The Private Patient (19 page)

“On Thursday the thirteenth of December she went straight to her suite after being received on arrival by Mr. Chandler-Powell, Sister Holland and Mrs. Frensham. All say she was perfectly calm, apparently unworried and not very communicative. One of the temporary nonresident staff, Nurse Frazer, took her down to the operating theatre next morning, where she was examined by the anaesthetist and then underwent the operation. Mr. Chandler-Powell says it was complicated but successful. She was in the recovery room until four-thirty, when she was returned to her suite on the patients' wing. She ate a light supper and was seen by Sister Holland on several occasions, and by Chandler-Powell and Sister Holland at ten o'clock, when Miss Gradwyn said she was ready to sleep. She refused a sedative. Sister Holland said that the last time she looked in on her was at eleven, when she found Miss Gradwyn asleep. She was murdered by manual strangulation, Dr. Glenister estimates between eleven and twelve-thirty.”

Dalgliesh and Kate listened in silence. Benton was seized by the fear that he was taking too much time on the obvious. He glanced at Kate but, getting no response, went on. “We've been told of several significant things that happened that night. The only other patient present, Mrs. Skeffington, was wakeful and went to the bathroom. She could have been woken by the sound of the lift which she says she heard at eleven-forty. From the bedroom window she claims she saw a light flickering among the Cheverell Stones. This was just before midnight. It frightened her, and she rang the assistant cook, Kimberley Bostock, and asked for a pot of tea. Probably she wanted company, however briefly, but didn't like to wake up Sister Holland, who was in the suite next door.”

Kate said, “Didn't she admit as much when Kimberley and Dean brought up the tea?”

Benton said, “She certainly seemed to prefer Kimberley Bostock to Sister Holland. Seems reasonable to me, sir. Mrs. Bostock wondered whether she should have the tea, as she was having an operation the next morning. She knew she ought to check with Sister Holland. Leaving Dean standing outside Mrs. Skeffington's suite, she knocked on Sister's door and peered in.”

Kate said, “She said she heard quarrelling. Chandler-Powell said talking. Whichever it was, Chandler-Powell obviously feels his admission provides an alibi for both him and Sister Holland. Of course, that depends on the actual time of death. He claims to be unsure exactly when he went to Sister Holland's suite, and she, too, is surprisingly vague. By leaving the time so uncertain, they avoided the mistake of claiming an alibi for the actual time of death, which is always suspicious, or leaving themselves with no alibi. It's possible that by the time they were together, one or both of them had killed Rhoda Gradwyn.”

Benton said, “Can't we be a little more precise about the time of death? Mrs. Skeffington says she heard the lift descending when she first woke up and before she rang for tea. She put that at about eleven-forty. The lift is opposite Sister Holland's suite, at the end of the corridor, and it's modern and comparatively quiet. But we've checked, and it's perfectly possible to hear it if there's no other noise.”

Kate said, “But there was. Apparently the wind gusted quite strongly last night. But if she heard it, why didn't Sister Holland? Unless, of course, she and Chandler-Powell were in the bedroom and too busy quarrelling to hear. Or having sex, which doesn't exclude quarrelling. Either way, there's no hope of expecting Kimberley to stand firm on her evidence.”

Benton went on without commenting. “If they'd been in the sitting room, one of them would surely have heard Kimberley when she knocked on the door or seen her when she half opened it. No one admits to using the lift that night at any time except the Bostocks when they brought up the tea. If Mrs. Skeffington's evidence is accurate, it seems reasonable to place the time of death at about eleven-thirty.”

Glancing at Dalgliesh, Benton paused and Kate took over. “It's a pity she can't be more accurate about the time when she heard the lift and saw the lights. If there's a significant difference between them—longer, for example, than it would take to walk from the bottom of the lift to the stones—then there must be two people involved. The murderer can't be descending in the lift and shining a torch at the stones at the same time. Two people, maybe two different enterprises. And if there was collusion, the two obvious suspects are the Westhalls. The other significant evidence is Dean Bostock's statement about the unbolted back door leading to the lime walk. The door has two security locks, but Chandler-Powell is adamant he bolts it every night at eleven o'clock unless he knows a member of the household is still out. He's absolutely sure he bolted the door as usual, and found it bolted in the morning. The first things he did after getting up at six-thirty were to turn off the alarm system and check the west door to the lime walk.”

Benton broke in. “And Dean Bostock checked the bolt when he got up at six. Is there a chance we may get a print from the bolt?”

Kate said, “Not a chance, I'd say. Chandler-Powell unlocked the door when he and Marcus Westhall went out to search the grounds and the stone circle. And remember that fragment of glove? This killer wasn't about to leave prints.”

