The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  At the Manor no one pretended to mourn Rhoda Gradwyn. Her death was a shock made more terrible by mystery and fear, but the routine of the Manor went on. Dean continued to cook his excellent meals, although a certain simplicity in the menus suggested that he was paying a perhaps unconscious tribute to death. Kim continued to serve them, although appetite and frank enjoyment seemed a gross insensitivity, inhibiting conversation. Only the coming and going of the police and the presence of the cars of the security team and the caravan in which they ate and slept parked outside the main entrance were an ever-constant reminder that nothing was normal. There had been a spurt of interest and half-shameful hope when Sharon was called for by Inspector Miskin and taken for questioning at the Old Police Cottage. She had returned to say briefly that Commander Dalgliesh was preparing for her to leave the Manor and a friend would be calling for her in three days. In the meantime she didn’t intend to do any more work. As far as she was concerned the job was over and they knew where they could shove it. She was tired and upset and couldn’t fucking well wait to get away from the fucking Manor. Now she was going to her room. Sharon had never been heard to utter an obscenity and the word was as shocking as if it had come from Lettie’s mouth.

  Commander Dalgliesh had then been closeted with George Chandler-Powell for half an hour and after he left George had summoned them to the library. They had gathered silently with a shared anticipation that something of significance was about to be told. Sharon had not been arrested, so much was obvious, but there might have been developments and even unwelcome news was preferable to this continuing uncertainty. For all of them, and sometimes they confided as much, life was on hold. Even the simplest decisions – which clothes to put on in the morning, what orders to give Dean and Kimberley – required an effort of will. Chandler-Powell did not keep them waiting but it seemed to Lettie that he was unusually ill at ease. Entering the library he seemed uncertain whether to stand or sit, but after a moment’s hesitation, positioned himself beside the fire. He must know himself to be a suspect, as were they all, but now, with their eyes fixed expectantly on him, he seemed more a surrogate of Commander Dalgliesh, a role which he neither wanted nor felt comfortable with.

  He said, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt what you’re doing but Commander Dalgliesh has asked me to speak to you and it seemed sensible to get you together to hear what he had to say. As you know, Sharon will be leaving us in a few days’ time. There was an incident in her past which makes her progress and her welfare a matter for the probation service and it’s thought best that she should leave the Manor. I understand that Sharon will be co-operating with the arrangements made for her. That’s all I have been told and it’s all anyone has a right to know. I must ask you all not to discuss Sharon among yourselves or to speak to her about her past or her future, neither of which is our concern.’

  Marcus asked, ‘Does this mean that Sharon is no longer regarded as a suspect, if she ever was?’

  ‘Presumably.’

  Flavia’s face was flushed, her voice uncertain. ‘Could we know precisely what her status here is? She’s told us that she doesn’t intend to do any more work. I take it that, as the Manor seems to be regarded as a crime scene, we can’t call in any of the village cleaners. With the Manor empty of patients there’s not a lot of work, but someone has to do it.’

  Dean said, ‘Kim and I could help. But what about her food? Usually she eats with us in the kitchen. Suppose she stays upstairs? Is Kim expected to carry up trays and wait on her?’ His voice made it plain that this would not be acceptable.

  Helena glanced at Chandler-Powell. It was obvious his patience was wearing thin. She said, ‘Of course not. Sharon knows the time of the meals. If she’s hungry she’ll appear. It will only be for a day or two. If there’s any trouble, tell me and I’ll speak to Commander Dalgliesh. Meanwhile we carry on as normally as possible.’

  Candace spoke for the first time. ‘As I was one of those who interviewed her I suppose I ought to take some responsibility for Sharon. It might be a help if she moved into Stone Cottage with Marcus and me, if Commander Dalgliesh is happy about it. We have the room. And she can give me a hand with Father’s books. It’s not good for her to have nothing to do. And it’s time someone tried to discourage her obsession with Mary Keyte. Last summer she took to laying wild flowers on the centre stone. It’s morbid and unhealthy. I’ll go up to her now and see if she’s calmed down.’

