The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  ‘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.’

  The prospect was clearly unwelcome but, glancing from Kate to Dalgliesh, Mrs Skeffington obviously decided it was wiser not to comment. Instead she smiled at Dalgliesh and assumed t
he voice of a wheedling child. ‘And please may I go now? I’ve tried to be helpful, I really have. But it was late and I was alone and frightened and now it all seems like a terrible dream.’

  But Dalgliesh hadn’t yet finished with his witness. He asked, ‘Were you given keys to the west door when you arrived, Mrs Skeffington?’

  ‘Yes I was. By Sister. I’m always given two security keys. This time it was set number one. I gave them to Mrs Frensham when she helped me with my packing. Robert came up to carry the bags to the car. He wasn’t allowed to use the lift so he had to lug them down the stairs. Mr Chandler-Powell ought to employ a manservant. Mog isn’t really suitable to be in the Manor in any capacity.’

  ‘Where did you put the keys during the night?’

  ‘By my bed I suppose. No, it was on the table in front of the television. Anyway, I gave them to Mrs Frensham. If they’re lost that’s nothing to do with me.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘No, they’re not lost. Thank you for your help, Mrs Skeffington.’

  Now that she was at last free to leave, Mrs Skeffington became gracious and bestowed vague thanks and insincere smiles indiscriminately on everyone present. Chandler-Powell escorted her out to the car. No doubt, Kate thought, he would take the opportunity to reassure or propitiate her but even he could hardly hope that she would hold her tongue. She wouldn’t return, of course, and nor would others. Patients might enjoy a small frisson of vicarious terror at the thought of a seventeenth-century burning, but were unlikely to choose a clinic where a relatively helpless post-operative patient had been brutally done to death. If George Chandler-Powell depended on his income from the clinic to keep the Manor going, he was likely to be in trouble. There would be more than one victim of this murder.

  They waited until they heard the sound of the departing Rolls-Royce and Chandler-Powell reappeared. Dalgliesh said, ‘The incident room will be in the Old Police Cottage and my officers will be staying at Wisteria House. I would be grateful if the household could be assembled in the library in half an hour’s time. Meanwhile the scene of crime officers will be busy in the west wing. I’m grateful to you for putting the library at my disposal for the next hour or so.’

  9

  By the time Dalgliesh with Kate had returned to the scene of crime Rhoda Gradwyn’s body had been removed. The two mortuary attendants had with practised ease zipped her into a body bag and wheeled the stretcher into the lift. Benton was below to see the departure of the ambulance, which had arrived instead of a mortuary van to collect the corpse, and to await the arrival of the scene-of-crime officers. The photographer, a large nimble-footed man of few words, had completed his work and had already left. And now, before beginning the protracted routine of interviewing the suspects, Dalgliesh returned with Kate to the empty bedroom.

  When the young Dalgliesh had first been promoted to the CID, it seemed to him that the air of a murder room always changed when the corpse had been removed, and more subtly than the physical absence of the victim. The air seemed easier to breathe, voices were louder, there was a shared relief as if an object with some mysterious power to threaten or contaminate had been robbed of its potency. Some vestige of this feeling remained. The disordered bed with the indent of the head still on the pillow looked as innocuous and normal as if the occupant had recently got up from sleep and would shortly return. It was the dropped tray of crockery just inside the door that, for Dalgliesh, imposed on the room a symbolism both dramatic and discomforting. The scene looked as if it had been set up to be photographed for the jacket of an upmarket thriller.

  None of Miss Gradwyn’s belongings had been touched and her briefcase was next door, still propped against the bureau in the sitting room. A large metallic suitcase on wheels stood beside the chest of drawers. Dalgliesh placed his murder bag – a description which persisted despite the fact that it was now a fitted attaché case – on the folding baggage stool. He opened it and he and Kate put on their search gloves.

  Miss Gradwyn’s handbag, made of green leather with a silver clasp and shaped like a Gladstone bag, was obviously a designer model. Inside was a set of keys, a small address book, a pocket engagement diary and a wallet with a set of credit cards attached to a purse containing four pounds in coins and sixty pounds in twenty- and ten-pound notes. There was also a handkerchief, her chequebook in a leather cover, a comb, a small bottle of perfume and a silver ballpoint pen. In the pocket designed for it they found her mobile phone.

  Kate said, ‘Normally you would expect this to be on the bedside table. It looks as if she didn’t want any calls.’

  The mobile was small and a new model. Flicking it open and switching it on, Dalgliesh checked the calls and messages. The old text messages had been deleted but there was one new one which was listed as received from ‘Robin’ and read: Something very important has cropped up. I need to consult you. Please see me, please don’t shut me out.

