by P. D. James
Dean glanced at his wife. ‘The night Miss Gradwyn first arrived. Tuesday the twenty-seventh, wasn’t it? Guests are expected to bring their own food and then they either shop locally or eat out. I always leave milk in the fridge, and tea, coffee and sugar, but that’s all unless they order provisions in advance and then Mog shops for them. Mr Boyton rang to say that he had forgotten to bring butter and could I let him have a packet. He said he’d come over for it but I wasn’t keen to have him poking about the kitchen so I said I’d take it. It was six thirty and the cottage looked as if he’d just arrived. His gear was dumped on the kitchen floor. He asked if Miss Gradwyn had arrived and when could he see her, but I said I couldn’t discuss anything to do with a patient and he’d better speak to Sister or Mr Chandler-Powell. And then, casual like, he began asking about the freezer – how long had it been next door, was it still working, did Miss Westhall use it? I told him that it was old and useless and no one used it. I said Miss Westhall had asked Mog to get rid of it but he said it wasn’t his job. It was for the council to take it away and Miss Cressett or Miss Westhall had better ring them. I don’t think anyone did. Then he stopped asking questions. He offered me a beer but I didn’t want to drink with him – I haven’t the time anyway – so I left and came back to the Manor.’
Kate said, ‘But the freezer was next door in Stone Cottage. How did he know about it? It must have been dark by the time he arrived.’
‘I suppose he’d seen it on a previous visit. He must have been in Stone Cottage at some time, at least after the old man died. He used to make a lot of the Westhalls being cousins. Or he could have snooped round when Miss Westhall wasn’t there. People round here don’t bother much about locking their doors.’
Kim said, ‘And there’s a door from the old pantry through the lean-to conservatory to the garden. That could have been open. Or he could have seen the freezer from the window. Funny though, him taking an interest like that. It’s only an old freezer. It isn’t even working. It broke in August. D’you remember, Dean? You wanted to use it to store that haunch of venison over the bank holiday and you found it wasn’t working.’
At last something had been achieved. Benton glanced quickly at Kate. Her face was expressionless but he knew that their thoughts marched in step. She asked, ‘When was it last used as a freezer?’
Dean said, ‘I can’t remember. No one ever reported that it wasn’t working. We didn’t need it except for bank holidays and when Mr Chandler-Powell had guests, when it could come in useful if Stone Cottage was empty. The freezer here is usually plenty big enough.’
Kate and Benton were rising to go. Kate said, ‘Have you told anyone here about Mr Boyton’s interest in the freezer?’ The Bostocks looked at each other, then vigorously shook their heads. ‘Then please keep this strictly to yourselves. Don’t discuss the freezer with anyone at the Manor.’
Kimberley, wide eyed, asked, ‘Is it important?’
‘Probably not but we don’t yet know what is or could be important. That’s why I want you to say nothing.’
Kim said, ‘We won’t. Cross my heart and hope to die. Anyway, Mr Chandler-Powell doesn’t like us to gossip and we never do.’
Kate and Benton had hardly got to their feet and were thanking Dean and Kimberley for the tea and biscuits when Kate’s mobile rang. She listened, acknowledged the call, and said nothing until they were outside. Then she said, ‘That was AD. We’re to go at once to the Old Police Cottage. Candace Westhall wants to make a statement. She’ll be there in fifteen minutes. It looks as if we may be getting somewhere at last.’
11
They reached the Old Police Cottage just before Candace left the gates of the Manor and from the window Kate could see her stalwart figure pausing to look both ways at the edge of the road, then walking confidently across, the strong shoulders swinging. Dalgliesh greeted her at the door and led her to a seat at the table and, with Kate, sat opposite. Benton took the fourth chair and, notebook in hand, positioned himself to the right of the door. In her country tweeds and brogues Candace, he thought, had the assurance of a rural vicar’s wife visiting a backsliding parishioner. But from his seat he could glimpse the only sign of nervousness, a momentary tightening of the hands clasped in her lap. Whatever she had come to tell them she had taken her time over it, but he had no doubt that she knew precisely what she was prepared to say and how she would phrase it. Without waiting for Dalgliesh to speak, she began her story.
