smudged and unreadable.
I put the journal down, sipped some tea and examined some of the other things. There was a copy of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair – perhaps the last novel Grace had ever read – along with a small collection of jewellery in a black velvet pouch from a Richmond jeweller’s. From what I could see, it was of tasteful and good quality, but not very expensive: earrings, a heart-shaped pendant with no photographs or locks of hair inside, a simple chain bracelet, semi-precious stones, a necklace of Whitby jet. There were no wedding or engagement rings. There was also a medal, a Maltese cross with red arms and a circular gold centre. On the arms were written Faith, Hope and Charity, and, on the bottom one, the date 1883. The ribbon was dark blue with crimson edging.
‘It’s a Royal Red Cross,’ said Louise. ‘I looked it up. It was given for special exertion in nursing sick and wounded soldiers or sailors. Florence Nightingale was the first woman to get one. It’s the highest honour a military nurse can earn. There were only two hundred and sixteen given in the whole war.’
‘Nobody I’ve talked to has mentioned it to me. Not Wilf, not Sam.’
Louise shrugged. ‘Maybe she didn’t tell anyone.’
There remained one more object, an engraved silver cigarette case. When I studied it more closely, I could see that the engraving was of a pastoral scene showing a young man playing pan pipes and a young woman nearby languishing against a tree. There was a small town or village in the distance, along a winding path. It was difficult to make out because the silver was tarnished and worn. There was some sort of inscription, so I took out the drugstore reading glasses I always carry for such occasions – such as perusing CD covers and crossword puzzles – and read: ‘Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!’ It was Keats, ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’, one of the poems I had been forced to memorise at school. No names, no dedication. Sam’s only present to Grace. The one she dared risk keeping. I remembered the Everyman editions in the sewing room. Shelley. Keats. Grace had clearly loved Keats, as had Laura, who had quoted him with almost her last breath. I opened the box. It was empty, but I fancied I could still smell tobacco in it. On the bottom was written: ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’
Louise was watching me with a peculiar half-smile on her face. ‘What?’ I asked, looking up.
‘Nothing. You look like a detective poring over clues, that’s all.’
‘The journal. Would it be possible to-’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t let it out of my possession. I won’t let any of this out of my possession. Surely you can understand that?’
‘I can. It’s just that I was hoping…’
Louise held up her hand and stood. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, and left the room. I could hear the wooden stairs creaking as she went up them. When she came back, she was carrying my copy of Famous Trials and a computer disk. ‘I finished the book, thank you,’ she said, ‘and I thought you might be interested in this.’
‘What is it?’
‘When I got this stuff’ – she gestured at the table – ‘I realised how fragile it was, and how unique. The journal and the photos especially. As you can see, some of them are already in poor condition. It seemed sensible to get it all scanned and put it in the computer.’ She handed me the disk. ‘That’s a DVD. A copy. It’s got everything on it. Photos, journal, digital photographs of the other objects. You can print it all out for yourself.’
I held the disk in my hand, astonished. ‘Go on, then,’ Louise said. ‘Take it. It’s yours. To keep.’
‘I… thank you,’ I managed to stammer, putting the disk and book in the battered leather briefcase I always carried, my ‘manbag’, as Laura had teasingly called it. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘can I buy you lunch somewhere?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. I’m starving.’
‘I passed a pub on my way. Is that OK?’
‘No problem. Not much else here, especially at this time of year. And maybe after that you’d like me to show you my grandmother’s grave?’
Louise slung her fur-hooded parka on the bench beside her while I bought her a diet bitter lemon, contemplated joining her, then decided on a pint of Black Sheep instead. In my excitement over Grace’s legacy, I had forgotten about her alcoholism, but it seemed that being around drinkers didn’t bother her. I picked up a couple of lunch menus at the bar. No fresh-caught seafood, but Louise assured me that the Cumberland sausage and mashed potato was usually pretty good, so I went for that. She ordered a beefburger and chips.
