The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  ‘Did either or both of you go back to check?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you noticed this on your return, not when you were helping your wife carry up the tea?’

  ‘Just on our return.’

  Sister Holland broke in. ‘I don’t know why you needed to help with the tea, Dean. The tray was hardly heavy. Couldn’t Kimberley have managed on her own? She usually does. It’s not as if there isn’t a lift. And there’s always a dim light on in the west wing.’

  Dean said stoutly, ‘Yes, she could, but I don’t like her moving about the house on her own late at night.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  Dean said miserably, ‘It’s not that. I just don’t like it.’

  Dalgliesh said quietly, ‘Did you know that Mr Chandler-Powell normally bolts that door promptly at eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I knew it. Everyone does. But sometimes it’s a little later if he takes a walk in the garden. I thought if I bolted it he might be out there and not able to get back in.’

  Sister Holland said, ‘Walking in the garden after midnight, in December? Is that likely, Dean?’

  He looked not at her but at Dalgliesh, and said defensively, ‘It wasn’t my job to bolt it, sir. And it was locked. No one could have got in without a key.’

  Dalgliesh turned to Chandler-Powell. ‘And you’re confident that you bolted the door at eleven?’

  ‘I bolted it as usual at eleven and I found it bolted at six thirty this morning.’

  ‘Did anyone here unbolt it for any purpose? You can all see the importance of this. We need to get this cleared up now.’

  No one spoke. The silence lengthened. Dalgliesh said, ‘Did anyone else notice that the door was either bolted or unbolted after eleven?’

  Again a silence, this time finally broken by a low murmur of negatives. Benton noticed that they avoided each other’s eyes.

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Then that will be enough for now. Thank you for your co-operation. I would like to see you all separately, either here or in the incident room in Old Police Cottage.’

  Dalgliesh got to his feet and the rest of the room quietly and in turn also rose. Still no one spoke. They were crossing the hall when Chandler-Powell caught up with them. He said to Dalgliesh, ‘I’d like a quick word now if you can spare the time.’

  Dalgliesh and Kate followed him into the office and the door closed. Benton felt no resentment at an exclusion which had been subtly conveyed but not spoken. He knew there were moments in any investigation when two officers could elicit information and three inhibit it.

  Chandler-Powell wasted no time. While the three of them stood, he said, ‘There’s something I ought to say. Obviously you saw Kimberley’s discomfort when she was asked why she hadn’t woken Flavia Holland. I think it likely that she tried. The door to the suite wasn’t locked and if she or Dean partly opened it they would have heard voices, mine and Flavia’s. I was with her at midnight. I think the Bostocks may have felt some inhibition in telling you this, particularly with the others present.’

  Kate said, ‘But wouldn’t you have heard the door opening?’

  He looked at her calmly. ‘Not necessarily. We were busy talking.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘I’ll confirm that with the Bostocks later. How long were you together?’

  ‘After I finished setting the alarms and bolting the garden door I joined Flavia in her sitting room. I was there until about one o’clock. There were things we needed to discuss, some professional, some personal. Neither has any relevance to Rhoda Gradwyn’s death. During that time neither of us heard or saw anything untoward.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear the lift?’

  ‘We didn’t hear it. Nor would I expect to. As you saw, it’s by the stairs opposite Sister’s sitting room, but it’s modern and comparatively soundless. Sister Holland will, of course, confirm my story and I’ve no doubt that Kimberley, when questioned by someone experienced in extracting information from the vulnerable, will admit to hearing our voices now she knows that I’ve spoken to you. And don’t give me too much credit for telling you what I hope will remain confidential. I’d have to be particularly naïve not to notice that, if Rhoda Gradwyn died at about midnight, Flavia and I have given each other an alibi. I may as well be frank. I’ve no wish to be treated differently from the others. But doctors do not commonly murder their patients and if I had it in mind to destroy this place and my reputation, I’d have done it before not after the operation. I hate having my work wasted.’

