The Private Patient (28 page)

11

They reached the Old Police Cottage just before Candace left the gates of the Manor and from the window Kate could see her stalwart figure pausing to look both ways at the edge of the road, then walking confidently across, the strong shoulders swinging. Dalgliesh greeted her at the door and led her to a seat at the table and, with Kate, sat opposite. Benton took the fourth chair and, notebook in hand, positioned himself to the right of the door. In her country tweeds and brogues, Candace, he thought, had the assurance of a rural vicar's wife visiting a backsliding parishioner. But from his seat he could glimpse the only sign of nervousness, a momentary tightening of the hands clasped in her lap. Whatever she had come to tell them, she had taken her time over it, but he had no doubt that she knew precisely what she was prepared to say and how she would phrase it. Without waiting for Dalgliesh to speak, she began her story.

“I have an explanation for what could have happened, what seems to me possible, even probable. It doesn't reflect well on me but I think you should know of it even if you decide to discount it as fantasy. Robin could have been experimenting with or rehearsing some ludicrous joke and it went disastrously wrong. I need to explain, but it will involve disclosing family affairs which can't in themselves be relevant to Rhoda Gradwyn's murder. I take it that what I tell you will be treated as confidential if you're satisfied that it has no direct bearing on her death.”

Dalgliesh's words were unemphatic—a statement, not a warning—but they were direct. “It will be for me to decide what is relevant and how far family secrets can be protected. I can't give any assurances in advance, you must know that.”

“So in this, as in other matters, we have to trust the police. Forgive me, but that doesn't come easily in an age when newsworthy information is money.”

Dalgliesh said quietly, “My officers do not sell information to newspapers. Miss Westhall, aren't we wasting time? You have a responsibility to assist my investigation by disclosing any information you have which could be relevant. We have no wish to cause unnecessary distress and have enough problems in processing relevant information without wasting time on matters that are not relevant. If you know how Robin Boyton's body got into the freezer, or have any information which could help to answer that question, hadn't we better get on with it?”

If the rebuke stung her she betrayed no sign of it. She said, “Some of it may already be known to you if Robin has spoken to you about his relationship with the family.”

As Dalgliesh didn't reply, she went on. “He is, as he's fond of proclaiming, Marcus's and my first cousin. His mother, Sophie, was our father's only sister. For at least the past two generations the Westhall men have undervalued and occasionally despised their daughters. The birth of a son was a cause for celebration, the birth of a daughter a misfortune. This prejudice isn't totally uncommon even today, but with my father and grandfather it amounted almost to a family obsession. I'm not saying there was any physical neglect or cruelty. There wasn't. But I've no doubt Robin's mother suffered emotional neglect and acquired a weight of inferiority and self-distrust. She wasn't clever or pretty, or indeed particularly likable, and was, not unnaturally, something of a problem from childhood. She left home as soon as she could and had some satisfaction in disobliging her parents by living a fairly rackety life in the hectic world on the fringes of the pop-music scene. She was just twenty-one when she married Keith Boyton, and she could hardly have made a worse choice. I only met him once, but I found him repellent. She was pregnant when they married, but that was hardly an excuse and I'm surprised she went ahead with the pregnancy. Motherhood was a new sensation, I suppose. Keith had a certain superficial charm but I have never met anyone more obviously on the make. He was a designer, or claimed to be, and found work occasionally. In between he did odd jobs to bring in some income, at one time, I believe, selling double glazing by telephone. Nothing lasted. My aunt, who worked as a secretary, was the main wage-earner. Somehow the marriage survived, largely because he depended on her. Maybe she loved him. Anyway, according to Robin, she died of cancer when he was seven, and Keith found himself another woman and emigrated to Australia. No one has heard from him since.”

Dalgliesh asked, “When did Robin Boyton make regular contact with you?”

