The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  Benton got out his notebook. He had early in his career devised a distinctive if eccentric method of shorthand which, although it owed something to Mr Pitman’s ingenious system, was highly personal. His chief had almost perfect recall, but it was his job to watch, listen and record everything said or seen. He knew why AD had decided on this preliminary group interrogation. It was important to get an overall view of exactly what had taken place since Rhoda Gradwyn had entered the Manor on the afternoon of 13 December and this could be achieved more accurately if everyone concerned was present to add comments or make corrections. Most suspects were capable of lying with some conviction when questioned alone – some, indeed, were remarkably adept at it. Benton recalled a number of occasions when tearful, apparently heart-broken, lovers and relations appealed for help in solving a murder, even when they knew where they had hidden the body. But to sustain a lie in company was more difficult. A suspect might be adept at controlling his own facial expression but the responses of his hearers could be a revelation.

  Dalgliesh said, ‘The idea of calling you together is to get a group picture of exactly what happened to Rhoda Gradwyn from the moment she arrived here until the discovery of her body. I shall, of course, need to speak to you separately but I hope we shall be able to make some progress in the next half-hour or so.’

  There was a silence broken by Helena Cressett, who said, ‘The first person to see Miss Gradwyn was Mogworthy, who opened the gate for her. The reception party, consisting of Sister Holland, Mr Westhall and myself, was waiting in the great hall.’

  Her voice was calm, the words direct and matter-of-fact. For Benton the message was clear. If we have to go through this public charade, for God’s sake let’s get on with it.

  Mogworthy stared at Dalgliesh. ‘That’s right. She was on time, more or less. Miss Helena said to expect her after tea and before dinner, and I had my eyes open for her from four o’clock. At six forty-five she arrived. I opened the gate for her and she parked the car herself. And she said she’d cope with her own luggage – only one case and that on wheels. A very determined lady. I waited till she’d gone round to the front of the Manor and saw the door open and Miss Helena waiting for her. I reckoned there was no more for me to do so I went home.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘You didn’t go into the Manor, perhaps to carry her bag up to her room?’

  ‘I did not. If she could wheel it from the car park I reckoned she could get it up to the patients’ floor. If not, someone would do it for her. The last I saw of her was going through the front door.’

  ‘Did you enter the Manor at any time after you saw Miss Gradwyn arrive?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘I don’t know, I’m asking if you did.’

  ‘I did not. And since we’re talking about me, I like to say things plain. No shilly-shallying. I know what you want to ask so I’ll save you the trouble. I knew where she was sleeping – on the patients’ floor, where else? And I’ve got keys to the garden door, but I never set eyes on her dead or alive after she went through the front door. I didn’t kill her and I don’t know who did. If I did know, like as not I’d tell you. I don’t hold with murder.’

  Miss Cressett said, ‘Mog, no one is suspecting you.’

  ‘You may not be, Miss Helena, others will. I know how the world wags. Just as well to speak plainly.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Thank you, Mr Mogworthy. You have spoken plainly and it has been helpful. Is there anything else you can think of that we ought to know, anything you saw or heard after you left? For example, did you see anyone near the Manor, a stranger perhaps, someone acting suspiciously?’

  Mog said stoutly, ‘Any stranger round the Manor after dark is suspicious to me. I never seen nobody last night. But there were a car parked in the lay-by by the stones. Not when I left; later.’

  Catching Mog’s quickly disciplined smirk of sly satisfaction, Benton suspected that the timing of the disclosure was less naïve than it sounded. The reception of his news was certainly gratifying. No one spoke but in the silence Benton detected a soft hiss like the intake of breath. This was news to them all, as no doubt Mogworthy had intended. Benton watched their faces as they glanced at each other. It was a moment of shared relief, quickly concealed but unmistakable.

  Dalgliesh asked, ‘Can you remember anything about the car? The make, colour?’

  ‘Saloon car, darkish. Could be black or blue. The lights were out. Someone sitting in the driver’s seat but I don’t know whether anyone else was there.’

