The Private Patient (25 page)

Dalgliesh said, “The fact that she's here, and with her record, is a complication.”

“I can see that. Unless you get a confession, it will be difficult to justify arresting anyone else. But, like most murderers, hers was that one act.”

Kate said, “She's managed to do some appalling harm in her short life. A child murdered and a good man's job and future at risk. It's hard to look at her without seeing an image of that smashed face superimposed on hers.”

Mrs. Rayner said, “The anger of a child can be terrible. If an out-of-control four-year-old had a gun and the strength to use it, how many families would be left standing?”

Dalgliesh said, “Lucy was apparently a lovely endearing little girl.”

“Possibly to other people. Not perhaps to Sharon.”

Within minutes she was ready to leave and Kate drove her to Wareham Station. On the way they spoke from time to time about Dorset and the countryside through which they were passing. But Mrs. Rayner didn't mention Sharon's name, nor did Kate. Kate had decided that it would be both polite and sensible to wait with Mrs. Rayner until the train had arrived and she was safely on her way. It wasn't until it was approaching the platform that her companion spoke.

She said, “Don't worry about Stephen Collinsby. Sharon will be looked after and given the help she needs, and he won't be harmed.”

6

Candace Westhall came into the front room of the Old Police Cottage in a jacket and scarf and wearing her gardening gloves. She seated herself, then took off her gloves and placed them, large and mud-caked, on the table between herself and Dalgliesh like an allegorical challenge. The meaning, if crude, was plain. She had been called from a necessary job once again to answer unnecessary questions.

Her antagonism was palpable and he knew that it was shared, if less openly, by most of his suspects. This he expected and in part understood. At first he and his team were awaited and greeted with relief. Action would be taken, the case cleared up, the horror which was also an embarrassment would be salved, the innocent vindicated, the guilty—probably a stranger whose fate could cause no distress—would be arrested and dealt with. Law, reason and order would replace the contaminating disorder of murder. But there had been no arrest and no sign of one. It was still early days, but for the small company at the Manor there was no foreseeable end to his presence or to his questioning. He understood their growing resentment because he had once experienced it, when he had discovered the murdered body of a young woman on a Suffolk beach. The crime was not on his patch, and another investigating officer had taken over. There had been no question of his being regarded as a serious suspect, but the police questioning had been detailed, repetitive and, it seemed to him, unnecessarily intrusive. An interrogation was uncomfortably like a mental violation.

He said, “In
2002
, Rhoda Gradwyn wrote an article for the
Paternoster
Review
dealing with plagiarism in which she attacked a young writer, Annabel Skelton, who subsequently took her own life. What was your relationship with Annabel Skelton?”

She met his eyes, hers cold with dislike and, he thought, contempt. There was a brief silence in which the antagonism crackled from her like an electric current. Without altering her gaze, she said, “Annabel Skelton was a dear friend. I would say I loved her except that you would misinterpret a relationship which I doubt I can make you understand. All friendships seem to be defined now in terms of sexuality. She was my pupil, but her talent was for writing, not classics. I encouraged her to complete her first novel and to submit it for publication.”

“Did you know at the time that parts of it had been plagiarised from an earlier work?”

“Are you asking me, Commander, whether she told me?”

“No, Miss Westhall, I'm asking whether you knew.”

“I didn't, not until I read Gradwyn's article.”

Kate intervened. “It must have surprised and distressed you.”

“Yes, Inspector, both of those things.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Did you take any action—see Rhoda Gradwyn, write to protest either to her or to the
Paternoster Review
?”

“I saw Gradwyn. We met briefly in her agent's office, at her request. It was a mistake. She was, of course, totally unrepentant. I prefer not to discuss the details of that encounter. I didn't know at the time that Annabel was already dead. She hanged herself three days after the
Paternoster Review
appeared.”

“So you didn't have an opportunity to see her, ask for an explanation? I'm sorry if this is painful for you.”

