The Private Patient (26 page)

Candace said, “This looks ominously like either a fight or a hasty departure, but taken with the state of the kitchen, I think all we can safely assume is that Robin was exceptionally untidy, and that I knew already. Anyway, he isn't in the cottage.”

Lettie said, “No, he isn't here,” and turned towards the door. But in one sense, she thought, he was there. The half-minute in which she and Candace had surveyed the bedroom had intensified her sense of foreboding. Now it had deepened into an emotion which was a puzzling mixture of dread and pity. Robin Boyton was absent but paradoxically he seemed more fully present than he had been three days ago when he erupted into the library. He was here in the jumble of youthful clothes, in the shoes, one pair with worn-down heels, in the carelessly discarded book, the crumpled T-shirt.

They moved into the garden, Candace striding out ahead. Lettie, although usually as energetic as her companion, felt as if she were being dragged behind like a dilatory encumbrance. They searched both cottage gardens and the wooden sheds at the end of each. The one at Rose Cottage held a miscellany of dirty tools, implements, some rusty, broken flowerpots and swathes of raffia thrown together on a shelf with no attempt at organisation; the door was partly jammed with an old lawnmower and a net sack of wood kindling. Candace closed the door without comment. In contrast the shed at Stone Cottage was a model of logical and impressive tidiness. Spades, forks and hoses, their metal gleaming, were ranged on one wall, while the shelves held flowerpots arranged in order and the lawnmower was clean of any trace of its function. There was a comfortable wicker chair with a checked cushion, obviously well used. The contrast between the state of the two sheds was reflected in the gardens. Mog was responsible for the garden at Rose Cottage, but his interest was in the Manor gardens, particularly the knot garden, of which he was jealously proud and which he trimmed with obsessive care. He did little more at Rose Cottage than was necessary to avoid criticism. The Stone Cottage garden showed evidence of expert and regular attention. Dead leaves had been swept up and added to the wooden box which held the compost heap, shrubs pruned, the earth dug and tender plants shrouded against frost. Remembering the wicker chair with its indented cushion, Lettie felt a surge of pity and irritation. So this hermetic shack, the air of which felt warm even in winter, was a refuge as well as a utilitarian garden shed. Here Candace could hope to snatch an occasional half-hour of peace from the antiseptic odour of the sickroom, could escape to the garden in short periods of freedom when it would have been more difficult to find time for her other known passion, swimming from one of her favourite coves or beaches.

Candace closed the door on the smell of warm wood and earth without comment and they made their way to Stone Cottage. Although it was not yet noon, the day was gloomy and dark and Candace switched on a light. Lettie had been in Stone Cottage several times since Professor Westhall's death, always on the business of the Manor and never with pleasure. She was not superstitious. Her faith, maverick and undogmatic as she knew it to be, had no place for disembodied souls revisiting the rooms in which they had unfinished business or had last drawn breath. But she was sensitive to atmosphere and Stone Cottage still provoked in her an unease, a lowering of the spirit, as if accumulated unhappiness had infected the air.

They were in the stone-paved room referred to as the old pantry. A narrow conservatory led into the garden, but the room was virtually unused and seemed to have no function except as a repository for unwanted furniture, including a small wooden table and two chairs, a decrepit-looking freezer and an old dresser holding a miscellany of mugs and jugs. They passed through a small kitchen into the sitting room, which was also used for dining. The grate was empty, and a clock on the otherwise bare mantelpiece ticked the present into the past with irritating insistence. The room was comfortless except for a wooden settle with cushions to the right of the fireplace. One wall was covered with bookshelves to the ceiling, but most of the shelves were empty and the remaining volumes fell against each other in disorder. A dozen tightly packed cardboard boxes of books were ranged against the opposite wall where oblongs of unfaded paper showed where pictures had once hung. The whole cottage, although very clean, struck Lettie as almost deliberately cheerless and unwelcoming, as if, after their father's death, Candace and Marcus had wanted to emphasise that, for them, Stone Cottage could never be a home.