  Looking at Chandler-Powell’s face suddenly suffused with an anger and disgust which transformed him, Dalgliesh could believe that those last words, at least, were the truth.

  11

  Dalgliesh walked alone into the garden to telephone Rhoda Gradwyn’s mother. It was a call he dreaded. To commiserate in person, as a local woman police officer had already done, was difficult enough. It was a duty no police officer welcomed, and he had done his share of it, hesitating before raising a hand to knock or ring at the door, a door that was invariably immediately opened, and meeting eyes, puzzled, beseeching, hopeful or anguished, with news that would change a life. Some of his colleagues, he knew, would have left this task to Kate. To convey sympathy to a bereaved parent by telephone struck him as maladroit, but he had always felt that the next of kin should know who was the investigating officer in charge of a murder case and should be kept in touch with the progress as far as the operation made this practicable.

  A man’s voice answered. It sounded both puzzled and apprehensive, as if the phone were some technically advanced instrument from which no good news could ever be expected. Without identifying himself, he said with obvious relief, ‘The police, you said? Hold on, please. I’ll fetch my wife.’

  Dalgliesh again identified himself and expressed his sympathy as gently as possible, knowing that she had already received news which no gentleness could soften. He was met by an initial silence. And then, in a voice as insensate as if he had been conveying an unwelcome invitation to tea, she said, ‘It’s good of you to phone but we do know. The young lady from the local police has been to break the news. She said that someone from the Dorset police had phoned her. She left at ten o’clock. She was very kind. We had a cup of tea together but she didn’t tell me much. Just that Rhoda had been found dead and that it wasn’t a natural death. I still can’t believe it. I mean, who would want to harm Rhoda? I asked what had happened and if the police knew who was responsible, but she said that she wasn’t able to answer questions like that because another force was in charge and that you’d be in touch. She’d only come to break the news. Still, it was kind of her.’

  Dalgliesh asked, ‘Had your daughter any enemies you were aware of, Mrs Brown? Anyone who might have wished her harm?’

  And now he could hear the clear note of resentment. ‘Well she must’ve had, mustn’t she, or she wouldn’t have been murdered. She was in a private clinic. Rhoda didn’t do things on the cheap. So why didn’t they look after her? The clinic must have been very careless, letting a patient get murdered. She had so much to look forward to. Rhoda was very successful. She was always clever, just like her dad.’

  ‘Did she tell you that she was having her scar removed at the Cheverell Manor clinic?’

  ‘She told me she was planning to get rid of the scar but not where she was going or when. She was very private, Rhoda. She was like that as a child, keeping her secrets, not telling anyone what she thought. We didn’t see much of each other after she left home, but she did come to my wedding down here in May and she told me then about getting rid of the scar. Of course she should have had something done about it years ago. She’s had it for over thirty years. It was caused by knocking her face against the kitchen door when she was thirteen.’

  ‘So you can’t tell us very much about her friends, her private life?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I’ve said she was private. I don’t know anything about her friends or her private life. And I don’t know wha
t’s going to happen about the funeral, whether it ought to be in London or here. I don’t know whether there are things that I ought to do. There are usually forms to fill in. People have to be told. I don’t want to bother my husband. He’s very upset about it. He liked Rhoda when they met.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘There will have to be a post mortem, of course, and then the coroner may release the body. Have you some friends who could help and advise you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got friends at the church. I’ll speak to our vicar and perhaps he can help. Perhaps we could have the service down here, only of course she was quite well known in London. And she wasn’t religious so perhaps she wouldn’t want a service. I hope I’m not expected to go to this clinic, wherever it is.’

  ‘It’s in Dorset, Mrs Brown. In Stoke Cheverell.’

  ‘Well, I can’t leave Mr Brown to come to Dorset.’

