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    Before the Poison: A Novel
    Before the Poison: A Novel
    Before the Poison: A Novel
    Ebook469 pages8 hours

    Before the Poison: A Novel

    By Peter Robinson

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    From New York Times bestselling author Peter Robinson comes this mesmerizing story-within-a-story about a man pulled into a murder from the past—and his quest to uncover the truth.

    Quietly reeling from the death of his beloved wife, Chris Lowndes decides to return to the Yorkshire Dales after twenty-five successful years spent in Hollywood composing film scores. He purchases Kilnsgate House, a charming old mansion deep in the country, but something about the place disturbs him. His unease intensifies when he learns Kilnsgate was once the scene of a sensational murder. More than fifty years earlier, prominent doctor Ernest Arthur Fox was poisoned there, allegedly by his beautiful and much younger wife, Grace, who was subsequently tried, condemned, and hanged for the crime.

    His curiosity piqued, Chris decides to investigate, and the more he discovers, the more convinced he becomes of Grace's innocence. Despite warnings to leave it be, his quest for the truth is soon leading him through dark shadows of the past . . . and into a strange web of secrets that lie perilously close to the present.

    A complex, multi-layered thriller, Before the Poison is one of Peter Robinson’s most brilliant novels—and one readers won’t soon forget.

    “A gripping tale that brings to mind not only old-time Hollywood but also British ‘golden age’ storytelling in the Agatha Christie and Daphne du Maurier tradition.”—Wall Street Journal

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateFeb 21, 2012
    ISBN9780062101297
    Author

    Peter Robinson

    Peter Robinson's DCI Banks became a major ITV1 drama starring Stephen Tompkinson as Inspector Banks and Andrea Lowe as DI Annie Cabbot. Peter's standalone novel Before the Poison won the IMBA's 2013 Dilys Award as well as the 2012 Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel by the Crime Writers of Canada. This was Peter's sixth Arthur Ellis award. His critically acclaimed DCI Banks novels have won numerous awards in Britain, the United States, Canada and Europe, and are published in translation all over the world. In 2020 Peter was made a Grand Master by the Crime Writers of Canada. Peter grew up in Yorkshire, and divided his time between Richmond, UK, and Canada until his death in 2022.

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    Reviews for Before the Poison

    3.5/5

    259 ratings31 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Peter Robinson has long been one of my favourite authors and I pick up anything with his name on it, knowing I'll be in for a good read. His latest book Before the Poison, is not part of his series featuring Inspector Banks, but is instead, a stand alone work.Chris Lowndes left England when he was younger for the United States. He made quite a name for himself as a movie score composer. When his wife dies, Chris decides it's time to return home to England. He and Laura had planned to retire there. He buys an isolated house, sight unseen. When he arrives at the home, he is curious about the former inhabitants of the house. When he finds that it was the site of the murder of local physician, Dr. Fox and that his wife Grace was hanged for that murder, Chris indulges his curiosity and begins looking further into the trial. Curiosity quickly turns into almost obsession as he begins to doubt the official version of what really happened. " I had a curious sensation that the shy, half-hidden house was waiting for me, that it had been waiting for some time."This was a very different read from the Banks books. The pacing is much slower, taking time to build the layers of the story slowly and carefully. We follow Chris as he becomes increasingly insistent on discovering more about Grace. The story is told from three sources - Chris's inquiries, excerpts from a book called Famous Trials and finally bits from Grace's own journal, kept during her wartime nursing years. I found the journal entries especially poignant and extremely well written.Much time is spent on developing the characters, their reasoning and their emotions. And this absolutely works for this story - anything faster would have ruined the atmospheric, period piece tone and feel of the tale. Some of that atmospheric feel comes from Chris's thinking he's seen something in the mirror of an old wardrobe in the house. There is another 'incident' such as this in Chris's childhood and I wondered if this would be explained or used in the story further. It wasn't, but added another layer to Chris's obsession. A revelation I didn't see coming late in the book does much to explain Chris's behaviour.Robinson has always injected music into the Banks books. The Inspector's music collection and choices always provide a soundtrack for the story. This is continued in Before the Poison as well. Chris's choice of music often sent me online to listen to Robinson's selection of musical background.Although others may find the pacing and lack of action a bit too slow, I enjoyed the change of pace from an author I have followed for many years, but Banks still remains my favourite. Before the Poison deserves to be slowly savoured under a single lamp, by a crackling fire in a house with creaking floors....
    • 4/5
      Read from April 29 to 30, 2012Received for ReviewOverall Rating: 4.00Story Rating: 4.25Character Rating: 3.75First thought when Finished: That last half of this book was really well done and kept me riveted!What I Loved: I can't really go into detail about what I loved about Before the Poison or the review would be full of spoilers. I will say there is a distinct point in the middle of the book where we start reading parts of Grace's journal that really, in my opinion, made the book start to sparkle. I was riveted and intrigued. I couldn't turn pages fast enough in an effort to learn what really happened!What I Liked: I liked that there was a twist with the main protagonist that I just didn't seem coming. It did explain much of his behavior that I did not quite understand. The twist also tied together some things that I had been questioning the whole book.What made me go HUH?: There were a few parts of the story I didn't like: the affair was a big one. I just didn't see the need for it but it didn't distract from the story for me. It did make me like the characters a little less though.Final Thought: I think if you are a fan of Peter Robinson, you will like this stand alone novel. I also think if you are history/true crime buff you will enjoy it too. The crime isn't real but the way he hunts down the story reminds of investigation discovery.
    • 4/5
      A film music composer moves to Yorkshire following the death of his beloved wife, and becomes fascinated by the story of Grace, a previous inhabitant of his home, who was accused of murdering her husband in the 1950's.The novel moves between the composer getting to grips with his new life and investigating the story of Grace, interspersed with Grace's wartime diary entries as a nurse working in the Far East. Enjoyable read, especially the historical detail, but found the modern day sections slightly too slow-paced and padded out with mundane detail.
    • 4/5
      Stand alone by Robinson, I started it with trepidation, some authors stand alones I like but many have been big disappointments. Should not have been worried with Robinson because this man can write. Chris is a likable and many faceted character as one could hope to find. He returns to England, the Yorkshire Dales, after many years in California forging a vary successful career. He buys a huge old house, that comes with a mystery and a murder. This is not a big flashy novel with Aha moments, but a slowly unraveling of secrets all leading back to World War II. Very atmospheric, a novel to savor not rush through.
    • 3/5
      I am a huge Peter Robinson fan having read all his Banks series. I did not love this book. I was in fact disappointed not by the absence of Banks but with the story (stories) told. The story of nurses in WW II was the best part. Aside from a personal connection with the main character and Grace's journal, which kept me reafing I can only hope Alan Banks comes back in the next book.
    • 4/5
      Shortly after the death of his wife, successful film music composer Chris Lowndes returns to his native England. He buys the rather isolated Kilnsgate House. When he learns of the death of the previous owner at the hand of his wife and her subsequent trial and execution, he starts digging into the circumstances of the murder and the trial, all the while he starts to come to grips with the death of his wife.