  Chandler-Powell said, ‘By all means have a try. As a teacher you’re probably more experienced than the rest of us in dealing with the recalcitrant young. Commander Dalgliesh has assured me that Sharon doesn’t require supervision. If she does, it’s for the police or the probation service to provide it, not us. I’ve cancelled my American trip. I have to be back in London by Thursday and I’ll need Marcus with me. I’m sorry if that sounds like desertion but I have to catch up on some of the NHS patients I should have operated on this week. Obviously I had to cancel all those operations. The security team will be here and I shall arrange for two of them to sleep in.’

  Marcus asked, ‘And the police? Did Dalgliesh say when they expect to leave?’

  ‘No, and I hadn’t the temerity to ask. They’ve only been here three days so unless they make an arrest I imagine we’ll have to tolerate some police presence for quite a time.’

  Flavia said, ‘You mean we’ll have to tolerate it. You’ll be safely out of it in London. Are the police happy about your leaving?’

  Chandler-Powell looked at her coldly. ‘What legal power do you suppose Commander Dalgliesh has to detain me?’

  And then he was gone, leaving the little group with the impression that somehow they had all behaved unreasonably. They looked at each other in an uneasy silence. It was broken by Candace. ‘Well, I’d better tackle Sharon. And perhaps, Helena, you’d have a private word with George. I know I’m in the cottage and it hardly affects me as it does the rest of you, but I do work here and I’d rather the security team slept outside the Manor. It’s bad enough seeing their caravan parked outside the gate and them wandering round the grounds without having them in the house.’

  And then she, too, was gone. Mog, who had seated himself in one of the most impressive chairs, had gazed impassively at Chandler-Powell throughout but had remained silent. Now he heaved himself up and left. The rest of the group waited for Candace’s return, but after half an hour during which Chandler-Powell’s injunction not to discuss Sharon inhibited conversation, they dispersed and Helena closed the library door firmly behind them.

  8

  The three days of the week when no patients were operated on and George Chandler-Powell was in London gave Candace and Lettie time to work on the accounts, deal with any financial problems with the temporary staff and settle the bills for the additional food necessary to feed the influx of non-resident nursing staff, the technicians and anaesthetist. The change in the atmosphere of the Manor between the beginning and end of the week was as dramatic as it was welcome to the two women. Despite the surface calm of operating days, the mere presence of George Chandler-Powell and his team seemed to permeate the whole atmosphere. But the days before he left for London were periods of almost total calm. The Chandler-Powell who was a distinguished and overworked surgeon became Chandler-Powell the country squire, content with a domestic routine which he never criticised or attempted to influence, a man breathing in solitude like reviving air.

  But now, on Tuesday morning, the fourth day after the murder, he was still at the Manor, his London list postponed and he himself obviously torn between his responsibility to his St Angela’s patients and the need to support the remaining staff at the Manor. But by Thursday both he and Marcus would have gone. Admittedly they would be back by Sunday morning, but reaction to even a temporary absence was mixed. People already slept behind locked doors, although Candace and Helena had succeeded in dissuading Chandler-Powell from instituting nightly patrols by the police or security team. Most of the residents had convinced themselves that an
intruder, probably the owner of the parked car, had killed Miss Gradwyn and it seemed unlikely that he had any interest in another victim. But presumably he still possessed the keys to the west door – a frightening thought. Mr Chandler-Powell wasn’t a guarantee of safety but he was the owner of the Manor, their go-between with the police, a reassuring authoritative presence. On the other hand, he was obviously irked at time wasted and impatient to be getting on with his job. The Manor would be more peaceful without his restless footsteps, the occasional spats of ill humour. The police were still silent about the progress, if any, of the investigation. The news of Miss Gradwyn’s death had, of course, broken in the media, but to everyone’s relief the reports had been surprisingly short and ambiguous, helped by the competition of a political scandal and a pop star’s particularly acrimonious divorce. Lettie wondered whether some influence on the media had been exerted. But the restraint wouldn’t last for long and, if an arrest were made, the dam would burst and the polluted waters sweep over them.