Upstairs Candace, with Lettie following, moved with deliberate strides through the three bedrooms, giving a cursory glance inside the cupboards and wardrobes, then almost slamming them shut as if the search were a tedious routine chore. There was a fleeting but pungent aroma of mothballs, a tweedy country smell of old clothes, and in Candace's wardrobe Lettie glimpsed the scarlet of a doctor's gown. The front room had been her father's. Here everything had been cleared away apart from the narrow bed to the right of the window. This had been stripped bare except for a single sheet stretched taut and pristine over the mattress, the universal domestic acknowledgement of the finality of death. Neither spoke. The search was nearly over. They went downstairs, their feet sounding unnaturally loud on the uncarpeted staircase.

The sitting room had no cupboards and they passed again into the old pantry. Candace, suddenly realising for the first time what Lettie had been feeling throughout, said, “What on earth do we think we're doing? We're acting as if searching for a child or a lost animal. Let the police take over if they're worried.”

Lettie said, “But we're nearly through and at least we've been thorough. He's not anywhere in either cottage or in the sheds.”

Candace had moved into the large walk-in larder. Her voice was muffled. “It's time I cleared out this place. While Father was ill, I became obsessive about making marmalade. God knows why. He liked home-made preserves but not that much. I'd forgotten the jars were still here. I'll get Dean to collect them. He'll find a use for them if he condescends to take them. My marmalade is hardly up to his standard.”

She reappeared. Lettie, turning to follow her to the door, paused then unlatched and lifted the lid of the freezer. The action was instinctive and without thought. Time stopped. For a couple of seconds, which in retrospect would stretch to minutes, she stared down at what lay below.

The lid fell out of her hands with a soft clang, and she slumped over the freezer, shaking uncontrollably. Her heart was pounding and something had happened to her voice. She gasped and tried to form words, but no sound came. At last, struggling, she found a voice. It didn't sound like her voice, or anyone's she knew. She croaked, “Candace, don't look, don't look! Don't come!”

But Candace was pushing her aside, forcing the lid wide open against the weight of Lettie's body. He was lying curled on his back, both legs raised stiffly in the air.

His feet must have been pressed against the lid of the freezer. His two hands, curved like claws, lay pale and delicate, the hands of a child. In his desperation he had beaten his hands against the lid; his knuckles were bruised and there were threads of dried blood on his fingers. His face was a mask of terror: the blue eyes wide and lifeless as a doll's, the lips drawn back. He must have bitten his tongue in the final spasm and two trickles of blood had dried on his chin. He was wearing blue jeans and a blue-and-fawn-checked open-necked shirt. The smell, familiar and revolting, rose up like gas.

Somehow Lettie found the strength to stagger to one of the kitchen chairs and collapsed into it. And now, no longer standing, she began to regain her strength and her heartbeats became slower, more regular. She heard the sound of the lid being closed, but quietly, almost gently, as if Candace were afraid of waking the dead.

She looked across. Candace was standing motionless against the freezer. Then suddenly she began retching and, running to the stone sink, was violently sick, clutching the sink sides for support. The retching continued long after there was nothing to bring up, loud whooping cries which must have torn her throat. Lettie watched, wanting to help but knowing Candace wouldn't want to be touched. Now Candace turned the tap to full power and was splashing water over her face as if the skin were on fire. Streams of water ran down over her jacket and her hair lay in sodden strands against her cheeks. Without speaking, she stretched out a hand and found a tea towel hanging by the sink on a nail, then wrung it out under the still-flowing tap and began again to wash her face. At last Lettie felt able to get to her feet and, placing an arm round Candace's waist, led her to the second chair.

Candace said, “I'm sorry, it's the stink. I never could stand that particular smell.”

With the horror of that lonely death still seared on her mind, Lettie felt a sharp defensive pity. “It isn't the smell of death, Candace. He couldn't help it. He had an accident, perhaps out of terror. It happens.”

She thought, but didn't say,
And that must mean that he went into the
freezer alive. Or does it? The forensic pathologist will know.
Now that her physical strength had returned, her mind felt preternaturally clear. She said, “We must ring the police. Commander Dalgliesh gave us a number. Do you remember it?” Candace shook her head. “Nor do I. It never occurred to me that we'd need it. He and that other policeman were always about the place. I'll fetch him.”