“When Marcus took the job here with Chandler-Powell, and when we moved Father into Stone Cottage. He started having brief holidays here in the guest cottage, obviously hoping that he could kindle some cousinly interest in Marcus or myself. Frankly, it wasn't there. But I did have a slight conscience about him. I still have. From time to time I'd help him out with small sums, two fifty here, five hundred there, when he asked, claiming desperation. But then I decided that this was unwise. It seemed too like assuming a responsibility which frankly I didn't accept. And then, about a month ago, he got an extraordinary idea into his head. My father's death followed my grandfather's by only thirty-five days. If it had been less than twenty-eight days there would have been a difficulty about the will, which has a clause stating that a beneficiary must outlive the testator by twenty-eight days to inherit. Obviously if my father hadn't benefited from our grandfather's will, there would have been no fortune to pass down to us. Robin obtained a copy of Grandfather's will and conceived the bizarre idea that our father had died some time before the twenty-eight days were up and that Marcus and I together—or one or other of us—had concealed his body in the freezer in Stone Cottage, thawed him out after a couple of weeks or so and then called in old Dr. Stenhouse to write the death certificate. The freezer finally broke down last summer, but at that time, although seldom used, it was working.”

Dalgliesh said, “When did he first put forward this idea to you?”

“During the three days when Rhoda Gradwyn was here for her preliminary visit. He arrived the morning after she did and I think had some idea of seeing her, but she was adamant that she didn't want visitors, and as far as I know he was never admitted to the Manor. She may have been behind the whole idea. I've no doubt the two were in collusion—in fact, he more or less admitted it. Why otherwise did Gradwyn choose the Manor, and why was it so important for Robin to be here with her? The scheme may have been mischief on her part—she could hardly have taken it seriously—but with him it was deadly serious.”

“How did he raise the matter with you?”

“By giving me an old paperback. Cyril Hare's
Untimely Death.
It's a detective story in which the time of death is falsified. He brought it in to me as soon as he arrived, saying he thought I would find it interesting. Actually, I'd read it many years ago and as far as I know it's now out of print. I simply told Robin that I wasn't interested in reading it again and handed it back. I knew then what he was up to.”

Dalgliesh said, “But surely the idea was fantastic, appropriate to an ingenious novel but not to the situation here. Can he possibly have believed there was truth in it?”

“Oh, he believed all right. In fact, there were a number of circumstances which could be said to add credibility to the fantasy. The idea wasn't as ridiculous as it sounds. I don't think we could have kept the deception going for long, but for a few days or a week, maybe two, it would have been perfectly possible. My father was an extremely difficult patient who hated illness, resisted sympathy and was adamant that he wanted no visitors. I looked after him with the help of a retired nurse, who is now living in Canada, and an elderly maid who died just over a year ago. The day after Robin left, I had a phone call from Dr. Stenhouse, the GP who looked after my father. Robin had visited him with some specious excuse and tried to find out how long my father had been dead before the doctor was called in. The doctor was never a patient man and in retirement even less tolerant of fools than he was when in practice, and I can well imagine the response Robin got for his impertinence. Dr. Stenhouse said that he answered no questions about patients when they were alive, nor did he when they were dead. I imagine Robin came away convinced that the old doctor, if not senile when he signed the death certificate, had been either duped or was complicit. He probably assumed that we'd bribed the two helpers—Grace Holmes, the elderly nurse who emigrated to Canada, and the maid, Elizabeth Barnes, who's since died.

“There was, however, one fact he didn't know. On the night before he died, my father asked to see the parish priest, the Reverend Clement Matheson—he's still the parish priest in the village. Of course he came at once, driven by his elder sister Marjorie, who keeps house for him and can be said to personify the church militant. Neither will have forgotten that evening. Father Clement arrived equipped to give the last rites and no doubt to solace a penitent soul. Instead my father found the strength to inveigh for the last time against all religious belief, Christianity in particular, with scathing reference to Father Clement's own brand of churchmanship. This wasn't information that Robin could pick up in the bar of the Cressett Arms. I doubt whether Father Clement or Marjorie have ever spoken of it except to Marcus and myself. It had been an unpleasant and humiliating experience. Happily, both are still alive. But I have a second witness. I paid a short visit to Toronto ten days ago to see Grace Holmes. She was one of the very few people my father would tolerate but was left nothing in his will and now that probate has been granted, I wanted to give her a lump sum to compensate for that last terrible year. She gave me a letter which I have passed to my solicitor stating that she was with my father on the day he died.”

Kate said quietly, “Armed with this information, didn't you immediately confront Robin Boyton and disillusion him?”

“Probably I should have done, but it amused me to keep quiet and let him embroil himself further. If I look at my conduct with as much honesty as is possible when we are trying to justify ourselves, I think I was glad that he had revealed something of his true nature. I'd always felt some guilt that his mother had been so neglected. But now I didn't feel any necessity to pay him anything. By this one attempt at blackmail he had relieved me from any future obligation. I rather looked forward to my moment of triumph, however petty, and to his disappointment.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Did he ever demand money?”

