by P. D. James
The words were a dismissal. It was then that the telephone on the bedside table rang. The bell was strident and unexpected, the insistent peal seeming a macabre invasion of the privacy of the dead. For a few seconds no one moved except Dr Glenister, who went calmly over to her Gladstone bag as if she were stone deaf.
Dalgliesh picked up the receiver. It was Whetstone’s voice. ‘The photographer has arrived and the two SOCOs are on their way, sir. If I could just hand over to one of your team I’ll be on my way.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘Thank you. I’ll be down.’
He had seen all he needed to at the bedside. He wasn’t sorry to be spared Dr Glenister’s examination of the body. He said, ‘The photographer has arrived. I can send him up if that’s convenient for you.’
Dr Glenister said, ‘I shan’t need more than another ten minutes. Then yes, send him up. I’ll phone for the mortuary van as soon as he’s done. No doubt the people here will be glad to see the body leave. And then we can have a word before I go.’
Kate had been silent throughout. As they walked down the stairs, Dalgliesh said to Benton, ‘Cope with the photographer and SOCOs will you, Benton. They can get started after the body has been removed. We’ll take prints later but I’m not hopeful of getting anything significant. Probably any one of the staff here could legitimately have entered the room at some time or other. Kate, will you come with me to the general office. Chandler-Powell should have the name of Rhoda Gradwyn’s next of kin, possibly also her solicitor. Someone will have to break the news and that will probably be best done by the local police, whoever they are. And we need to know a great deal more about this place, the layout, what staff Chandler-Powell has and when they’re here. Whoever throttled her could have been using surgical gloves. Most people know that you can get prints from the inside of latex gloves so they’ll probably have been destroyed. And the SOCOs need to pay attention to the lift. And now, Kate, we’ll see what Mr Chandler-Powell has to say to us.’
7
In the office Chandler-Powell was seated at the desk with two maps spread out before him, one of the house in relation to the village, and a plan of the Manor. He got up as they entered and moved round the desk. Together they bent over the plans.
He said, ‘The patients’ wing, which you’ve just visited, is here on the west, together with Sister Holland’s bedroom and sitting room. The centre part of the house comprises the entrance hall, the great hall, the library and the dining room, and a flat for the cook and his wife, Dean and Kimberley Bostock, next to the kitchen which overlooks the knot garden. The domestic helper, Sharon Bateman, has a bed-sitting room above their floor. My rooms and the flat occupied by Miss Cressett are in the east wing, as is Mrs Frensham’s sitting room and bedroom, and two guest rooms, now unoccupied. I’ve made a list of the non-resident staff. Apart from the staff you’ve met, I employ an anaesthetist and additional nursing staff for the theatre. Some come in by bus early on operating mornings, others drive. None stay here overnight. A part-time nurse, Ruth Frazer, shared responsibility with Sister Holland until nine thirty when she went off duty.’
Dalgliesh asked, ‘The elderly man who opened the gate for us, is he here full time?’
‘That’s Tom Mogworthy. I inherited him after I bought the Manor. He’d worked as gardener here for thirty years. He comes from an old Dorset family and regards himself as an expert on the history, traditions and folklore of the county, the bloodier the better. Actually his father moved to London’s East End before Mog was born and he was thirty before he returned to what he sees as his roots. In some ways he’s more of a cockney than a countryman. As far as I know he’s displayed no murderous tendencies and if one discounts headless horsemen, witches’ curses and the ghostly armies of marching Royalists, he’s truthful and reliable. He lives with his sister in the village. Marcus Westhall and his sister occupy Stone Cottage, which is part of the Manor estate.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘And Rhoda Gradwyn. How did she come to be a patient?’
