The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  Finally, they moved to the top storey and entered a room which ran the length of the house with windows to both east and west giving a panorama of the City. Only here did Dalgliesh begin to feel strongly that he was in mental touch with the owner. In this room she had lived, worked, rested, watched television, listened to music, needing no one and nothing that was not within those four walls. One was almost completely covered with an elegantly carved bookcase with adjustable shelves. He saw that it had been important to her, as it was to him, that books should neatly fit the height of the shelves. Her mahogany desk was to the left of the bookcase and looked Edwardian. It was practical rather than decorative with drawers on each side, the right ones locked. Above was a shelf holding a rack of box files. On the opposite side of the room was a comfortable sofa with cushions, an easy chair facing the television with a small footstool, and to the right of the black Victorian grate, a high-backed armchair. The stereo equipment was modern but unobtrusive. To the left of the window there was a small refrigerator with a tray on top holding an electric percolator, a coffee grinder and a single mug. Here, with a tap in the bathroom one storey below, she could make herself a drink without having to go down three flights to the kitchen. Not an easy house to live in, but it was one in which he too could have felt at home. He and Kate moved about the room without speaking. He saw that the east-facing window gave access to a small wrought-iron balcony with iron steps leading upwards to the roof. He opened the window to the cold freshness of the morning and climbed up. Kate didn’t follow.

  His own flat, high above the Thames at Queenhithe, was within walking distance and he turned his eyes towards the river. Even if he had time or needed to go there, he knew he wouldn’t find Emma. Although she had a key she never visited the flat when she was in London unless he was there. It was, he knew, part of her unspoken and careful distancing of herself from his job, a wish that amounted almost to an obsession not to invade his privacy, a privacy which she respected because she understood and shared it. A lover was not an acquisition or a trophy to be possessed. There was always some part of the personality which remained inviolate. When they first fell in love she would fall asleep at night in his arms, and he would stir in the small hours, reaching for her but knowing she was no longer there. It was to the guest room that he took her early morning tea. This happened less often now. At first the separation had worried him. Inhibited from asking her, partly because he feared to know the answer, he had arrived at his own conclusions. Because he didn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t speak openly about the reality of his job, she needed to separate the lover from the detective. They could talk about her Cambridge job and frequently did, sometimes happily arguing, because they shared a passion for literature. His offered no common ground. She wasn’t a fool or over-sensitive, she recognised the importance of his work, but he knew that it still lay between them like unexplored scrubland dangerously mined.

  He had been on the roof for less than a minute. From this high and private place Rhoda Gradwyn would have watched the dawn touching the City spires and towers and painting them with light. Now, climbing down, he joined Kate.

  He said, ‘We’d better get started on the files.’

  They seated themselves side by side at the desk. All the boxes were neatly labelled. The one named Sanctuary Court contained her copy of the complicated lease – now, he saw, with sixty-seven years outstanding – correspondence with her solicitor, details and quotations relating to redecoration and maintenance. Her agent and solicitor both had named files. In another, under Finance, were her bank statements and regular reports from her private bankers on the state of her investments. Looking through them, Dalgliesh was surprised how well she was doing. She was worth nearly two million pounds, the portfolio clearly balanced between equities and government securities.

  Kate said, ‘You would expect to see these reports in one of the locked drawers. She didn’t seem worried that an intruder might find out exactly what she was worth, probably because she thought the house secure. Or perhaps she didn’t greatly care. She didn’t live like a rich woman.’

  ‘We can hope to learn who is going to benefit from this largesse when Newton Macklefield gets here with the will.’

  They turned their attention to the rank of files containing copies of all her press and magazine articles. Each box, labelled with the years covered, contained the articles in date order, some in plastic covers. They took a file each and settled down to work.

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Note anything she wrote that relates, however indirectly, to Cheverell Manor or any of the people there.’