  ‘You didn’t note the registration number?’

  ‘No I didn’t. Why would I be noticing car numbers? I were just passing, cycling home from Mrs Ada Denton’s cottage where I’d been having my Friday fish and chips, same as I always do. When I’m on the bike I keep my eyes on the road, not like some. All I know is there were a car there.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Before midnight. Maybe five or ten minutes before. I always reckon to get home by midnight.’

  Chandler-Powell said, ‘This is important evidence, Mog. Why didn’t you speak earlier?’

  ‘For why? You said yourself that we weren’t to gossip about Miss Gradwyn’s death but wait until the police arrived. Well, the boss man is here now so I’m telling him what I saw.’

  Before anyone could respond the door was flung open. All eyes turned towards it. A man burst in with DC Warren expostulating just behind him. His appearance was as extraordinary as his irruption was dramatic. Benton saw a pale, handsome, somewhat androgynous face, blazing blue eyes and fair hair plastered to his forehead like the marbled locks of a sculpted god. He was wearing a long black coat almost to the floor over pale blue jeans, and for a moment Benton thought he was in his pyjamas and dressing gown. If his sensational entrance had been planned, he could hardly have chosen a more propitious moment, but contrived histrionics seemed unlikely. The newcomer was shaking with poorly controlled emotions, grief perhaps, but also fear and anger. He stared from face to face, seemingly confused, and before he could speak Candace Westhall spoke calmly from her seat by the window.

  ‘Our cousin, Robin Boyton. He’s staying in the guest cottage. Robin, this is Commander Dalgliesh of New Scotland Yard, and his colleagues Inspector Miskin and Sergeant Benton-Smith.’

  Robin ignored her and turned his blaze of anger on Marcus. ‘You bastard! You cold black-hearted bastard! My friend, a dear close friend, is dead. Murdered. And you didn’t even have the decency to tell me. And here you all are, cosying up to the police, deciding together to keep all this quiet. We mustn’t upset Mr Chandler-Powell’s valuable work, must we? And she’s lying upstairs dead. You should have told me! Somebody should have told me. I need to see her. I want to say goodbye.’

  And now he was openly weeping, his tears falling unrestrained. Dalgliesh didn’t speak but Benton, glancing at him, saw that the dark eyes were watchful.

  Candace Westhall half rose as if about to comfort her cousin, then subsided. It was her brother who spoke. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Robin. Miss Gradwyn’s body has been taken to the mortuary. But I did attempt to tell you. I called at the cottage shortly before nine but you were obviously still asleep. The curtains were drawn and the front door locked. I think you did tell us at some time that you knew Rhoda Gradwyn, but not that you were a close friend.’

  Dalgliesh spoke. ‘Mr Boyton, at present I’m interviewing only those people who were in this house from the time Miss Gradwyn arrived on Thursday until the discovery of her death at seven thirty this morning. If you were among them then please stay. If not, I or one of my officers will see you as soon as possible.’

  Boyton had controlled his rage. Through the gulps of indrawn breath his voice took on the tone of a petulant child.

  ‘Of course I’m not among them. I haven’t been inside until now. The policeman at the door wouldn’t let me in.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘That was on my orders.’

  Chandler-Powell said, ‘And e
arlier on mine. Miss Gradwyn asked for absolute privacy. I’m sorry you’ve been caused this distress, Mr Boyton, but I’m afraid I was so busy here with the police officers and the pathologist that I’d overlooked the fact that you were a guest in the cottage. Have you had lunch? Dean and Kimberley can get you something to eat.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t had lunch. When have you ever fed me when I’ve been in Rose Cottage? And I don’t want your bloody food. Don’t patronise me!’

  He drew himself up and, stretching out a shaking arm, pointed his finger at Chandler-Powell, then realising perhaps that, dressed as he was, the histrionic stance made him look ridiculous, he dropped his arm and gazed round the company in mute misery.

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Mr Boyton, as you were a friend of Miss Gradwyn’s, what you have to tell us will be helpful, but not now.’