Dalgliesh said, “If we assume that neither Chandler-Powell nor Bostock was lying—and I don't think Bostock was—then someone in the house unbolted that door after eleven o'clock, either to leave the Manor or to let someone in. Or, of course, both. That leads us to Mogworthy's alleged sighting of a car parked near the stones shortly before midnight. Miss Gradwyn was killed either by someone who was already in the Manor that night—a member of staff or someone else who had gained access—or by someone from outside. And even if that person had the two security keys, he or she couldn't gain access until the door was unbolted. But we can't go on talking about ‘he or she.' The murderer needs a name.”

The murderer was always given a name by the team, since Dalgliesh strongly disliked the usual soubriquets, and usually it was Benton who supplied it. Now he said, “We usually make it a he, sir, so why not a woman for a change? Or an androgynous name which would do for either sex. The murderer came by night. How about Noctis—by or from the night?”

Dalgliesh said, “That seems appropriate. Noctis it is, but let's keep him male for the present.”

Kate said, “We're still back with the problem of motive. We know that Candace Westhall tried to persuade Chandler-Powell not to let Rhoda Gradwyn come to the Manor. If Westhall had murder in mind, why discourage Chandler-Powell from admitting her? Unless, of course, it was a double bluff. And isn't it possible that this was an unpremeditated death, that Noctis hadn't got murder in mind when he went to that room?”

Dalgliesh said, “Against that, of course, is the use of gloves and their destruction afterwards.”

Benton said, “But if it was premeditated, why now? With only one other patient, and all the non-resident staff absent, the circle of suspects is bound to be smaller.”

Kate was impatient. “It had to be now. She wasn't planning to return. She was killed because she was here in the Manor and relatively helpless. It's just a question of whether the murderer took advantage of that fortunate fact or actually connived to ensure that Gradwyn chose not only this particular surgeon, but the Manor instead of a bed in London, which on the face of it would have been more convenient for her. London was her city. Her life was London-based. Why here? And that leads us on to why her so-called friend Robin Boyton booked in at the same time. We haven't interviewed him yet, but he's certainly got some questions to answer. What exactly is their relationship? And then there's his urgent message on Gradwyn's mobile. He was obviously pretty desperate to see her. He seemed genuinely upset at her death, but how much of that was play-acting? He's a cousin of the Westhalls, and apparently he stays at the visitors' cottage fairly regularly. He could have got access to keys and had them copied on one of his previous visits. Or he may have been given them by Rhoda Gradwyn. She could have deliberately taken the keys home with her on her first visit with the intention of having them copied. And how do we know he didn't get access to the Manor earlier that day and hide himself in the suite at the end of the patients' corridor? We know from the scrap of latex that Noctis was there. It could have been before as well as after the murder. Who was likely to look in there?”

Benton said, “Whoever killed her, I doubt whether she'll be much missed, here or anywhere. She seems to have caused a lot of damage in her lifetime. The archetypical investigative journalist—get your exclusive story, take the cash, never mind the pain.”

Dalgliesh said, “Our job is to decide who killed her, not to make moral judgements. Don't go down that path, Sergeant.”

Benton said, “But don't we always make moral judgements, sir, even if we don't voice them? Isn't it important to know as much as we can about the victim, good or ill? People die because of who they are and what they are. Isn't that part of the evidence? I'd feel differently about the death of a child, a young person, the innocent.”

Dalgliesh said, “Innocent? So you feel confident to make the distinction between the victims who deserve death and those who don't? You haven't yet been part of an investigation into the murder of a child, have you?”

“No, sir.” Benton thought,
You knew that already, you didn't need
to ask.

“If and when you are, the pain you'll have to witness will confront you with more questions, emotional and theological, even than the one you'll be there to answer: who did this? Moral outrage is natural. Without it we're hardly human. But for a detective faced with the dead body of a child, the young, the innocent, making an arrest can become a personal campaign, and that's dangerous. It can corrupt judgement. Every victim deserves the same commitment.”

Benton wanted to say,
I know that, sir. I'll try to give it.
But the unspoken words struck him as pretentious, the response of a guilty schoolboy to criticism. He said nothing.

Kate broke the silence. “And for all our probing, how much in the end do we ever really know? The victim, the suspects, the killer? Why, I wonder, did Rhoda Gradwyn come here?”

Benton said, “To get rid of that scar.”

Dalgliesh said, “A scar she had had for thirty-four years. Why now? Why this place? Why did she need to keep it, and why now to get rid of it? If we knew that, we might get closer to knowing something about the woman. And you're quite right, Benton, she died because of who and what she was.”

“Benton” instead of “Sergeant”—well, that was something. He thought,
I wish I knew who you are.
But that was part of the fascination of this job. He served a boss who remained an enigma to him, and always would.

Kate said, “Isn't Sister Holland's behaviour this morning a bit odd? When Kim phoned to say that Miss Gradwyn hadn't rung for her tea, wouldn't it be more natural for Sister Holland to check at once if her patient was all right rather than asking Kim to bring up the tea? I'm wondering whether she was taking care to ensure that there was a witness with her when she found the body. Did she already know that Miss Gradwyn was dead?”