‘I have an explanation for what could have happened, what seems to me possible, even probable. It doesn’t reflect well on me but I think you should know of it even if you decide to discount it as fantasy. Robin could have been experimenting with or rehearsing some ludicrous joke and it went disastrously wrong. I need to explain, but it will involve disclosing family affairs which can’t in themselves be relevant to Rhoda Gradwyn’s murder. I take it that what I tell you will be treated as confidential if you’re satisfied that it has no direct bearing on her death.’
Dalgliesh’s words were unemphatic, a statement not a warning, but they were direct. ‘It will be for me to decide what is relevant and how far family secrets can be protected. I can’t give any assurances in advance, you must know that.’
‘So in this, as in other matters, we have to trust the police. Forgive me, but that doesn’t come easily in an age when newsworthy information is money.’
Dalgliesh said quietly, ‘My officers do not sell information to newspapers. Miss Westhall, aren’t we wasting time? You have a responsibility to assist my investigation by disclosing any information you have which could be relevant. We have no wish to cause unnecessary distress and have enough problems in processing relevant information without wasting time on matters that are not relevant. If you know how Robin Boyton’s body got into the freezer, or have any information which could help to answer that question, hadn’t we better get on with it?’
If the rebuke stung her she betrayed no sign of it. She said, ‘Some of it may already be known to you if Robin has spoken to you about his relationship with the family.’
As Dalgliesh didn’t reply, she went on. ‘He is, as he’s fond of proclaiming, Marcus’s and my first cousin. His mother, Sophie, was our father’s only sister. For at least the past two generations the Westhall men have undervalued and occasionally despised their daughters. The birth of a son was a cause for celebration, the birth of a daughter a misfortune. This prejudice isn’t totally uncommon even today, but with my father and grandfather it amounted almost to a family obsession. I’m not saying there was any physical neglect or cruelty. There wasn’t. But I’ve no doubt Robin’s mother suffered emotional neglect and acquired a weight of inferiority and self-distrust. She wasn’t clever or pretty, or indeed particularly likable, and was, not unnaturally, something of a problem from childhood. She left home as soon as she could and had some satisfaction in disobliging her parents by living a fairly rackety life in the hectic world on the fringes of the pop-music scene. She was just twenty-one when she married Keith Boyton and she could hardly have made a worse choice. I only met him once but I found him repellent. She was pregnant when they married but that was hardly an excuse and I’m surprised she went ahead with the pregnancy. Motherhood was a new sensation, I suppose. Keith had a certain superficial charm but I have never met anyone more obviously on the make. He was a designer, or claimed to be, and found work occasionally. In between he did odd jobs to bring in some income, at one time, I believe, selling double glazing by telephone. Nothing lasted. My aunt, who worked as a secretary, was the main wage-earner. Somehow the marriage lasted, largely because he depended on her. Maybe she loved him. Anyway, according to Robin, she died of cancer when he was seven and Keith found himself another woman and emigrated to Australia. No one has heard from him since.’
Dalgliesh asked, ‘When did Robin Boyton make regular contact with you?’
‘When Marcus took the job here with Chandler-Powell, and when we moved Father into Stone Cottage. He started having brief holidays here in the gues
t cottage, obviously hoping that he could kindle some cousinly interest in Marcus or myself. Frankly, it wasn’t there. But I did have a slight conscience about him. I still have. From time to time I’d help him out with small sums, two-fifty here, five hundred there, when he asked, claiming desperation. But then I decided that this was unwise. It seemed too like assuming a responsibility which frankly I didn’t accept. And then, about a month ago, he got an extraordinary idea into his head. My father’s death followed my grandfather’s by only thirty-five days. If it had been less than twenty-eight days there would have been a difficulty about the will, which has a clause stating that a beneficiary must outlive the testator by twenty-eight days to inherit. Obviously if my father hadn’t benefited from our grandfather’s will there would have been no fortune to pass down to us. Robin obtained a copy of Grandfather’s will and conceived the bizarre idea that our father had died some time before the twenty-eight days were up and that Marcus and I together – or one or other of us – had concealed his body in the freezer in Stone Cottage, thawed him out after a couple of weeks or so and then called in old Dr Stenhouse to write the death certificate. The freezer finally broke down last summer but at that time, although seldom used, it was working.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘When did he first put forward this idea to you?’