  The words, quietly spoken, were a command. Boyton turned away, his shoulders drooping. Then he swung back and spoke directly to Chandler-Powell. ‘She came here to have that scar removed, to make a new life for herself. She trusted you and you killed her, you murdering bastard!’

  Without waiting for a response, he was gone. DC Warren, who had stood inscrutably throughout, followed him out and closed the door firmly. There were five seconds of silence during which Benton sensed that the mood had changed. Someone at last had spoken that sonorous word. The unbelievable, the grotesque, the horrifying had at last been acknowledged.

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Shall we get on? Miss Cressett, you received Miss Gradwyn at the door, can we take it from there?’

  For the next twenty minutes the recital proceeded smoothly and Benton concentrated on his hieroglyphics. Helena Cressett had welcomed the new patient to the Manor and had taken her directly to her room. As she was to have an anaesthetic next morning, no dinner was served and Miss Gradwyn had said she would like to be alone. The patient had insisted on wheeling her own case to the bedroom and was unpacking her books when Miss Cressett left. On Friday she knew, of course, that Miss Gradwyn had had her operation and been transferred in the early evening from the recovery room to her suite in the patients’ wing. This was the usual procedure. She was not concerned with patient care, nor did she visit Miss Gradwyn in her suite. She had dinner in the dining room with Sister Holland, Miss Westhall and Mrs Frensham. She was told that Marcus Westhall was having dinner and staying the night with a consultant in London with whom he was hoping to work in Africa. She and Miss Westhall had worked together in the office until nearly seven o’clock, when pre-dinner drinks were served by Dean in the library. Afterwards she and Mrs Frensham had played chess and talked in her private sitting room. She had been in bed by midnight and had heard nothing during the night. On Saturday she had showered and dressed when Mr Chandler-Powell arrived to tell her that Rhoda Gradwyn was dead.

  Miss Cressett’s evidence was quietly confirmed by Mrs Frensham, who said that she had left Miss Cressett in her sitting room and had herself gone to her own apartment in the east wing at about eleven thirty and had seen and heard nothing during the night. She knew nothing about Miss Gradwyn’s death until she came down to the dining room at quarter to eight and found no one there. Later Mr Chandler-Powell had arrived and had told her that Miss Gradwyn was dead.

  Candace Westhall confirmed that she had worked with Miss Cressett in the office until dinner. After dinner she had returned to tidy away papers in the office and left the Manor shortly after ten by the front door. Mr Chandler-Powell was coming down the stairs and they said goodnight before she left. Next morning he rang from the office to say Miss Gradwyn had been found dead, and she and her brother came over to the Manor immediately. Marcus Westhall had returned from London in the early hours. She had heard his car arrive but had not got up, though he had knocked on her bedroom door and they had spoken briefly.

  Sister Flavia Holland gave her evidence succinctly and calmly. Early in the morning of the operation the anaesthetist and additional medical and technical staff had arrived. Nurse Frazer, one of the temporary staff, had brought the patient down to the operating suite where she had been examined by the anaesthetist who had previously examined her at St Angela’s in London. Mr Chandler-Powell had spent some time with her to greet and reassure her. He would have described exactly what he proposed to do when Miss Gradwyn had met him in his office in St Angela’s. Miss Gradwyn had been very calm throughout and had shown no sign of fear, or indeed of particular anxiety. The anaesthetist and all the ancillary staff had left as soon as the operation was completed. They would have been returning the following morning for Mrs Skeffington’s operation. She had arrived yesterday afternoon. After the operation Miss Gradwyn had been in the recovery room under the care of Mr Chandler-Powell and herself and at four thirty had been wheeled back to her room. By then the patient was able to walk and said she felt little pain. She then slept until seven thirty when she had been able to eat a light supper. She refused a sedative but asked for a glass of hot milk and brandy. Sister Holland was in the end room on the left and looked in to check on Miss Gradwyn every hour until she herself went to bed, which was perhaps as late as midnight. The eleven o’clock check was the last and the patient was asleep. She heard nothing during the night.

