The Private Patient (18 page)

14

Until seven-thirty, Dalgliesh had had little opportunity to examine and settle into his temporary home. The local police had been helpful and busy, phone lines had been checked, a computer installed and a large corkboard attached to the wall, in case Dalgliesh should need to display visual images. Thought had also been given to his comfort, and although the stone cottage had the faint musty smell of a house unoccupied for some months, a wood fire had been set and was blazing in the hearth. The bed had been made up and an electric fire provided upstairs. The shower, although not modern, delivered very hot water when he tested it, and the refrigerator had been stocked with sufficient provisions to keep him going for at least three days, including a casserole of obviously home-made lamb stew. There were also cans of beer and two bottles each of very drinkable red and white wine.

By nine o'clock he had showered and changed and had heated up and eaten the lamb stew. A note found under the casserole dish explained that it had been cooked by Mrs. Warren, a discovery which reinforced Dalgliesh's view that her husband's temporary assignment to the Squad was fortunate. He opened a bottle of the red wine and placed it with three glasses on a low table before the fire. With the cheerfully patterned curtains drawn against the night, he found himself, as he sometimes did on a case, comfortably ensconced in a period of solitude. To spend at least some part of the day totally alone was something which from childhood had been as necessary to him as food and light. Now, the brief respite over, he took out his small personal notebook and began his review of the day's interviews. From the time when he was a detective sergeant, he had put down in an unofficial notebook a few salient words and phrases which could immediately bring to mind a person, an unwise admission, a snatch of dialogue, an exchange of glances. With this aid he had almost complete recall. This private review done, he would phone Kate and ask her and Benton to join him, when the day's progress would be discussed and he would set out the programme for tomorrow.

The interviews had produced no fundamental changes in the evidence they had already given. Admittedly Kimberley, despite having been assured by Mr. Chandler-Powell that she had acted correctly, was obviously unhappy, seeking to persuade herself that she might after all have been mistaken. Alone in the library with Dalgliesh and Kate, she kept stealing glances at the door as if hoping to see her husband or fearing the arrival of Mr. Chandler-Powell. Dalgliesh and Kate were patient with her. Asked if she had been sure at the time that the voices she had heard were those of Mr. Chandler-Powell and Sister Holland, she had squeezed her face into a parody of agonised thought.

“I did think it was Mr. Chandler-Powell and Sister, but I would, wouldn't I? I mean, I wouldn't expect it to be anyone else. It did sound like them, or I wouldn't have thought that it was them, would I? But I can't remember what they were saying. I thought they sounded as if they were quarrelling. I opened the sitting-room door just a little, and they weren't there, so perhaps they were in the bedroom. But, of course, they might have been in the sitting room and I didn't see them. And I did hear loud voices, but perhaps they were just talking together. It was very late. . . .”

Her voice had faltered. Kimberley, like Mrs. Skeffington, if called for the prosecution, would be a gift for the defence. Asked what had happened next, Kimberley said that she had returned to where Dean was waiting outside Mrs. Skeffington's sitting room and had told him.

“Had told him what?”

“That I thought I heard Sister arguing with Mr. Chandler-Powell.”

“And that's why you didn't call out to them and tell Sister that you had taken tea to Mrs. Skeffington?”

“It's like I said in the library, sir. We both thought Sister wouldn't like to be disturbed and that it wouldn't really matter because Mrs. Skeffington hadn't had her operation. Anyway, Mrs. Skeffington was all right. She hadn't asked for Sister, and if she'd wanted her, she could have rung her bell.”

Kimberley's evidence had been later corroborated by Dean. He looked if anything more distressed than Kimberley. He hadn't noticed whether the door to the lime avenue was unbolted when he and Kimberley took up the tea tray, but was adamant that it was unbolted when they returned. He had noticed it when passing the door. He repeated that he hadn't bolted it because it was possible that someone was taking a particularly late walk and in any case it wasn't his job. He and Kimberley were the first to rise, and had early-morning tea together in the kitchen at six o'clock. He then went to look at the door and saw that it was bolted. He had not thought that surprising: Mr. Chandler-Powell seldom unbolted it before nine o'clock in the winter months. He hadn't told Kimberley about the door being unbolted at the time, in case she became nervous. He wasn't himself worried, because there were the two security locks. He couldn't explain why he hadn't returned later to check both the locks and the bolt except to say that security wasn't his responsibility.