  ‘There’s really no need unless later you particularly wish to attend the inquest. Why not have a word with your solicitor? I expect that your daughter’s solicitor will be getting in touch with you. We found the name and address in her handbag. I’m sure he’ll be helpful. I’m afraid I shall need to examine her possessions both here and in her London home. I may have to take some away for examination but they will all be carefully looked after and later returned to you. Have I your permission for that?’

  ‘You can take what you like. I’ve never been to her London house. I suppose I’ll have to sooner or later. There may be something valuable there. And there’ll be books. She always had plenty of books. All that reading. She always had her head in a book. What good will they do? They won’t bring her back. Has she had the operation?’

  ‘Yes, yesterday, and I gather it was successful.’

  ‘So all that money wasted for nothing. Poor Rhoda. She hasn’t had much luck for all her success.’

  And now her voice changed and Dalgliesh thought she might be trying to hold back tears. She said, ‘I’ll ring off now. Thank you for phoning. I don’t think I can take in any more now. It’s a shock. Rhoda murdered. It’s the kind of thing you read about or see on television. You don’t expect it to happen to someone you know. And she had so much to look forward to with that scar gone. It doesn’t seem fair.’

  Dalgliesh thought, ‘Someone you know’, not ‘someone you love’. He could hear now that she was crying and the line went dead.

  He paused for a moment, gazing at the receiver before making the next call to Miss Gradwyn’s solicitor. Grief, that universal emotion, had no universal response, was manifested in different ways, some of them bizarre. He remembered his mother’s death, how at the time, wanting to behave well in the face of his father’s sorrow, he had managed to control his tears, even at the funeral. But grief revisited him down the years, briefly remembered scenes, snatches of conversation, a look, her apparently indestructible gardening gloves and, more vivid than all the small lasting regrets which still visited him, himself leaning out of the window of the slowly moving train which was taking him back to school and seeing her figure in the same coat she had worn year after year, carefully not turning back to wave because he had asked her not to.

  He shook himself into the present and picked up the receiver to dial. The call had been answered by a recorded message to say that the office was now closed until Monday at ten o’clock, but that urgent matters would be dealt with by the duty solicitor who could be reached at a given number. This number was answered promptly in a crisp impersonal voice and once Dalgliesh had identified himself and explained that he wished urgently to speak to Mr Newton Macklefield, his private number was given. Dalgliesh had given no explanation but his voice must have carried conviction.

  Not surprisingly on a Saturday, Newton Macklefield was out of London with his family at his country house in Sussex. Their conversation was business-like, punctuated by children’s voices and the barking of dogs. After expressions of shock and personal regret which sounded more formal than heartfelt, Macklefield said, ‘Naturally I’ll do all I can to assist the investigation. You say you’ll be at Sanctuary Court tomorrow morning? You’ve got a key? Yes, of course, she would have had it with her. I’ve none of her private keys in the office. I could come up and join you at ten thirty, if that time is convenient. I’ll call in at the office and bring the will with me, although you’ll probably find a copy in the house. I’m afraid that there’s little more I can do to help. As you’ll know, Commander, a relationship between a solicitor and his client can be close, particularly if the solicitor has acted for the family, perhaps for some generations, and has come to be regarded as a confidant and friend. That wasn’t the case here. Miss Gradwyn’s relationship with me was one of mutual respect and trust and, certainly on my part, of liking. But it was purely professional. I knew the client but not the woman. I take it, by the way, that the next of kin has been informed.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Yes, there’s only her mother. She described her daughter as a very private person. I told her I should want access to her daughter’s house and she had no objection to that or my taking away anything that might be helpful.’

  ‘Nor, as her solicitor, have I. So, I’ll see you at her house at about ten thirty. Extraordinary business! Thank you, Commander, for getting in touch.’