“Surely not too sorry, Commander. Let there be honesty between us. Like Rhoda Gradwyn, you're merely doing your distasteful job. I tried to get in touch but Annabel wouldn't see me, the door locked, the phone unplugged. I'd wasted time with Gradwyn when I might have succeeded in seeing her. The day after her death I received a postcard.

There were only eight words and no signature.
I'm sorry. Please forgive
me. I love you.”
There was a silence; then she said, “The plagiarism was the least important part of a novel which showed extraordinary promise. But I think Annabel realised that she would never write another and for her that was death. And there was the humiliation. That, too, was more than she could bear.”

“Did you hold Rhoda Gradwyn responsible?”

“She was responsible. She murdered my friend. As I suppose that wasn't her intention, there would be no hope of legal redress. But I didn't take private revenge after five years. Hatred doesn't die, but it loses some of its power. It's like an infection in the blood, never completely lost, liable to flare up unexpectedly but its fever becoming less debilitating, less acutely painful with the passing years. I'm left with regret and a lasting sadness. I didn't kill Rhoda Gradwyn, but I can't feel even a minute's regret that she's dead. Does that satisfy the question you were about to ask, Commander?”

“You say, Miss Westhall, that you didn't kill Rhoda Gradwyn. Do you know who did?”

“I do not. And if I did, Commander, I think it unlikely that I would tell you.”

She rose from the table to go. Neither Dalgliesh nor Kate made a move to stop her.

7

In the three days following Rhoda Gradwyn's murder, Lettie was struck by how briefly death is allowed to interfere with life. The dead, however they die, are tidied away with decent speed to their designated place, a tray in a hospital mortuary, the undertaker's embalming room, the pathologist's table. The doctor may not come when called; the undertaker always does. Meals, however sparse or unconventional, are prepared and eaten, post arrives, telephones ring, bills have to be paid, official forms filled in. Those who mourn, as she in her time had mourned, move like automata into a shadow world in which nothing is real or familiar or seemingly ever will be again. But even they speak, attempt to sleep, raise untasting food to their mouths, continue as if by rote to play their destined part in a drama in which all the other characters seem familiar with their roles.

At the Manor no one pretended to mourn Rhoda Gradwyn. Her death was a shock made more terrible by mystery and fear, but the routine of the Manor went on. Dean continued to cook his excellent meals, although a certain simplicity in the menus suggested that he was paying a perhaps unconscious tribute to death. Kim continued to serve them, although appetite and frank enjoyment seemed a gross insensitivity, inhibiting conversation. Only the coming and going of the police and the presence of the cars of the security team and the caravan in which they ate and slept parked outside the main entrance were an ever-constant reminder that nothing was normal. There had been a spurt of interest and half-shameful hope when Sharon was called for by Inspector Miskin and taken for questioning at the Old Police Cottage. She had returned to say briefly that Commander Dalgliesh was preparing for her to leave the Manor and a friend would be calling for her in three days. In the meantime, she didn't intend to do any more work. As far as she was concerned, the job was over and they knew where they could shove it. She was tired and upset and couldn't fucking well wait to get away from the fucking Manor. Now she was going to her room. Sharon had never been heard to utter an obscenity, and the word was as shocking as if it had come from Lettie's mouth.

Commander Dalgliesh had then been closeted with George Chandler-Powell for half an hour and after he left George had summoned them to the library. They had gathered silently with a shared anticipation that something of significance was about to be told. Sharon had not been arrested, so much was obvious, but there might have been developments and even unwelcome news was preferable to this continuing uncertainty. For all of them, and sometimes they confided as much, life was on hold. Even the simplest decisions—which clothes to put on in the morning, what orders to give Dean and Kimberley—required an effort of will. Chandler-Powell did not keep them waiting, but it seemed to Lettie that he was unusually ill at ease. Entering the library, he seemed uncertain whether to stand or sit but, after a moment's hesitation, positioned himself beside the fire. He must know himself to be a suspect, as were they all, but now, with their eyes fixed expectantly on him, he seemed more a surrogate of Commander Dalgliesh, a role which he neither wanted nor felt comfortable with.