Chandler-Powell had remained as calm as he had been when the team first arrived. Dalgliesh admired the stoicism with which he must be contemplating the destruction of his clinic, possibly of the greater part of his private practice. At the end of the interview in his study, which produced nothing new, Kate said, “No one here, with the exception of Mr. Boyton, says that they knew Miss Gradwyn before she came to the Manor. But in a sense she isn't the only victim. Her death must inevitably affect the success of your work here. Is there anyone who might have an interest in harming you?”

Chandler-Powell had said, “All I can say is that I have every confidence in everyone who works here. And it seems to me extremely far-fetched to suggest that Rhoda Gradwyn was murdered to inconvenience me. The idea is bizarre.”

Dalgliesh had resisted the obvious retort: Miss Gradwyn's death had been bizarre. Chandler-Powell confirmed that he had been with Sister Holland in her apartment from just after eleven until one o'clock. Neither of them had seen or heard anything unusual. There were medical matters he needed to discuss with Sister Holland, but they were confidential and had nothing to do with Miss Gradwyn. His evidence had been confirmed by Sister Holland, and it was obvious that neither had any intention at present of saying more. Medical confidentiality was an easy excuse for silence, but it was a valid one.

Dalgliesh and Kate had interviewed the Westhalls together in Stone Cottage. Dalgliesh had seen little family resemblance, and the differences were emphasised by Marcus Westhall's youthful, if conventional, good looks and his air of vulnerability compared with the strong sturdy body, dominant features and anxiety-lined face of his sister. He had said little except to confirm that he had had dinner at the Chelsea house of a surgeon, Matthew Greenfield, who would be including him in his team to spend a year in Africa. He had been invited to stay the night and proposed to do some Christmas shopping the next day in London, but his car had been causing trouble and he had thought it wiser to leave promptly after an early dinner, at eight-fifteen, so that he could take it in next morning to the local garage. He hadn't yet done so, because the murder had put everything else out of mind. The traffic had been light but he had driven slowly and it had been about twelve-thirty when he got back. He had seen no one in the road, and there were no lights on in the Manor. Stone Cottage was also in darkness and he thought that his sister was asleep, but as he parked the car her light went on, so he knocked at her door, looked in and said good night before going to his own room. His sister had seemed perfectly normal but sleepy and had said that they would talk about the dinner party and his plans for the African trip in the morning. The alibi would be difficult to challenge unless Robin Boyton, when questioned, had heard the car arriving next door and could confirm the time. The car could be checked but even if it was now running well, Westhall could allege that he was unhappy with the noises it was making and felt it safer not to risk being stuck in London.

Candace Westhall said that she had indeed been woken by the car and had spoken to her brother, but couldn't say precisely when he returned, as she hadn't looked at her bedside clock. She had gone to sleep immediately.

Dalgliesh had no difficulty in remembering what she had said at the end of the interview. He had always had almost complete recall of a conversation and a glance at his notes brought her words clearly to mind:

“I'm probably the only member of the household who expressed dislike of Rhoda Gradwyn. I made it plain to Mr. Chandler-Powell that I thought it undesirable for a journalist of her reputation to be treated at the Manor. People who come here expect not only privacy but absolute discretion. Women like Gradwyn are always on the lookout for stories, preferably scandal, and I have no doubt she would have used her experience here in some way, perhaps to inveigh against private medicine or the waste of a brilliant surgeon on purely cosmetic procedures. With a woman like that, no experience goes unused. She probably expected to recoup the cost of her treatment. I doubt whether the inconsistency that she herself was a private patient would have troubled her. I suppose I was influenced by my disgust at much that appears in our popular press and transferred that revulsion to Gradwyn. However, I didn't kill her, and I have no idea who did. I would hardly have expressed my dislike of all she stood for so plainly if I'd had murder in mind. I can't grieve for her; it would be ridiculous to pretend that I could. She was, after all, a stranger. But I do feel a strong resentment against the killer for the harm he will do to the work here. I suppose Gradwyn's death justifies my warning. It was an ill day for everyone at the Manor when she came here as a patient.”

Mogworthy, whose voice and demeanour had been pitched one degree short of what could reasonably be described as dumb insolence, confirmed his sighting of the car but was unable to remember anything more about the vehicle or its occupants but, when called on by Benton and DC Warren, Mrs. Ada Denton, a plump, comely and unexpectedly young woman, had said that Mr. Mogworthy had indeed shared a supper of haddock and chips, as he did most Friday nights, but had left just after half past eleven to cycle home. She did think it was a sad business that a respectable woman couldn't share a fish-and-chip supper with her gentleman friend without the police coming round to bother her, a comment which DC Warren thought was intended for Mogworthy's later benefit rather than out of rancour. Her final smile at Benton as they left had made it clear that he was exonerated from criticism.