      The book is told on two levels: the recounting of the trials and later extracts of the war diary of Grace Elizabeth Fox, who spent the war as a Queen Alexandra nurse and the journey of discovery Chris Lowndes undertakes to get to the bottom of her actions. Though the resolution comes as a surprise, it is totally fitting with the tale. A bit less plausible is the chain of people introduced to reveal their piece of the puzzle up to the rounded picture that finally shows the consistent story of Grace.
    • 4/5
      I thoroughly enjoyed this modern day mystery!Hollywood composer Chris Lowndes is wounded emotionally from the death of his beloved wife. He decides to take some time off and return to his childhood home in Yorkshire England.He buys a secluded mansion and quickly becomes absorbed in the story of Grace Fox, who was hanged for poisoning her husband over 50 years ago...in the very house Chris just purchased.Chris feels a connection to Grace and would like to prove her innocence. He has both the time and the money, so he begins to piece together Grace's story.The reader is gradually drawn in as well and becomes just as obsessed with discovering the truth about Grace.I loved this book and would recommend it for those who love a good mystery, and as well as those interested in WWII fiction.(I received this book through Amazon's Vine Program.)
    • 4/5
      Often, when I'm very fond of an author's series characters, I'm a bit resistant when that author surprises me with a standalone. But Peter Robinson's BEFORE THE POISON hooked me from the first page. As in several of his Alan Banks stories, a long-past case is involved. When a recently widowed Hollywood film score composer decides to return to his native England, he discovers that the house he has bought was the site of a famous murder that took place during his childhood -- one about which he begins to have doubts. The story of his investigation into, not only what happened, but why, kept me fascinated to the end. Highly recommended.
    • 5/5
      BEFORE THE POISON is Peter Robinson's third stand alone novel, and is set near Richmond, Yorkshire where he spends much of his time.The death of his wife from cancer in the USA prompts Chris Lowndes, successful film music composer, to return to England. He has always promised himself he would return home when he was sixty. He buys Kilnsgate, an old house in the North Riding and is fascinated to learn of its connection to a woman hanged in 1953 for murdering her husband.Lowndes' determination to know what led to Grace Fox committing murder gives the author the scope to do what he does so well - explore a facet of an historical period, this time World War II, and connect it with the current time. The fact too that Lowndes is a wealthy retiree allows the author to "grow" the plot, as Lowndes explores "leads" about Grace Fox's past, by travelling to France and South Africa. For much of the time Chris Lowndes is determined to prove that Grace could not have committed murder, but doubts creep in, as one theory after another is shattered.I like the skilful combination of historical and mystery elements and BEFORE THE POISON is mapped against a rich canvas, with plenty to keep the reader thinking. Lowndes feels an affinity with Grace Fox right from the start, feels her presence in the house, and even begins to write music for her, and to envisage a film about her story. There are moments of harsh reality too, about the war in the Far East, and about war crimes on all sides.The story is told through an interesting format: narration set in 2010 and 2011 by Chris Lowndes; interspersed with passages from a book called Famous Trials giving details about Grace Fox's trial and execution; and a journal written by Grace Fox 1940-1945 recording her experiences as a Queen Alexandra nurse. While the reader is given the story from all three angles, the main characters only gain access to Famous Trials and Grace's journal a littler later. So by the time Chris Lowndes reads these to items, we the reader, already know what he is going to find.Very enjoyable read.
    • 4/5
      Actually, I really enjoyed this novel. I have mostly read Robinson's DI Banks books, so this was a nice change of pace. The back and forth from current day to the past was interesting and kept my interest.
    • 2/5
      Drags badly. There just isn't enough here to justify the time (and pages) spent in getting it.
    • 4/5
      Chris Lowndes is a successful film score composer, well-known in the business and financially very comfortable. Having promised himself he'd return home at the age of sixty, he buys an isolated country house near the Yorkshire town where he grew up. He hadn't expected to be doing it without his wife at his side, but she'd died a few months earlier. He goes anyway, telling himself he needs solitude to work on the piano sonata he's always wanted to compose.Having completed the purchase well before he returns to England, Lowndes is unsure what to expect when he arrives at the house late one October afternoon. He certainly doesn't expect to learn that the wife of the original owner, a physician named Ernest Fox, had been convicted of murdering him.Out of curiosity, Lowndes begins to research the history of the house and it's early inhabitants. The more he learns about Grace Fox and her family, the more he becomes convinced that she was not guilty of the crime. Although he knows better than to tell anyone, he thinks he catches glimpses of her around the house. People begin to accuse him of being obsessed with Grace and her story, and it certainly appears that way, though Chris believes that all he's trying to do is uncover the truth. Throughout Lowndes' search, the reader has the uncomfortable feeling that there is some underlying reason for his investigation. It's not expressed outright, but extremely subtle hints that this is the case permeate the narrative, very much in the vein of Rebecca, In fact, as in Du Maurier's novel, although the narrative is in the first person from the protagonist's point of view, the central character of the story is a ghost whose history somehow becomes intertwined with that of the narrator. As a devotee of Robinson's Inspector Banks, I was at first disappointed that Before the Poison was not part of that series. But this is such a well-written and well-told tale that the sadness was short-lived.
    • 5/5
      This was the first Peter Robinson book I have read, and it was great!!From the beginning to the end I couldn't put it down. Since I am a nurse, I could so identifiy with Grace Fox and understood her dilemma.I would really recommend this book to friends. Since I have yet to read more of Peter Robinson, I dont know if this is typical of his writing, but if it is I am hooked!
    • 2/5
      Read this one for library mystery book group. Had a hard time slogging through this one after the last two reads. This did not inspire and the plot had potential.
    • 2/5
      I wish this book would have been from Grace's point of view and not Chris. I didn't really like Chris at all and a hard time caring enough about him to want to follow his story. I also hated his relationship with Heather. I could have without having to read about Heather. The part that I loved most about this book were Grace's journal entries. Her journal entries were compelling and I loved getting to read from her point of view. I would have rather read about the events that happened in her life when they were happening and not after 50 years had passed. Overall I felt that Grace's story was interesting but Chris' journey to uncover it was just boring and annoying.
    • 4/5
      Author Peter Robinson is best known for his Alan Bank series, so let's start by saying that this is NOT part of this series. This is a standalone, and in my opinion a quite good one.But if you are a fan of this series and pick this up expecting another, as it seems many reviewers were, you may be disappointed.I love the feel of this book, in ways harkening back to mysteries of an early time. The atmosphere of the house, the Yorkshire setting, and especially the interspersed excerpts from the account of Grace's trial and her journal when she was a nurse in the heart of the horrors of WWII, make this a book with one foot firmly in the present and the other firmly in the world of the Second World War and it's aftermath in England. Chris is a great, very likable character...not so much his realtor girlfriend...but maybe the real star of this book is the executed Grace. She starts out an enigma, not testifying in her own defense, walking quietly to her death. But once we get to the excerpts from her wartime journals, her account of her horrible experience in the South Pacific and later in the battlefields of Europe, a very different woman emerges...and yes, one that might be capable of murder if she felt there was cause. And cause there might be.The ending was very good, even if it felt a bit rushed. And most of the book was very interesting, even if it it took a big of a lag in the middle before we get started on Grace's journals. This is largely a character driven book. Not a great deal happens, much of the present day story consisting of Chris driving around and even flying to distant lands to interview people who knew Grace, a lot more talking than doing. Luckily, we have a successful amateur investigator, with the resources to pursue the leads that open up. And happily, the look back is much more eventful, creating a nice balance overall.I think fans of Mr. Robinson will enjoy this book if they go into it not expecting it to be something it is not, part of the Bank's series, and readers new to his work, like myself, will find an author they will want to take a further look at.
    • 3/5
      Peter Robinson usually writes the Inspector Alan Banks series set in England. This book is a deviation from Alan Banks. This story involves the hanging of a young wife for the poisoning of her much older husband. Robinson writes two stories: the one set in the 1950;s and the other set in 2010. An old English manor ties the two stories. The 2010 story involves a grieving widower who watched his beloved wife succumb to cancer. Chris Lowndes, a composer of musical scores for American movies, has decided to leave America and return to England after his wife's death. He purchases the Kilnsgate House in the country without ever viewing the house. The house holds many secrets, especially concerning the doctor, Ernest Fox, and Ernest's death in 1953. Robinson does an excellent job balancing the two stories. The story jumps into action when Chris is given a copy of Grace's journal that she kept during her tour of duty as a nurse during WWII. Robinson's biggest detraction is his love of classical music and his constant mention of classic recordings.
    • 4/5
      This was the first book I have read by this author. I picked it up after seeing it mentioned on Book Club Girl's blog and the premise sounded very interesting.The narrator of the novel, Chris Lowndes, is a recent widower who makes a move from LA to England so that he can begin to heal from the loss of his wife. He moves into a house that used to be owned by Grace Fox who was hanged for the murder of her husband Dr. Ernest Fox. Chris makes it his personal mission to investigate the story of Grace and Ernest to see if Grace was indeed guilty of the murder of her husband. The chapters are told in an alternating pattern between the coverage of Grace's trial in a book and Chris's personal investigation. Later on we are able to read Grace's wartime diary written when she was a nurse in WWII in the Pacific and this is when the story held the most interest for me. I enjoyed the historical fiction presented in the journal of Grace Fox but the rest of the book was a bit tedious and I was not compelled to keep reading. It seemed like an exciting premise but I found I didn't really care for the narrator Chris or his new lady love Heather. I also got tired or reading about Chris's constant quest for his next glass of wine. The final murky reveal of whether Grace was indeed guilty or not was a let down as well. In the end I am glad I finished the book but I wouldn't rush out to recommend it to anyone.
    • 4/5
      I am a big fan of Peter Robinson's Inspector Banks series, but this book is a stand-alone and very different. A man moves back to England from California where he has spent most of his life writing background music for films. He buys a big old house and immediately starts wondering about the previous owner, and sometimes feeling a presence in the rooms.The book didn't draw me in at first, and I found the first 100 pages or so rather boring, but I'm glad I persisted, because the story of the woman who used to live in the house was fascinating, especially the excerpts from diaries she kept as a nurse in WW II. The woman, Grace Fox, was convicted of poisoning her husband and hanged for murder in 1953, and as the protagonist, Chris, finds out more about her he becomes convinced she was innocent.This is first rate story-telling, with the character of Grace being very memorable. I could have done with less of Chris and his story, however. The book is bit of a downer, but you won't forget the tragedy of Grace.
    • 5/5
      The story alternates between the mid-1950's and 2010. It begins with the execution by hanging of Grace Fox,for the murder by poison of her husband. In 2010 a troubled composer of film music. Chris Lowndes,buys the isolated Kilnsgate House. he soon discovers that years ago,this was owned by Grace and her doctor husband. Lowndes soon becomes obsessed with the events leading up to the murder and the trial and hanging of Grace Fox.As the book progresses we learn that all is not as it appeared and that Grace is more complex than she seems at first.This is a one-off ,non-series book for Robinson and one of which he can be justly proud.
    • 3/5
      Interesting, easy, enjoyable mostly for the many references to music in film. It is very often "the music that nobody listens to" but it makes a huge difference in how much you enjoy what you're watching.
    • 4/5
      another reviewer didn't like the narrator's constant talk of music and wine. i guess inspector banks is not for her. wasn't crazy about heather. her "zany" sense of humour didn't even get a smile from me but she wasn't in it that much. why was she in it at all? the solution was plausible but kind of a let down.also the book was too long. i think if you can't tell your story in 250 pages you aren't a writer. this was 434.
    • 5/5
      Probably one of the best books I have read in years!! Story is split in two (ish) with alternate chapters covering now and half a century earlier. As I assumed that the 'earlier' chapters would explain and give away what Chris (the main character) was trying to establish I purposely read only the 'now' chapters first. What a great story! All the characters, however small, are excellenty portrayed. The description of the area in Yorkshire is beautifully done, an area I am very familiar with. Cannot recommend this highly enough!
    • 5/5
      This is a beautifully crafted story. The twists and turns are both expected in some cases and completely unexpected in others. Very insightful with a rare glimpse into the WWII history during and afterwards in England and the South Pacific — but it isn’t a WWII story, it is a very human story.
    • 3/5
      Quite a good mystery. Ranging from present day to World War 2 evokes the historical era well.
    • 4/5
      Gripping, addictive mystery. Stretches over a grand swath of history from WWI to the current decade. The central, most memorable character is executed for murder in the first chapter. The action then moves from England to Paris, Australia, Singapore and beyond. You will uncover clues to the mystery along with the protagonist. You will learn all you need to solve it. Yet, this is a novel of character more than plot.

