The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  He 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 were 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 plain 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 church-goers.’ 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 & 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 unselfconscious 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, and a bulging briefcase 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 & 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 cooperative. 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 Manor, any of whom could have killed Miss Gradwyn. All knew where she was sleeping, knew that the suites beyond were 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 21 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 27 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.