The Private Patient (14 page)

8

Passing through the great hall, Kate was again jolted into a vivid impression of light, space and colour, the leaping flames of the wood fire, the chandelier which transformed the dimness of the winter afternoon, the muted but clear colours of the tapestry, gilt frames, richly painted robes, and, high above, the dark beams of the soaring roof. Like the rest of the Manor, it seemed a place to be visited in wonder, never actually lived in. She could never be happy in such a house, imposing the obligations of the past, a publicly borne burden of responsibility, and thought with satisfaction of that light-filled, sparsely furnished flat high above the Thames. The door to the library, concealed in the oak linen-fold, was on the right-hand wall, close to the fireplace. Kate doubted whether she would have noticed it if it hadn't been opened by Chandler-Powell.

In contrast to the great hall, the room they entered struck her as surprisingly small, comfortable and unpretentious, a book-lined sanctum guarding its silence as it did the shelves of leather-backed books so closely aligned in height that they looked as if none of them had ever been taken down. As always, she assessed the room with a quick surreptitious glance. She had never forgotten a rebuke of AD's to a detective sergeant when she had first entered the Squad. “We're here by consent but we're not welcome. It's still their home. Don't gawp at their belongings, Simon, as if you're assessing them for a car-boot sale.” The shelves, which lined all the walls except the one with the three tall windows, were in a lighter wood than the hall, the carvings simpler and more elegant. Perhaps the library was a later addition. Above the shelves were ranged marble busts, dehumanised by their sightless eyes into mere icons. No doubt AD and Benton would know who they were, would know, too, the approximate date of the wood carving, would feel at home here. She thrust the thought out of her mind. Surely by now she had disciplined a tinge of intellectual inferiority which she knew was as unnecessary as it was tedious. No one she had ever worked with on the Squad had made her feel less intelligent than she knew herself to be, and after their case on Combe Island she thought she had put behind her for ever this demeaning half-paranoia.

Mrs. Skeffington was sitting in a high-backed chair before the fire. She didn't rise but settled herself more elegantly, the thin legs held side by side. Her face was a pale oval, the skin taut over high cheekbones, the full mouth glossy with scarlet lipstick. Kate thought that if this unlined perfection was the result of Mr. Chandler-Powell's expertise, he had served her well. But her neck, darker, creped and ringed with the creases of age, and the hands with their purple veins, were not those of a young woman. The hair, glossy black, rose from a peak at the forehead and fell in straight waves to her shoulders. Her hands were busy with it, twisting it and pushing it back behind her ears. Mrs. Frensham, who had been sitting opposite, got up and stood, hands folded, while Chandler-Powell made the introductions. Kate watched with cynical amusement the expected reaction as Mrs. Skeffington's eyes fixed on Benton, widened into a fleeting but intense look compounded of surprise, interest and calculation. But it was to Chandler-Powell that she spoke, her voice as resentful as a querulous child's.

“I thought you'd never arrive. I've been sitting here for hours waiting for someone to come.”

“But you weren't left alone at any time, were you? I arranged that you shouldn't be.”

“It was as bad as being alone. Just the one person. Sister, who didn't stay for long, wouldn't talk about what happened. I suppose she was told not to. Nor did Miss Cressett when she took over. And now Mrs. Frensham is saying nothing. It's like being in a morgue or under supervision. The Rolls is outside. I saw it arrive from the window. Robert, our chauffeur, will need to get back, and I can't stay here. It's nothing to do with me. I want to go home.”

Then, recovering herself with surprising suddenness, she turned to Dalgliesh and held out her hand. “I'm so glad you've come, Commander. Stuart said that you would. He told me not to worry, he'd get the best.”