      I can’t give it five stars, for then what would I give The Brothers Karamazov or Huckleberry Finn or War and Peace? But if I could give four and a half, I’d give it to this novel.
    • 4/5
      Peter Robinson is known for his Inspector Alan Banks British mysteries. However, Before the Poison, is a stand alone book, somewhat mysterious, but not your typical procedural mystery. Chris Lowndes is obsessed with two women: his wife, Laura, who succumbed to cancer a year ago and Grace Elizabeth Fox. Chris, a transplanted Brit, moved back to Britain from L.A. and purchased Grace’s secluded estate. It had been vacant for some time. His real estate broker failed to mention one key fact, until after the deal was consummated. Grace was convicted in the murder of her husband and was hanged in 1953. Upon hearing this, Chris becomes obsessed with Grace, her trial and whether indeed she was guilty. Before the Poison bounces back and forth between the current day and an account of the 1953 drama in the form of a segment of a book Famous Trials or a segment of Grace’s journal written during World War II. Each chapter starts with a short segment of the book or journal and continues as Chris attempts to uncover the truth. It’s funny, because my first Peter Robinson novel, In a Dry Season, also alternated between the 1940s and the present. While, indeed, there is a murder in this book, I would not call it a mystery. I would call it an engrossing tale of a man obsessed. Robinson is a marvelous writer, more literary than most mystery writers. As such, one reads his books for the details and descriptions and use of language. Whether or not Chris solves the ‘crime’ is irrelevant because you get caught up in his life and feelings and actions. Robinson has written over 20 books, too many for me to catch up on from the beginning. However, I am an avid fan of his and will read all his forthcoming books, as should you. Mystery or mysterious, Robinson is on my reading list for sure.
    • 5/5
      Before the Poison by Peter Robinson is a haunting stand-alone story that, other than it’s setting of the Yorkshire Dales, has nothing in common with his detective series. This is the story of Chris Lowndes, a recent widower who returns to Yorkshire after a successful career composing the musical backdrop to many Hollywood movies. He has purchased isolated Kilnsgate House, sight unseen, a country house that has been empty for a number of years. Only after he has settled into the house does he find out that this was the site of a famous murder case that saw Grace Elizabeth Fox hanged for the murder of her husband. Chris becomes very interested in this case and soon finds himself drawn to investigating and discovering if Grace was really guilty.At the beginning of each chapter are passages from a fictional true crime book that describes the 1953 case and then later Grace’s own journal is used to detail her extraordinary life as a nurse during WW II. As the book progresses, Chris’ initial curiosity becomes more like an obsession as the more he learns about Grace the more intrigued he becomes.Before the Poison is a quiet, melancholy story that is an absorbing character study. Grace was an interesting woman and her presence infuses every page. I became totally captivated by this book that is so very different from his usual mysteries. With it’s dark and brooding atmosphere, slower pacing and haunting characters, this was a great book to curl up with on a cold winter’s afternoon.
    • 3/5
      Actually not bad. I ordered this book mistakenly thinking it was a DI Banks, but it’s not. I decided to go for it anyway. It’s not bad but there are two major flaws: the romantic interest is forced and awkward and a bit unbelievable; the protagonist’s theory on the murder motive is totally out of left field.
    • 4/5
      A story without Alan Banks! A film music composer moves back to his native North Yorkshire from the USA, following the death of his wife from cancer. He discovers the remote House he's bought was the home of a woman hanged for murdering her husband in 1952. The story charts his search for the truth about the former occupants of his house, turning up surprising background details. An entertaining read.