“No, he didn't get to that point. If he had I could have reported him to the police for attempted blackmail, though I doubt I should have gone down that road. But he hinted pretty clearly what he had in mind. He seemed content when I said I would consult my brother and be in touch. I made, of course, no admission.”

Kate asked, “Does your brother know anything of this?”

“Nothing. He's been particularly anxious recently about leaving the job here and going to work in Africa and I saw no reason to burden him with what was essentially nonsense. And, of course, he would have had no sympathy with my plan to bide my time and devise the maximum humiliation for Robin. His is a more admirable character than is mine. I think that Robin was working himself up to a final accusation, possibly a suggestion that I should hand over a specific sum in exchange for his silence. I believe that's why he stayed on here after Rhoda Gradwyn's death. After all, I take it that you couldn't legally detain him unless he was charged, and most people would be only too glad to get away from the scene of a crime. Since her death, he's prowled around Rose Cottage and the village, obviously unsettled and, I think, frightened. But he needed to bring the matter to a head. I don't know why he climbed into the freezer. It could have been to see how feasible it was for my father's body to be placed there. He was, after all, considerably taller than Robin, even when shrunken by his illness. Robin might have had an idea of summoning me to the utility room and then slowly opening the freezer and terrifying me into an admission. That's exactly the kind of dramatic gesture that might appeal.”

Kate said, “If he was frightened, could it be because he feared you personally? It might have occurred to him that you could have killed Miss Gradwyn because of her involvement in the plot and that he, too, might be at risk.”

Candace Westhall turned her eyes to Kate. And now the dislike and contempt were unmistakable. “I don't suppose that even Robin Boyton's fevered imagination could seriously conceive that I would see murder as a rational way out of any dilemma. Still, I suppose it's possible. And now, if you haven't any more questions, I would like to get back to the Manor.”

Dalgliesh said, “Only two. Did you put Robin Boyton into the freezer dead or alive?”

“I did not.”

“Did you kill Robin Boyton?”

“No.”

She hesitated, and for a moment Dalgliesh thought she had something to add. But she got up without speaking and left without another word or a backward glance.

12

By eight o'clock that evening, Dalgliesh had showered, changed and was beginning to decide on his supper when he heard the car. It came up the lane almost silently. The first he knew of it was the lightening of the windows behind the drawn curtains. Opening the front door, he saw a Jaguar being driven onto the opposite verge and the lights switched off. A few seconds later Emma was crossing the road towards him. She was wearing a thick jersey and a sheepskin jerkin, her head bare. As she came in without speaking, instinctively he put his arms round her, but her body was unyielding. She seemed almost unaware of his presence and the cheek which momentarily brushed his was icy cold. He was full of dread. Something appalling had happened, an accident, even a tragedy. She wouldn't otherwise have arrived like this without a warning. When he was on a case Emma never even telephoned, not by his wishes but her own. Never before had she impinged on an investigation. To do so in person could only mean disaster.

He took off her jerkin and led her to a seat by the fire, waiting for her to speak. As she sat silently he went into the kitchen and switched on the electricity under the flask of coffee. It was already hot and it took only a few seconds to pour it into a mug, add the milk and bring it to her. Taking off her gloves, she wrapped her fingers round its warmth.

She said, “I'm sorry I didn't phone. I had to come. I had to see you.”

“Darling, what is it?”

“Annie. She's been attacked and raped. Yesterday evening. She was on her way home from teaching English to two immigrants. It's one of the things she does. She's in hospital, and they think she'll recover. By that I suppose they mean she won't die. I don't see how she can recover, not completely. She's lost a lot of blood and one of the knife wounds pierced a lung. It only just missed her heart. Someone at the hospital said she was lucky. Lucky! What an odd word to use.”

He had nearly asked,
How is Clara?,
but before the words were framed he knew that the question was as ridiculous as it was insensitive. And now she looked at him full in the face for the first time. Her eyes were full of pain. She was in a torment of anger and grief.

“I couldn't help Clara. I was useless to her. I took her in my arms, but mine weren't the arms she wanted. There was only one thing she wanted from me—to get you to take over the case. That's why I'm here. She trusts you. She can talk to you. And she knows you're the best.”

