The Private Patient (30 page)

“And what about his relationship with Rhoda Gradwyn?”

“Ah, that's more difficult. He didn't talk much about her, but he obviously liked having her as a friend. It gave him kudos in his own eyes, which is what matters after all.”

Kate said, “Was it sex?”

“Oh, hardly. I fancy that the lady swam with bigger fish than Robin. And I doubt whether she fancied him. People don't. Too beautiful perhaps, a bit asexual. Rather like making love to a statue. Sex wasn't important to him, but she was. I think she represented a stabilising authority. He did once say that he could talk to her and be told the truth, or what passes for it. I used to wonder if she reminded him of someone who had influenced him that way—a schoolteacher, perhaps. And he lost his mother when he was seven. Some kids never get over that. He could've been looking for a substitute. Psychobabble, I know, but there could be something in it.”

Benton reflected that “maternal” wasn't a word he'd have used of Rhoda Gradwyn, but, then, what did they really know about her? Wasn't that part of the fascination of his job, the unknowingness of other people? He asked, “Did Robin tell you that Miss Gradwyn was having a scar removed and where it was being done?”

“No, and I'm not surprised. I mean I'm not surprised he didn't tell me. She probably asked him to keep it secret. Robin could keep a secret if he thought it was worth his while. All he said was that he was having a few days in the guest cottage at Stoke Cheverell. He never mentioned that Rhoda would be there.”

Kate asked, “What was his mood? Did he seem excited or did you get the impression that this was just a routine visit?”

“Like I said, he was depressed when he got back after the first visit but excited when he set off last Thursday night. I've seldom seen him happier. He said something about having good news for me when he got back but I didn't take that seriously. Robin's good news usually turned out to be bad news or no news at all.”

“Apart from that first call, did he speak to you again from Stoke Cheverell?”

“Yes, he did. He gave me a ring after you'd interviewed him. He said you were pretty rough with him, not particularly considerate to a man grieving for a friend.”

Kate said, “I'm sorry he felt that. He made no formal complaint of his treatment.”

“Would you in his place? Only fools or the very powerful antagonise the police. After all, you didn't exactly set about him with truncheons. Anyway, he did ring me again after you'd interviewed him in the cottage and I told him to come to me and let the police grill him here, where I'd arrange for my solicitor to be present if necessary. It wasn't entirely disinterested. We're busy, and I needed him here. He said he was determined to stay on for the week he'd booked. He talked about not deserting her in death. A bit histrionic, but that was Robin. Of course, he knew more about it by then, and told me that she'd been found dead at seven-thirty on the Saturday morning and that it looked like an inside job. After that, I rang him again several times on his mobile, but couldn't get a reply. I left messages asking him to ring back, but he never did.”

Benton said, “When he first rang, you said he sounded frightened.

Didn't it strike you as odd that he was preparing to stay on with a murderer on the loose?” “Yes, it did. I pressed him and he said he had unfinished business.”

There was a silence. Kate's voice was deliberately incurious.

“Unfinished business? Did he give you any clue what he meant?”

“No, and I didn't ask. As I've said, Robin could be histrionic. Perhaps he thought of lending a hand in the investigation. He'd been reading a detective story which you'll probably find in his room. You'll want to see the room, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Kate, “as soon as we've finished speaking to you. There's one other thing. Where were you between the hours of four-thirty last Friday evening and seven-thirty the next morning?”

Coxon was unworried. “I thought you'd get round to that. I was teaching here from three-thirty until seven-thirty, three couples with gaps in between. I then made myself spaghetti bolognese, watched TV until ten o'clock and went to the pub. Thanks to a benign government which allows us to drink until the early hours, that's what I did. The landlord was serving, and he can confirm that I was there until about one-fifteen. And if you care to tell me when Robin died, I daresay I could produce an equally valid alibi.”

“We don't know yet, Mr. Coxon, exactly when he did die, but it was on Monday, probably between the hours of one o'clock and eight.”