    Book preview

    Before the Poison - Peter Robinson

    Chapter 1

    Famous Trials: Grace Elizabeth Fox, April 1953,

    by Sir Charles Hamilton Morley

    Grace Elizabeth Fox rose from her bed and dressed with the aid of her young attending officer Mary Swann at 6:30 AM on the morning of April 23, 1953. She ate a light breakfast of toast, marmalade, and tea, then she busied herself writing letters to her family and friends. After a small brandy to steady her nerves shortly before 8:00 AM, she spent the following hour alone with the chaplain.

    At thirty seconds before 9:00 AM, Mr. Albert Pierrepoint and his assistant entered Grace’s cell, and with his usual polite deference and dispatch, Mr. Pierrepoint tied her hands behind her back with a soft calfskin strap and escorted her the short distance to the execution house directly above. It had been raining during the night, and the stone steps were dark and slick with rain. The small party entered the house, where the governor, the doctor, and two witnesses were already waiting, at 9:00 AM precisely. According to later accounts, Grace comported herself with great dignity throughout, and she never faltered in her steps or uttered a sound, except for a brief shudder and audible inhalation of breath when she first saw the rope.

    Once at the gallows, she was placed in position over the chalked T on the trapdoor, and the assistant pinioned her ankles with a leather strap. Mr. Pierrepoint took from his pocket a white cotton hood, which he placed over Grace’s head, then he carefully and gently adjusted the leather-sheathed noose around her neck. When all was to his satisfaction, he stepped back, removed the safety pin, and pushed the lever away from him in one sharp, swift motion. The trapdoor opened and Grace fell to her death. The whole business, from the cell to the eternal hereafter, took no longer than fifteen seconds.

    After a brief examination by the prison doctor, Grace’s body was left hanging for the regulation hour, after which time it was removed and washed, then an autopsy was performed. The findings were that she died instantaneously of a fracture-dislocation of the spine at C.2 with a two-inch gap and transverse separation of the spinal cord at the same level. The pathologist also found fractures of both wings of the hyoid and the right wing of the thyroid cartilage. Grace’s larynx was also fractured.

    The following day, after Grace’s sister Felicity had formally identified the body, a coroner’s inquest reported her death: April 23, 1953, at H.M. Prison, Leeds: Grace Elizabeth Fox, Female, 40 years, Housewife of Kilnsgate House, Kilnsgarthdale, in the District of Richmond, Yorkshire (North Riding). Cause of Death: injuries to the central nervous system consequent upon judicial hanging. The governor entered in his daily log the simple words, The sentence of death on Grace Elizabeth Fox was carried out by means of execution, and Grace’s body was buried within the prison grounds.

    October 2010

    I had promised myself that when I turned sixty I would go home. Laura thought it was a great idea, but when the day finally came, I was standing at her graveside in the New England rain, crying my eyes out. All the more reason to go, I thought.

    In two hundred yards, bear right.

    I drove straight on.

    In four hundred yards, bear right.

    I continued driving under the canopy of trees, leaves falling and swirling around me. The screen froze, then flickered and dissolved, re-forming into new shapes that didn’t in the least resemble the landscape I was driving through.

    Please turn around and turn left in three hundred yards.

    I didn’t think this could be true. I was sure that my turning still lay about half a mile ahead to the left. It was easy to miss, I had been told, especially if you have never made it before. Sat navs obviously behave strangely in Yorkshire. I decided to leave it on and find out what it said next.

    I slowed to a crawl, kept my eyes open, and there it was, a gap in the drystone wall on my left, which resembled a neglected farm track more than anything else, though I could see by the tire marks that someone else had been that way recently. There was no signpost, and an old wooden farm gate hung open at an angle, broken away from the rusty hinge at the top. The opening was just about wide enough for a small delivery van.