Of course that was why she was here. She didn't come for his comfort or out of need to see him and share her grief. She wanted something from him, and it was something he couldn't give. He sat down opposite her and said gently, “Emma, that isn't possible.”

She put her coffee mug on the hearth, and he could see her hands were shaking. He wanted to reach out and take them but was afraid that she would withdraw. Anything would be better than that.

She said, “I thought that was what you'd say. I tried to explain to Clara that it might be outside the rules, but she doesn't understand, not fully. I'm not sure I do. She knows that the victim here, the dead woman, is more important than Annie. That's what your special squad is all about, isn't it, solving crimes when people are important. But Annie is important to her. To her and to Annie, rape is more awful than death. If you were investigating, she'd know that the man who did this would be caught.”

He said, “Emma, the Squad isn't primarily to do with the importance of the victim. To the police, murder is murder, unique, never put permanently on one side, the investigation never recorded as failure, only as at present unsolved. No murder victim is ever unimportant. No suspect, however powerful, can buy immunity from the enquiry. But there are cases which are best tackled by a small designated team, cases where it's in the interest of justice to get a quick result.”

“Clara doesn't believe in justice, not now. She thinks you could take over if you wanted to, that if you asked you would get your own way, rules or no rules.”

It felt wrong to be sitting so far distanced. He longed to take her in his arms, but that would be too easy a comfort—almost, he felt, an insult to her grief. And what if she drew away, if she made it obvious by a shudder of distaste that he wasn't a comfort but a contribution to her anguish? What did he represent to her now? Death, rape, mutilation and decay? Hadn't his job been ring-fenced with an invisible sign,
Keep
Out
? And this wasn't a problem that could be solved with kisses and murmured reassurance, not for them. It couldn't even be solved by rational discussion, but this was their only way. Hadn't he prided himself, he thought bitterly, that they could always talk? But not now, not about everything.

He asked, “Who is the chief investigating officer? Have you spoken to him?”

“He's Detective Inspector A. L. Howard. I've got a card somewhere. He's spoken to Clara, of course, and he saw Annie in hospital. He said a woman DS needed to ask some questions before Annie went under the anaesthetic, I suppose in case she died. She was too weak to say more than a few words, but apparently they were important.”

He said, “Andy Howard is a good detective with a sound team. This isn't a case which can be solved by anything but conscientious police work, much of it laborious plodding routine. But they'll get there.”

“Clara didn't find him sympathetic, not really. I suppose it was because he wasn't you. And the woman sergeant—Clara almost hit her. She asked whether Annie had recently had sex with a man before she was raped.”

“Emma, that was a question she had to ask. It could mean that they may have DNA, and if they have, that's a huge advantage. But I can't take over another officer's investigation—apart from the fact that I'm in the middle of one myself—and it wouldn't help solve the rape even if I could. At this stage it could even hinder it. I'm sorry I can't go back with you to try to explain to Clara.”

She said sadly, “Oh, I expect she'll understand eventually. All she wants now is someone she can trust, not strangers. I suppose I did know what you'd say, and I should have been able to explain it to her myself. I'm sorry I came. It was a wrong decision.”

She had got to her feet, and, rising, he came towards her. He said, “I can't be sorry for any decision you make which brings you to me.”

And now she was in his arms and shaking with the force of her weeping. The face that was pressed against his was wet with tears. He held her without speaking until she relaxed, then said, “My darling, must you go back tonight? It's a long drive. I can sleep perfectly well in this chair.”

As he had once before, he remembered, at St. Anselm's College, after they had first met. She had been staying next door, but after the murder he had settled himself in an armchair in his sitting room so that she could feel safe in his bed while she tried to sleep. He wondered if she too was remembering.

She said, “I'll drive carefully. We're getting married in five months. I'm not going to risk killing myself before then.”

“Whose is the Jaguar?”

“Giles's. He's in London attending a conference for a week and he rang to make contact. He's getting married and I expect he wanted to tell me about it. When he heard about Annie and that I was driving here he lent me his car. Clara needs hers to visit Annie and mine is in Cambridge.”

Dalgliesh was shaken by the sudden spurt of jealousy, as powerful as it was unwelcome. She had finished with Giles before they had met. He had proposed and been rejected. That was all Dalgliesh knew. He had never felt threatened by anything in her past, nor had she in his. So why this sudden primitive response to what after all had been a thoughtful and generous gesture? He didn't want to think of Giles as either of these things, and the man now had his Chair at some northern university, safely out of the way. So why the hell couldn't he stay there? Dalgliesh found himself thinking bitterly that Emma might point out that she was comfortable driving a Jag; after all, it wouldn't be for the first time. She drove his.