There was a silence. Mrs. Skeffington looked momentarily disconcerted and turned her eyes to George Chandler-Powell.
So that's
why we're here,
thought Kate,
why the request for the Squad had come
from Number Ten.
Without turning her head, she couldn't resist a glance at Dalgliesh. No one was better than her chief in concealing anger, but it was there for her to read in the momentary flush across the forehead, the coldness of his eyes, the face briefly hardening into a mask, the almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles. She told herself that Emma had never seen that look. There were still areas of Dalgliesh's life which she, Kate, shared which were closed to the woman he loved, and always would be. Emma knew the poet and the lover but not the detective, not the police officer. His job and hers were prohibited territory to anyone who had not taken the oath, been invested with their dangerous authority. It was she who was the comrade-in-arms, not the woman who had his heart. You couldn't understand the job of policing if you hadn't done it. She had taught herself not to feel jealousy, to try to rejoice in his triumph, but she couldn't help relishing from time to time this small ungenerous consolation.

Mrs. Frensham murmured a goodbye and left, and Dalgliesh seated himself in the chair she had vacated. He said, “I hope we won't have to detain you too long, Mrs. Skeffington, but there is information I need to have from you. Can you tell us exactly what has happened to you since you arrived here yesterday afternoon.”

“You mean from the time I actually got here?” Dalgliesh didn't reply. Mrs. Skeffington said, “But that's ridiculous. I'm sorry, but there's nothing to tell. Nothing happened—well, nothing out of the ordinary—not until last night, and I suppose I could have been mistaken. I came to have an operation set for tomorrow—I mean today. I just happened to be here. I don't suppose I'll ever come back. It's all been a terrible waste of time.”

Her voice trailed off. Dalgliesh said, “If we could take it from the time you arrived. Did you drive from London?”

“I was driven. Robert brought me in the Rolls. I've told you, he's waiting to take me home. My husband sent him back as soon as I phoned.”

“And that was when?”

“As soon as they told me that a patient was dead. I suppose it was about eight o'clock. There was a great deal of coming and going, footsteps and voices, so I put my head out of the door, and Mr. Chandler-Powell came in and told me what had happened.”

“Did you know Rhoda Gradwyn was a patient in the room next door?”

“No, I didn't. I didn't know she was here at all. I didn't see her after I arrived, and no one told me she was here.”

“Did you ever meet her before you came?”

“No, of course I didn't. I mean, why would I meet her? Isn't she a journalist or something? Stuart says to keep away from people like that. You tell them things and they always betray you. I mean, it's not as if we're in the same social circle.”

“But you knew that someone was in the room next to you?”

“Well, I knew that Kimberley had been in with some supper. I heard the trolley. Of course, I hadn't had anything to eat since a light lunch at home. I couldn't, because of the anaesthetic next day. Only now, of course, it doesn't matter.”

Dalgliesh said, “Can we get back to the time of your arrival. When was that?”

“Well, it was about five o'clock. I was met by Mr. Westhall, Sister Holland and Miss Cressett in the hall, and I had tea with them, but nothing to eat. It was too dark to walk in the garden, so I said I'd spend the rest of the day in my suite. I had to be up fairly early, because the anaesthetist would be here and he and Mr. Chandler-Powell would want to check on me before my operation. So I went to my room and watched television until about ten o'clock, when I thought I'd go to bed.”

“And what happened in the night?”

“Well, I took some time getting to sleep, and it must have been after eleven before I did. But later on I woke needing to go to the bathroom.”

“What time was that?”

“I looked at my watch to check how long I'd been sleeping. It was about twenty to twelve. It was then I heard the lift. It's opposite Sister's suite—well, I expect you've seen it. I just heard the gentle clang of the doors and then a sort of purring sound as it went down. Before going back to bed, I went to draw back the curtains. I always sleep with the window a little open, and I thought I'd like some air. It was then I saw this light among the Cheverell Stones.”

“What kind of light, Mrs. Skeffington?”

“A small light moving among the stones. It could have been a torch, I suppose. It flickered and then it disappeared. Perhaps whoever was there had switched it off, or pointed it down. I didn't see it again.” She paused.

Dalgliesh said, “And then what did you do?”

“Well, I was frightened. I remembered about the witch who was burnt there and how the stones are said to be haunted. There was some light from the stars, but it was very dark and I had the sense that there was someone there. Well, there must have been or I wouldn't have seen the light. I don't believe in ghosts, of course, but it was eerie. Horrible, really. Suddenly I wanted company. I wanted someone to talk to, so I thought of the patient next door. But when I opened the door into the corridor I realised that I wasn't being—well, considerate, I suppose. After all, it was nearly midnight. She was probably asleep. If I woke her, she'd probably complain to Sister Holland. Sister can be quite strict if you do something she disapproves of.”