  Mr Chandler-Powell’s account agreed with hers. He emphasised that at no time had the patient shown fear, either of the operation or of anything else. She had specifically asked that no visitors be allowed during her period of a week’s convalescence and that was why Robin Boyton had been refused entry. The operation had gone well but had been longer and more difficult than he had expected. He had, however, felt confident of an excellent result. Miss Gradwyn was a healthy woman who had stood the anaesthesia and operation well and he had no anxieties about her progress. He had visited her on the night she died at about ten o’clock and had been returning from that visit when he saw Miss Westhall leaving.

  Sharon had been sitting very still with a look which, Kate thought, could only be described as sulky throughout the proceedings, but when asked where she had been and what she had done the previous day, had at first embarked on a tedious, sullenly expressed review of every detail of the morning and afternoon. Asked to confine herself to the time from four thirty onwards, she said that she had been busy in the kitchen and dining room helping Dean and Kimberley Bostock, had had her meal with them at eight forty-five and had then gone to her own room to watch television. She couldn’t remember when she went to bed or what she had seen on television. She had been very tired and had slept soundly throughout the night. She knew nothing about Miss Gradwyn being dead until Sister Holland had come up to waken her, telling her to come on duty and help in the kitchen, which she thought had been at about nine o’clock. She liked Miss Gradwyn, who had asked her to show her round the garden on her previous visit. Asked by Kate what they had talked about, she said it was about her childhood and where she had gone to school, and her work at the old people’s home.

  There was no surprise until Dean and Kimberley Bostock gave their evidence. Kimberley said she was sometimes asked by Sister to take food to the patients but she hadn’t visited Miss Gradwyn because she was fasting. Neither she nor her husband had seen the patient arriving and they had been particularly busy that evening preparing meals for the extra operating theatre staff who would arrive next day and always had lunch before leaving. She had been woken by the telephone just before midnight on the Friday evening by Mrs Skeffington, who had asked for tea. Her husband had helped her carry up the tray. He never went into the patients’ rooms but had waited outside until she came out. Mrs Skeffington had appeared frightened and talked about seeing a light flickering among the stones, but Kimberley thought this was just imagination. She had asked Mrs Skeffington if she wanted her to call Sister Holland but she had said no, that Sister Holland would only be annoyed with her for waking her unnecessarily.

  At this stage Sister Holland had broken in. ‘Your instructions, Kimberley, are to call me if patients ask for anything in the night. Why didn’t you? Mrs Skeffington was p
re-operative.’

  And now Benton, raising his head from his notebook, was alert. He could see that the question was deeply unwelcome. The girl flushed. She glanced at her husband and their hands tightened. She said, ‘I’m sorry, Sister, I thought she wouldn’t really be a patient until the next day so I didn’t wake you. I did ask her if she wanted to see you or Mr Chandler-Powell.’

  ‘Mrs Skeffington was a patient from the time she arrived at the Manor, Kimberley. You knew how to contact me. You should have done so.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Did Mrs Skeffington mention anything about hearing the lift in the night?’

  ‘No. She only spoke about the lights.’

  ‘And did either of you hear or see anything unusual while you were on that floor?’

  They looked at each other, then shook their heads vigorously. Dean said, ‘We were only there a few minutes. Everything was quiet. A dimmed light was on in the corridor as it always is.’

  ‘And the lift? Did you notice the lift?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The lift was on the ground floor. We used it to take up the tea. We could have gone up the stairs, but the lift is quicker.’

  ‘And is there anything else you need to tell me about that night?’

  And now there was a silence. Again the two looked at each other. Dean seemed to be gathering resolve. He said, ‘There’s one thing, sir. When we got back to the ground floor I saw that the door to the garden wasn’t bolted. We have to pass the door to get back to our flat. It’s a heavy oak door on the right, sir, leading to the lime walk and the Cheverell Stones.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Yes, sir, quite sure.’

  ‘Did you draw your wife’s attention to the unbolted door?’

  ‘No, sir. Not until we were together in the kitchen next morning and then I mentioned it.’