by P. D. James
Dalgliesh and Inspector Miskin got to their feet. Dalgliesh said, ‘Thank you both. You need to get out of here. I won’t trouble you any further for now.’ He turned to Candace. ‘I’m afraid for the present, and probably for some days, Stone Cottage will have to be closed.’
Candace said, ‘As a crime scene?’
‘As a scene of an unexplained death. Mr Chandler-Powell tells me that there are rooms for you and your brother at the Manor. I’m sorry for the inconvenience but I’m sure you’ll understand the necessity. There will also be a forensic pathologist and technical officers coming here but care will be taken not to cause damage.’
Candace said, ‘You can pull the place apart for all I care. I’ve finished with it.’
He went on as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Inspector Miskin will go with you to collect what you need to take to the Manor.’
Lettie thought, so they were under escort. What did he fear? That they might make a run for it? But she told herself that she was being unfair. He had been polite and courteous, scrupulously so. But then what did he gain by being otherwise?
Candace got to her feet. ‘I can collect what I need. My brother can pack for himself, no doubt under supervision. I’ve no intention of rummaging through his room.’
Dalgliesh said calmly, ‘I’ll let you know when it will be possible for him to collect what he needs. Inspector Miskin will help you now.’
The three of them, led by Candace, climbed the stairs, Lettie glad of an excuse for getting away from the old pantry. In her bedroom Candace dragged a suitcase from the wardrobe, but it was Inspector Miskin who lifted it onto the bed. Candace began taking clothes from her drawers and wardrobe, folding them quickly and packing them expertly into the case: warm jumpers, trousers, shirts, underwear, nightclothes and shoes. She went into the bathroom and returned with her toilet bag. Without a backward glance they were ready to go.
Commander Dalgliesh and Sergeant Benton-Smith were in the old pantry, obviously waiting for them to leave. The lid of the freezer was closed. Candace handed over the house keys. Sergeant Benton-Smith scribbled a receipt and the cottage door was closed behind them. Lettie, listening, thought she heard the turning of the key.
Silently, with Inspector Miskin walking between them, they took deep cleansing breaths of the sweet damp morning air and in silence made their slow measured way back to the Manor.
9
As they approached the front door of the Manor, Inspector Miskin stood back and tactfully turned away as if anxious to demonstrate that they hadn’t returned under police escort. It gave Candace time for a quick whisper as Lettie opened the door. ‘Don’t discuss what’s happened. Just give them the facts.’
Lettie was tempted to say that she had no intention of doing more, but had time only to murmur, ‘Of course.’
She noticed that Candace immediately put herself out of risk of discussing anything by saying that she wanted to see where she would be sleeping. Helena came forward at once and the two of them disappeared into the east wing which, with Flavia already sleeping there since the patients’ corridor was barred, was likely soon to become uncomfortably crowded. Marcus, after phoning for Dalgliesh’s consent, went to Stone Cottage to collect the clothes and books he needed, then joined his sister in the east wing. Everyone was quietly solicitous. No inconvenient questions were asked but as the morning dragged on the air seemed to be humming with unspoken comments, chief among them why exactly had Lettie lifted the freezer lid. Since in the end someone would surely voice it, Lettie increasingly felt that she should break her silence despite what she and Candace had agreed.
As one o’clock approached there was still no news from Commander Dalgliesh or his team. Only four of the household sat down in the dining room for lunch, Mr Chandler-Powell, Helena, Flavia and Lettie. Candace had asked that a tray for herself and Marcus should be sent up to her room. On operating days Chandler-Powell ate lunch later with his team, if he ate a formal meal at all, but at other times, as today, he joined the party in the dining room. Lettie sometimes felt uneasily that the small household should eat together, but Dean, she knew, would have considered it demeaning to his status as chef to be expected to lunch or dine with those he served. He and Kim with Sharon ate later in their own apartment.