‘During the three days when Rhoda Gradwyn was here for her preliminary visit. He arrived the morning after she did and I think had some idea of seeing her, but she was adamant that she didn’t want visitors and as far as I know he was never admitted to the Manor. She may have been behind the whole idea. I’ve no doubt the two were in collusion – in fact he more or less admitted it. Why otherwise did Gradwyn choose the Manor, and why was it so important for Robin to be here with her? The scheme may have been mischief on her part, she could hardly have taken it seriously, but with him it was deadly serious.’
‘How did he raise the matter with you?’
‘By giving me an old paperback. Cyril Hare’s Untimely Death. It’s a detective story in which the time of death is falsified. He brought it in to me as soon as he arrived, saying he thought I would find it interesting. Actually I’d read it many years ago and as far as I know it’s now out of print. I simply told Robin that I wasn’t interested in reading it again and handed it back. I knew then what he was up to.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘But surely the idea was fantastic, appropriate to an ingenious novel but not to the situation here. Can he possibly have believed there was truth in it?’
‘Oh he believed all right. In fact, there were a number of circumstances which could be said to add credibility to the fantasy. The idea wasn’t as ridiculous as it sounds. I don’t think we could have kept the deception going for long, but for a few days or a week, maybe two, it would have been perfectly possible. My father was an extremely difficult patient who hated illness, resisted sympathy and was adamant that he wanted no visitors. I looked after him with the help of a retired nurse, who is now living in Canada, and an elderly maid who died just over a year ago. The day after Robin left I had a phone call from Dr Stenhouse, the GP who looked after my father. Robin had visited him with some specious excuse and tried to find out how long my father had been dead before the doctor was called in. The doctor was never a patient man and in retirement even less tolerant of fools than he was when in practice, and I can well imagine the response Robin got for his impertinence. Dr Stenhouse said that he answered no questions about patients when they were alive, nor did he when they were dead. I imagine Robin came away convinced that the old doctor, if not senile when he signed the death certificate, had been either duped or was complicit. He probably assumed that we’d bribed the two helpers, Grace Holmes, the elderly nurse who emigrated to Canada, and the maid, Elizabeth Barnes, who’s since died.
‘There was, however, one fact he didn’t know. On the night before he died my father asked to see the parish priest, the Reverend Clement Matheson – he’s still the parish priest in the village. Of course he came at once, driven by his elder sister Marjorie who keeps house for him and can be said to personify the church militant. Neither will have forgotten that evening. Father Clement arrived equipped to give the last rites and no doubt to solace a penitent soul. Instead my father found the strength to inveigh for the last time against all religious belief, Christianity in particular, with scathing reference to Father Clement’s own brand of churchmanship. This wasn’t information that Robin could pick up in the bar of the Cressett Arms. I doubt whether Father Clement or Marjorie have ever spoken of it except to Marcus and myself. It had been an unpleasant and humiliating experience. Happily, both are still alive. But I have a second witness. I paid a short visit to Toronto ten days ago to see Grace Holmes. She was one of the very few people my father would tolerate but was left nothing in his will and, now that probate has been granted, I wanted to give her a lump sum to compensate for that last terrible year. She gave me a letter which I have passed to my solicitor stating that she was with my father on the day he died.’
Kate said quietly, ‘Armed with this information, didn’t you immediately confront Robin Boyton and disillusion him?’
‘Probably I should have done, but it amused me to keep quiet and let him embroil himself further. If I look at my conduct with as much honesty as is possible when we are trying to justify ourselves, I think I was glad that he had revealed something of his true nature. I’d always felt some guilt that his mother had been so neglected. But now I didn’t feel any necessity to pay him anything. By this one attempt at blackmail he had relieved me from any future obligation. I rather looked forward to my moment of triumph, however petty, and to his disappointment.’