It was time to summon Kate and Benton. He arranged more logs on the fire and picked up his mobile.

15

By nine-thirty Kate and Benton were back in Wisteria House and had showered, changed and eaten the supper served by Mrs. Shepherd in the dining room. Both liked to get out of their working clothes before joining Dalgliesh at the end of the day, when he would review the state of the investigation and set out the programme for the next twenty-four hours. It was a familiar routine to which both looked forward, Kate with more confidence than Benton. He knew that AD was satisfied with him—he wouldn't otherwise still be part of the team—but he recognised that he could be over-enthusiastic in putting forward opinions which more thought would have modified, and his anxiety to curb this tendency to over-enthusiasm inhibited spontaneity, so that the evening review, although an exhilarating and important part of the investigation, was never without anxiety.

Since their arrival at Wisteria House, Kate and he had seen little of their hosts. There had been time only for brief introductions before they had left their bags in the hall and returned to the Manor. A white visiting card, with the address and the names Claude and Caroline Shepherd, had been handed to them, on which the initials EMO signified, as Mrs. Shepherd explained, that the evening meal was optional and that dinner could and would be provided. This had set off a fascinating chain of more esoteric initials in Benton's mind: HBO—Hot Baths Optional, or Hard Beds Optional; HWBO—Hot Water Bottles Optional. Kate had spent only a minute in reiterating the warning already given by Chief Inspector Whetstone that their arrival should be kept private. She did it with tact. Both she and Benton had needed no more than a glance at the Shepherds' intelligent and serious faces to know that they didn't need and wouldn't welcome any reminder of an assurance already given.

Mr. Shepherd had said, “We've no temptation to be indiscreet, Inspector. The village people are polite and not unfriendly, but they are a little suspicious of incomers. We've only been here for nine years, which makes us recent arrivals in their eyes, so we don't see much of each other. We never drink in the Cressett Arms and we aren't churchgoers.” He made the last statement with the self-satisfaction of one who has resisted the temptation to fall into a dangerous habit.

The Shepherds were, Kate thought, unlikely proprietors of a B and B. In her occasional experience of these useful stopping places, she had recognised a number of characteristics the proprietors held in common. She found them friendly, sometimes gregarious, fond of meeting new people, house-proud, ready with helpful information about the area and its attractions and—in defiance of contemporary warnings about cholesterol—providers in chief of the full English breakfast at its best. And surely their hosts were older than most people who coped with the hard work of catering for a succession of visitors. They were both tall, Mrs. Shepherd the taller, and perhaps looked older than their years. Their mild but wary eyes were unclouded, their handshakes firm, and they moved with none of the stiffness of old age. Mr. Shepherd, with his thick white hair cut in a fringe above steel-rimmed spectacles, looked like a benign edition of the self-portrait of Stanley Spencer. His wife's hair, less thick and now steel grey, was twisted into a long thin plait and secured at the top of her head by two combs. Their voices were remarkably similar, an un-self-conscious distinctive upper-class accent which can so irritate those not in possession of it, and which, Kate told herself, would effectively have banned them from any hope of a job at the BBC or even a career in politics, had either unlikely option appealed to them.

Kate's bedroom held everything necessary for a comfortable night and nothing superfluous. She guessed that Benton's room next door was probably identical. Two single beds side by side were covered with immaculate white counterpanes, the bedside lamps were modern to facilitate reading and there was a two-drawer chest and a small wardrobe provided with wooden hangers. The bathroom had no bath but a shower, which a preliminary turn of the taps showed to be efficient. The soap was unscented but expensive, and on opening the bathroom cabinet she saw that it was equipped with the necessary items which some visitors might have neglected to pack: toothbrush in a cellophane cover, toothpaste, shampoo and shower gel. As an early riser, Kate regretted the absence of a kettle and other facilities for brewing morning tea, but a small notice on the chest of drawers informed her that tea could be brought up at any time between six and nine on request, although newspapers wouldn't be delivered until eight-thirty.

She exchanged her shirt for one freshly laundered, drew on a cashmere pullover and, picking up her jacket, joined Benton in the hall.