    It had turned into a gorgeous day, I thought as I guided the Volvo through the narrow entrance. The hidden dale opened up to me beyond the overhanging trees like some magical land never seen by human eye before. The car bumped over a cattle grid and splashed through a puddle. It was hard to believe the deluge that had almost washed me off the road between Ripon and Masham, but that’s Yorkshire weather for you. If you don’t like it, my father used to say, wait ten minutes or drive ten miles.

    Please turn back now, the sat nav said. I switched it off and continued along the lane.

    The grass was a lush green after the heavy summer rains, the pale blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds, the trees resplendent in their muted autumn colors of gold, lemon, and russet. They might not be as dramatic as the fall leaves in Vermont, but they have a beauty all of their own, nonetheless. My window was open a few inches, and I could hear the birdsong and smell the wet grass.

    I was driving west along the valley bottom, just to the right of Kilnsgarthdale Beck, which was running high, almost bursting its banks. The whole dale was probably no more than half a mile wide and two miles long, its bottom a flat swath of about two hundred yards, along which the beck and the lane ran side by side. Grassy slopes rose gently to a height of about fifty feet or so on either side, a silvery stream trickling down here and there to join the beck, and tree lines ran along the top of each side. A few cattle grazed on the slope to my right, which I guessed was attached to a farm out of sight, over the hill. Kilnsgarthdale is a small, secluded dale flanked by woods and drystone walls. You won’t see it on any but the most detailed of maps.

    I passed a ruined stone barn and the remnants of a drystone wall, which had once marked the boundary of a field on the opposite hillside, but there were no other signs of human habitation until I neared Kilnsgate House.

    The house was set about twenty yards back from the lane, on my right, beyond a low drystone garden wall with a green wooden gate in need of painting. I paused and looked through the car window. It was hard to see much more than the chimneys, slate roof, and the tops of a couple of upper windows from the lane, because the rest was obscured by trees, and the sloping garden was quite overgrown. I had a curious sensation that the shy, half-hidden house was waiting for me, that it had been waiting for some time. I gave a little shudder, then I turned off the engine and sat for a moment, breathing in the sweet air and luxuriating in the silence. So this was it, I thought, my journey’s end. Or its beginning.

    I know it sounds odd, but I had seen Kilnsgate House only in photographs up to this point. During the entire purchase process, I had been involved in a massive work project back in Los Angeles, and I simply hadn’t had the time to jump on a plane and fly over for a viewing. The whole business had been handled by the estate agent, Heather Barlow, and a solicitor, transacted via e-mails, couriers, phone calls, and wire transfers.

    Kilnsgate House was by far the best of many I had viewed on the Internet, and the price was right. A bargain, in fact. It had been used as a rental property for some years, and there was no present occupant. The owner lived abroad and showed no interest in the place, which was held in trust for him, or her, by a solicitor in Northallerton. There would be no problems with onward chains and gazumping, and all those other odd practices the English go in for when buying and selling houses. I could move in, Mrs. Barlow had assured me, as soon as I wanted.

    She had brought up the issue of isolation, and I saw now exactly what she meant. This had posed a problem, along with the size of the house, when it came to renting the place to tourists. I would be cut off from the world here, she had said. The nearest neighbors lived over a mile away on a farm, over the other side of the hill, beyond the tree line, and the nearest town, Richmond, was two miles away. I told her that was fine with me.

    I got out of the car, walked through the creaky gate, then turned and stood by the wall to admire the view of the opposite daleside. About halfway up stood a stone ruin of some sort, framed by the trees, half buried in the hill. I thought it was perhaps a folly of some kind.

    The only other thing that Mrs. Barlow had been particularly concerned about was my attitude toward the grand piano. It would be possible to move it out, she said in one of our many telephone conversations, but difficult. There would be no extra charge for it, of course, should I decide to keep it, though she would quite understand if I did want rid of it.

    I couldn’t believe my luck. I had been about to order an upright piano, or perhaps even a small digital model. Now I had a grand. All I would need, Mrs. Barlow went on, surprised and pleased by my acceptance and excitement, was a piano tuner.

    Although I was unaware of it at this point, Kilnsgate House also had a history, which would soon come to interest me, perhaps even to obsess me, some might argue. A good estate agent, and Heather Barlow was good, clearly becomes adept in the art of omission.

    I was tired after my long journey. I had spent three days in London after my flight from Los Angeles, a confusing period of jet lag punctuated by lunches and dinners with old friends and business acquaintances. I had then bought a new Volvo V50 Estate—a good car for northern climes—at a showroom a friend had recommended in Camberwell, and driven down to Bournemouth to spend two days with my mother. She was eighty-seven and still going strong, proud of her son and anxious to show me off to all her neighbors, though none of them had heard of me except through her. She couldn’t understand why I was returning to England after so long—it had only gone downhill even more over the years, she insisted—and especially to Yorkshire. She had hardly been able to wait to get out of there, and when my dad, bless his soul, retired in 1988, they had bought a bungalow on the edge of Bournemouth. Sadly, the old man only got to enjoy three years of retirement before succumbing to cancer at sixty-seven, but my mother was still hanging in there, still taking her constitutional on the promenade every morning and her medicinal bottle of Guinness every night.

    If pressed, I realized that I wouldn’t have been able to explain to my mother, or to anyone else, for that matter, why I was returning after so long. I would perhaps have muttered something about coming full circle, though what I was hoping for was more of a fresh start. Perhaps I thought that I could accomplish this time what I hadn’t been able to accomplish in my first twenty-five years here, before I went off to America to seek my fortune. The truth was that I hoped, by coming back, that I would discover why I had felt such a deep and nagging need to come back, if that makes any sense.

    Now, as I stood before the large house I had bought, suitcase and computer bag in hand, I started to feel the familiar fear that I had overstepped the mark, that gut-wrenching sensation that I was an impostor and would soon be found out. The reality of the house intimidated me. It was much larger than I had imagined, rather like some of the old English-style mansions in Beverly Hills. To enjoy such luxurious excess in Southern California had seemed perfectly normal, while back here, in jolly olde England, it seemed an act of encroachment on something that was not, by right of birth, mine. People like me did not live in houses like this.

    I grew up in a rough part of Leeds, only fifty or sixty miles away geographically, but a million miles away in every other sense. When I was younger, affluence and privilege had always been more of an affront to me than the source of wonder it seemed to so many Americans, who thought the castles and history and royal family quaint. My family was more of a Royle Family than a royal one. I never forgot that my ancestors were the ones who had to tug their forelocks when the lord of a manor house such as Kilnsgate rode by, nose in the air, and splattered them with mud.