He said, “I'm sorry to interrupt what you're doing but Commander Dalgliesh has asked me to speak to you and it seemed sensible to get you together to hear what he had to say. As you know, Sharon will be leaving us in a few days' time. There was an incident in her past which makes her progress and her welfare a matter for the probation service and it's thought best that she should leave the Manor. I understand that Sharon will be co-operating with the arrangements made for her. That's all I have been told and it's all anyone has a right to know. I must ask you all not to discuss Sharon among yourselves or to speak to her about her past or her future, neither of which is our concern.”

Marcus asked, “Does this mean that Sharon is no longer regarded as a suspect, if she ever was?”

“Presumably.”

Flavia's face was flushed, her voice uncertain. “Could we know precisely what her status here is? She's told us that she doesn't intend to do any more work. I take it that, as the Manor seems to be regarded as a crime scene, we can't call in any of the village cleaners. With the Manor empty of patients there's not a lot of work, but someone has to do it.”

Dean said, “Kim and I could help. But what about her food? Usually she eats with us in the kitchen. Suppose she stays upstairs? Is Kim expected to carry up trays and wait on her?” His voice made it plain that this would not be acceptable.

Helena glanced at Chandler-Powell. It was obvious his patience was wearing thin. She said, “Of course not. Sharon knows the time of the meals. If she's hungry she'll appear. It will only be for a day or two. If there's any trouble, tell me and I'll speak to Commander Dalgliesh. Meanwhile, we carry on as normally as possible.”

Candace spoke for the first time. “As I was one of those who interviewed her I suppose I ought to take some responsibility for Sharon. It might be a help if she moved into Stone Cottage with Marcus and me, if Commander Dalgliesh is happy about it. We have the room. And she can give me a hand with Father's books. It's not good for her to have nothing to do. And it's time someone tried to discourage her obsession with Mary Keyte. Last summer she took to laying wild flowers on the centre stone. It's morbid and unhealthy. I'll go up to her now and see if she's calmed down.”

Chandler-Powell said, “By all means have a try. As a teacher you're probably more experienced than the rest of us in dealing with the recalcitrant young. Commander Dalgliesh has assured me that Sharon doesn't require supervision. If she does, it's for the police or the probation service to provide it, not us. I've cancelled my American trip. I have to be back in London by Thursday, and I'll need Marcus with me. I'm sorry if that sounds like desertion, but I have to catch up on some of the NHS patients I should have operated on this week. Obviously I had to cancel all those operations. The security team will be here, and I shall arrange for two of them to sleep in.”

Marcus asked, “And the police? Did Dalgliesh say when they expect to leave?”

“No, and I hadn't the temerity to ask. They've only been here three days, so unless they make an arrest I imagine we'll have to tolerate some police presence for quite a time.”

Flavia said, “You mean
we'll
have to tolerate it. You'll be safely out of it in London. Are the police happy about your leaving?”

Chandler-Powell looked at her coldly. “What legal power do you suppose Commander Dalgliesh has to detain me?”

And then he was gone, leaving the little group with the impression that somehow they had all behaved unreasonably. They looked at one another in an uneasy silence. It was broken by Candace. “Well, I'd better tackle Sharon. And perhaps, Helena, you'd have a private word with George. I know I'm in the cottage and it hardly affects me as it does the rest of you, but I do work here, and I'd rather the security team slept outside the Manor. It's bad enough seeing their caravan parked outside the gate and them wandering round the grounds without having them in the house.”

And then she, too, was gone. Mog, who had seated himself in one of the most impressive chairs, had gazed impassively at Chandler-Powell throughout but had remained silent. Now he heaved himself up and left. The rest of the group waited for Candace's return, but after half an hour, during which Chandler-Powell's injunction not to discuss Sharon inhibited conversation, they dispersed and Helena closed the library door firmly behind them.