Dalgliesh asked, ‘Did he ever demand money?’
‘No, he didn’t get to that point. If he had I could have reported him to the police for attempted blackmail, but I doubt I should have gone down that road. But he hinted pretty clearly what he had in mind. He seemed content when I said I would consult my brother and be in touch. I made, of course, no admission.’
Kate asked, ‘Does your brother know anything of this?’
‘Nothing. He’s been particularly anxious recently about leaving the job here and going to work in Africa and I saw no reason to burden him with what was essentially nonsense. And, of course, he would have had no sympathy with my plan to bide my time and devise the maximum humiliation for Robin. His is a more admirable character than is mine. I think that Robin was working himself up to a final accusation, possibly a suggestion that I should hand over a specific sum in exchange for his silence. I believe that’s why he stayed on here after Rhoda Gradwyn’s death. After all, I take it that you couldn’t legally detain him unless he was charged, and most people would be only too glad to get away from the scene of crime. Since her death, he’s prowled around Rose Cottage and the village, obviously unsettled and, I think, frightened. But he needed to bring the matter to a head. I don’t know why he climbed into the freezer. It could have been to see how feasible it was for my father’s body to be placed there. He was, after all, considerably taller than Robin, even when shrunken by his illness. Robin might have had an idea of summoning me to the utility room and then slowly opening the freezer, terrifying me into an admission. That’s exactly the kind of dramatic gesture that might appeal.’
Kate said, ‘If he was frightened, could it be because he feared you personally? It might have occurred to him that you could have killed Miss Gradwyn because of her involvement in the plot and that he, too, might be at risk.’
Candace Westhall turned her eyes to Kate. And now the dislike and contempt were unmistakable. ‘I don’t suppose that even Robin Boyton’s fevered imagination could seriously conceive that I would see murder as a rational way out of any dilemma. Still, I suppose it’s possible. And now, if you haven’t any more questions, I would like to get back to the Manor.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘Only two. Did you put Robin Boyton into the freezer dead or alive?’
‘I did not.’
‘Did you
kill Robin Boyton?’
‘No.’
She hesitated, and for a moment Dalgliesh thought she had something to add. But she got up without speaking and left without another word or a backward glance.
12
By eight o’clock that evening Dalgliesh had showered, changed and was beginning to decide on his supper when he heard the car. It came up the lane almost silently. The first he knew of it was the lightening of the windows behind the drawn curtains. Opening the front door, he saw a Jaguar being driven onto the opposite verge and the lights switched off. A few seconds later Emma was crossing the road towards him. She was wearing a thick jersey and a sheepskin jerkin, her head bare. As she came in without speaking, instinctively he put his arms round her but her body was unyielding. She seemed almost unaware of his presence and the cheek which momentarily brushed his was icy cold. He was full of dread. Something appalling had happened, an accident, even a tragedy. She wouldn’t otherwise have arrived like this without a warning. When he was on a case Emma never even telephoned, not by his wishes but her own. Never before had she impinged on an investigation. To do so in person could only mean disaster.
He took off her jerkin and led her to a seat by the fire, waiting for her to speak. As she sat silently he went into the kitchen and switched on the electricity under the flask of coffee. It was already hot and it took only a few seconds to pour it into a mug, add the milk and bring it to her. Taking off her gloves, she wrapped her fingers round its warmth.
She said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t phone. I had to come. I had to see you.’
‘Darling, what is it?’
‘Annie. She’s been attacked and raped. Yesterday evening. She was on her way home from teaching English to two immigrants. It’s one of the things she does. She’s in hospital and they think she’ll recover. By that I suppose they mean she won’t die. I don’t see how she can recover, not completely. She’s lost a lot of blood and one of the knife wounds pierced a lung. It only just missed her heart. Someone at the hospital said she was lucky. Lucky! What an odd word to use.’