    In my youth, I had been an angry young man, if not quite a card-carrying Communist, but now I didn’t really give a damn. So many years in America had changed me, softened me—central heating, air-conditioning, a beautiful split-level penthouse apartment in Santa Monica, complete with a hardwood floor and a balcony overlooking the Pacific and a large dose of that everyone-is-created-equal-and-anyone-can-be-president bullshit.

    But the change was only superficial. Some things run far deeper than material comforts. I must admit, as I stood and surveyed my magnificent new home, I could feel the old socialist, working-class values rise and harden into a big chip on my shoulder. Worse, I could feel again that deep-rooted, unnerving sensation that I didn’t deserve it, that such houses were never intended for the likes of me, that I would wake up in the morning and it would all be gone, and I would be back where I belonged, living in a back-to-back terrace house on a decrepit council estate and working down the pit or, more likely these days, not working at all.

    I had once tried, in my cups, to explain all this to Laura the night I won my one and only Academy Award—that I didn’t deserve it, that at any moment the bubble would burst, everyone would realize what a phony I was, and I would be put back right where I belonged. But she didn’t understand. To her American mind, of course, I deserved the Oscar. The Academy wouldn’t have given it to me otherwise, would they? So why didn’t I just accept the damn thing and enjoy the party like everyone else? Then she laughed and hugged me and called me her beautiful fool.

    Kilnsgate House towered over me. It had a typical enough Dales facade, from what I could see as I walked up the path between the trees and the overgrown lawn, a broad symmetrical oblong of limestone with a hint of darker millstone grit here and there, two windows on either side of the front door, the same upstairs, and a slate roof. There was an arched stone porch at the front, with wooden benches on each side, which reminded me of the entrance to an old village church. I guessed that it was a useful area for taking off muddy boots after a day’s grouse shooting or riding with the hunt. There was even an elephant’s-foot stand for walking sticks and umbrellas.

    Above the lintel was a date stone carved, JM 1748, which I took to be the initials of the original owner. The keys were taped under the bench on my right, as Mrs. Barlow had promised they would be. She had also said she regretted that she couldn’t be there to greet me, as she had an urgent appointment in Greta Bridge, but she promised to call by around six o’clock and see me settled in. That gave me plenty of time to get acclimatized and have a good look around, though I was beginning to regret that I hadn’t stopped to pick up some supplies at the co-op I had passed on my way through Richmond. I didn’t want to have to go out again tonight, not now that I was here, but I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and my stomach was starting to rumble.

    It took me a few moments to turn the large key in the dead bolt, but I managed, picked up my cases again, and walked into the hallway. It was more of a large antechamber or vestibule, by the looks of it, and it took up most of the central part of the front of the house. A small stained-glass square high above the door split the sunlight into blue, red, yellow, and purple beams that seemed to shift, kaleidoscope-like, as the trees outside swayed in the breeze and cast shadows with their branches and leaves.

    I had seen photographs of the interior, of course, but nothing quite prepares you for the impact of the real thing. Size, for example. Like the exterior, it was so much larger than I had imagined that I felt intimidated at first. In my memory, English houses were small and cramped. But I was standing in a high-ceilinged room large enough for a party, with a broad wooden staircase directly in front of me leading to the upper landing, with railed galleries and doors leading to the bedrooms. I could imagine a host of people in Victorian dress leaning against the polished wooden railings and looking down on some theatrical performance, a Christmas pageant, perhaps, presented below, where I was standing, by unbearably cute children and costumed young ladies demonstrating their accomplishments.

    A couple of well-used armchairs stood near the door by an antique sideboard, and a grandfather clock with a swinging brass pendulum ticked away to the left of the staircase. I checked the time against my wristwatch, and it was accurate. The walls were wainscoted to waist height, above which they were covered by flock wallpaper. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling like a fountain frozen in midair. All the wood surfaces shone with recent polishing, and the air smelled of lemon and lavender. Several gilt-framed paintings hung on the walls: Richmond Castle at sunset; two horses at pasture near Middleham; a man, woman, and child posing by the front of the house. None of them was especially valuable, I thought, but nor were they the kind of cheap prints people pick up at a flea market. The frames alone were probably worth a fair bit. Who could afford to leave all this behind? Why?

    The gallery directly ahead of me, at the top of the stairs, was flush with the downstairs wall, which had one door on each side of the stairs, in perfect symmetry. There were also doors to my left and right. Taking the suitcase that contained my toiletries and what few clothes I had brought with me, I climbed the slightly uneven and creaky wooden stairs to seek out a suitable bedroom.

    Two large bedrooms took up the front of the house, one on each side, mirror images across the gallery, and I chose the second one I peeked in. A bright, cheerful room, with cream, rose-patterned wallpaper, it had windows at the front and side, four in all, letting in plenty of sunshine. A selection of sheets and a thick duvet lay folded neatly on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The room also had a pine wardrobe, a dressing table, and a chair, with enough space left over to hold a tea dance. There were no pictures on the walls, but I would have fun searching around the local markets and antique shops for suitable prints. A second door led from the bedroom to the en suite toilet, washbasin, and glassed-in shower unit.

    One of the front windows had a small padded seat, from which I could see over the garden trees to the opposite daleside, the beck, the folly, and the woods beyond. It seemed a pleasant little nook to curl up in and read. From the side windows, I had a view back along the dale where I had just driven. I could see that, even though it was only four o’clock, the afternoon shadows were already lengthening. Without even bothering to make the bed, I stretched out on the mattress and felt it adjust and mold to my shape. I rested my head on the pillow—the sort that was thicker at one end than the other, and reminded me of an executioner’s block—and closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I could have sworn I heard the piano in the distance. Schubert’s third Impromptu. It sounded beautiful, ethereal, and I soon drifted off to sleep.

    The next thing I knew someone was knocking at the front door, and the room was in darkness. When I got up, found a light switch, and checked my watch, I saw that it was six o’clock.

    "Mr. Lowndes, I assume? said the woman standing at the door. Mr. Christopher Lowndes?"

    Chris, please, I said, running my hand over my hair. You must excuse me. I’m afraid I fell asleep and lost track of the time.

    A little smile blossomed on her face. Perfectly understandable. She stuck out her hand. I’m Heather Barlow.

    We shook hands, then I stood aside and asked her to come in. She was carrying a shopping bag, which she set down on the sideboard. I hung her coat in the small cloakroom beside the door, and we stood awkwardly in the large vestibule, the grandfather clock’s heavy ticking echoing in the cavernous space.

    So what do you think now you’re here? Mrs. Barlow asked.

    I’m impressed. It’s everything you told me it would be. I’d invite you into the den or the living room for a cup of tea, I said, but I’m afraid I haven’t explored downstairs yet. And I don’t have any tea. I do have some duty-free whiskey, mind you.