8

The three days of the week when no patients were operated on and George Chandler-Powell was in London gave Candace and Lettie time to work on the accounts, deal with any financial problems with the temporary staff and settle the bills for the additional food necessary to feed the influx of non-resident nursing staff, the technicians and anaesthetist. The change in the atmosphere of the Manor between the beginning and end of the week was as dramatic as it was welcome to the two women. Despite the surface calm of operating days, the mere presence of George Chandler-Powell and his team seemed to permeate the whole atmosphere. But the days before he left for London were periods of almost total calm. The Chandler-Powell who was a distinguished and overworked surgeon became Chandler-Powell the country squire, content with a domestic routine which he never criticised or attempted to influence, a man breathing in solitude like reviving air.

But now, on Tuesday morning, the fourth day after the murder, he was still at the Manor, his London list postponed and he himself obviously torn between his responsibility to his St. Angela's patients and the need to support the remaining staff at the Manor. But by Thursday both he and Marcus would have gone. Admittedly they would be back by Sunday morning, but reaction to even a temporary absence was mixed. People already slept behind locked doors, although Candace and Helena had succeeded in dissuading Chandler-Powell from instituting nightly patrols by the police or security team. Most of the residents had convinced themselves that an intruder, probably the owner of the parked car, had killed Miss Gradwyn and it seemed unlikely that he had any interest in another victim. But presumably he still possessed the keys to the west door—a frightening thought. Mr. Chandler-Powell wasn't a guarantee of safety but he was the owner of the Manor, their go-between with the police, a reassuring authoritative presence. On the other hand, he was obviously irked at time wasted and impatient to be getting on with his job. The Manor would be more peaceful without his restless footsteps, the occasional spats of ill humour. The police were still silent about the progress, if any, of the investigation. The news of Miss Gradwyn's death had, of course, broken in the media, but to everyone's relief the reports had been surprisingly short and ambiguous, helped by the competition of a political scandal and a pop star's particularly acrimonious divorce. Lettie wondered whether some influence on the media had been exerted. But the restraint wouldn't last for long, and if an arrest were made, the dam would burst and the polluted waters sweep over them.

And now, with no part-time domestic staff, the patients' section sealed, the telephone frequently on the answerphone and the police presence a daily reminder of that departed presence which was still, in imagination, locked in the silence of death behind that sealed door, it was a comfort to Lettie and, she suspected, to Candace, that there was always work to be done. On Tuesday morning both were at their desks shortly after nine, Lettie sorting through a collection of grocer's and butcher's bills, and Candace at the computer. The telephone was on the table before her and now it rang.

Candace said, “Don't answer it.”

It was too late. Lettie had already lifted the receiver. She handed it over. “It's a man. I didn't catch his name but he sounds agitated. He's asking for you.”

Candace took the receiver, was silent for a minute, then said, “We're busy in the office here and, frankly, we haven't time to chase after Robin Boyton. I know he's our cousin, but that doesn't make us his keepers. How long have you been trying to reach him . . . ? All right, someone will go round to the guest cottage, and if we've got any news we'll tell him to ring you. . . . Yes, I'll ring back if we've no luck. What's your number?”

She reached for a sheet of paper, took down the number, then replaced the receiver and turned to Lettie. “That's Robin's business partner, Jeremy Coxon. Apparently one of his teachers has let him down and he wants Robin back urgently. He phoned late last night but got no reply, so left a message, and he's been repeatedly trying again this morning. Robin's mobile rings, but no answer.”

Lettie said, “Robin may have come here to get away from phone calls and the demands of their business. But then why not turn off his mobile? I suppose someone had better take a look.”

Candace said, “When I left Stone Cottage this morning his car was there and the curtains were drawn. He could be still asleep and has left his mobile where he can't hear it. Dean could run over if he's not busy. He'll be quicker than Mog.”

Lettie got to her feet. “I'll go. I could do with a breath of fresh air.”

