The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  The call came on his dedicated mobile at ten fifty-five while he was adding to his selection of organic vegetables, and was Kate’s voice. ‘We have a case. The apparent murder of a patient at a private clinic in Stoke Cheverell in Dorset. It’s in a manor house.’

  ‘That makes a change, ma’am. But why the Squad? Why not Dorset Constabulary?’

  Her voice sounded impatient. This was no time for chattering. ‘Heaven knows. They’re being coy about it as usual, but I gather it’s something to do with Number Ten. I’ll give you all the information I have when we’re on the way. I suggest we take your car and Commander Dalgliesh wants us to arrive at the Manor at the same time. He’ll have his Jag. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I’ll leave my car in your garage and he’ll join us there. I take it you’ve got your murder kit? And bring your camera. It could be useful. Where are you now?’

  ‘At Notting Hill, ma’am. With luck I’ll be back at the flat in under ten minutes.’

  ‘Good. You may as well pick up some sandwiches or wraps and something to drink. AD won’t want us to arrive hungry.’

  As Kate rang off, Benton reflected that he already knew that. He had only two calls to make, one to his parents and one to Beverley. His mother took the call and, wasting no time, quickly expressed her regrets and rang off. Beverley didn’t answer her mobile, which he felt was just as well. He left a simple message that their plans would have to be cancelled and said he would call later.

  It took him only minutes to buy the sandwiches and drink. Running from the market to Holland Park Avenue, he saw that a number 94 bus was just slowing at the stop and, sprinting, managed to leap in before the doors closed. Already his plans for the day were forgotten and he was looking ahead to the more demanding task of enhancing his reputation with the Squad. It worried him, but only slightly, that this exhilaration, the sense that the immediate future was full of excitement and challenge, depended on an unknown body stiffening in a Dorset manor house, on grief, anguish and fear. He admitted, and not without a small spasm of conscience, that it would be disappointing to arrive in Dorset to find that, after all, this was only a commonplace murder and that the perpetrator had already been identified and arrested. It had never yet happened and he knew that it was unlikely. The Squad was never called in to a commonplace murder.

  Standing at the bus doors he waited impatiently for them to open, then sprinted to his block of flats. Stabbing the lift button, he stood breathless listening for its descent. It was then that he realised, without in the least caring, that he had left his bag of carefully selected organic vegetables in the bus.

  4

  It was one thirty, six hours after the finding of the body, but for Dean and Kimberley Bostock, waiting in the kitchen until someone arrived to tell them what to do, the morning seemed unending. This was their domain, the place where they were at home, in control, never harassed, knowing that they were valued even if the words weren’t often spoken, confident in their professional skills and, above all, together. But now they drifted from table to stove like disorganised amateurs abandoned in an unfamiliar and intimidating environment. Like automata they had slipped the cords of their cooks’ aprons over their heads and put on their white caps, but little work had been done. At half past nine, at Miss Cressett’s request, Dean had taken croissants, jam and marmalade and a large jug of coffee into the library but, removing the plates later, found that little had been eaten, although the coffee jug was empty and the demand for it seemed unending. Sister Holland regularly appeared to bear off another thermos. Dean was beginning to feel that he was imprisoned in his own kitchen.

  They could sense that the house was locked in an eerie silence. Even the wind had dropped, its dying gusts like despairing sighs. Kim was ashamed of her faint. Mr Chandler-Powell had been very kind to her and had said that she wasn’t to return to work until she felt ready, but she was glad to be back where she belonged with Dean in the kitchen. Mr Chandler-Powell had been grey faced and looked much older and somehow different. He reminded Kim of how her dad had looked when he came home after his operation, as if strength and something more vital than strength, something that made him uniquely her dad, had drained out of him. Everyone had been kind to her but she felt that the sympathy had been carefully voiced as if any words could be dangerous. If a murder had happened at home in her village, how different it would have been. The cries of outrage and horror, the comforting arms round her, the whole street pouring into the house to see, hear and lament, a jumble of voices questioning and speculating. The people at the Manor weren’t like that. Mr Chandler-Powell, Mr Westhall and his sister, and Miss Cressett didn’t show their feelings, at least not in public. They must have feelings; everyone did. Kim knew she cried too easily, but surely they cried sometimes, although it seemed an indecent assumption even to imagine it. Sister Holland’s eyes had been red and swollen. Perhaps she had cried. Was it because she had lost a patient? But didn’t nurses get used to that? She wished she knew what was happening outside the kitchen which, despite its size, had become claustrophobic.