At first they stepped out into an impenetrable and disorientating blackness. Benton's torch, its beam strong as a miniature headlight, transformed the paving stones and the path into disconcerting hazards and distorted the shape of bushes and trees. As Kate's eyes became accustomed to the night, one by one the stars became visible against the curdle of black and grey clouds through which a half-moon gracefully slipped and reappeared, bleaching the narrow road and making the darkness mysteriously iridescent. They walked without speaking, their shoes sounding hobnailed on the tarmac, like resolute and threatening invaders, alien creatures disturbing the peace of the night. Except, Kate thought, that it wasn't peace. Even in the stillness she could hear the faint shuffles in the grasses and from time to time a distant, almost human cry. The inexorable succession of kill and be killed was being played out under cover of darkness. Rhoda Gradwyn wasn't the only living creature that had died on that Friday night.

Some fifty yards on, they passed the Westhalls' cottage, with one light in an upstairs window and two shining from the windows of the ground floor. Within yards to the left was the parking space, the black shed and, beyond, a glimpse of the Cheverell circle, the stones no more than half-imagined shapes until the clouds parted under the moon and they stood, pale and insubstantial, seeming to float, moon-bleached, above the black unfriendly fields.

And now they were at the Old Police Cottage, with its light shining from the two ground-floor windows. As they approached, Dalgliesh opened the door, looking for a second unfamiliar in slacks, a checked open-necked shirt and pullover. There was a wood fire burning, scenting the air, and a faint savoury aroma. Dalgliesh had pulled three comfortable low chairs before the fire with an oak coffee table between them. On it stood an open bottle of red wine, three glasses and a plan of the Manor. Kate felt an uplifting of her heart. This routine at the end of the day was like coming home. When the time came to accept promotion with the inevitable change of job, these were the moments she would miss. The talk would be of death and murder, sometimes in its most horrific form, but in memory these sessions at the end of the day would hold the warmth and security, the sense of being valued, which in childhood she had never known. There was a desk before the window holding Dalgliesh's laptop, a telephone and a thick file of papers beside it; a bulging briefcase was propped against the table leg. He had brought some of his other work with him. She thought,
He
looks tired. It isn't good enough, he's been overworking for weeks,
and felt a surge of an emotion which she knew she could never express.

They settled themselves round the table. Looking at Kate, Dalgliesh asked, “Are you comfortable at the B and B? You've had a meal?”

“Very comfortable, thank you, sir. Mrs. Shepherd did us well. Home-made soup, fish pie and—what was that sweet, Sergeant? You know about food.”

“Queen of puddings, ma'am.”

Dalgliesh said, “Chief Inspector Whetstone has arranged with the Shepherds that they take no other visitors while you are there. They ought to be compensated for any loss, but no doubt this has been arranged. The local force has been extraordinarily co-operative. It can't have been easy.”

Benton broke in. “I don't think the Shepherds will be bothered about other visitors, sir. Mrs. Shepherd said they haven't any bookings and don't expect any. They've only got the two rooms anyway. They're busy in the spring and summer, but mostly with regular visitors. And they're choosy. If people arrive they don't like the look of, they immediately put the
No Vacancies
sign in the window.”

Kate said, “So who don't they like the look of?”

“People with large expensive cars and the kind who ask to see the rooms before booking. They never refuse women arriving alone, or people without cars who are obviously desperate at the end of the day. They have their grandson staying for the weekend, but he's in an annexe at the bottom of the garden. Chief Inspector Whetstone knows about him. And he'll keep his mouth shut. They love their grandson but not his motorbike.”

Kate said, “Who told you all this?”

“Mrs. Shepherd when she showed me to my room.”

Kate didn't comment on Benton's formidable ability to extract information without asking for it. Obviously Mrs. Shepherd was as susceptible to a handsome and deferential young man as most of her sex.