‘I first saw her in Harley Street on the 21st of November. She wasn’t referred by her GP as is general, but I had a word with him. She came for the removal of a deep scar on her left cheek. I saw her once at St Angela’s Hospital where she underwent tests, and briefly when she arrived on Thursday afternoon. She was also here on the 27th of November for a preliminary visit and stayed for two nights, but we didn’t meet on that occasion. I’d never met her before she came to Harley Street and have no idea why she chose the Manor. I assumed she had checked on the reputation of cosmetic surgeons and, given a choice of London or Dorset, chose the Manor because she wanted privacy. I know nothing about her except her reputation as a journalist and, of course, her medical history. At our first interview I found her very calm, very straightforward, very clear about what she wanted. One thing was interesting. I asked her why she had waited so long to get rid of the disfigurement and why now. She replied, “Because I no longer have need of it.”’
There was a silence, then Dalgliesh said, ‘I have to ask you this. Have you any idea who is responsible for Miss Gradwyn’s death? If you have suspicions or if there is anything I should know, please tell me now.’
‘So you’re assuming that this is what you no doubt call an inside job?’
‘I’m assuming nothing. But Rhoda Gradwyn was your patient, killed in your house.’
‘But not by one of my staff. I don’t employ homicidal maniacs.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘I doubt very much whether this is the work of a maniac, nor am I assuming that a member of your staff was responsible.’ He went on, ‘Would Miss Gradwyn have been physically capable of leaving her room and taking the lift to the ground floor to unlock the door of the west wing?’
Chandler-Powell said, ‘It would be perfectly possible after she had fully regained consciousness, but as she was constantly monitored while she was in the recovery room and initially visited every half-hour after she was wheeled back to her suite at four thirty, the only possibility would have been after ten o’clock when she had been settled for the night. Then in my view she would have been physically capable of leaving her suite, although there would, of course, have been a possibility that someone would have seen her. And she would have needed a set of keys. She couldn’t have taken a set from the key cupboard in the office without setting off the alarm. This map of the Manor shows how the system works. The front door, the great hall, library, dining room and office are all protected but not the west wing where we rely on bolts and keys. I am responsible at night for setting the alarm, Miss Cressett when I’m not here. I bolt the west door at eleven unless I know someone is out. Last night I bolted it at eleven as usual.’
‘Was Miss Gradwyn given a set of keys to the west door when she arrived for her preliminary visit?’
‘Certainly. All patients are. Miss Gradwyn inadvertently took her keys with her when she left. It does happen. She returned them with apologies within two days.’
‘And on this visit?’
‘She arrived on Thursday after dark and said she had no wish to go into the garden. In the normal course of events she would have been given the keys this morning.’
‘And you keep a check on them?’
‘A reasonable check. There are six suites for patients and six numbered keys with two spares. I can’t vouch for every set. Patients, particularly long-stay patients, have freedom to come and go. I’m not running a psychiatric hospital. The west door is the one they use. And, of course, all members of the household have keys to the front and west doors. These are all accounted for, as are the patients’ keys. They’re in the key cupboard.’
The keys were in a small mahogany cupboard fitted to the wall beside the fireplace. Dalgliesh checked that all six numbered sets were there with two spares.
Chandler-Powell didn’t question what possible reason Rhoda Gradwyn could have had for arranging an assignation when postoperative, nor the many objections to any theory based on this unlikely hypothesis, and nor did Dalgliesh pursue the
matter. But it had been important to ask the question.
Chandler-Powell said, ‘From what Dr Glenister said at the scene and what I myself observed, no doubt you will be interested in the surgical gloves we keep here. The ones for use while operating are kept in the surgical supplies room in the operating suite, which is kept locked. Latex gloves are also used by nursing and household staff when necessary and this supply is in the housemaid’s cupboard on the ground floor next to the kitchen. The gloves are bought by the box and one box is open, but none of the gloves, either there or in the operating suite, are checked. They’re disposable items used as necessary and thrown away.’
Kate thought, So anyone at the Manor would know that there were gloves in the housemaid’s cupboard. But no outsider would unless told in advance. There was no evidence at present that surgical gloves had been used, but they would be the obvious choice for anyone in the know.