  Replacing the receiver, Dalgliesh reflected that murder, a unique crime for which no reparation is ever possible, imposes its own compulsions as well as its conventions. He doubted whether Macklefield would have interrupted his country weekend for a less sensational crime. As a young officer he too had been touched, even if unwillingly and temporarily, by the power of murder to attract even while it appalled and repelled. He had watched how people involved as innocent bystanders, provided they were unburdened by grief or suspicion, were engrossed by homicide, drawn inexorably to the place where the crime had occurred in fascinated disbelief. The crowd and the media who served them had not yet congregated outside the wrought-iron gates of the Manor. But they would come, and he doubted whether Chandler-Powell’s private security team would be able to do more than inconvenience them.

  12

  The rest of the afternoon was occupied with the individual interviews, most of them taking place in the library. Helena Cressett was the last of the household to be seen and Dalgliesh had given the task to Kate and Benton. He sensed that Miss Cressett expected him to do the questioning and he needed her to know that he headed a team and that both his junior officers were competent. Surprisingly she invited Kate and Benton to join her in her private flat in the east wing. The room into which she led them was obviously her sitting room but in its elegance and richness was hardly the accommodation a housekeeper-administrator would expect to occupy. The furnishings and the placing of the pictures revealed a highly individual taste, and although the room wasn’t exactly cluttered, there was a suggestion of valued objects being brought together more for the satisfaction of the owner than as part of a coherent decorative plan. It was, thought Benton, as if Helena Cressett had colonised part of the Manor for her private domain. Here was none of the dark solidity of Tudor furniture. Apart from the sofa, covered in cream linen and piped with red, which stood at right angles to the fireplace, most of the furniture was Georgian.

  Nearly all the pictures on the panelled walls were family portraits and Miss Cressett’s resemblance to them was unmistakable. None seemed to him particularly fine – perhaps those had been sold separately – but all had a striking individuality and were competently painted, some more than competently. Here a Victorian bishop in his lawn sleeves gazed at the painter with ecclesiastical hauteur belied by a suspicion of unease as if the book on which his palm rested was The Origin of Species. Next to him a seventeenth century Cavalier, hand on sword, posed with unashamed arrogance while, over the mantelpiece, an early Victorian family was grouped in front of the house, the ringletted mother with her younger children gathered about her, the eldest boy mounted on a pony, the father at their side. And always there were the high arched brows above the eyes, the dominant
cheekbones, the full curve of the upper lip.

  Benton said, ‘You’re among your ancestors, Miss Cressett. The resemblance is striking.’

  Neither Dalgliesh nor Kate would have said that; it was maladroit and could be unwise to begin an interview with a personal comment and, although Kate was silent, Benton felt her surprise. But he quickly justified to himself a remark which had been spontaneous by reflecting that it would probably prove useful. They needed to know the woman they were dealing with and, more precisely, her status at the Manor, how far she was in control and how strong her influence on Chandler-Powell and the other residents. Her response to what she might see as a minor impertinence could be revealing.

  Looking him full in the face, she said coolly, ‘The years-heired feature that can/ In curve and voice and eye/ Despise the human span/ Of durance – that is I;/ The eternal thing in Man/ That heeds no call to die. It doesn’t take a professional detective to detect that. Do you enjoy Thomas Hardy, Sergeant?’

  ‘As a poet more than a novelist.’

  ‘I agree. I find depressing his determination to make his characters suffer even when a little common sense on both his part and theirs could avoid it. Tess is one of the most irritating young women in Victorian fiction. Won’t you both sit down?’

  And here was the hostess, recalling duty but unable or unwilling to control the note of condescending reluctance. She indicated the sofa and seated herself in an armchair facing it. Kate and Benton sat.

  Without preliminaries, Kate took over. ‘Mr Chandler-Powell described you as the administrator here. What exactly does the job entail?’

  ‘My job here? It’s difficult to describe. I’m a manager, administrator, housekeeper, secretary and part-time accountant. I suppose general manager covers it all. But Mr Chandler-Powell usually describes me as the administrator when speaking to patients.’