Peter Robinson - Before the poison

‘I’ve heard of it,’ I told him. ‘And Grace mentioned it in her journal.’

Billy gave me a sharp glance. ‘Did she now? She never told me that.’

I told him about the visit to the mysterious chateau with Meers and Maddox and Dorothy and the corporals. ‘It’s not surprising she didn’t say anything to you, though,’ I added. ‘Apparently she didn’t talk about her war service at all. If you read the journal, you can understand why.’

‘My God,’ said Billy. ‘I never knew. Poor Grace.’ He looked at me with new understanding. ‘So when I mentioned it to her…’

‘It would have rung a bell, yes. A loud one. According to the journal, the whole incident distressed her. But I still don’t understand.’

Billy got up and walked over to the window, stared down at the ocean for a while in silence, then came back. His expression was grim. ‘I never knew, believe me. I had no idea what she did during the war, that she’d come across such things.’

‘Like I said, she never talked about it. She was a Queen Alexandra’s nurse. Served in Singapore when it fell and in Europe right up to the end.’

‘How terrible it must have been for her. She had such a sweet nature when I knew her. I must admit, later she seemed sadder, more distant, but I put that down to the times, to age, and to life with that miserable husband of hers.’

‘You were telling your story. Porton Down.’

‘Yes, sorry. I… well, it was a few weeks earlier, actually, around the end of November 1952. Word had got around camp that if you volunteered for a week at this special place – we were told it was a common-cold unit, and they were doing research into curing colds – then you’d be given two bob a day and a three-day pass. I knew I’d be going overseas soon, so I thought I’d volunteer.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was one of the lucky ones. At that time, I found out later, they were mostly researching nerve agents, like VX, biological agents, anthrax and the like, and riot control tactics, like CS gas. Mostly, I just lay around in bed and had various tests, just a lot of needles, really, but one day they took me to another hut, full of little chambers, like showers. But it wasn’t water that came out, it was a stream of gas. I must have passed out, because when I woke up I was back in bed and when I tried to breathe I felt as if my lungs were on fire. My throat was raw, as if I had a coil of barbed wire caught in it, and my face was stinging like I’d been whipped with nettles.’

‘And you say you were lucky?’

‘Oh yes. For that I got my two bob a day and a three-day pass. I had no idea what it was at the time, but looking back, it was probably some form of CS gas, the stuff the French used against the students in the ’68 riots. The effects were temporary, and there was no permanent damage to my respiratory system. Other poor sods weren’t so fortunate. Some got given LSD and felt their bodies crawling with spiders, and ended up in padded cells, or they got injected with bubonic plague, anthrax, smallpox and what have you. Plenty of people who volunteered like I did ended up with chronic bronchitis, various cancers, paralysis, nervous disorders, brain tumours, you name it. Not long after I was there, there were rumours of a man, Ronald Maddison, I found out much later, who was tested with sarin in 1953 and died. They covered it up, of course, until his relatives and friends got a second inquest granted in 2004, which found his death to be unlawful. Sarin was one of the nerve agents we took from the Germans late in the war. They’d been testing that and others like it for years on prisoners in the research hospitals, concentration camps and POW camps. Our scientists didn’t even know they existed at that time. That would probably be what the man Grace mentioned in her journal would have been after.’

‘Meers. Yes. Grace mentioned sarin and tabun. You seem to know quite a bit about it.’

‘I made it my business to find out.’

‘And Grace? How does she fit into all this?’

Billy sighed and turned away. He picked up his glass, noticed it was empty and went to refill it with soda water. I took a refill of wine, too. This afternoon was turning out to be far more traumatic than I had expected. If the worst came to the worst, I’d leave the car parked at Billy’s and get a hotel in Simon’s Town for the night.

‘I told her all about it. See, I saw him there. Her husband. Dr Fox. He didn’t recognise me, of course. Wouldn’t have, even if he’d noticed me, which he didn’t. I’d grown up a bit since I was seven. But he hadn’t changed much. I saw him wandering around with one of the head honchos, a reptile of a man called Smeaton, and he seemed quite at home. Very much at home, in fact. He didn’t seem like part of the staff – he never wore a white coat, for one thing – but he knew his way around, like he’d been there before. I only overheard one snippet, but I’m sure Smeaton said to him, “Of course, when you come to work here…”’

Suddenly it became clear to me. The new job. A hospital near Salisbury. The wartime absences, the secrecy surrounding Kilnsgate in the early 1940s, barbed wire and sentries, Fox’s qualifications in neurology and microbiology, his neglect of the general practice later. All the little bits and pieces that meant nothing in themselves until the magnet underneath made a pattern of the iron filings. Ernest Fox was deeply involved with whatever went on at Porton Down, had probably been connected ever since his First World War experience with mustard gas, but certainly since the Second World War. It wasn’t the Special Operations Executive at Kilnsgate, or if it was, they were working hand in glove with the Porton Down boffins. Ernest Fox had consulted, worked on special projects, kept it all secret, of course, and finally they had offered him a permanent, full-time position. His reward? Or perhaps they really needed his experience and knowledge. It was the beginning of the Cold War, and chemical warfare research and development were really coming into their own, a hot commodity at Porton Down.

‘So you arranged to talk to Grace?’ I said.

‘Yes. I just thought she should know, that’s all, so I got in touch with her. I didn’t know anything about her lover or her war experiences. I was at Catterick Garrison then, not far away. I must admit, I was surprised at what a profound effect what I had to say had on her, much more than I would have expected. She didn’t lose control or anything, but there were tears in her eyes when she left me. Then two days later she rang me at the barracks and asked to meet again.’

‘You met for a second time?’

‘Yes. In Darlington. The day before New Year’s Eve. We met for a cup of tea at a cafe in town, and she showed me a letter. I think she partly wanted me to verify that it was to do with what I’d told her, and partly to show me I was right.’

‘What was in it?’

‘It was from the Ministry of Defence. I can’t remember all the details, but it seemed very formal. It thanked Ernest for all his work on special projects and research over the years, for a lifetime of dedication and invaluable experience. It made some special mention of Kilnsgate House in 1941, and invited him to become a member of the permanent staff at Porton Down. There was a passing reference to his having already signed the Official Secrets Act, and a reminder that the establishment’s work was still of a highly top-secret nature and that he should not discuss either it, or the job offer, with anyone.’

‘A hospital near Salisbury,’ I said.

‘Come again?’

‘Oh, sorry. It’s what he told everyone, where he was going. The police thought it was Grace’s real motive for poisoning Ernest, because he’d got a job at a hospital near Salisbury, and it meant she would have to leave her lover.’