“Look, it seems ludicrous to be supplying an alibi for Robin's death, but I suppose you have to ask. Luckily for me there's no problem. I lunched here at half past one with one of our temporary teachers, Alvin Brent—you met him at the door. At three o'clock I had an afternoon session with two new clients. I can give you their names and addresses and Alvin will confirm the lunch.”

Kate asked, “At what time did the afternoon lesson end?”

“Well, they were supposed to get an hour, but I had no immediate engagements so I let it overrun a bit. It was half past four by the time they left. Then I worked here in the office until six, when I went to the pub—the Leaping Hare, a new gastropub in Napier Road. I met a pal—I can give you his name and address—and was there with him until about eleven when I walked home. I'll have to look in my address book for the addresses and phone numbers, but I'll do that now if you can wait.”

They waited while he went to the desk and, within a few minutes of riffling through his address book, found a piece of paper in his desk drawer, copied the information and handed over the paper. He said, “If you have to check, I'd be glad if you'd make it plain that I'm not a suspect. It's bad enough trying to come to terms with the loss of Robin—it hasn't hit me yet, perhaps because I still can't believe it, but believe me it will—and I don't fancy being seen as his murderer.”

Benton said, “If what you've told us is confirmed, I don't think there'll be any risk of that, sir.”

Nor would there. If the facts were accurate the only time when Jeremy was alone was the hour and a half between the end of his lesson and his arrival at the pub, and that wouldn't have given him time even to get to Stoke Cheverell.

Kate said, “We'd like now to have a look at Mr. Boyton's room. I suppose it hasn't been locked since his death?”

Coxon said, “It couldn't be, there isn't a lock. Anyway, it never occurred to me that it needed to be locked. If you expected that, surely you'd have phoned me. As I keep saying, I haven't been told anything until your arrival today.”

Kate said, “I don't expect it's important. I take it no one's been in the room since his death?”

“No one. Not even me. The place depressed me when he was alive. I can't face it now.”

The room was down the landing at the back. It was large and well proportioned, with two windows looking out over the lawn with its central flowerbed and, beyond it, the canal.

Without entering the room, Coxon said, “I'm sorry it's in such a mess. Robin only moved in two weeks ago and everything he owns has been dumped here except the stuff he gave away to Oxfam or sold at the pub, and I don't suppose there were many takers.”

The room was certainly uninviting. There was a single divan to the left of the door piled high with unwashed clothes. The doors of a mahogany wardrobe stood open, revealing shirts, jackets and trousers crammed on metal hangers. There were half a dozen large square boxes stamped with the name of a removal firm and three bulging black plastic bags on top. In the corner to the right of the door were piles of books and a cardboard carton filled with magazines. Between the two windows, a pedestal desk with drawers and a cupboard on each side held a laptop and an adjustable reading lamp. The room smelled unpleasantly of unwashed clothes.

Coxon said, “The laptop is new, bought by me. Robin was supposed to help with some of the correspondence but he didn't get down to it. I imagine that's the only thing in the room worth anything. He's always been appallingly untidy. We had a bit of a row just before he left for Dorset. I complained that he could at least have got his clothes cleaned before he moved. Of course, now I feel a mean-spirited bastard. I suppose I always shall. It's irrational, but there it is. Anyway, all he possesses, as far as I know, is in this room and as far as I'm concerned you're welcome to rummage through it. He hasn't any relations to object. At least, he did mention a father, but I gather they haven't been in touch since he was a boy. You'll find the two drawers in the desk are locked but I don't have a key.”

Benton said, “I don't see why you should feel guilty. The room is a mess. He could at least have gone to the launderette before he moved in. You were only speaking the truth.”

“But being untidy isn't exactly high moral delinquency. And what the hell did it matter? Not worth shouting about. And I knew what he was like. Some licence is surely due to a friend.”

Benton said, “But we can't watch our words just because a friend might die before we have a chance to put things right.”