Mastering himself, he said, “There's some soup and some ham, so I'll make us sandwiches. Stay by the fire and I'll bring it in.”

And even now, in the depth of distress, weary and heavy-eyed, she was beautiful. That the thought in its egotism, its stirring of sex, should come so quickly to mind appalled him. She had come to him for comfort, and the only comfort she craved he couldn't give. And wasn't this onrush of anger and frustration at his powerlessness only the atavistic male arrogance which said that the world is a dangerous and cruel place but now you have my love and I can shield you? Wasn't his reticence about his job less a response to her own reluctance to be involved than a wish to shield her from the worst realities of a violent world? But even her world, academic and seeming so cloistered, had its brutalities. The hallowed peace of Trinity Great Court was an illusion. He thought,
We are violently propelled into the world with blood and pain
and few of us will die with the dignity for which we hope and for which some
pray. Whether we choose to think of life as an impending happiness broken
only by inevitable grief and disappointments, or as the proverbial vale of tears
with brief interludes of joy, the pain will come, except to those few whose deadened
sensibilities made them apparently impervious to either joy or sorrow.

They ate together almost in silence. The ham was tender, and he heaped it generously on the bread. He drank the soup almost without tasting it, only vaguely knowing that it was good. She did manage to eat and within twenty minutes was ready to leave.

Helping her on with the jerkin, he said, “You will phone me when you get back to Putney? I won't be a nuisance but I do need to know you got home safely. And I'll have a word with DI Howard.”

She said, “I'll ring.”

He kissed her on the cheek almost formally and went across to see her into the car, then stood watching until it disappeared down the lane.

Returning to the fireplace, he stood looking down at the flames. Ought he to have insisted on her staying the night? But “insist” wasn't a word that would ever be used between them. And stay where? There was his bedroom, but would she want to sleep there, distanced by the complicated emotions and unexpressed inhibitions which kept them apart when he was on a case? Would she wish to confront Kate and Benton tomorrow morning, if not tonight? But he was worried about her safety. She was a good driver and would rest if she became tired, but the thought of her in a lay-by, even with the precaution of a locked car, gave him no comfort.

He stirred himself. There were things to do before he summoned Kate and Benton. Firstly, he must get in touch with Detective Inspector Andy Howard and get the latest report. Howard was an experienced and reasonable officer. He wouldn't see the call either as an unwelcome distraction or, worse, as an attempt to influence. Then he must phone or write to Clara with a message for Annie. But to telephone was almost as inappropriate as to fax or e-mail. Some things had to be conveyed by a handwritten letter and by words which cost something in time and careful thought, indelible phrases which might have some hope of giving comfort. But there was only one thing Clara wanted from him and that he couldn't give. To phone now, for her to hear the bad news from him, would be intolerable for them both. The letter had better wait until tomorrow, and in the meantime Emma would be back with Clara.

It took some time to reach DI Andy Howard. Howard said, “Annie Townsend is doing well, but it will be a long road, poor girl. I met Dr. Lavenham at the hospital, and she told me you had an interest in the case. I meant to get in touch earlier to have a word.”

Dalgliesh said, “Speaking to me had to have a low priority. It still has. I won't keep you now, but I was anxious to have a more up-to-date report than Emma could give me.”

“Well, there is good news, if anything about this can be good. We've got his DNA. With luck, he'll be on the database. I can't believe that he hasn't got form. It was a violent attack, but the rape wasn't completed. Probably too drunk. She fought back with extraordinary courage for so slight a woman. I'll ring you as soon as I have anything to report. And, of course, we're keeping closely in touch with Miss Beckwith. He's most probably local. He certainly knew where to drag her. We've already started a house-to-house. The sooner the better, DNA or no DNA. Things going well with you, sir?”

“Not particularly. No clear line at present.” He didn't mention the new death.

Howard said, “Well, it's early days, sir.”

Dalgliesh agreed that it was early days and, after thanking Howard, rang off.

He carried the plates and mugs into the kitchen, washed and dried them, then rang Kate. “Have you had a meal?”

“Yes, sir, we've just finished.”

“Then come over now, please.”