The Private Patient (31 page)

“Damn! It's out of our way. I'll check with AD that there's nothing else he wants done in London while we're here. There's usually something he needs picking up at the Yard. Then we'll find somewhere for a quick lunch and be on our way to see what, if anything, Eliza Melbury has to tell us. But at least this morning hasn't been wasted.”

2

With their car enmeshed in London traffic, the journey to Eliza Melbury's address in Camden was tedious and time-consuming. Benton hoped that the information gained from her would justify the time and trouble taken to reach her. Her office was over a greengrocer's shop and the smell of fruit and vegetables followed them as they climbed the narrow stairs to the first floor and passed into what was obviously the general office. Three young women were seated at their computers while an elderly man was busy rearranging the books, all in their bright jackets, on a shelf which ran the whole length of one wall. Three pairs of eyes looked up, and when Kate showed her warrant card, one young woman got up and knocked on the door at the front of the building and called cheerily, “The police are here, Eliza. You said you were expecting them.”

Eliza Melbury had been finishing a telephone call. Now she replaced the handset, smiled at them and indicated two chairs opposite the desk. She was a large handsome woman with a flaring bush of dark crimped hair to her shoulders, plump-cheeked and wearing a bright caftan festooned with beads.

She said, “You're here, of course, to talk about Rhoda Gradwyn. All I've been told is that you're investigating what was described as a suspicious death, which I take to mean murder. If so, it's deeply shocking, but I'm not sure there's anything I can tell you which will help. She came to me twenty years ago, when I first split from the Dawkins-Bower agency and set up on my own, and she's been with me ever since.”

Kate asked, “How well did you know her?”

“As a writer, I suppose very well. That means I could identify any piece of prose as being by her, knew how she liked to deal with her publishers and could anticipate what her response would be to any proposals I put forward. I respected her and liked her and was glad to have her on my list. We lunched together once every six months, usually to discuss literary concerns. Beyond that I can't say I knew her.”

Kate said, “She's been described to us as a very private person.”

“Yes, she was. Thinking about her—as, of course, I have been since I got the news—it seems that she was like someone burdened with a secret which she needed to keep and which inhibited her from intimacy. I knew her little better after twenty years than I did when she first came to me.”

Benton, who had been taking a lively interest in the furnishing of the office, particularly the photographs of writers ranged on one wall, said, “Isn't that unusual between an agent and a writer? I've always imagined that the relationship must be particularly close to succeed.”

“Not necessarily. There has to be liking and trust, and a common agreement about what is important. People differ. Some of my authors have become close friends. A number need a very high degree of personal involvement. One can be required to be mother confessor, financial adviser, marriage counsellor, editor, literary executor, occasionally even child minder. Rhoda needed none of these services.”

Kate said, “And as far as you know, she had no enemies?”

“She was an investigative journalist. There were a number of people she may have offended. She never suggested to me that she ever felt in any physical danger from them. None, as far as I know, threatened physical harm. One or two threatened legal proceedings, but my advice to her then was that she say and do nothing, and, as I expected, no one had recourse to law. Rhoda wasn't a woman to write anything which could be proved to be untrue or libellous.”

Kate said, “Not even an article in the
Paternoster Review
accusing Annabel Skelton of plagiarism?”

“Some people used that article as a weapon to castigate modern journalism generally, but most recognised it as a serious piece on an interesting subject. Rhoda and I did have a visit from one of the aggrieved people, a Candace Westhall, but she took no action. Nor could she. The paragraphs which offended her were expressed in moderate language and their truth was undeniable. All that was about five years ago.”

Benton asked, “Did you know that Miss Gradwyn had decided to have her scar removed?”

“No, she didn't tell me. We never spoke of her scar.”

“And her present plans? Was she proposing to make a change of career?”

“I'm afraid I can't discuss that. In any case, nothing was settled and I think her plans were still being formed. She wouldn't wish me to discuss them with anyone other than herself when she was alive, and you'll understand that I can't talk about them now. I can assure you that they can have no possible relevance to her death.”

There was nothing else to be said and Ms. Melbury was already making it clear that she had work to do.

Leaving the office, Kate said, “Why that question about future plans?”

“Just that I wondered if she was thinking perhaps of a biography. If the subject was someone living, he or she might have a motive for stopping it before Gradwyn even got started.”

“Possibly. But unless you're suggesting this hypothetical person managed to find out what Ms. Melbury herself didn't know—that Miss Gradwyn would be at the Manor—and managed to persuade the victim or someone else to let him in, whatever Miss Gradwyn had in mind for her future isn't going to help us.”

As they clipped on their seatbelts Benton said, “I rather liked her.”

“Then when you write your first novel, which, given your range of interests you undoubtedly will, you'll know who to contact.”

Benton laughed. “It's been quite a day, ma'am. But at least we're not going back empty-handed.”