Kate thought it was time to move on. Benton seemed inclined to elaborate. Given the chance, he would probably initiate a quasi-philosophical discussion about the relative obligations of friendship and truth. She said, “We've got his key ring. The key to the drawers is probably there. If there's a lot of paper, we may need a bag to carry it away. I'll give you a receipt.”

“You can carry it all away, Inspector. Shove it in a police van. Hire a skip. Burn it. It depresses me profoundly. Give me a call when you're ready to go.”

His voice broke and he sounded close to tears. Without another word he disappeared. Benton walked over to the window and opened it wide. The fresh air flowed in. Benton said, “Is this too much for you, ma'am?”

“No, Benton, leave it open. How on earth can anybody live like this? It looks as if he didn't make the slightest effort to make the room habitable. Let's hope we've got the desk key.”

It wasn't difficult to identify the one they needed. It was by far the smallest of the bunch and it fitted easily into the lock of both drawers. They tackled the left-hand one first, but Kate had to tug it open against a wedge of paper jammed at the back. As she jerked it open, old bills, postcards, an out-of-date diary, some unused Christmas cards and a collection of letters sprang from it and littered the floor. Benton opened the cupboard and that, too, was crammed with bulging files, old theatre programmes, scripts and publicity photographs, a wash bag which, when opened, revealed old stage makeup.

Kate said, “We won't bother to go through all this mess now. Let's see if we get more joy from the other drawer.”

This yielded more easily to her pull. It contained a manila folder and a book. The book was an old paperback,
Untimely Death
by Cyril Hare, and the folder contained only one sheet of paper, with writing on both sides. It was a copy of a will, headed
The Last Will and Testament
of Peregrine Richard Westhall
and dated in letters on the last page:
Witness my hand this seventh day of July, two thousand and five.
With the will was a receipt for five pounds from the Holborn Probate Office. The whole document was handwritten, a black upright hand, strong in places but becoming more shaky in the last paragraph. The first paragraph appointed his son, Marcus St. John Westhall; his daughter, Candace Dorothea Westhall; and his solicitors, Kershaw & Price-Nesbitt, as executors. The second paragraph expressed his wish for a private cremation with no one present other than immediate family, no religious observances and no later memorial service. The third paragraph—the writing here rather larger—stated:
I give and bequeath
all my books to Winchester College. Any which the College does not wish to
have to be sold or otherwise disposed of as my son, Marcus St. John Westhall,
shall decide. I give all else that I possess in money and chattels in equal measure
to my two children, Marcus St. John Westhall and Candace Dorothea
Westhall.

The will was signed and the signature witnessed by Elizabeth Barnes, describing herself as a domestic servant and giving the address as Stone Cottage, Stoke Cheverell, and Grace Holmes, a nurse, of Rosemary Cottage, Stoke Cheverell.

Kate said, “Nothing on the face of it to interest Robin Boyton, but he obviously took the trouble to get this copy. I suppose the book had better be read. How quick a reader are you, Benton?”

“Pretty quick, ma'am. It's not particularly long.”

“Then you'd better start tackling it in the car, and I'll drive. We'll get a bag from Coxon and get this stuff to the Old Police Cottage. I don't suppose there's anything in the other cupboard to interest us, but we better go through it.”

Benton said, “Even if we find that he has more than one friend with a grievance, I can't somehow envisage an enemy going down to Stoke Cheverell to kill him, getting access to the Westhalls' cottage and sticking the body in their freezer. But obviously a copy of the will must mean something, unless he just wanted to confirm that the old man had left him nothing. I wonder why it was handwritten. Obviously Grace Holmes isn't still living in Rosemary Cottage. The place is for sale. But why was Boyton trying to contact her? And what's happened to Elizabeth Barnes? She isn't working for the Westhalls now. The date of the will is interesting though, isn't it?”

Kate said slowly, “Not only the date. Let's get out of this mess. The sooner we get this to AD the better. But we've been told to see Miss Gradwyn's agent. I've a feeling that it shouldn't take long. Remind me who and where she is, Benton.”

“Eliza Melbury, ma'am. Our appointment's for three-fifteen. The office is in Camden.”