The pub was quite empty at the moment, but I could imagine what a popular spot it would be for the tourists in season. A few locals in fisherman’s jerseys stood chatting around the bar, the landlord throwing in the occasional comment, and two elderly couples, retirees by the looks of them, sat eating at other tables. There were old framed pictures of groups of fishermen on the walls, and some photographs of a storm that had hit Staithes badly. I could hardly imagine what sort of hell that must have been. Even today’s wind was bad enough for me. If I’d been out at sea I would have been throwing up over the side.
February 1953, I saw on the caption. That stopped me in my tracks. Grace would have been in custody then, awaiting her trial. She must surely have heard about the storm. It had no doubt hit Saltburn, too, maybe the whole coastline, and she would probably have been worried about her family and friends there. What about Sam Porter? Had he been in Staithes with his artist friends, trying to come to terms with the terrible cost of his affair with Grace?
I pointed the photo out to Louise, and she seemed also to realise its significance immediately.
‘What did you think of the Famous Trials book?’
Louise snorted. ‘Typical men,’ she said. ‘I honestly don’t know whether she did it or not, but it sounds to me as if they made a meal out of her morality, or lack of it. If it hadn’t been for that bloody woman from Leyburn blabbing, making it clear they’d had a good shag in her B and B, I’ll bet it would never have come to trial. The forensic evidence was a joke. Apart from the chloral hydrate, which Ernest Fox could easily have taken himself, there was nothing to show that my grandmother had done anything wrong at all except try to save his life.’ She shook her head.
‘My opinion exactly,’ I said. ‘Though the prosecution did make a very convincing case out of what little they had, and the defence was a bit lacklustre, I thought.’
‘ Lacklustre? Bloody spineless, if you ask me. It was just a bloody game to them. I suppose the jury was all male, too? They probably had a good wank thinking about her every night and hated themselves for it, so they had her strung up.’
I shouldn’t have been, given Louise’s history, but I was shocked by her angry outburst. ‘It reflected the morality of the times,’ I said.
‘“Morality of the times”. Now there’s a phrase that covers many evils. So did the Roman bloody Empire chucking Christians to the lions reflect the morality of the times? And what about slavery and concentration camps, too? Were they all right because of the morality of the times? Hiroshima? Nagasaki? How about sending convicts to Australia in chains in cramped conditions in stinking, disease-ridden, overcrowded ships? Was that just the morality of the times, too? If it was, it doesn’t excuse them, it doesn’t mean they were good things. And if you really think this “morality of the times” has really progressed that much, then look at Zimbabwe, North Korea, Iran, Afghanistan. I could go on.’
‘I’m not saying they were right,’ I argued. Why did I suddenly feel like a defender of fifties morality? Especially when I’d spent the last thirty years in the relatively footloose and fancy-free world of southern California? I might not be a revolutionary, but I was no reactionary, either. I thought of myself as fairly liberal, a liberal humanist, in US terms a Democrat, over here… well, certainly not pro-Coalition.
‘Sorry,’ Louise said, seeing my frustration. ‘I know it’s not your fault. It just makes me so bloody angry, that’s all. I’m just letting off steam.’
The food came, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I could hear the waves crashing against the harbour wall and the buzz of conversations around us, occasional laughter.
‘One of the things Morley mentioned in his account of the trial grabbed my attention,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t part of the evidence in the case. It came quite early on.’
‘Yes, I noticed he gave a bit of background on Grandma and Grandad. Those were the most interesting bits. I don’t know where he got them from.’
The words still sounded odd coming from Louise in reference to Grace. Grandma and Grandad. But it was true. She was Randolph Fox’s daughter, after all, no matter how many name changes and tragedies the family had been through. Grace and Ernest’s granddaughter.
‘No doubt the police did thorough background checks on all concerned,’ I said. ‘Talked to Grace’s parents,
