The Private Patient (16 page)

Miss Cressett's evidence was quietly confirmed by Mrs. Frensham, who said that she had left Miss Cressett in her sitting room and had herself gone to her own apartment in the east wing at about eleven-thirty and had seen and heard nothing during the night. She knew nothing about Miss Gradwyn's death until she came down to the dining room at quarter to eight and found no one there. Later, Mr. Chandler-Powell had arrived and had told her that Miss Gradwyn was dead.

Candace Westhall confirmed that she had worked with Miss Cressett in the office until dinner. After dinner she had returned to tidy away papers in the office and left the Manor shortly after ten, by the front door. Mr. Chandler-Powell was coming down the stairs, and they said good night before she left. Next morning, he rang from the office to say Miss Gradwyn had been found dead, and she and her brother came over to the Manor immediately. Marcus Westhall had returned from London in the early hours. She had heard his car arrive but had not got up, though he had knocked on her bedroom door and they had spoken briefly.

Sister Flavia Holland gave her evidence succinctly and calmly. Early in the morning of the operation the anaesthetist and additional medical and technical staff had arrived. Nurse Frazer, one of the temporary staff, had brought the patient down to the operating suite, where she had been examined by the anaesthetist who had previously examined her at St. Angela's in London. Mr. Chandler-Powell had spent some time with her to greet and reassure her. He would have described exactly what he proposed to do when Miss Gradwyn had met him in his office in St. Angela's. Miss Gradwyn had been very calm throughout and had shown no sign of fear, or indeed of particular anxiety. The anaesthetist and all the ancillary staff had left as soon as the operation was completed. They would have been returning the following morning for Mrs. Skeffington's operation. She had arrived yesterday afternoon. After the operation, Miss Gradwyn had been in the recovery room for the day under the care of Mr. Chandler-Powell and herself, and at four-thirty had been wheeled back to her room. By then the patient was able to walk and said she felt little pain. She then slept until seven-thirty, when she had been able to eat a light supper. She refused a sedative but asked for a glass of hot milk and brandy. Sister Holland was in the end room on the left and looked in to check on Miss Gradwyn every hour until she herself went to bed, which was perhaps as late as midnight. The eleven o'clock check was the last, and the patient was asleep. She heard nothing during the night.

Mr. Chandler-Powell's account agreed with hers. He emphasised that at no time had the patient shown fear, either of the operation or of anything else. She had specifically asked that no visitors be allowed during her period of a week's convalescence, and that was why Robin Boyton had been refused entry. The operation had gone well but had been longer and more difficult than he had expected. He had, however, felt confident of an excellent result. Miss Gradwyn was a healthy woman who had stood the anaesthesia and operation well, and he had no anxieties about her progress. He had visited her on the night she died at about ten o'clock and had been returning from that visit when he saw Miss Westhall leaving.

Sharon had been sitting very still, with a look which, Kate thought, could only be described as sulky, throughout the proceedings, but when asked where she had been and what she had done the previous day, had at first embarked on a tedious, sullenly expressed review of every detail of the morning and afternoon. Asked to confine herself to the time from four-thirty onwards, she said that she had been busy in the kitchen and dining room helping Dean and Kimberley Bostock, had had her meal with them at eight-forty-five and had then gone to her own room to watch television. She couldn't remember when she went to bed or what she had seen on television. She had been very tired and had slept soundly throughout the night. She knew nothing about Miss Gradwyn being dead until Sister Holland had come up to waken her, telling her to come on duty and help in the kitchen, which she thought had been at about nine o'clock. She liked Miss Gradwyn, who had asked her to show her round the garden on her previous visit. Asked by Kate what they had talked about, she said it was about her childhood and where she had gone to school, and her work at the old people's home.

There was no surprise until Dean and Kimberley Bostock gave their evidence. She said she was sometimes asked by Sister to take food to the patients, but she hadn't visited Miss Gradwyn because she was fasting. Neither she nor her husband had seen the patient arriving, and they had been particularly busy that evening, preparing meals for the extra operating-theatre staff who would arrive next day and always had lunch before leaving. She had been woken by the telephone just before midnight on the Friday evening by Mrs. Skeffington, who had asked for tea. Her husband had helped her carry up the tray. He never went into the patients' rooms but had waited outside until she came out. Mrs. Skeffington had appeared frightened and talked about seeing a light flickering among the stones, but Kimberley thought this was just imagination. She had asked Mrs. Skeffington if she wanted her to call Sister Holland, but she had said no, that Sister Holland would only be annoyed with her for waking her unnecessarily.

At this stage Sister Holland had broken in. “Your instructions, Kimberley, are to call me if patients ask for anything in the night. Why didn't you? Mrs. Skeffington was pre-operative.”

And now Benton, raising his head from his notebook, was alert. He could see that the question was deeply unwelcome. The girl flushed. She glanced at her husband and gripped his hand. She said, “I'm sorry, Sister, I thought she wouldn't really be a patient until the next day, so I didn't wake you. I did ask her if she wanted to see you or Mr. Chandler-Powell.”

“Mrs. Skeffington was a patient from the time she arrived at the Manor, Kimberley. You knew how to contact me. You should have done so.”

Dalgliesh said, “Did Mrs. Skeffington mention anything about hearing the lift in the night?”

“No. She only spoke about the lights.”

“And did either of you hear or see anything unusual while you were on that floor?”

They looked at each other, then shook their heads vigorously. Dean said, “We were only there a few minutes. Everything was quiet. A dimmed light was on in the corridor, as it always is.”

“And the lift? Did you notice the lift?”

“Yes, sir. The lift was on the ground floor. We used it to take up the tea. We could have gone up the stairs, but the lift is quicker.”

“And is there anything else you need to tell me about that night?”

And now there was a silence. Again the two looked at each other. Dean seemed to be gathering resolve. He said, “There's one thing, sir. When we got back to the ground floor, I saw that the door to the garden wasn't bolted. We have to pass the door to get back to our flat. It's a heavy oak door on the right, sir, leading to the lime walk and the Cheverell Stones.”

Dalgliesh said, “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, sir, quite sure.”

“Did you draw your wife's attention to the unbolted door?”

“No, sir. Not until we were together in the kitchen next morning, and then I mentioned it.”

“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 one another'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 what'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 phone 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. His next call, to the solicitor, was 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 businesslike, 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.”

Snapping shut his mobile, 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, 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.