But now Candace, her head stretched back, her face so white that it looked as if cleansed of all emotion, all that made her uniquely herself, no more than a mask of flesh and bone, said, “No! Don't go. I'm all right, but I think we ought to stay together. My mobile's in my pocket. Use it to get someone at the Manor. Try the office first and then George. Tell him to call Dalgliesh. He mustn't come himself. None of them should. I couldn't stand a crowd, questions, curiosity, pity. We'll get all that, but not now.”

Lettie was ringing the office. There was no reply and she tried George's number. Listening and waiting for a response, she said, “He shouldn't come here anyway. He'll know that. The cottage will be a crime scene.”

Candace's voice was sharp. “What crime?”

There was still no reply from George's phone. Lettie said, “It could be suicide. Isn't suicide a crime?”

“Does it look like suicide? Does it? Does it?”

Lettie, appalled, thought,
What are we arguing about?
But she said calmly, “You're right. We know nothing. But Commander Dalgliesh won't want a crowd. We'll stay here and wait.”

And now at last the mobile was answered and Lettie heard George's voice. She said, “I'm phoning from Stone Cottage. Candace is here with me. We've found Robin Boyton's body in the disused freezer. Could you get Commander Dalgliesh as soon as possible? Better say nothing to anyone else until he's arrived. And don't come over. Don't let anyone come.”

George's voice was sharp. “Boyton's body? You sure that he's dead?”

“Quite sure. George, I can't explain now. Just get Dalgliesh. Yes, we're all right. Shocked but all right.”

“I'll get Dalgliesh.” And the call was ended.

Neither of them spoke. In the silence Lettie was aware only of their deeply drawn breath. They sat on the two kitchen chairs, not speaking. Time passed, endless unmeasured time. Then there were faces passing the opposite window. The police had arrived. Lettie had expected them to walk in but there was a knock on the door and, glancing at Candace's rigid face, she went to open it. Commander Dalgliesh came in followed by Inspector Miskin and Sergeant Benton-Smith. To her surprise, Dalgliesh didn't immediately go to the freezer but concerned himself with the two women. Taking two mugs from the dresser, he filled them at the tap and brought them over. Candace left her mug on the table, but Lettie found herself desperate for water and drained hers. She was aware of Commander Dalgliesh watching them closely.

He said, “I need to ask some questions. You've both had a terrible shock. Are you well enough to talk?”

Regarding him steadily, Candace said, “Yes, perfectly, thank you.”

Lettie murmured her consent.

“Then perhaps we had better go next door. I'll be with you in a minute.”

Inspector Miskin followed them into the sitting room. Lettie thought,
So he's not going to leave us alone until he's heard our story,
then wondered if she was being perspicacious or unreasonably suspicious. If Candace and she had wanted to concoct an agreed account of their actions there had been time enough before the police arrived.

They seated themselves on the oak settle and Inspector Miskin drew up two chairs from the table to face them. Without sitting, she said, “Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee—if Miss Westhall will tell me where to find things.”

Candace's voice was uncompromisingly harsh. “Nothing, thank you. All I want is to get out of here.”

“Commander Dalgliesh won't be long.”

Nor was he. Hardly had she spoken than he appeared and took one of the chairs directly opposite them. Inspector Miskin took the other. Dalgliesh's face, only feet from theirs, was as pale as Candace's, but it was impossible to guess what was going on behind that carved enigmatic mask. When he spoke his voice was gentle, almost sympathetic, but Lettie had no doubt that the ideas his mind was busily processing had little to do with compassion. He asked, “How did you both come to be in Stone Cottage this morning?”

It was Candace who replied. “We were looking for Robin. His business partner rang the office at about nine-forty to say that he hadn't been able to contact Robin since yesterday morning and was worried. Mrs. Frensham came over first and found the remains of a meal on the kitchen table, his car in the driveway and his bed apparently not slept in. So we came back to make a more thorough search.”