    That’s all right. I know my way around. I ought to. I’ve been here often enough over the past few weeks. Why don’t we go into the kitchen? She picked up the shopping bag and raised it in the air. I took the liberty of nipping into Tesco’s and picking up some basics, just in case you forgot, or didn’t get the chance. Bread, butter, tea, coffee, biscuits, eggs, bacon, milk, cheese, cereal, toothpaste, soap, paracetamol. I took a rather scattershot approach. I’m afraid I have no idea what you eat, whether you’re a vegetarian, vegan, whatever.

    You’re a lifesaver, Mrs. Barlow, I told her. Food completely slipped my mind. And I’ll eat anything. Sushi. Warthog carpaccio. As long as it’s not still moving around too much.

    She laughed. Call me Heather. Mrs. Barlow makes me sound like an old fuddy-duddy. And I don’t think you’ll find much sushi or warthog in Richmond. She led me through the door to the left and switched on the lights. The kitchen, along with its pantries and larders, ran along the western side of the house and it was the most modern room I had seen so far. It certainly appeared well appointed, with brushed-steel oven, dishwasher, fridge and freezer units built in, a granite-topped island, nice pine-fronted cupboards, and a matching breakfast nook by one of the windows. All I could see was darkness outside, though I knew I must be facing the end of the dale, where it dwindled into a tangle of woods beyond the drystone wall. The cooker was gas, I noticed, which I much preferred to electric because it gave me more control. There was also a beautiful old black-leaded fireplace—though I doubt, these days, that it was real lead—with hooks and nooks and crannies for kettles, soup pots, roasting dishes, and witches’ cauldrons, for all I knew.

    Heather started to unload her shopping bag on the island, putting those items that needed to be kept cool into the fridge. Oh, and I know it’s very impertinent of me, but I also brought you this, she said, pulling out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. I don’t even know if you drink.

    In moderation, I said. And I love champagne. I rarely drink a full bottle on my own, though. Shall I open it now?

    No, please, I can’t. I have to drive. Besides, it needs chilling. It would be criminal to drink warm champagne. But thanks, all the same. She put the Veuve in the fridge and glanced around at me. I wasn’t sure, you know, whether you’d be alone, or perhaps with someone. You never mentioned anything personal in our conversations or e-mails, such as children, a wife, or . . . you know, a partner. Only, it’s such a large house.

    I’m not gay, I told her, and I’m quite alone. My wife died almost a year ago. I also have two grown-up children.

    "Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I mean, about your wife."

    Yes. She would have loved it here. I clapped my hands. Tea, then?

    Excellent. You sit down over there and let me take care of it.

    I sat and watched while Heather filled the electric kettle and flicked the switch. She was a joy to behold, and a long way from being an old fuddy-duddy. An attractive woman in her early forties, I guessed, tall and slim, with curves in all the right places, and looking very elegant in a figure-hugging olive dress and midcalf brown leather boots. She was almost as tall as me, and I’m six foot two in my stockinged feet. She also had a nice smile, sexy dimples, sea green eyes with laugh lines crinkling their edges, high cheekbones, a smattering of freckles over her nose and forehead, and beautiful silky red hair that parted in the center and cascaded over her shoulders. Her movements were graceful and economical.

    How much do I owe you for the groceries? I asked her.

    All part of the service, Heather said. Consider them a welcome-home present. She dropped two teabags from a box of Yorkshire Gold into a blue-and-white Delft teapot and poured on the boiling water, then she turned to me. "England is your home, isn’t it? Only you were never entirely clear."

    Sometimes I wasn’t too sure, myself, but I said, Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m a local lad. Leeds, at any rate.

    Well, I never. My mother came from Bradford. Small world.

    She pronounced it Brad-ford. Everybody from Leeds pronounces it "Brat-ford. Isn’t it, just?"

    But you’ve been living in America for a long time, haven’t you? Los Angeles?

    Thirty-five years, for my sins.

    What did you do over there, if it’s not a rude question?

    Not at all. I wrote film scores. I still do. I just plan on doing more of my work over here from now on. After I’ve taken a bit of time off, that is. I didn’t tell her what I hoped to do during my time off. Talking about a creative project can kill it before it gets off the ground.

    "Film music? You mean like Chicago and Grease?"

    No. Not quite. They’re musicals. I write the scores. The sound tracks.

    She frowned. The music that nobody listens to?

    I laughed. That’s probably a good way of putting it.

    She put her hand to her mouth. "I am sorry. That was so rude of me. I mean, I . . ."

    Not at all. Don’t bother to apologize. It’s what everybody thinks. You’d miss it if it wasn’t there, though.

    I’m sure I would. Might I have heard any of your music?

    Not if it’s the kind you don’t listen to.

    I mean . . . you know . . . She blushed. Don’t tease. Now you’re embarrassing me.

    I’m sorry. I named a couple of the more famous recent films I’d scored, one a huge box-office hit.

    Good Lord! she said. "Did you do that? Really?"

    I nodded.

    "You worked with him? What’s he like?"

    I don’t actually spend much time with the director, but Mr. Spielberg is a man who knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it.

    Well, I never, she said. Pinch me. I’m talking to someone really famous, and I didn’t even know it.

    Not me. That’s one of the advantages of what I do. I don’t get famous. People in Hollywood, in the business, know my name, and you see it in the credits. But nobody recognizes me in the street. It’s sort of like being a writer. You know the old joke about the actress who was so dumb she slept with the writer?

    Heather smiled. The dimples appeared. No, she said. But I do now.

    I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be crude. I’m just . . . you know, sort of anonymous.

    But surely the money must be quite good? I don’t mean to be even more rude and pry, but I do know that this house certainly wasn’t cheap.

    The money’s good, I agreed. Enough so I don’t really have to worry too much, though I do need to keep working for a few more years yet before I can even consider retirement.

    If I may say so, you haven’t picked up much of an accent in your thirty years in America.

    I suppose not, I said. I never really thought about it. Maybe I spent too much of my time in the local drinking beer and playing darts.

    They play darts in California? In a local pub?

    Of course. The King’s Head.

    Is it like a real English pub? All I’ve seen are those dreadful phony places they have in Spain and Greece.

    "It’s what the Americans think an English pub should be like. Lots of junk all over the place, padded banquettes, walls cluttered with old photos and posters, Winston Churchill, British bobbies, Union Jacks, the lot."

    Well, I never. Heather poured the tea and carried it over, sitting opposite me at the smooth pine table, careful to put down a couple of coasters before setting the cups and saucers on them. I won’t say she was gazing at me with stars in her eyes, but I was definitely elevated in her view. I got these, too, she said mischievously, offering me the packet of McVitie’s chocolate digestives. Bet you couldn’t get these in California.