Chandler-Powell began folding the map and the plan of the Manor. He said, ‘I have Miss Gradwyn’s personal file here. There is information which you may need and which I’ve already given to Chief Inspector Whetstone, the name and address of her mother whom she gave as next of kin and of her solicitor. And there’s one other patient who spent the night here who I think may be helpful, Mrs Laura Skeffington. At her request I fitted her in for a minor procedure today, although I’m running down the clinic for the long Christmas break. She was in the room next to Miss Gradwyn and claims she saw lights in the grounds during the night. Not unnaturally she’s anxious to leave, so it would be helpful if you or one of your team could see her first. She has already returned her keys.’
Dalgliesh was tempted to say that this information could well have been given earlier. He said, ‘Where is Mrs Skeffington now?’
‘In the library with Mrs Frensham. I thought it wise not to leave Mrs Skeffington alone. She’s frightened and shocked, that’s to be expected. Obviously she couldn’t stay in her room. And I thought you wouldn’t want anyone on the guest landing, so I put the corridor and lift out of bounds as soon as I was called to the body. Later, on Chief Inspector Whetstone’s telephoned instructions, I sealed the room. Mrs Frensham has helped Mrs Skeffington to pack and she has her suitcases with her ready to leave. It can’t be too soon for her – or indeed for us.’
Kate thought, So, he took care to preserve the scene of crime as far as possible, even before he rang the local police. Thoughtful of him. Or is he demonstrating his willingness to co-operate? Either way, it was sensible to keep the landing and lift sacrosanct, but hardly crucial. People – patients and staff – must use them daily. If this is an inside job we shan’t get much help from prints.
The group passed into the great hall. Dalgliesh said, ‘I should like to see everyone together, that is all those who had any contact with Miss Gradwyn from the time she arrived and who were in the house yesterday from four thirty when she was taken back to her room, including Mr Mogworthy. There will be individual interviews later in the Old Police Cottage. I shall try to interrupt people’s routine as little as possible but some disruption is inevitable.’
Chandler-Powell said, ‘You’ll need a reasonably large room. When Mrs Skeffington has been interviewed and has left, the library will be free, if that will be convenient. The library can also be made available to you and your officers for any individual interviews.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘Thank you. That will be convenient for both parties. But first I need to see Mrs Skeffington.’
As they left the office, Chandler-Powell said, ‘I’m arranging for a team of private security men to ensure that we don’t get bothered by the media or a crowd of rubber-necking locals. You have no objection to that, I presume.’
‘None as long as they stay outside the gate and don’t interfere with my investigation. It will be for me to decide whether or not they do.’
Chandler-Powell made no reply. Outside the door Benton joined them and they made their way to the library and Mrs Skeffington.
8
Passing through the great hall, Kate was again jolted into a vivid impression of light, space and colour, the leaping flames of the wood fire, the chandelier which transformed the dimness of the winter afternoon, the muted but clear colour of the tapestry, gilt frames, richly painted robes, and high above the dark beams of the soaring roof. Like the rest of the Manor, it seemed a place to be visited in wonder, never actually lived in. She could never be happy in such a house, imposing the obligations of the past, a publicly borne burden of responsibility, and thought with satisfaction of that light-filled, sparsely furnished flat high above the Thames. The door to the library, concealed in the oak linen-fold, was on the right-hand wall close to the fireplace. Kate doubted whether she would have noticed it if it hadn’t been opened by Chandler-Powell.
In contrast to the great hall, the room they entered struck her as surprisingly small, comfortable and unpretentious, a book-lined sanctum guarding its silence as it did the shelves of leather-backed books so closely aligned in height that they looked as if none of them had ever been taken down. As always she assessed the room with a quick surreptitious glance. She had never forgotten a rebuke of AD’s to a detective sergeant when she had first entered the Squad. ‘We’re here by consent but we’re not welcome. It’s still their home. Don’t gawp at their belongings, Simon, as if you’re assessing them for a car-boot sale.’ The shelves, which lined all the walls except the one with the three tall windows, were in a lighter wood than the hall, the carvings simpler and more elegant. Perhaps the library was a later addition. Above the shelves were ranged marble busts, dehumanised by their sightless eyes into mere icons. No doubt AD and Benton would know who they were, would know, too, the approximate date of the wood carving, would feel at home here. She thrust the thought out of her mind. Surely by now she had disciplined a tinge of intellectual inferiority which she knew was as unnecessary as it was tedious. No one she had ever worked with on the Squad had made her feel less intelligent than she knew herself to be, and after their case on Combe Island she thought she had put behind her for ever this demeaning half-paranoia.