The meal was simple, a first course of minestrone followed by a pork and duck terrine, baked potatoes and a winter salad. When Flavia, helping herself to salad, asked whether anyone knew when they could expect the police to appear, Lettie broke in with what seemed to her an unnatural nonchalance.
‘They didn’t say when we were at Stone Cottage. I expect they’re busy examining the freezer. Perhaps they’ll take it away. I can’t explain why I lifted the lid. We were on our way out and it was an impulsive gesture, perhaps no more than curiosity.’
Flavia said, ‘It’s just as well you did. He could have been there for days while the police were searching the countryside. After all, unless they suspected they were looking for a body, why would they open the freezer? Why would anybody?’
Mr Chandler-Powell frowned but didn’t comment. There was a silence broken by the entrance of Sharon to remove the soup bowls. A period of unaccustomed idleness had proved boring and she had condescended to undertake a limited number of household tasks. At the door she turned and said with, for her, unexpected brightness, ‘Perhaps there’s a serial murderer loose in the village picking us all off one by one. I read a book by Agatha Christie which deals with that. They were all cut off on this island and the serial killer was among them. In the end only one was left alive.’
Flavia’s voice was sharp. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sharon. Miss Gradwyn’s death, did that look like the work of a serial murderer? They kill to a pattern. And why should a mass murderer put a body in a freezer? But perhaps your serial killer has an obsession with freezers and is even now looking for one to accommodate his next victim.’
Sharon opened her mouth to retort, caught a glance from Chandler-Powell and thought better of it, then kicked the door closed after her. No one spoke. Lettie sensed the general feeling that, if Sharon’s comment had been ill judged, Flavia’s hadn’t improved on it. Murder was a contaminating crime, subtly changing relationships which, even if not close, had been easy and without strain, hers with Candace and now with Flavia. It wasn’t a question of active suspicion, more the spread of an atmosphere of unease, a growing awareness that other people, other minds, were unknowable. But she felt a concern for Flavia. With her sitting room in the west wing barred to her she had taken to walking alone in the garden or down the lime walk to the stones, returning with eyes more red and swollen than could be caused by a keen wind or sudden shower. Perhaps, thought Lettie, it wasn’t surprising that Flavia seemed more affected by Miss Gradwyn’s death than were the others. She and Chandler-Powell had lost a patient. For both of them it was a professional disaster. And then there were the rumours about the relationship with George. When they were together at the Manor it was always one of surgeon and theatre sister, sometimes seeming almost unnecessarily professional. Certainly if they had been sleeping together at the Manor someone would have known. But Lettie wondered if Flavia’s changing moods, the new waspishness, the solitary walks had a cause other than the death of a patient.
As the day wore on it became apparent to Lettie that this death was creating more covert interest than either fear or anxiety. Robin Boyton was hardly known except to his cousins, and not particularly liked by those who did know him. And at least he had had the decency to die outside the Manor. None would have expressed the thought with such callous insensitivity, but the hundred yards or so between the house and Stone Cottage was a psychological as well as a physical separation from a corpse imagined but by the majority not witnessed. They felt more like onlookers than participants in a drama, isolated from the action, beginning indeed to feel unreasonably excluded by Dalgliesh and his team, who asked for information and gave so little in return. Mog, who by virtue of his job in the garden and throughout the groun
ds had an excuse to loiter at the gate, had fed them nuggets of information. He reported on the return of the scene-of-crime officers, the arrival of the photographer and Dr Glenister, and finally the lumpy body bag being stretchered down the cottage path to the sinister mortuary van. With that news the company at the Manor braced themselves for the return of Dalgliesh and his team.
10
Dalgliesh, who was occupied at Stone Cottage, left the initial questioning to Kate and Benton. It was three thirty before they arrived to begin their enquiries and, again with the consent of Mr Chandler-Powell, used the library for the majority of their interviews. For the first few hours the results were disappointing. Dr Glenister couldn’t be expected to give a precise assessment of the time of death until after the post mortem, but given the accuracy of her preliminary estimations they could work on the assumption that Boyton had died the previous day sometime between two o’clock and six. The fact that he hadn’t had time to wash his plates after a meal that was clearly more likely to be lunch than breakfast was less helpful than it seemed since there were in the sink unwashed crockery and two saucepans which looked as if they had been there from the night before.