  For almost an hour they worked in silence, then Kate slid a bunch of press cuttings across the desk. She said, ‘This is interesting, sir. It’s a long article in the Paternoster Review about plagiarism, published in the spring number in 2002. It seems to have attracted notice. There’s a number of newspaper cuttings attached, including a report of an inquest and another of a burial with a photograph.’ She passed it across. ‘One of the people at the grave-side looks very like Miss Westhall.’

  Dalgliesh took a magnifying glass from his murder bag and studied the picture. The woman was hatless and standing a little apart from the group of mourners. Only her head was visible and the face was partly obscured but Dalgliesh, after a minute’s scrutiny, had little trouble with the identification. He handed the magnifying glass to Kate and said, ‘Yes, it’s Candace Westhall.’

  He turned his attention to the article. He was a fast reader and it was easy to get the gist. The article was intelligent, well written and meticulously researched and he read it with genuine interest and growing respect. It dealt with cases of plagiarism dispassionately and he thought fairly, some from the distant past, others more recent, some notorious, many new to him. Rhoda Gradwyn was interesting about apparently unconscious copying of phrases and ideas and the occasional curious coincidences in literature when a strong idea enters simultaneously into two minds as if its time has come, and examined the subtle ways in which the greatest writers had influenced succeeding generations, as had Bach and Beethoven in music and the major painters of the world on those who followed. But the main contemporary case covered was undoubtedly one of blatant plagiarism, which Gradwyn claimed she had by chance discovered. The case was fascinating because, on the face of it, the filching by a talented young writer of obvious originality had been unnecessary. A young female novelist still at university, Annabel Skelton, had produced a first novel, widely praised and shortlisted for a major British literary prize, in which some phrases and paragraphs of dialogue and powerful descriptions were taken word for word from a work of fiction published in 1927 by a long-forgotten woman writer of whom Dalgliesh had never heard. The case was unanswerable, not least because of the quality of Gradwyn’s prose and the fairness of the article. It had appeared when the tabloids were short of news and journalists had made the most of the scandal. There had been vociferous demands that Annabel Skelton’s novel should be removed from the shortlist. The result had been tragedy: three days after the article appeared the girl had killed herself. If Candace Westhall had been intimate with the dead girl – lover, friend, teacher, admirer – here was a motive which for some people might be strong enough for murder.

  It was then that the telephone rang. Benton was speaking, and Dalgliesh switched his mobile to speakerphone so that Kate could hear. Carefully controlling his excitement, Benton said, ‘We’ve traced the car, sir. It’s a Ford Focus, W341 UDG.’

  ‘That was quick, Sergeant. Congratulations.’

  ‘Undeserved, I’m afraid, sir. We struck lucky. The Shepherds’ grandson arrived late on Friday night to spend a weekend with them. He was away all yesterday visiting a girlfriend so we didn’t see him until this morning. He was behind the car on his motorbike for some miles and saw it draw in to park at the stones. This was at about eleven thirty-five on Friday. There was only one person in the car and the driver switched off the lights when he parked. I asked him why he noticed the registration and he sa
id it was because 341 is a brilliant number.’

  ‘I’m glad it caught his interest. Brilliant in what way? Did he explain the fascination?’

  ‘Apparently it’s a mathematical term, sir: 341 is described as a brilliant number because it has two prime factors, 11 and 31. Multiply them and you get 341. Numbers with two prime factors of equal length are known as brilliant numbers and are used in cryptography. Apparently it’s also the sum of the squares of the divisors of 16, but I think he was more impressed by the two prime factors. He had no trouble with udg. It stands in his mind for U Done Good – seems appropriate, sir.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘The maths means nothing to me, but we must hope he’s right. I suppose we can find someone to confirm it.’

  ‘I don’t think we need bother, sir. He’s just got a first in Mathematics at Oxford. He said he can never get stuck behind another vehicle without mentally playing about with the registration number.’

  ‘And the car owner?’

  ‘A bit surprising on the face of it. It’s a clergyman. The Reverend Michael Curtis. Lives in Droughton Cross. St John’s Church Vicarage, 2 Balaclava Gardens. It’s a suburb of Droughton.’

