Peter Robinson - Before the poison

‘Good God,’ said Billy.

‘What on earth made you tell her in the first place? I mean, you hardly knew her. You’d only spent four months at Kilnsgate nearly fourteen years earlier.’

Billy paused for a moment, then said, ‘I suppose I was young and foolhardy, a bit zealous perhaps, once I found out what was going on. I asked around a bit, picked up a few rumours about the place and what went on there. Mrs Fox had always been good to me. It was a difficult time in my life, the first time away from home, and I remembered her kindness. You do. Like I said, my time at Kilnsgate was a happy time. The sun shone every day. I didn’t want her to have anything to do with what went on at Porton Down. I suppose you could say I was being protective. I also hoped that she might be able to dissuade her husband from working there. I never imagined for a moment there could be such tragic consequences.’

‘You couldn’t know,’ I said. ‘What did Grace say?’

‘She was quiet for a while, deep in thought, then she folded the letter carefully, put it away and thanked me. She gave me a going-away present. She must have got it that very day in Darlington, before we met.’

‘What was it?’

He held up his index finger then disappeared into another room for a few moments, returning with a silver pocket watch and chain, which he handed to me. ‘Go safely wherever you may go’ was inscribed on the back, along with ‘Remember me’ and Grace’s name. There was a dent near the edge on one side. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

Billy smiled. ‘I had it with me in Kenya. Top pocket. It deflected a Mau Mau bullet. Doc told me it would have entered my heart for certain, but I got off lucky. I must admit, it didn’t feel that way at the time. I was laid up for a month with infections and drains and what have you, nearly lost my arm, but even so…’

‘Now there’s a story,’ I said. ‘Did Grace say anything more?’

‘Yes. Just before we parted company, she touched my arm and assured me that she would do whatever she could to talk Ernest out of going to work at Porton Down. I assumed she was going to lay down the law to him. You know, once they get their feet dug in, in my experience, certain women usually get their way, and I thought Grace was probably one of them. Seems I was wrong about that, too.’

‘They rowed about it,’ I told him, remembering Hetty Larkin’s testimony, ‘but I don’t think he listened to her. She certainly didn’t get her way.’ The letter that Hetty referred to could only have been the one Billy had just mentioned. Ernest must have discovered it was missing while Grace was in Darlington talking to Billy and showing it to him, and when she got back, he confronted her. She told him what she thought of his plans, that she wasn’t going, and probably that if he had any conscience and humanity left in him, he wouldn’t go either, but he no doubt laughed in her face and brushed aside all her objections.

‘So what I told her destroyed her,’ Billy said.

‘No, Billy,’ I said. ‘What her husband was destroyed her. She put up with him for years, made excuses, perhaps even turned a blind eye. But when she had to face the truth, she wasn’t going to go and live in Salisbury with a man who worked at a place like Porton Down. That wasn’t Grace. It was against all her sense of humanity. She’d seen what those people did. Meers. The Germans. That wasn’t the world she subscribed to, the life she wanted.’

‘But I set things in motion.’

‘Ernest himself did that with all the help he gave them over the years. No doubt he invited them to commandeer Kilnsgate House for a while during the war, too, and Grace may have known something about that. Or maybe it started earlier. He treated mustard gas victims in the first war. Who knows? It doesn’t really matter. One way or another, you were only a catalyst. I’d guess Grace already had her suspicions that something wasn’t quite right. She wasn’t stupid. And she’d have found out soon enough if they had gone to Salisbury.’

As it happened, I didn’t have to leave my car and stay in Simon’s Town. After a couple of hours’ more conversation and a cup or two more of Billy’s strong coffee, I felt that I was perfectly fit to drive. I wanted to get away, needed to get back to the anonymous grandeur of the Cape Grace and think.

I was hungry, but I went up to my room first to shower and change. I’d caught enough heat to bring me out in a sweat, despite all the air-conditioning, and after my walk down by the sea earlier, I felt as if I still had sand in my hair. There were no phone messages waiting for me and no one I wanted to call right now. All I had was an email from Heather saying she missed me. I fired off a quick reply telling her all was well, that I had found Billy and would tell her everything when I got back.

After I had dried myself off, I put on my bathrobe and stood on the balcony for a while in the warm evening air looking out over the harbour, the city centre lights, the reflections rippling in the water, and the massed shapes of Signal Hill and Table Mountain against the darkening, crimson-streaked sky. The expensive boats in the marina creaked as they bobbed up and down, and their cables rattled and rang. Seagulls squealed as they searched for shoals of fish. I went back inside, put on some fresh clothes and took the elevator down to the hotel dining room.

My head was still in a whirl from my talk with Billy, my emotions unsettled, so I ordered a Beefeater martini, straight up, with olives, and picked a bottle of Glen Carlou estate red blend to drink later with dinner. If I didn’t finish it, I could take the rest of the bottle up to my room and get quietly pissed on the balcony. I wasn’t going anywhere tonight. I ordered fresh oysters to start and springbok loin for my main.

The restaurant was hushed and dim. I didn’t have much of a view, only the other diners and a mural of Signal Hill on the wall, but that was fine with me. I was in a mood for thinking, for contemplation, not for sightseeing. After the shock of Billy Strang’s tale, I had a lot of broken pieces to rearrange into some sort of new order. Perhaps I had been wrong about Grace’s innocence, but I was convinced that the court had been wrong about her motives. It might not have mattered to them, had they even known. They could well have taken the establishment’s side against Grace and treated her more like some sort of foreign agitator than the humanitarian she was. I thought that perhaps if they had known her real reasons, though, and learned something of what she had experienced during the war, the judge, at least, might have shown some mercy.

I tried to picture that final argument in my mind’s eye, what was said. Kilnsgate on a wintry day, with the wind howling in the chimney and sparks spitting from the fire, snowflakes slithering down the windows as they melted. There was a job offer at a hospital near Salisbury, Ernest had said. He had decided to take it, and that was that. After her talk with Billy, Grace must have told Ernest that she knew the truth about this job, and they weren’t going anywhere. Ernest had probably told her to mind her own business and not pry into his affairs. Perhaps he knew about Sam and taunted her about having to leave her lover, whether she liked it or not. Perhaps he threatened her, hit her, even. But that wasn’t her motive. Ernest was dragging her to the monsters, to the dark side, whether he saw it that way or not.

Of course, Grace wouldn’t have to do the work he was going to do, but how could she stand at his side and be his loyal wife when she knew what he was doing? And who would their friends be? Others who did the same work, no doubt, having nice dinner parties and pretending all was well while they injected people with anthrax and sprayed them with VX nerve agent and tried to concoct even more gruesome ways of debilitating and disposing of their fellow men. Never admitting what they really did, that they were seeking methods of mass murder. A life of lies, evasions. How could she let him do it after all she had been through in South-East Asia, seen at the chateau in Normandy, after the things Billy had told her about? Perhaps she already suspected that her husband was a monster because of his coldness, his absences, his research, his secret war work? Perhaps she knew it had been building up to something like this. Maybe people had even told her what had gone on at Kilnsgate during the war, while she was in Singapore. All I knew was that what had seemed to me earlier to be an interesting side street off the main route – Kilnsgate’s war history, the foot-and-mouth outbreak, Nat Bunting’s disappearance – had now become the main route. After the letter and Grace’s talk with Billy, she had reached a watershed. She couldn’t go on any longer the way things were, whether she had harboured earlier suspicions or not. Now she knew. Things had reached breaking point. She had to do something.