Dalgliesh poured the wine then spread the plan of the Manor on the table. He said, “Let's be absolutely plain about the layout of the house. As you see, it's H-shaped, south-facing and with western and eastern wings. The entrance hall, great hall, dining room and library are in the main part of the house, as is also the kitchen. The Bostocks occupy two rooms above the kitchen, and Sharon Bateman's room is next to them. The west wing at the rear has been adapted as accommodation for the patients. The ground floor comprises the operating suite, which includes the theatre, adjacent room for anaesthetics, the recovery suite, the nurses' station, storeroom and showers and cloakroom at the end. The lift, large enough for wheelchairs but not for a stretcher, goes up to the second floor, where there is Sister Holland's sitting room, bedroom and bathroom, then the patients' rooms—the first suite, occupied by Mrs. Skeffington, then Rhoda Gradwyn's, and the spare suite at the end, all with sitting rooms and bathrooms. The windows from the bedrooms look out over the lime avenue to the Cheverell Stones, and those in the east-facing rooms over the knot garden. Mr. Chandler-Powell is on the first floor of the east wing, Miss Cressett and Mrs. Frensham on the ground floor. The rooms at the top are spare bedrooms, occasionally used for ancillary medical and nursing staff who may need to stay the night.”

He paused, then looked at Kate, who took over.

“Our problem is that we have a group of seven people in the household, any of whom could have killed Miss Gradwyn. All knew where she was sleeping, knew that the suite beyond was unoccupied, providing a possible hiding place, knew where the surgical gloves were kept, and all either had or could have obtained keys to the west door. And although the Westhalls are non-resident, they knew Gradwyn's room and have keys to the front door and the one leading to the lime walk. If Marcus Westhall didn't return to Stone Cottage until twelve-thirty he's probably in the clear, but he hasn't been able to provide a witness. He could very well have got back earlier. And his explanation of why he decided to return here last night is odd. If he feared the car might be unreliable, wouldn't it have been safer to stay in London and get it fixed rather than risk a breakdown on the motorway? And then there's Robin Boyton. It's doubtful whether he knew where Miss Gradwyn was sleeping and he wouldn't have been given a house key, but he is the only one to have known the victim personally, and he admits he booked into Rose Cottage because she was here. Mr. Chandler-Powell is insistent that he bolted the door to the lime walk promptly at eleven o'clock. If the murderer came from outside and was a stranger to the Manor, he would have had to be let in by one of the household, told where to find his victim, provided with gloves and eventually let out again, the door bolted behind him. The strong possibility is that this was an inside job, which makes motive of prime importance.”

Dalgliesh said, “It's usually unwise to concentrate too early or too strongly on motive. People kill for a variety of reasons, some unacknowledged even by the killer. And we must bear in mind that Rhoda Gradwyn might not have been the sole victim. Was this directed against Chandler-Powell, for example? Did the murderer want to destroy the clinic, or had he a double motive, to get rid of Gradwyn and ruin Chandler-Powell? It's difficult to imagine a more effective deterrent than the brutal and unexplained murder of a patient. Chandler-Powell calls the motive bizarre but it has to be kept in mind.”

Benton said, “Mrs. Skeffington for one won't be back, sir. It may be unwise to concentrate too much and too early on motive, but I can't imagine Chandler-Powell or Sister Holland killing a patient. Mr. Chandler-Powell apparently made a good job of repairing that scar. It's his job. Would a rational man destroy his own handiwork? And I can't see the Bostocks as murderers. He and Kimberley seem to have a very comfortable billet here. Is Dean Bostock going to throw up a good job? That leaves us with Candace Westhall, Mogworthy, Miss Cressett, Mrs. Frensham, Sharon Bateman and Robin Boyton. And, as far as we know, none has a motive for murdering Gradwyn.”

Benton stopped and looked round, Kate thought in some embarrassment at going down a path which Dalgliesh might not have wanted to open up.

Without commenting Dalgliesh said, “Well, let's be clear what we've learnt so far. We'll leave motive for the moment. Benton, will you begin?”

Kate knew that her chief always asked the most junior member of the team to initiate the discussion. Benton's silence on their walk suggested that he had already spent some time deciding how best to proceed. Dalgliesh hadn't made it clear whether Benton was meant to review the facts or to comment on them or both, but invariably, if he didn't, Kate would, and she suspected that this interchange, often lively, was what Dalgliesh had in mind.

Benton took a gulp of his wine. He had given thought to what he would say on the walk to the Old Police Cottage. Now he was succinct. He gave an account of Rhoda Gradwyn's involvement with Chandler-Powell and the Cheverell Manor clinic from her appointment with him in his Harley Street consulting room on the twenty-first of November until the time of her death. She had had a choice of a private bed in St. Angela's in London or Cheverell Manor. She chose the Manor, at least provisionally, and came for a preliminary visit on the twenty-seventh of November, when the member of staff who saw most of her was Sharon, who showed her the garden. This was a little surprising, since contact with the patients was usually with more senior members of staff or with the two surgeons and Sister Holland.