“Then you'd better take the spare key. If he's still sleeping off a hangover he might not hear the bell. It's a nuisance that he's still here at all. Dalgliesh can't detain him without cause, and you'd think he'd be only too glad to get back to London, if only for the fun of spreading the gossip.”

Lettie was tidying the papers on which she was working. “You dislike him, don't you? He seems harmless enough but even Helena sighs when she books him in.”

“He's a hanger-on with a grievance. A perfectly legitimate one, probably. His mother got herself pregnant and subsequently married an obvious fortune hunter, to old Grandfather Theodore's disgust. Anyway, she was cast off, more, I suspect, for stupidity and naïvety than for the pregnancy. Robin likes to turn up from time to time to remind us of what he sees as unfair discrimination and frankly we find his persistence boring. We do hand out the odd subvention from time to time. He takes the money, but I think he finds it humiliating. Actually, it's humiliating for both parties.”

This disclosure of family affairs surprised Lettie. It was so unlike the reticent Candace she knew—or, she told herself, thought she knew.

She took her jacket from the back of her chair. Departing, she said, “Wouldn't he be less of a nuisance if you gave him a moderate sum from your father's estate and put an end to his opportunism? That is, if you feel he has a genuine grievance.”

“It did cross my mind. The difficulty with Robin is he'd always want more. I doubt whether we'd agree on what constitutes a moderate sum.”

Lettie left, closing the door behind her, and Candace turned her attention again to the computer and brought up the figures for November. The west wing was again in profit, but only just. The fees paid covered the general upkeep of the house and gardens as well as the surgical and medical costs, but the income fluctuated and costs were rising. It was certain that the next month's figures would be disastrous. Chandler-Powell had said nothing, but his face, taut with anxiety and a kind of desperate resolve, told her all. How many patients would care to occupy a room in the west wing with their minds filled with images of death, and—worse—the death of a patient? The clinic, so far from being a money-spinner, was now a financial liability. She gave it less than a month.

Fifteen minutes later Lettie returned. “He's not there. There's no sign of him in the cottage or the garden. I found his mobile on the kitchen table among the remains of what could be his lunch or supper, a plate with congealed tomato sauce and a few strands of spaghetti and a plastic packet which had held two chocolate éclairs. The mobile rang as I was opening the door. It was Jeremy Coxon again. I told him we were looking. The bed looked as if it hasn't been slept in and, as you said, the car's outside so he obviously hasn't driven off. He can't have gone far. He doesn't sound like someone who goes in for long country walks.”

“No, he isn't. I suppose we'd better instigate a general search, but God knows where we'll start. He could be anywhere including, I suppose, comfortably oversleeping in someone else's bed, in which case he's hardly likely to welcome a general search. We could give it another hour or so.”

Lettie said, “Is that wise? It looks as if he's been gone for some time.”

Candace considered. “He's an adult and entitled to go where and with whom he chooses. But it is odd. Jeremy Coxon seemed worried as well as irritated. Perhaps we should at least ensure that he's not here in the Manor or anywhere in the grounds. I suppose it's possible that he's ill or has had an accident, although it seems unlikely. And I'd better check Stone Cottage. I'm not very conscientious about locking the side door, and he may have sneaked in after I left, to see if there's anything there to find. And you're right. If he's not in the cottages or here we'd better tell the police. If there's a serious search, I suppose it will be by the local force. See if you can find Sergeant Benton-Smith or DC Warren. I'll take Sharon with me. She seems to be hanging about doing nothing most of the time.”

Lettie, still standing, thought for a moment, then said, “I don't think we need to involve Sharon. She's been in an odd mood since Commander Dalgliesh sent for her yesterday, sulky and withdrawn some of the time and looking pleased with herself, almost triumphant, at others. And if Robin really is missing, best keep her out of it. If you want to extend the search, I'll come. If he's not here or in either cottage, I don't see where else we can look. Better pass it on to the police.”