  Dalgliesh said: ‘We’ll need to identify the sender to see if this urgency involved his coming to the Manor. But that can wait. I just want to take a quick look at the other patients’ rooms before we start the questioning. Dr Glenister said that the killer was wearing gloves. He or she would want to get rid of them as quickly as possible. If they were surgical gloves they could have been cut up and disposed of down one of the WCs. Anyway, it’s worth a look. This oughtn’t to wait for the SOCOs.’

  They were lucky. In the bathroom of the suite at the far end of the corridor they found a minute fragment of latex, fragile as a piece of human skin, caught under the rim of the lavatory bowl. Dalgliesh carefully detached it with tweezers and placed it in an evidence bag, closed it, and he and Kate scribbled their initials over the seal.

  Dalgliesh said, ‘We’ll let the SOCOs know about this find when they arrive. This is the suite they need to concentrate on, particularly the walk-in cupboard in the bedroom, the only bedroom which has one. One more pointer to this being an inside job. And now I’d better telephone Miss Gradwyn’s mother.’

  Kate said, ‘Chief Inspector Whetstone told me that he arranged for a WPC to visit her. He did that soon after he arrived here. It won’t be news to her. Do you want me to speak to her, sir?’

  ‘No thank you, Kate. She has a right to hear from me. But if she’s already been told there’s no hurry. We’ll get on with the group interviews. I’ll see you and Benton in the library.’

  10

  The household was assembled and waiting with Kate and Benton when Dalgliesh entered the library with George Chandler-Powell. Benton was interested in how the group had arranged itself. Marcus Westhall had distanced himself from his sister, who was seated in an upright chair by the window, and had taken a chair next to Sister Flavia Holland, perhaps in medical solidarity. Helena Cressett had seated herself in one of the armchairs beside the fire but, perhaps sensing that an appearance of complete relaxation would be inappropriate, sat upright, hands resting loosely on the chair arms. Mogworthy, an incongruous Cerberus, had changed into a shiny blue suit and striped tie, which gave him the look of an ancient undertaker, and stood beside her, back to the fire, the only one on his feet. He turned to glare at Dalgliesh as they entered; the glare seemed to Benton more minatory than aggressive. Dean and Kimberley Bostock, seated rigidly side by sid e on the only sofa, made a slight movement as if uncertain whether they should rise then, slewing their eyes quickly round, subsided into the cushions and Kimberley surreptitiously slid her hand into her husband’s.

  Sharon Bateman also sat alone, bolt upright a few feet from Candace Westhall. Her hands were folded in her lap, her thin legs placed side by side, and the eyes which stared briefly into his showed more wariness than fear. She was wearing a cotton dress with a blue floral pattern under a denim jacket. The dress, more appropriate to summer than to a bleak December afternoon, was too large for her and Benton wondered if this hint of a Victorian charity child, obstinate and over-disciplined, had been contrived. Mrs Frensham had taken a chair beside the window and from time to time glanced out as if to re
mind herself that there was a world, fresh and comfortingly normal, outside this air made sour by fear and tension. All were pale and, despite the warmth of the central heating and the blaze and crackle of the fire, looked pinched with cold.

  Benton was interested to see that the rest of the company had taken time to dress appropriately for an occasion on which it would be more prudent to show respect and grief rather than apprehension. Shirts were crisply pressed, slacks and tweeds had taken the place of country corduroy or denim. Jumpers and cardigans looked as if they had been recently unfolded. Helena Cressett was elegant in slim-fitting trousers in a fine black and white check topped with a black turtleneck cashmere jumper. Her face was drained of colour so that even the soft lipstick she was wearing seemed an ostentatious mark of defiance. Trying not to fix his eyes on her, Benton thought, That face is pure Plantagenet, and was surprised to discover that he found her beautiful.

  The three chairs at the mahogany eighteenth-century desk were empty and were obviously placed there for the police. They seated themselves and Chandler-Powell took his stance opposite, close to Miss Cressett. All their eyes turned to him, although Benton was aware that their thoughts were with the tall dark-haired man on his right. It was he who dominated the room. But they were there with the consent of Chandler-Powell; this was his house, his library, and subtly he made this plain.

  He said, his voice calm and authoritative, ‘Commander Dalgliesh has asked for the use of this room so that he and his officers can see and question us together. I think you’ve all met Mr Dalgliesh, Detective Inspector Miskin and Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith. I’m not here to make a speech. I just want to say that what happened here last night has appalled all of us. It is now our duty to co-operate fully with the police in their investigation. Obviously we can’t hope that this tragedy will remain unknown outside the Manor. Answering the press and other media enquiries will be handled by experts, and I’m asking you all now not to speak to anyone outside these walls, at least for the present. Commander Dalgliesh, would you like to take over?’