3

The journey back to Dorset proved a nightmare. It took them over an hour to get from Camden to the M
3
, and they were then caught in the procession of cars almost bumper to bumper leaving London at the end of the working day. After Junction
5
, the slow procession drew to a halt because a coach had broken down, blocking one of the lanes, and they were stationary for nearly an hour before the road was cleared. As Kate was unwilling after that to stop for food, they didn't arrive at Wisteria House until nine o'clock, tired and hungry. Kate rang the Old Police Cottage and Dalgliesh asked them to come along as soon as they had fed. The meal to which they had increasingly looked forward was eaten in a hurry, and Mrs. Shepherd's steak-and-kidney pudding hadn't improved with the long wait.

It was half past ten before they sat down with Dalgliesh to report on the day.

Dalgliesh said, “So you've learnt nothing from the agent other than what we already know, that Rhoda Gradwyn was a very private woman. Eliza Melbury obviously respects that in death as she did in life. Let's look at what you've brought back from Jeremy Coxon. We'll start with the least important item, this paperback novel. You've read it, Benton?”

“Skimmed it quickly in the car, sir. It ends with a legal complication which I didn't manage to grasp. A lawyer would, and the novel was written by a judge. But the plot does deal with a fraudulent attempt to conceal the time of death. I can see that it could have given Boyton his idea.”

“So it's one more piece of evidence to confirm that Boyton did indeed come to Stoke Cheverell with the idea of extracting money from the Westhalls, an idea which, according to Candace Westhall, he originally got from Rhoda Gradwyn, who told him about the novel. Let's get on to a more important piece of information, what Coxon told you about Boyton's change of mood. He says that Boyton returned home despondent after his first visit, on the twenty-seventh of November. Why despondent if Candace Westhall had promised to settle? Could it be because his suspicions about freezing the body had been shown to be nonsense? Do we really believe that Candace Westhall had decided to string him along while planning some more dramatic exposure? Would any sensible woman act like that? Then, before returning here on Thursday last, when Rhoda Gradwyn was admitted for her operation, Coxon says that Boyton's mood had changed, that he was excited and optimistic and talking about the prospect of money. He sends his text message imploring Miss Gradwyn to see him, telling her that the matter is urgent. So what happened between his first and second visits to change the whole situation? He went to Holborn Probate Office and obtained a copy of Peregrine Westhall's will. Why, and why then? He must have known that he wasn't a beneficiary. Isn't it possible that, when Candace had demolished his allegation about freezing the body, she did offer him financial help, or in some way made him suspect that she wanted any argument about her father's will to end?”

Kate said, “You're thinking of forgery, sir?”

“It's a possibility. It's time to take a look at the will.”

Dalgliesh spread out the will, and they studied it in silence. He said, “The whole will is in holograph, with the date written in full, the seventh day of July
2005
. The day of the London bombings. If one were forging the date, not a sensible one to choose. Most people remember what they were doing on
7
/
7
as we remember what we were doing on
9
/
11
. Let's assume, then, that both the date and the will itself are in Professor Westhall's handwriting. The writing is distinctive and a forgery at such length would almost certainly be detected. But what about the three signatures? Today I telephoned a member of the firm of Professor Westhall's solicitors with questions about the will. One signatory, Elizabeth Barnes, an elderly maid with long service at the Manor, is now dead. The other is Grace Holmes, who was something of a recluse in the village and emigrated to Toronto to live with a niece.”

Benton said, “Boyton arrives last Thursday and tries to discover Grace Holmes's address in Toronto by calling at Rosemary Cottage. And it's after his first visit that Candace Westhall knew that, however ridiculous his first suspicions, he was now focusing his attention on the will. It was Mog who told us about Boyton's visit to Rosemary Cottage. Did he also pass on that piece of gossip to Candace? She flies to Toronto ostensibly to give Miss Holmes a contribution from Professor Westhall's bequest, something that could easily have been arranged by letter, telephone or e-mail. And why wait until now to reward her for her services? And why was it so important to see Grace Holmes in person?”

Kate said, “If we're thinking of forgery, it's a strong motive all right. I suppose minor defects in a will can be put right. Can't bequests be changed if all the executors consent? But forgery is a criminal act. Candace Westhall couldn't risk jeopardising her brother's reputation as well as his inheritance. But if Grace Holmes accepted money from Candace Westhall in return for her silence, I doubt whether anyone will get the truth out of her now. Why should she speak? Perhaps the prof was always writing wills, then changing his mind. All she has to do is to say that she signed several holograph wills and can't remember specific ones. She helped to nurse the old professor. Those years couldn't have been easy for the Westhalls. She'd probably think it morally right that brother and sister should inherit the money.” She looked at Dalgliesh. “Do we know, sir, what the previous will stipulated?”

“I did ask that when I spoke to the solicitors. The whole estate was divided into two parts. Robin Boyton was to receive half, in recognition that his parents and he had been unfairly treated by the family; the remaining half to be divided equally between Marcus and Candace.”

“And he knew that, sir?”

“I very much doubt it. I hope to learn more on Friday. I've made an appointment with Philip Kershaw, the lawyer who dealt with both that will and the most recent. He's a sick man and lives in a retirement nursing home outside Bournemouth, but he's agreed to see me.”

Kate said, “It's a strong motive, sir. Are you thinking of arresting her?”