Candace took down her jacket from the peg on the door. “You're probably right about Sharon. She wouldn't leave the Manor and come to Stone Cottage and, frankly, it was a relief, not one of my most sensible ideas. But she agreed to help me for a couple of hours a day with Father's books, probably because she wants an excuse to get out of the kitchen. She and the Bostocks have never hit it off. She seemed to enjoy handling the books. I've lent her one or two she seemed interested in.”

Again Lettie was surprised. Lending books to Sharon was a kindness which she hadn't expected from Candace, whose attitude to the girl had been one of grudging tolerance rather than benevolent interest. But Candace was, after all, a teacher. Perhaps this was a resurgence of her pedagogic vocation. And it was surely a natural impulse in any lover of reading to lend a book to a young person who showed an interest in it. She would have done the same herself. Walking beside Candace, she felt a small stab of pity. They worked together amicably, as both of them did with Helena, but they had never been close and were colleagues rather than friends. But she was useful at the Manor. The three days Candace had spent visiting Toronto had proved that. Perhaps it was because Candace and Marcus lived in Stone Cottage that they sometimes seemed emotionally as well as physically distanced from the life of the Manor. She could only imagine what the last two years had been like for an intelligent woman, her job in jeopardy, and now—so it was rumoured—no longer available, her nights and days spent ministering to a domineering and querulous old man, her brother desperate to get away. Well, there should be no difficulty about that now. The clinic could hardly continue after Miss Gradwyn's murder. Only patients with a pathologically morbid fascination with death and horror would book in at the Manor now.

It was a drab and sunless morning. There had been heavy showers during the night and now from the sun-drenched earth there rose a pungent miasma of rotting leaves and sodden grass. Autumn had come early this year, but already its mellow refulgence had faded into the bleak almost odourless breath of the dying year. They walked through the damp mist, which struck cold on Lettie's face and brought with it the first chill touch of unease. Earlier she had entered Rose Cottage without apprehension, half expecting to find Robin Boyton returned, or at least some evidence of where he had gone. Now, as they walked between the winter-scarred rose bushes to the front door, she felt she was being inexorably drawn towards something which was none of her business, which she had no wish to get involved in and which boded ill. The front door was unlocked, as she had found it, but when they entered the kitchen, it seemed to her that the air was now more rancid than the smell of unwashed plates.

Candace approached the table and regarded the debris of the meal with a moue of distaste. She said, “Certainly it looks more like yesterday's lunch or supper than breakfast, but with Robin who can tell? You said you'd checked upstairs?”

“Yes. The bed wasn't properly made, just the bedclothes pulled together, but it didn't look as if he'd slept there last night.”

Candace said, “I suppose we'd better check the whole cottage, and then the garden and next door. Meanwhile I'll get rid of this mess. The place stinks.”

She picked up the soiled plate and moved towards the sink. Lettie's voice seemed as sharp as a command—“No, Candace, no!”—halting Candace in her tracks. She went on: “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout, but hadn't we better leave things as they are? If Robin has had an accident, if something's happened to him, timing might be important.”

Candace returned to the table and replaced the plate. “I suppose you're right, but all this tells us is that he ate a meal, probably lunch or dinner, before setting off.”

They went upstairs. There were only two bedrooms, both a good size and each with a bathroom and shower. The slightly smaller one at the back was obviously unused, the bed made up with clean sheets covered with a patchwork counterpane.

Candace opened the door of the fitted wardrobe, then closed it and said defensively, “God knows why I thought he could be in here, but if we've come to search, we might as well be thorough.”

They moved to the front bedroom. It was simply and comfortably furnished but now looked as if it had been ransacked. A towelling dressing gown was lying on the bed with a crumpled T-shirt and a Terry Pratchett paperback. Two pairs of shoes had been flung into a corner, and the low padded chair was heaped with a jumble of woollen sweaters and trousers. Boyton had at least come prepared for the worst of December weather. The wardrobe door was open to reveal three shirts, a suede jacket and a dark suit. Was the suit, Lettie wondered, brought to be worn when he was at last admitted to see Rhoda Gradwyn?