gaze back to her sewing. Her eyes, her expression, her demeanour, gave away nothing. That was the problem. She never gave away anything. Not a scrap. Nothing. God, how frustrated she must have made them all at the trial, sitting there day after day, enigmatic as the Sphinx, listening to all the lies. I’ll bet her barrister, Montague Sewell, just wanted to shake her sometimes.
I wondered whether I would come to a dead end in my pursuit of Grace Fox and what I would do if I did. Would I realise it when I got there? Would I give up, or would I keep banging my head against the brick wall?
I wasn’t finished yet, though, I thought, giving the embers a poke. There were still one or two unexplored avenues I could travel down before that brick wall loomed ahead. Ralph Webster had told his daughter Louise about Grace on his deathbed. Much of what he had said may not have meant a lot to her, but it could mean something to me, if I could find her. I didn’t even care if I had to go all the way to Australia. I had the money and I had the time.
14
Extract from the journal of Grace Elizabeth Fox (ed. Louise King), August, 1940. At sea
Sunday, 4th August, 1940 Tonight we put on our first concert! It was a very amateur affair, but it was something to do, and I think everyone enjoyed themselves. Three of the officers dressed up as women, did a funny dance and sang ‘Three Little Maids’ from The Mikado . I laughed so much I nearly cried. When it was my turn, I sang some simple folk songs: ‘Down by the Sally Gardens’, ‘The Plough Boy’, ‘The Trees They Do Grow High’. I ended with ‘Linden Lea’. Everybody sang along, and I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. The nights in the cabin are hot now, despite the electric fan, and I use my extra pillow under my knees in bed to keep me cool. It must be terrible for the poor soldiers down below. All they have is a bunk or a hammock in cramped and airless quarters. They eat from bare wooden tables, while we enjoy three-course meals in the elegant dining room, with tablecloths and proper cutlery and china. It is not fair, but so much about the army and the war is not fair. Matron says we will all be glad of the discipline if we ever see any action.
Tuesday, 6th August, 1940 As from today, we are allowed to wear our tropical uniforms. The hot weather is much more bearable in my white drill frock, with its pretty scarlet and white epaulettes. The pearl buttons up the front are a bit of a nuisance, though, and take some time to fasten. Brenda tries to help, but she is all fingers and thumbs, and I lose my patience quickly in this heat. Much of the day I wear tennis shorts, also now allowed, but I do get tired of the men whistling at me. This morning I was sitting at the piano in the banquet hall, which for once was gloriously empty, playing through some Chopin Nocturnes. When I had finished, I was annoyed to hear someone applauding behind me, and I turned around to see Lieutenant Fawley leaning in the doorway. He had taken part in the concert, and we had spoken briefly on a few occasions. He walked over to me and asked if he was right in thinking the piece was by Chopin. I told him he was, and that I was surprised he recognised it. He said there were many things about him that would surprise me. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, as Lieutenant Fawley is generally regarded as a very handsome man, with a strong jaw, straight nose and piercing blue eyes, rather like the hero of a romantic novel. Many of the sisters, including Brenda, have swooned at the sight of him on deck more than once. When I stood up and walked to the door, he walked beside me, chatting about Chopin’s piano concertos. He told me that before the war he had been a violinist in the Halle Orchestra, which I thought must be a great honour and a marvellous occupation, and said so. We parted on the deck, but not before he told me his first name