    Bet you could, I said. They have a little ‘shoppe’ at the King’s Head. You can buy HP Sauce, Marmite, Branston Pickle, and Bisto. Probably McVitie’s chocolate digestives as well.

    Amazing. Anyway, I think you should find everything in working order, Heather went on, clearing her throat and getting back to business. As I told you in one of my e-mails, the house is centrally heated. I set the thermostat to a comfortable level. It’s in the hall, so you can adjust it yourself if you need to. Watch out, though, the heating bills can be high. Using the fireplaces should help. The door to the coal cellar is under the stairs, and that’s where the firewood is kept. The telephone and Internet connections are in working order—at least, according to the man from BT—as are the satellite television and DVD player you ordered, across the hall. And that’s about it. Oh, before I forget, there’s a form and instructions for getting a television license. I don’t know about America, but you have to have one here, or they fine you.

    I remember, I said. My dad always used to complain about paying it. They used to send those little vans with the revolving aerials on top to catch people who hadn’t paid.

    They still do. And they’re a lot better at it these days. Anyway, I think you can do it online, if . . .

    I said I’d been doing most of my banking and bill paying online for years now, so that raised no problems. I’m sure everything’s fine, I said. The owners certainly seem to have left a lot of stuff behind. I didn’t expect quite so much.

    Yes. Well, I did warn you. I can arrange for anything you don’t want to be taken away. But we all wanted a quick sale. You, too, as I remember.

    No problem. If there’s anything I don’t want to keep, I’ll get in touch and maybe you can help me get rid of it?

    I’ll do what I can. Would you like the guided tour after tea, or should I leave you to explore on your own at leisure?

    As pleasant a tour guide as Heather Barlow I could hardly imagine, but I had a craving to be alone in my new home, to learn its surprises, stumble across its hidden nooks and crannies, discover its smells and creaks for myself, and to experience it for the first time in the way I expected to continue living here: alone. I’ll explore by myself, if you don’t mind. Unless you think there’s anything I ought to know.

    Heather hesitated. No . . . er . . . not that I can think of. Nothing. Any problems, you can always ring me at home or at the office. I’m sure you have the details already, but I’ll leave you my card in case. She dug into her leather handbag.

    Is something wrong? I asked.

    No. Why? What makes you ask that?

    You just seemed a bit flustered by my question, that’s all.

    Did I? I can’t imagine why.

    Is the house haunted or something? I asked, smiling. I mean, it’s so old I can imagine all sorts of things happening here over the years. Serving maids having the master’s baby in secret, you know, all sorts of hush-hush upstairs-downstairs business. Ghostly governesses. Mysterious children. Something nasty in the woodshed. Maybe a gruesome murder or two?

    Don’t be silly. Whatever makes you think that? Heather Barlow toyed with her hair, wrapping a long strand around her index finger. "You do have a vivid imagination. Mind you, I suppose that’s exactly the sort of thing an American would say."

    I smiled. Touché.

    She sipped some tea, then smiled back. Her pale pink lipstick left a mark on the cup. Do you believe in ghosts?

    I don’t know, I said. I haven’t seen one yet.

    But you’ve only just arrived. You haven’t spent a night here.

    I don’t see why people should see ghosts only at night, do you? Anyway, I was just wondering, that’s all. It’s no big deal. I’m not scared or anything. It’s just that in America you hear about these queer things happening in England. Mary Queen of Scots slept here, headless bodies, haunted houses and all that. It comes with the territory. People think it’s quaint. Like the King’s Head.

    Yes, well, I have always thought Americans are rather gullible as regards some of the more fanciful flights of British history, Heather Barlow said, with a dry laugh to take the edge off the criticism. "I shouldn’t worry about ghosts if I were you. They don’t come with this territory. At least, nobody has ever reported seeing a ghost in this house, night or day. All old houses have their peculiar histories, of course, their terrible memories and their darker moments, perhaps, but they don’t necessarily manifest themselves as ghosts. And this may also be one of the few houses in the county where Mary Queen of Scots most certainly did not sleep. Now I really must go. My husband will be wondering where his dinner is." She finished her tea and stood up. Was there an angry edge to her words? Was she mentioning her husband for my sake? Did she think I was flirting with her?

    I followed her toward the front door, took her coat from the cloakroom and helped her into it. She dug in her pocket for her car keys. When she found them, she turned to me with a new smile fixed in place and held out a square of cardboard. You’ll need this if you drive into town. It’s a parking disk. Just set it for the time you arrive and display it on the dashboard. You’ve got two hours.

    I took the disk. Thank you, I said. Thanks for coming by, and thanks for everything you brought. Especially the champagne.

    You’re most welcome, she said, though if you drink it all yourself, the next time you see me you may be more grateful for the coffee and paracetamol. Good night. And with that she dashed off, leaving me to stare at the closed door for a few moments, until the sound of her car starting shook me out of it. Then I shrugged and went back into the kitchen. I was impressed with Heather Barlow. She had gone out of her way to welcome me to Kilnsgate.

    Well, Laura my love, I said as I picked up my teacup and held it in the air in an imaginary toast. Here we are. Home at last.

    Chapter 2

    Famous Trials: Grace Elizabeth Fox, April 1953,

    by Sir Charles Hamilton Morley

    In his 1946 essay The Decline of the English Murder, Mr. George Orwell noted several common elements of the type of murder that provides the greatest amount of entertainment and satisfaction for the English public. In particular, he identified domestic life, sexual passion, paltry amounts of money, and the fear of scandal. While the murder of Ernest Fox does contain a number of these elements, it performs a subtle alchemy on them and presents us with something far more complex and substantial.

    Nothing about the Fox affair was what it seemed. Ostensibly a reserved, educated, and considerate wife and mother, Grace Fox was, in fact, in the throes of a passionate adulterous liaison with a man—nay, a boy—young enough to be her own son. On the surface a devoted wife, she did, according to the evidence presented against her at her trial, poison her husband not only once, but twice. What kind of woman could do such a thing? Well may you ask.

    We must, however, put ourselves in the jury’s place and ask ourselves, on the basis of the witness testimony and evidence presented, whether indeed Grace Fox was the monster depicted by the prosecution, or was she, in fact, a decent woman driven to an extreme act of evil by a cold, cruel, and uncaring husband, and by the unexpected passion and hope unleashed in her by her young lover Mr. Samuel Porter? Our interest in a crime lies not so much in what is abnormal about it, but in those elements we may share with the criminal. Can any one among us, especially those members of the fairer sex, say that Grace Fox was so different from the rest, that she was set apart by anything other than her desperation, her impulses, and her poor judgment?

    Most murders may well be sordid and commonplace affairs, but once in a while a murder grips the imagination of the public due to the characters of those involved and their heightened circumstances in life and within the communities they inhabit. This is just such a murder. While the details

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