“No, Kate. Tomorrow I propose to question her under caution and the interview will be recorded. Even so, this is going to be tricky. It will be unwise, and perhaps even futile, to reveal these new suspicions without more cogent evidence than we have. There's only Coxon's statement that Boyton was depressed after his first visit and exhilarated before the next. And his text message to Rhoda Gradwyn could mean anything. He was apparently a somewhat volatile young man. Well, we saw that ourselves.”

Benton said, “We're getting somewhere, sir.”

“But without one piece of hard physical evidence either about the possible forgery or the deaths of Rhoda Gradwyn and Robin Boyton. And to complicate matters, we have a convicted murderer in the Manor. We won't get further tonight and we're all tired so I think we'll call it a day.”

It was just before midnight but Dalgliesh continued to feed the fire. It would be useless to go to bed while his brain was so active. Candace Westhall had the opportunity and means to commit both murders, was indeed the only person who could confidently entice Boyton into the old pantry when she could be sure of being alone. She had the necessary strength to force him into the freezer, she had ensured that her fingerprints on the lid could be explained and she had made certain that someone was with her when the body was found and had remained with her until the police arrived. But none of this amounted to more than circumstantial evidence and she was intelligent enough to know this. He could do no more at present than question her under caution.

It was then that an idea came into his mind, and he acted on it before a second thought could question its wisdom. Jeremy Coxon was apparently a late drinker in his local. His mobile might still be switched on. If not, Dalgliesh would try again in the morning.

Jeremy Coxon was in the pub. The background noise made coherent speech impossible and when he knew it was Dalgliesh who was phoning, he said, “Hold on a minute and I'll go outside. I can't hear you properly in here.” And a minute later, “Is there any news?”

Dalgliesh said, “None at present. We shall be in touch with you if there are any developments. I'm sorry to call so late. I'm ringing about something different but important. Do you remember what you were doing on
7
/
7
?”

There was a silence; then Coxon asked, “You mean the day of the London bombings?”

“Yes, the seventh of July
2005
.”

Again there was a pause, in which Dalgliesh thought Coxon was resisting the temptation to ask what
7
/
7
had to do with Robin's death. Then he said, “Who doesn't? It's like
9
/
11
and the day Kennedy died. One remembers.”

“Robin Boyton was your friend at that time, wasn't he? Do you recall what he did on
7
/
7
?”

“I can remember what he told me he did. He was in central London. He turned up at the Hampstead flat where I was living then just before eleven at night and bored me into the small hours with the recital of his narrow escape and long walk to Hampstead. He'd been in Tottenham Court Road, close to the bomb that blew up that bus. He was clutched by some old biddy who was pretty shocked and had to spend time quietening her down. She told him that she lived in Stoke Cheverell and that she'd come to London the previous day to stay with a friend to do some shopping. She planned to return home the following day. Robin was afraid he was going to get stuck with her, but he managed to find a solitary cab outside Heal's, gave her twenty quid for the fare and she went off calmly enough. That was typical of Robin. He said he'd rather part with twenty quid than be landed with the old dear for the rest of the day.”

“Did he tell you her name?”

“No, he didn't. I don't know the name of the lady or the address of her friend—or, for that matter, the number of the cab. It wasn't a big deal, but it happened.”

“And that's all you remember, Mr. Coxon?”

“That's all I was told. There is one more detail. I think he did mention she was a retired servant who was helping his cousins to look after some old relative they'd been landed with. Sorry I can't be more helpful.”

Dalgliesh thanked him and snapped shut his mobile. If what Coxon had told him was accurate and if the maid was Elizabeth Barnes, there was no way she could have signed the will on
7
July
2005
. But was she Elizabeth Barnes? She could have been any village woman who was helping at Stone Cottage. With Robin Boyton's help they might have traced her. But Boyton was dead.

It was after three o'clock. Dalgliesh was still awake and restless.

Coxon's memory of
7
/
7
was hearsay, and now that both Boyton and Elizabeth Barnes were dead, what chance was there of tracing the friend with whom she had stayed or the cab that had taken her there? The whole of his theory about the forgery was based on circumstantial evidence. He had a strong dislike of making an arrest which was not followed by a charge of murder. If the case foundered, the accused was left under a pall of suspicion and the investigating officer could get a reputation for unwise and premature action. Was this going to be one of those deeply unsatisfying cases, and they were not rare, when the identity of a killer was known but the evidence inadequate to make an arrest?

Accepting at last that he had no hope of sleep, he got out of bed, pulled on trousers and a thick sweater and wound a scarf round his neck. Perhaps a brisk walk down the lane would tire him sufficiently to make it worthwhile going back to bed.

At midnight there had been a brief but heavy shower, and the air was sweet-smelling and fresh but not bitterly cold. He strode out under a sky freckled with high stars, hearing nothing but his own footsteps. Then he felt, like a premonition, the breath of the rising wind. The night became alive as it hissed through the bleak hedgerows and set creaking the high branches of the trees, only to die after the brief tumult as quickly as it had arisen. And then, approaching the Manor, he saw distant tongues of flame. Who would be making a bonfire at three in the morning? Something was burning in the circle of stones. Taking his mobile from his pocket, he called for Kate and Benton as he raced, heart pounding, towards the fire.