  Dean had told her that Mr Chandler-Powell had spoken to everyone in the library. He had said that the patients’ wing and the lift were out of bounds but that people should carry on normally as far as possible. The police would want to question everyone but in the meantime he stressed that they should avoid talking among themselves about Miss Gradwyn’s death. But Kim knew that they would be discussing it, not in groups but in pairs: the Westhalls, who had returned to Stone Cottage, Miss Cressett with Mrs Frensham and surely Mr Chandler-Powell with Sister. Mog would probably keep silent – he could if it paid him – and she couldn’t imagine anyone discussing Miss Gradwyn with Sharon. She and Dean certainly wouldn’t if she came into the kitchen. But she and Dean had talked, quietly as if that could somehow make their words innocuous. And now Kim couldn’t resist again going over the same ground.

  ‘Suppose the police ask me exactly what happened when I took up Mrs Skeffington’s tea, every single detail, must I tell them?’

  Dean was trying to be patient. She heard it in his voice. ‘Kim, we’ve settled that. Yes, you tell them. If they ask a direct question we have to answer and tell the truth otherwise we’re in trouble. But what happened isn’t important. You didn’t see anyone or talk to anyone. It can’t have anything to do with Miss Gradwyn’s death. You could make mischief and for no good reason. Keep quiet until they ask.’

  ‘And you’re sure about the door?’

  ‘I’m sure. But if the police start badgering me about it I’ll probably end up being sure of nothing.’

  Kim said, ‘It’s very quiet, isn’t it? I thought someone would be here by now. Ought we to be here by ourselves?’

  Dean said, ‘We were told to get on with our work. The kitchen is where we work. And this is where you belong, here with me.’

  He came over soundlessly and took her into his arms. They stood immobile for a minute, unspeaking, and she was comforted. Releasing her, he said, ‘Anyway, we ought to think about lunch. It’s already half past one. So far all anyone has been able to face is coffee and biscuits. They’ll want something hot sooner or later and they won’t fancy the casserole.’

  The beef casserole had been made the previous day and was ready to reheat in the bottom oven of the Aga. Enough had been made for the whole household and for Mog when he came in from working in the garden. But now even the rich smell of it would make her sick.

  Dean said, ‘No, they won’t want anything heavy. I could make pea soup. We’ve got that stock from the hambone, and then perhaps sandwiches, eggs, cheese…’ His voice faded.

  Kim said, ‘But I don’t think Mog has gone for the fresh bread. Mr Chandler-Powell said that we ought to stay here.’

  ‘We could make some soda bread, that’s always popular.’

  ‘What about the police, will we have to feed them? You said you didn’t feed Chief Inspector Whetstone when he arrived, except for coffee, but this new lot are coming from London. They’ll
have had a long drive.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Mr Chandler-Powell.’

  And then Kim remembered. How odd, she thought, that she had forgotten. She said, ‘It was today we were going to tell him about the baby, after Mrs Skeffington’s operation. Now they know and they don’t seem worried. Miss Cressett says there’s plenty of room in the Manor for a baby.’

  Kim thought she detected a small note of impatience, even of subdued satisfaction, in Dean’s voice. He said, ‘It’s no good deciding whether we want to stay on here with the baby when we don’t even know if the clinic can continue. Who’d want to come here now? Would you want to sleep in that room?’

  Glancing at him, Kim saw his features momentarily harden as if in resolution. And then the door opened and they turned to face Mr Chandler-Powell.