Mrs Skeffington was sitting in a high-backed chair before the fire. She didn’t rise but settled herself more elegantly, the thin legs held side by side. Her face was a pale oval, the skin taut over high cheekbones, the full mouth glossy with scarlet lipstick. Kate thought that if this unlined perfection was the result of Mr Chandler-Powell’s expertise, he had served her well. But her neck, darker, creped and ringed with the creases of age, and the hands with their purple veins, were not those of a young woman. The hair, glossy black, rose from a peak at the forehead and fell in straight waves to her shoulders. Her hands were busy with it, twisting it and pushing it back behind her ears. Mrs Frensham, who had been sitting opposite, got up and stood, hands folded, while Chandler-Powell made the introductions. Kate watched with cynical amusement the expected reaction as Mrs Skeffington’s eyes fixed on Benton, widened into a fleeting but intense look compounded of surprise, interest and calculation. But it was to Chandler-Powell that she spoke, her voice as resentful as a querulous child.
‘I thought you’d never arrive. I’ve been sitting here for hours waiting for someone to come.’
‘But you weren’t left alone at any time, were you? I arranged that you shouldn’t be.’
‘It was as bad as being alone. Just the one person. Sister, who didn’t stay for long, wouldn’t talk about what happened. I suppose she was told not to. Nor did Miss Cressett when she took over. And now Mrs Frensham is saying nothing. It’s like being in a morgue or under supervision. The Rolls is outside. I saw it arrive from the window. Robert, our chauffeur, will need to get back, and I can’t stay here. It’s nothing to do with me. I want to go home.’
Then, recovering herself with surprising suddenness, she turned to Dalgliesh and held out her hand. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Commander. Stuart said that you would. He told me not to worry, he’d get the best.’
There was a silence. Mrs Skeffington looked m
omentarily disconcerted and turned her eyes to George Chandler-Powell. So that’s why we’re here, thought Kate, why the request for the Squad had come from Number Ten. Without turning her head, she couldn’t resist a glance at Dalgliesh. No one was better than her chief in concealing anger, but it was there for her to read in the momentary flush across the forehead, the coldness of his eyes, the face briefly hardening into a mask, the almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles. She told herself that Emma had never seen that look. There were still areas of Dalgliesh’s life which she, Kate, shared which were closed to the woman he loved, and always would be. Emma knew the poet and the lover but not the detective, not the police officer. His job and hers were prohibited territory to anyone who had not taken the oath, been invested with their dangerous authority. It was she who was the comrade-inarms, not the woman who had his heart. You couldn’t understand the job of policing if you hadn’t done it. She had taught herself not to feel jealousy, to try to rejoice in his triumph, but she couldn’t help relishing from time to time this small ungenerous consolation.
Mrs Frensham murmured a goodbye and left, and Dalgliesh seated himself in the chair she had vacated. He said, ‘I hope we won’t have to detain you too long, Mrs Skeffington, but there is information I need to have from you. Can you tell us exactly what has happened to you since you arrived here yesterday afternoon.’
‘You mean from the time I actually got here?’ Dalgliesh didn’t reply. Mrs Skeffington said, ‘But that’s ridiculous. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing to tell. Nothing happened, well nothing out of the ordinary, not until last night, and I suppose I could have been mistaken. I came to have an operation set for tomorrow – I mean today. I just happened to be here. I don’t suppose I’ll ever come back. It’s all been a terrible waste of time.’
Her voice trailed off. Dalgliesh said, ‘If we could take it from the time you arrived. Did you drive from London?’