Peter Robinson - Before the poison

When the polite young barmaid asked me what I wanted, I chickened out of the champagne and asked for a pint of Black Sheep and a glass of dry white wine. Yorkshire pubs have come a long way during my lengthy absence, but perhaps not as far as chilled Veuve Clicquot for lunch. The menu was chalked on a blackboard over the fireplace at the back of the dining room. Heather decided on chicken casserole, and I ordered the ‘monster’ fish and chips. My cardiologist would probably have had something to say about the fried food, but at least it was fish, not the ubiquitous roast beef. Against Heather’s protestations, I paid for both the drinks and meals at the bar.

‘We might as well drink a toast to your new home, anyway, don’t you think?’ said Heather, raising her glass. ‘Even if we don’t have any champagne.’ We clinked glasses.

We chatted easily for a while as we waited for our food, Heather telling me more about the ins and outs of local life, where to get this, why to avoid that, how to do this, where the fitness centre and swimming pool were located. Our meals arrived, my battered piece of fish hanging off the plate at both ends. Heather laughed at my expression. ‘Get that in LA?’

‘We did have a fish and chip shop, as a matter of fact, but they mostly served Pacific snapper en papillotte and seared mahimahi with a guacamole roulade.’

I washed the fish down with Black Sheep and everything tasted good. When you’re living away from England and people ask you what you miss the most, you usually say, quite spontaneously, the pubs and the fish and chips. It was interesting to learn that there was more than a grain of truth in that.

‘How are you finding the house?’ Heather asked. ‘Anything you want rid of?’

‘I don’t think so. Not yet. Apart from some old books, and I can take them to the Oxfam shop myself. No, it’s fine. A lovely place. I’m sure I’ll settle in well enough. I have one question for you, though.’

‘Yes?’

‘Who was the owner? I didn’t really pay much attention to the paperwork, to be honest. I let my lawyer deal with it. But when I looked it over I saw that the owner was listed as a partnership of solicitors.’

‘That’s right. Simak and Fletcher.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Exactly what it says. Kilnsgate House has been held in trust by Simak and Fletcher for many years now. There was enough money in the estate to pay for the upkeep. They acted as the owner’s agent in the sale.’

‘So that’s why it’s their name on the deeds and contracts?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t know the family that owned the house before?’

‘There’s been no family there for years except occasional paying tenants. Not since long before my time.’

‘It seems a bit odd, though, doesn’t it? The anonymity. Everything shrouded in secrecy and mystery.’

‘You’re reading too much into it. It happens more often than you’d think.’ We ate in silence for a while, then Heather said, ‘So you’re not too lonely up at Kilnsgate?’

‘Well, I haven’t had any company yet, but no. Too much to do to be lonely. Why don’t you and your husband come over for dinner some evening? Bring the children, too, if you have any. The more the merrier. I’m not a bad cook, though I’m a bit out of practice, and I have to get used to the different ingredients over here.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘That’s an excellent idea. We can have seared mahimahi with guacamole roulade.’

‘Now you’re making fun.’

‘Couldn’t resist.’

‘I promise you something very English. How’s that?’

‘What makes you think I don’t like mahimahi? Do you think we’re all boring backwoods provincials up here?’

‘I don’t think you’re boring at all. How about Saturday?’

‘Let me check and give you a ring. No kids, by the way. You mentioned you had two?’

‘Yes. Boy and a girl, Jane and Martin. Both in their early twenties. They both went off to university within a couple of years of each other – one to Stanford, the other to Johns Hopkins. Now they’re settling down. Jane’s pursuing a medical career in Baltimore, still single, and Martin’s in computers, married with one child already.’

‘That makes you a grandfather.’

‘Yes, but I’m a very young-looking one.’

She smiled. ‘I can see that. So neither plans on coming to live with you over here?’

‘God, I hope not,’ I said, then paused. ‘I didn’t mean that to sound so bad, like I don’t love them or anything, and I certainly hope they’ll be visiting. But I’m looking for a bit of peace and quiet. There’s something I… I’ve got work to do, and I just, you know, I need to be on my own for a while, to sort myself out. It seems the last twenty years or so we didn’t slow down enough to see the world going by, and Laura’s death was such a blow. I don’t really think I’ve come to terms with it yet.’

‘Of course not,’ said Heather. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘It’s all right.’ We ate in silence again for a few moments, then I said, ‘What you mentioned yesterday about houses having their secrets, their darker memories. What did you mean?’

‘I’m not sure that I meant anything in particular. It was just an off-the-cuff remark.’

‘I don’t think so. I mean, it didn’t sound like that. It sounded a bit ominous, as if you know something I don’t.’

‘Why do you ask? Did something happen? Has someone said something to you?’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just a feeling.’ I drank some more beer. ‘You do know something about the house, don’t you? Is it something to do with the owner wanting to remain anonymous?’

Heather laughed, but it sounded a little more nervous and less musical than her previous laughter. ‘I really don’t know much about that at all,’ she said.

‘But there is something?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. A little ancient notoriety, perhaps.’

‘Like what?’

‘It was a long time ago. I don’t really know any of the details.’

‘But it’s not the kind of thing you rush to tell prospective buyers?’

She seemed to relax at that and leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘It’s nothing, really,’ she said. ‘Neither here nor there. But you’re right, I suppose. It’s not something you advertise. Discretion just becomes second nature in this business.’

‘What is it? Will you tell me now? I promise not to ask for my money back.’

‘Of course. You’ve bought the place now, after all, haven’t you? Signed, sealed and delivered. Kilnsgate House used to belong to a local doctor, a GP, I believe. This was in the war and during the early fifties, you understand. A long, long time ago. Before I was even born.’

‘I understand. What happened?’

‘His wife poisoned him.’

‘And what happened to her?’

‘She was hanged. Quite a cause celebre at the time, but a bit of a flash in the pan, not much remembered these days. That’s all I know. Honest.’ She grabbed her coat and bag from the other chair. ‘And now I really must be getting back to the office. Thank you for lunch. Hope to see you on Saturday. I’ll ring tomorrow.’

I sat in the large dark room at half past three in the morning playing the third Schubert Impromptu, the one in G flat major, on the out-of-tune grand piano, a tumbler of whisky balanced precariously at one end of the keyboard. I had found the sheet music among a collection in the piano stool. Someone had made notes in the margins in a neat, tiny hand. Bad dreams and strange noises had woken me yet again – wind in the chimneys, the usual creaks and groans from the woodwork and the boughs of the trees outside. It would take me some time to get used to it. The apartment in Santa Monica had been quiet.