  And now, with no part-time domestic staff, the patients’ section sealed, the telephone frequently on the answerphone and the police presence a daily reminder of that departed presence which was still, in imagination, locked in the silence of death behind that sealed door, it was a comfort to Lettie and, she suspected, to Candace, that there was always work to be done. On Tuesday morning both were at their desks shortly after nine, Lettie sorting through a collection of grocer’s and butcher’s bills, and Candace at the computer. The telephone was on the table before her and now it rang.

  Candace said, ‘Don’t answer it.’

  It was too late. Lettie had already lifted the receiver. She handed it over. ‘It’s a man. I didn’t catch his name but he sounds agitated. He’s asking for you.’

  Candace took the receiver, was silent for a minute, then said, ‘We’re busy in the office here and, frankly, we haven’t time to chase after Robin Boyton. I know he’s our cousin, but that doesn’t make us his keepers. How long have you been trying to reach him…? All right, someone will go round to the guest cottage and if we’ve got any news we’ll tell him to ring you… Yes, I’ll ring back if we’ve no luck. What’s your number?’

  She reached for a sheet of paper, took down the number then replaced the receiver and turned to Lettie. ‘That’s Robin’s business partner, Jeremy Coxon. Apparently one of his teachers has let him down and he wants Robin back urgently. He phoned late last night but got no reply so left a message, and he’s been repeatedly trying again this morning. Robin’s mobile rings, but no answer.’

  Lettie said, ‘Robin may have come here to get away from phone calls and the demands of their business. But then why not turn off his mobile? I suppose someone had better take a look.’

  Candace said, ‘When I left Stone Cottage this morning his car was there and the curtains were drawn. He could be still asleep and has left his mobile where he can’t hear it. Dean could run over if he’s not busy. He’ll be quicker than Mog.’

  Lettie got to her feet. ‘I’ll go. I could do with a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘Then you’d better take the spare key. If he’s still sleeping off a hangover he might not hear the bell. It’s a nuisance that he’s still here at all. Dalgliesh can’t detain him without cause and you’d think he’d be only too glad to get back to London, if only for the fun of spreading the gossip.’

  Lettie was tidying the papers on which she was working. ‘You dislike him, don’t you? He seems harmless enough but even Helena sighs when she books him in.’

  ‘He’s a hanger-on with a grievance. A perfectly legitimate one, probably. His mother got herself pregnant and subsequently married an obvious fortune hunter, to old grandfather Theodore’s disgust. Anyway, she was cast off, more, I suspect, for stupidity and naïvety than for the pregnancy. Robin likes to turn up from time to time to remind us of what he sees as unfair discrimination and frankly we find his persistence boring. We do hand out the odd subvention from time to time. He takes the money but I think he finds it humiliating. Actually it’s humiliating for both parties.’

  This frank disclosure of family affairs surprised Lettie. It was so unlike the reticent Candace she knew – or, she told herself, thought she knew.

  She took her jacket from the back of her chair. Departing, she said, ‘Wouldn’t he be less of a nuisance if you gave him a moderate sum from your father’s estate and put an end to his opportunism? That is if you feel he has a genuine grievance.’

  ‘It did cross my mind. The difficulty with Robin is he’d always want more. I doubt whether we’d agree on what constitutes a moderate sum.’

  Lettie left, closing the door behind her, and Candace turned her attention again to the computer and brought up the figures for November. The west wing was again in profit, but only just. The fees paid covered the general upkeep of the house and gardens as well as the surgical and medical costs, but the income fluctuated and costs were rising. It was certain that the next month’s figures would be disastrous. Chandler-Powell had said nothing but his face, taut with anxiety and a kind of desperate resolve, told her all. How many patients would care to occupy a room in the west wing with their minds filled with images of death and – worse – the death of a patient? The clinic, so far from being a money-spinner, was now a financial liability. She gave it less than a month.