Kate said, “So you knew it was a woman next door?”

Mrs. Skeffington looked at her, Kate thought, as she might have turned her gaze on a recalcitrant housemaid. “It usually is a woman, isn't it? I mean, this is a clinic for cosmetic surgery. Anyway, I didn't knock on the next door. I decided I'd ring Kimberley for some tea and read or listen to the radio until I felt tired.”

Dalgliesh asked, “And when you looked out into the corridor, did you see anyone or hear anything?”

“No, of course I didn't. I would have said so before now. The corridor was empty and very quiet. Creepy, really. Just the one low light outside the lift.”

Dalgliesh asked, “When exactly did you open your door and look out? Can you remember?”

“I suppose about five to twelve. I couldn't have spent more than five minutes at the window. So I rang for tea, and Kimberley brought it up.”

“Did you tell her about the light?”

“Yes, I did. I said it was the light flickering in the stones that had frightened me and was keeping me awake. That's why I wanted the tea. And I wanted company. But Kimberley didn't stay long. I suppose she's not allowed to chatter to the patients.”

Chandler-Powell suddenly intervened. “You didn't think of waking Sister Holland? You knew her room was on the corridor next to yours. That's why she sleeps on the patients' floor, to be available if a patient needs her.”

“She'd probably have thought I was being foolish. And I didn't think I was a patient, not until the operation. It wasn't as if I needed anything, medicine or sleeping pills.”

There was a silence. As if realising for the first time the importance of what she had been saying, Mrs. Skeffington looked from Dalgliesh to Kate. “Of course, I could have been mistaken about the light. I mean, it was late at night, and I could have been imagining things.”

Kate said, “When you went into the corridor with the idea of visiting the patient next door, were you certain then that you'd seen a light?”

“Well, I must have been, mustn't I? I mean, otherwise I wouldn't have gone out like that. But that doesn't mean it really had been there. I hadn't been awake for long, and I suppose, looking out on the stones and thinking of the poor woman burnt alive, I could have imagined I was seeing a ghost.”

Kate said, “And, earlier, when you heard the lift door clang and the lift descending, are you now saying that, too, could have been imagination?”

“Well, I don't suppose I could have imagined hearing the lift. I mean, someone must have been using it. But they easily could, couldn't they? I mean, anyone wanting to come up to the patients' corridor. Someone visiting Rhoda Gradwyn, for example.”

The silence which fell seemed to Kate to last for minutes. Then Dalgliesh said, “Did you at any time last night see or hear anything next door, or anything in the corridor outside your room?”

“No, nothing, nothing. I only knew that there was anyone next door because I heard Sister going in. I mean, everyone is kept very confidential at the clinic.”

Chandler-Powell said, “Surely Miss Cressett told you when she took you up to your room?”

“She did mention that there was only one other patient in residence, but she didn't tell me where she was, or her name. Anyway, I don't see that it matters. And I could have been mistaken about the light. Only I wasn't about the lift. I don't think I could have been mistaken about hearing the lift going down. Perhaps that was what woke me up.” She turned to Dalgliesh, “And now I want to go home. My husband said I wouldn't be bothered, that the best team in the Met would be put on the job and I'd be protected. I don't want to stay in a place where there's a murderer on the loose. And it could have been me. Perhaps it was me he wanted to kill. After all, my husband has enemies. Powerful men always have. And I was next door, alone, helpless. Suppose he'd gone to the wrong room and killed me by mistake? Patients come here because they believe it's safe. God knows it's expensive enough. And how did he get in? I've told you everything I know, but I don't think I could swear to it in court. I don't see why I should have to.”

Dalgliesh said, “It may be necessary, Mrs. Skeffington. I shall almost certainly want to speak to you again, and if so, I can of course see you in London, either at your house or at New Scotland Yard.”