Kate decided to ask people where they were the previous day from one o’clock until dinner, which was served at eight. Nearly everyone could provide an alibi for part of the time, but none for the whole seven hours. The afternoon was a time when people were generally free to follow their own interests or inclinations, and most had been alone for some of the time, either in the Manor or in the garden. Marcus Westhall had driven into Bournemouth to do some Christmas shopping, leaving shortly after lunch, and had not returned until seven thirty. Kate sensed that the rest of the household thought that it was a little odd that, whenever there was a dead body to be explained, Marcus Westhall had the good fortune to be absent. His sister had worked with Lettie in the office in the morning and after lunch had returned to Stone Cottage to garden. She had been sweeping leaves, building up the compost heap and cutting away the dead branches of the bushes until the light began to fail. She had then returned to the cottage to make tea, entering by the door into the conservatory, which she had left open. She had seen Boyton’s car parked outside but had seen and heard nothing of him the whole afternoon.
George Chandler-Powell, Flavia and Helena had occupied themselves in the Manor, either in their own apartments or in the office, but were only able to provide firm alibis for the time when, with the others, they were eating lunch, having afternoon tea in the library and dinner at eight o’clock. Kate sensed their resentment, shared by the others, at having to be so specific about time. It had, after all, been for them an ordinary day. Mog claimed that he had been busy for most of the previous afternoon in the rose garden and planting tulip bulbs in the large urns in the formal gardens. No one remembered seeing him, but he was able to produce a bucket with a few bulbs waiting to be planted and the torn packets which had contained the others. Neither Kate nor Benton felt inclined to entertain him by digging into the urns to see if the bulbs were there, but no doubt this could be done if it proved expedient.
Sharon had been persuaded to spend some time in the afternoon dusting and polishing furniture and vacuum-cleaning the rugs in the great hall, entrance hall and library. Certainly the noise of the vacuum had from time to time been an irritant to others in the Manor, but no one could be specific when exactly it was heard. Benton pointed out that it was possible for a vacuum to be left on without anyone using it, a suggestion which Kate found difficult to take seriously. Sharon had also spent time in the kitchen helping Dean and Kimberley. She gave her evidence willingly enough but took an unconscionable time before answering questions and stared throughout at Kate with a speculative interest and a hint of pity which Kate found more disconcerting than the expected undisguised hostility.
Altogether by late afternoon they felt that little had so far been achieved. It was perfectly possible for any of the residents of the Manor, including Marcus on his way to Bournemouth, to have called at Stone Cottage, but how could anyone other than a Westhall have enticed Robin into the cottage, managed to kill him and returned undetected to the Manor avoiding the security guards? Obviously the prime suspect had to be Candace Westhall, who certainly had the strength to shove Boyton into the freezer, but it was premature to decide on a prime suspect when at present they had no convincing evidence that the death had been murder.
It was nearly five o’clock before they got round to seeing the Bostocks. The interview took place in the kitchen where Kate and Benton were comfortably ensconced in low chairs beside the window while the Bostocks drew up a couple of upright chairs from the table. Before seating themselves they made tea for the four of them and set up with some ceremony a low table in front of the visitors, inviting them to sample Kim’s biscuits, newly baked and hot from the Aga. An irresistible smell, rich and spicy, wafted from the open oven door. The biscuits, almost too hot to handle, thin and crisp, were delicious. Kim, with the face of a happy child, smiled on them as they ate and pressed them not to hold back – there were plenty more. Dean poured the tea; the atmosphere became domestic, almost cosy. Outside the rain-saturated air pressed against the windows like a fog and the deepening darkness obscured all but the geometry of the knot garden while the high beech hedge became a distant blur. Inside all was light, colour and warmth, and the comforting aroma of tea and food.