  The Midlands industrial city could be reached in little over two hours on the motorway. Dalgliesh said, ‘Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll go on to Droughton Cross as soon as we’ve finished here. The driver may have nothing to do with the murder but we need to know why that car was parked by the stones and what, if anything, he saw. Is there anything else, Sergeant?’

  ‘One find by the SOCOs, sir, before they left. It’s more odd than significant, I’d say. It’s a bundle of eight old postcards, all of foreign views and all dated 1993. They’ve been cut in two with the address on the right-hand side missing, so there’s no way of knowing who the recipient was, but they read as if written to a child. They were wrapped tightly in silver paper inside a plastic bag and buried by one of the Cheverell Stones. The SOCO concerned was pretty sharp eyed and he saw some evidence that the grass had been disturbed, although not recently. It’s difficult to say what connection they could have with Miss Gradwyn’s death. We know someone was at the stones with a light that night, but if they were looking for the cards they didn’t find them.’

  ‘Have you asked anyone about the ownership?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It seemed most likely that they belonged to Sharon Bateman, so I asked her to come to the Old Police Cottage. She admitted they were hers and said they’d been sent to her by her father after he’d left home. She’s an odd girl, sir. When I first laid the cards out she went so white that DC Warren and I thought she was going to faint. I made her sit down, but I think it was anger, sir. I could see she wanted to snatch them from the table but was managing to control herself. After that she was perfectly calm. She said they were the most precious things she had and that she had buried them near the stone when she first came to the Manor because that was a very special place and they would be safe there. I was worried about her for a moment, sir, so I said I’d need to show them to you but that we’d take great care of them and I could see no reason why she couldn’t have them back. I’m not sure I did right, sir. It might have been better to wait until you were back and let Inspector Miskin speak to her.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Possibly, but I shouldn’t worry about it, if you’re satisfied that she’s happier now. Keep a careful eye on her. We’ll discuss it tonight. Has Dr Glenister’s report on the PM arrived?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. She rang to say we should get it by the evening unless she needs a toxicology report.’

  ‘It’s unlikely to surprise us. Is that all, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I don’t think there’s anything else to report. I’m seeing Robin Boyton in half an hour.’

  ‘Right. Find out, if you can, whether he has any expectations from Miss Gradwyn’s will. You’re having an eventful day. Well done. There’s an interesting development here but we’ll discuss that later. I’ll ring you from Droughton Cross.’

  The call was over. Kate said, ‘Poor girl. If she’s speaking the truth I can see why the cards are important to her. But why cut off the address, and why bother to hide them? They can’t be of value to anyone else and if she did go to the stones on Friday night to check on them or retrieve them, why did she need to, and why late at night? But Benton said that the package was undisturbed. It looks, sir, as if the cards are nothing to do with the murder.’

  Events were moving fast. Before Dalgliesh could reply the doorbell rang. Kate said, ‘That’ll be Mr Macklefield,’ and went down to let him in.

  There was a clatter of feet on the wooden stairs but no voices. Newton Macklefield came in first, evinced no curiosity about the room and, unsmiling, held out his hand. He said, ‘I hope I’m not inconveniently early. The traffic on a Sunday morning is light.’

  He was younger than Dalgliesh had expected from his voice on the telephone, probably no more than early forties, and was conventionally good looking – tall, fair haired and clear skinned. He brought with him the confidence of assured metropolitan success which was so in contrast to his corduroy trousers, checked open-necked shirt and well-worn tweed jacket, that the clothes, appropriate for a weekend in the country, had a contrived air of fancy dress. His features were regular, the mouth well shaped and firm, the eyes wary, a face, Dalgliesh thought, disciplined to reveal only appropriate emotions. The appropriate one now was of regret and shock, gravely but not emotionally expressed and, to Dalgliesh’s ears, not without a note of displeasure. An eminent City firm of solicitors did not expect to lose a client in so notorious a manner.