  Fifteen minutes later Lettie returned. ‘He’s not there. There’s no sign of him in the cottage or the garden. I found his mobile on the kitchen table among the remains of what could be his lunch or supper, a plate with congealed tomato sauce and a few strands of spaghetti and a plastic packet which had held two chocolate eclairs. The mobile rang as I was unlocking the door. It was Jeremy Coxon again. I told him we were looking. The bed looked as if it hasn’t been slept in and, as you said, the car’s outside so he obviously hasn’t driven off. He can’t have gone far. He doesn’t sound like someone who goes in for long country walks.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. I suppose we’d better instigate a general search, but God knows where we’ll start. He could be anywhere including, I suppose, comfortably over-sleeping in someone else’s bed, in which case he’s hardly likely to welcome a general search. We could give it another hour or so.’

  Lettie said, ‘Is that wise? It looks as if he’s been gone for some time.’

  Candace considered. ‘He’s an adult and entitled to go where and with whom he chooses. But it is odd. Jeremy Coxon seemed worried as well as irritated. Perhaps we should at least ensure that he’s not here in the Manor or anywhere in the grounds. I suppose it’s possible that he’s ill or has had an accident, although it seems unlikely. And I’d better check Stone Cottage. I’m not very conscientious about locking the side door, and he may have sneaked in after I left to see if there’s anything there to find. And you’re right. If he’s not in the cottages or here we’d better tell the police. If there’s a serious search, I suppose it will be by the local force. See if you can find Sergeant Benton-Smith or DC Warren. I’ll take Sharon with me. She seems to be hanging about doing nothing most of the time.’

  Lettie, still standing, thought for a moment then said, ‘I don’t think we need to involve Sharon. She’s been in an odd mood since Commander Dalgliesh sent for her yesterday, sulky and withdrawn some of the time and looking pleased with herself, almost triumphant, at others. And if Robin really is missing, best keep her out of it. If you want to extend the search, I’ll come. Frankly, if he’s not here or in either cottage, I don’t see where else we can look. Better pass it on to the police.’

  Candace took down her jacket from the peg on the door. ‘You’re probably right about Sharon. She wouldn’t leave the Manor and come to Stone Cottage and, frankly, it was a relief, not one of my most sensible ideas. But she agreed to help me for a couple of hours a day with Father’s books, probably because she wants an excuse to get out of the kitchen. She and the Bostocks have never hit it off. She seemed to enjoy handling the books. I’ve lent her one or two she seemed interested in.’


  Again Lettie was surprised. Lending books to Sharon was a kindness which she hadn’t expected from Candace, whose attitude to the girl had been one of grudging tolerance rather than benevolent interest. But Candace was after all a teacher. Perhaps this was a resurgence of her pedagogic vocation. And it was surely a natural impulse in any lover of reading to lend a book to a young person who showed an interest in it. She would have done the same herself. Walking beside Candace, she felt a small stab of pity. They worked together amicably, as both of them did with Helena, but they had never been close and were colleagues rather than friends. But she was useful at the Manor. The three days Candace had spent visiting Toronto a couple of weeks ago had proved that. Perhaps it was because Candace and Marcus lived in Stone Cottage that they sometimes seemed emotionally as well as physically distanced from the life of the Manor. She could only imagine what the last two years had been like for an intelligent woman, her job in jeopardy, and now – so it was rumoured – no longer available, her nights and days spent ministering to a domineering and querulous old man, her brother desperate to get away. Well there should be no difficulty about that now. The clinic could hardly continue after Miss Gradwyn’s murder. Only patients with a pathologically morbid fascination with death and horror would book in at the Manor now.