  5

  Glancing at his watch, Chandler-Powell saw that it was one forty. Perhaps he should now have a word with the Bostocks who were closeted in the kitchen. He needed to check again that Kimberley had fully recovered and that they were giving thought to food. No one had yet eaten. The six hours since the murder was discovered had seemed an eternity in which small unrelated events were recalled with clarity in a waste of unrecorded time. Sealing the murder room as Chief Inspector Whetstone had instructed; finding the widest roll of Sellotape in the recesses of his desk; forgetting to seal the end so that it sprang back and the roll became unusable; Helena taking it from him and coping; at her suggestion, initialling the tape to ensure that it wasn’t tampered with. He had no awareness of the growing of the light, of utter darkness becoming a grey winter morning, of the occasional gusts of the dying wind like erratic gunfire. Despite the blips of memory, the confusion of time, he was confident that he had done what was expected of him – coping with Mrs Skeffington’s hysteria, examining Kimberley Bostock and giving directions for her care, trying to keep everyone calm during the interminable wait until the local police arrived.

  The smell of hot coffee pervaded the house, seeming to intensify. Why had he ever found it comforting? He wondered if he would ever again smell it without a pang of remembered failure. Familiar faces had become those of strangers, carved faces like those of patients enduring unexpected pain, funereal faces seeming as unnaturally solemn as mourners composing themselves appropriately for the obsequies of someone little known, unregretted, but taking on in death a terrifying power. Flavia’s bloated face, the swollen eyelids, eyes dulled by tears. Yet he hadn’t actually seen her cry and the only words he could remember her speaking had struck him as irritatingly irrelevant.

  ‘You did a beautiful job. Now she’ll never see it, and she’d waited so long. All that time and skill wasted, just wasted.’

  They had both lost a patient, the only death which had occurred in his clinic at the Manor. Were her tears the tears of frustration or failure? They could hardly, surely, be of grief.

  And now he would have to deal with the Bostocks. He must face their demands for reassurance, comfort, decisions on matters which would seem irrelevant but which wouldn’t be irrelevant to them. He had said all that was necessary at that meeting at eight fifteen in the library. There at least he had taken responsibility. He had set out to be brief and he had been brief. His voice had been calm, authoritative. They would all have learnt by now of the tragedy that would touch their lives. Miss Rhoda Gradwyn had been found dead in her room at seven thirty this morning. There was some evidence that the death had been unnatural. Well, he thought, that was one way of putting it. The police had been phoned and a chief inspector from the local constabulary was on his way. Naturally they would all co-operate with police enquiries. In the meantime they should stay calm, refrain from gossip or speculation and get on with their work. What work exactly, he wondered. Mrs Skeffington’s operation had been cancelled. The anaesthetist and theatre staff had been telephoned; Flavia and Helena between them had coped with that. And after this brief speech, avoiding questions, he had left the library. But hadn’t that exit, all eyes on him, been a histrionic gesture, a deliberate avoidance of responsibility? He remembered standing for a moment outside the door, like a stranger in the house wondering where to go.

  And now, seated at the kitchen table with Dean and Kimberley, he was expected to concern himself with pea soup and soda bread. From the moment of entering a room which he seldom had need to visit he felt as inept as an intruder. What reassurance, what comfort were they expecting from him? The two faces confronting his were those of frightened children, seeking the answer to a question that had nothing to do with bread or soup.

  Controlling his irritation at their obvious need for firm instructions, he was about to say, ‘Just do what you think best’, when he heard Helena’s footsteps. She had come up quietly behind him. And now he heard her voice.

  ‘Pea soup is an excellent idea, hot, nourishing and comforting. As you’ve got the stock it could be quickly made. Let’s keep the food simple, shall we? We don’t want it to look like a parish harvest festival. Serve the soda bread warm and with plenty of butter. A cheese board would be a good addition to the cold meats, people should have some protein, but don’t overdo it. Make it look appetising as you always do. No one will be hungry but they’ll need to eat. And it would be a good idea to put out Kimberley’s excellent home-made lemon curd and apricot jam with the bread. People in shock often crave something sweet. And keep the coffee coming, plenty of coffee.’