  He refused the chair which Kate had pulled out from the desk without looking at it, but used it to hold his briefcase. Opening it, he said, ‘I’ve brought a copy of the will. I doubt if there is anything in its provisions to help your enquiry but it is, of course, right that you should have it.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘I expect my colleague has introduced herself. Detective Inspector Kate Miskin.’

  ‘Yes. We met at the door.’

  Kate received a handshake so brief that their fingers barely touched. No one sat down.

  Macklefield said, ‘Miss Gradwyn’s death will distress and horrify all the partners in the firm. As I explained when we spoke, I knew her as a client, not as a friend, but she was much respected and will be greatly missed. Her bank and my firm are joint executors of the will, so we shall take responsibility eventually for the funeral arrangements.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘I think that her mother, now Mrs Brown, will find that a relief. I’ve already spoken to her. She seemed anxious to dissociate herself as far as possible from the aftermath of her daughter’s death, including the inquest. It seems not to have been a close relationship and there may be family matters which she doesn’t want to disclose or even think about.’

  Macklefield said, ‘Well, her daughter was pretty good at disclosing other people’s secrets. Still, the family’s non-involvement probably suits you better than being landed with a tearful publicity-avid mother milking the tragedy for all it’s worth and demanding a progress report on the investigation. I’ll probably have more problems with her than you. Anyway, whatever her relationship with her daughter, she’ll get the money. The amount will probably surprise her. Of course you’ll have seen the bank statements and the portfolio.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘And it all goes to the mother?’

  ‘All but twenty thousand pounds of it. That goes to a Robin Boyton, whose relationship with the deceased is unknown as far as I’m concerned. I remember when Miss Gradwyn came to discuss the will with me. She showed a singular lack of interest in disposing of her capital. People usually mention a charity or two, their old university or school. None of that. It was as if with her death she wanted her private life to remain anonymous. I’ll phone Mrs Brown on Monday and arrange a meeting. Obviously we’ll help in any way we can. No doubt you’ll keep us in touch, but I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you. Have you been able to make progress with your investi
gation?’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘As much as has been possible in the one day since her death. I shall know the date of the inquest on Tuesday. At this stage it’s likely to be adjourned.’

  ‘We may send someone. A formality, but it’s as well to be there if there’s going to be publicity as, inevitably, there will be once the news breaks.’

  Taking the will, Dalgliesh thanked him. It was obvious that Macklefield was ready to go. Closing the briefcase, he said, ‘Forgive me if I leave now, unless there’s anything else you need. I promised my wife I would be back in time for lunch. My son has brought some school friends for the weekend. A houseful of Etonians and four dogs can be a riotous mixture to keep in hand.’

  He shook hands with Dalgliesh and Kate preceded him down the stairs. Returning, she said, ‘He’d hardly be likely to mention his son from Bogside Comprehensive,’ and then regretted the comment. Dalgliesh had responded to Macklefield’s remark with a wry, briefly contemptuous smile, but this momentary revelation of an unattractive quirk of character hadn’t irritated him. It would have amused but not irritated Benton.

  Taking out the bunch of keys, Dalgliesh said, ‘And now for the drawers. But first I feel the need for coffee. Perhaps we should have offered some to Macklefield but I wasn’t anxious to prolong the visit. Mrs Brown said that we could take what we wanted from the house, so she won’t grudge milk and coffee. That’s if there is milk in the fridge.’

  There wasn’t. Kate said, ‘It’s not surprising, sir. The fridge is empty. A carton of milk, even unopened, could have been out of date by the time she returned.’

  She took the percolator down one flight to add water. Returning with a toothbrush holder which she rinsed to use as a second mug, she felt a moment of disquiet as if this small act, which hardly ranked as a violation of Miss Gradwyn’s privacy, was an impertinence. Rhoda Gradwyn had been particular about her coffee, and on the tray with the coffee grinder was a tin of beans. Kate, still burdened with an irrational guilt that they should be taking from the dead, switched on the grinder. The noise was incredibly loud and seemed interminable. Later, when the percolator had stopped dripping, she filled the two mugs and carried them over to the desk.