The Bostocks were able to provide an alibi for each other, having spent almost all the previous twenty-four hours together, mostly in the kitchen or when, taking advantage of Mog’s temporary absence, they had together visited the kitchen garden to select vegetables for dinner. Mog tended to resent every gap in his carefully planted rows. Kim on her return had served the main meals and later cleared the table, but usually there had been someone present, Miss Cressett or Mrs Frensham.
Both Bostocks looked shocked but less distressed or frightened than Kate and Benton had expected, partly, Kate thought, because Boyton had been only an occasional visitor for whom they had no responsibility and whose rare appearances, so far from adding to the gaiety of the community, were regarded, particularly by Dean, as a potential source of irritation and extra work. Boyton had made his mark – a young man with his looks could hardly fail – but Kimberley, happily in love with her husband, was impervious to classic handsomeness and Dean, uxorious, was largely concerned to guard his kitchen against unwarranted intrusions. Neither seemed particularly frightened, perhaps because it became apparent that they had managed to convince themselves that Boyton’s death had been an accident.
Conscious of their own uninvolvement, interested, a little excited and ungrieving, they chatted on and Kate let the talk flow. The Bostocks, like the rest of the household, had been told only that Boyton’s body had been found, and where. What else at present was there to tell? And there had been no point in leaving anyone in ignorance. It might with luck be possible to keep this present death out of the press, and for a while from the village if Mog held his tongue, but it was hardly feasible or necessary to keep it from anyone at the Manor.
It was nearly six o’clock when the breakthrough came. Kim roused herself from a minute’s silent reverie and said, ‘Poor man. He must have climbed into the freezer and then the lid fell down on him. Why would he do that? Perhaps he was playing a silly game, a sort of private dare like kids do. My mum had a big wicker basket at home, more like a trunk really, and we kids used to hide in it. But why didn’t he push up the lid?’
Dean was already clearing the table. He said, ‘He couldn’t, not if the catch fell down. But he’s not a kid. Daft thing to do. Not a nice way to go, suffocation. Or maybe he had a heart attack.’ Looking at Kim’s face, creasing in distress, he added firmly, ‘That’s probably what it was, a heart attack. He got into the freezer out of curiosity, panicked when he couldn’t open the lid and died. Nice and quick. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.’
Kate said, ‘That’s possible. We’ll know more after the autopsy. Had he ever complained
to you about his heart, said he had to be careful, anything like that?’
Dean looked at Kim, who shook her head. ‘Not to us. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? He wasn’t here often and we didn’t usually see him. The Westhalls may know. They’re cousins and his story was that he came here to see them. Mrs Frensham makes him pay something but Mog says he doesn’t think it’s the full visitors’ rent. He says Mr Boyton was just after a cheap holiday.’
Kim said, ‘I don’t think Miss Candace would know anything about his health. Mr Marcus might, being a doctor, but I don’t think they were close. I’ve heard Miss Candace say to Mrs Frensham that Robin Boyton never bothered to tell them when he was renting the cottage, and if you ask me they weren’t all that pleased to see him. Mog says that there was some kind of family feud but he doesn’t know what about.’
Kate said, ‘This time, of course, Mr Boyton said he was here to see Miss Gradwyn.’
‘But he didn’t see her did he? Not this time or when she was here a couple of weeks ago. Mr Chandler-Powell and Sister Holland saw to that. I don’t believe they were friends, Mr Boyton and Miss Gradwyn. That was probably him trying to make himself look important. But it’s odd about the freezer. It isn’t even in his cottage but he seemed sort of fascinated with it. Do you remember, Dean, all those questions he asked when he was last here and came to borrow some butter? He never paid it back.’
Concealing her interest and taking care to avoid Benton’s eyes, Kate said, ‘When was that?’