  Kimberley said, ‘Will we need to feed the police, Miss Cressett?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. No doubt we’ll learn that in time. As you know, Chief Inspector Whetstone won’t be undertaking this investigation now. They’re sending a special squad from the Metropolitan Police. I imagine they’ll have fed on the road. You’re being splendid, both of you, as you always are. Life is likely to be disturbed for all of us for some time but I know you’ll cope. If you have any questions, come to me.’

  Reassured, the Bostocks murmured their thanks. Chandler-Powell and Helena moved out together. He said, trying but without success to inject his voice with warmth, ‘Thank you. I should have left the Bostocks to you. And what on earth is soda bread?’

  ‘Made with wholemeal flour and without yeast. You’ve eaten it here often enough. You like it.’

  ‘At least we’ve sorted out the next meal. I seem to have spent the morning on trivialities. I wish to God this Commander Dalgliesh and his squad would arrive and get on with the investigation. We’ve got a distinguished forensic pathologist lounging around until Dalgliesh deigns to arrive. Why can’t she get on with her job? And Whetstone’s got something better to do than kicking his heels here.’

  Helena said, ‘And why the Met? The Dorset police are perfectly competent so why can’t Chief Inspector Whetstone take on the investigation? It makes me wonder whether there might not be something secret and important about Rhoda Gradwyn, something we don’t know.’

  ‘There’s always been something we don’t know about Rhoda Gradwyn.’

  They had passed into the front hall. There was the firm closing of car doors, the sound of voices.

  Helena said, ‘You best get to the front door. It sounds as if the squad from the Met has arrived.’

  6

  It was a good day for a drive into the country, a day on which Dalgliesh would usually take his time exploring byways and parking from time to time to enjoy gazing at the thrusting trunks of the great trees stripped for winter, the rising boughs and the dark intricacies of the high twigs patterned against a cloudless sky. Autumn had been prolonged but now he drove under the dazzling white ball of a winter sun, its frayed rim smudging a blue as clear as on a summer day. Its light would soon fade but, now, under its strong brightness, the fields, low hills and clusters of trees were sharp edged and shadowless.

  Once free of the traffic of London, they made good time and two and a half hours later they were in east Dorset. Driving into a lay-by, they stopped briefly to eat their picnic lunch and Dalgliesh consulted his map. Fifteen minutes later the
y came to a crossroads directing them to Stoke Cheverell and about a mile past the village a signpost pointing to Cheverell Manor. They drew up in front of two wrought-iron gates and saw beyond them an avenue of beech trees. Inside the gates an elderly man wrapped in a long overcoat was sitting in what looked like a kitchen chair reading a newspaper. He folded it carefully, taking his time, then advanced to open the high gates. Dalgliesh wondered whether to get out to help him, but the gates swung open easily enough and he drove through, Kate and Benton following. The old man closed the gates behind them, then came up to the car.

  He said, ‘Miss Cressett don’t like cars littering the drive. You’ll ’ave to go round the back of the east wing.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘We’ll do that, but it can wait.’

  The three of them pulled their murder bags out of the cars. Even the urgency of the moment, the knowledge that a group of people was awaiting him in various stages of anxiety or apprehension, didn’t deter Dalgliesh from pausing for a few seconds to look at the house. He knew that it was regarded as one of the loveliest Tudor manor houses in England and now it was before him in its perfection of form, its confident reconciliation of grace and strength; a house built for certainties, for birth, death and rites of passage, by men who knew what they believed and what they were doing. A house grounded in history, enduring. There was no grass or garden and no statuary in front of the Manor. It presented itself unadorned, its dignity needing no embellishment. He was seeing it at its best. The white morning glare of wintry sunlight had softened, burnishing the trunks of the beech trees and bathing the stones of the manor in a silvery glow, so that for a moment in the stillness it seemed to quiver and become as insubstantial as a vision. The daylight would soon fade; it was the month of the winter solstice. Dusk would fall and night would follow quickly. He and the team would be investigating a deed of darkness in the blackness of midwinter. For someone who loved the light, this imposed a disadvantage which was as much psychological as practical.