Benton said, “Chandler-Powell says that he left Sister Holland's room at one o'clock. Wouldn't it be a natural thing for her to check then on her patient? She might well have done so and known that Gradwyn was dead when she asked Kimberley to bring up the tea. It's always advisable to have a witness when you find the body. But that doesn't mean that she killed her. As I said earlier, I can't see either Chandler-Powell or Sister Holland throttling the life out of a patient, particularly one they had just operated on.”

Kate looked as if she was ready to argue but said nothing. It was late and Dalgliesh knew that they were all tired. It was time to set out the programme for the next day. He and Kate would drive to London to see what evidence could be obtained from Rhoda Gradwyn's house in the City. Benton and DC Warren would remain at the Manor. Dalgliesh had deferred seeing Robin Boyton in the hope that, by tomorrow, he would have calmed down and be ready to co-operate. The priorities were for Benton, with DC Warren, to interview Boyton, if possible to trace the car seen parked near the Cheverell Stones, to liaise with the scene-of-crime officers, who were expected to finish their work by midday, and to maintain a police presence at the Manor and ensure that the security guards employed by Mr. Chandler-Powell kept clear of the scene. Dr. Glenister's report on the post-mortem was expected by midday, and Benton would ring Dalgliesh as soon as this had been received. Apart from these tasks, he would of course use his initiative in deciding whether any of the suspects should be questioned again.

It was nearly midnight before Benton carried the three wineglasses into the kitchen to wash, and he and Kate set out to make their way back through the sweet-smelling rain-washed darkness to Wisteria House.

BOOK THREE

16–18
December
London,
Dorset, Midlands, Dorset

1

Dalgliesh and Kate left Stoke Cheverell before six o'clock, an early start planned partly because of Dalgliesh's strong dislike of getting tangled in the heavy morning traffic, but also because he needed the extra time in London. There were papers on which he had been working to be delivered to the Yard, a confidential draft report requiring his comments to be collected, and a note to be left on his secretary's desk. This done, he and Kate drove in silence through the almost empty streets.

For Dalgliesh, as for many, the early hours of Sunday morning in the City held a particular appeal. For five weekdays, the air pulsates with energy so that one can believe that its great wealth is being physically hammered out with sweat and exhaustion in some underground engine room. By Friday afternoon, the wheels slowly stop spinning, and to watch the City toilers swarm in their thousands over the Thames bridges to their railway termini is to see this mass exodus less as a matter of will than of obedience to some centuries-old compulsion. By early Sunday morning, the City, so far from settling itself for a deeper sleep, lies silently expectant, awaiting the visitation of a ghostly army, summoned by bells to worship old gods in their carefully preserved shrines and to walk down quiet, remembered streets. Even the river seems to flow more slowly.

They found a parking space some hundred yards from Absolution Alley; Dalgliesh gave a final glance at the map and took his murder bag from the car and they set off eastwards. The narrow cobbled entrance under a stone arch, discordantly ornate for such a narrow opening, would have been easy to miss. The paved courtyard, lit by two wall mounted lamps, which merely illumined a Dickensian gloom, was small, with a centre plinth supporting an age-crumbled statue, possibly of antiquated religious significance but now no more than a shapeless mass of stone. Number
8
was on the eastern side, the door painted a green so dark that it looked almost black and with an iron knocker in the shape of an owl. Next to number
8
was a shop which sold old prints, with a wooden display tray outside, now empty. A second building was obviously a select employment agency but gave no sign of the type of workers it hoped to attract. Other doors bore small polished plaques with unfamiliar names. The silence was absolute.

The door had been fitted with two security locks, but there was no problem in selecting the right keys from Miss Gradwyn's bunch, and the door opened easily. Dalgliesh put out his hand and found the light switch. They entered a small room, oak-panelled and with an ornate plaster ceiling incorporating the date:
1684
. A mullioned window at the rear gave a view of a paved patio with room for little more than a leaf-denuded tree in an immense terra-cotta pot. There was a row of coat hooks to the right with a shelf beneath for shoes, and on the left a rectangular oak table. It held four envelopes, clearly either bills or catalogues, which Dalgliesh thought had probably arrived before Miss Gradwyn left on Thursday for the Manor and which she had judged could well await her return. The only picture was a small oil painting of a seventeenth-century man with a long sensitive face, which hung above the stone fireplace, and which Dalgliesh, on first scrutiny, thought was a copy of the well-known portrait of John Donne. He switched on the strip of lighting fixed to shine on the portrait and studied it for a moment in silence. Hanging alone in a room which was a place of passage, it acquired an iconic power, perhaps as the presiding genius of the home. Switching off the light, Dalgliesh wondered if that was how Rhoda Gradwyn had seen it.

A wooden uncarpeted stair led to the first floor. Here, at the front, was the kitchen, with a small dining room at the back. The kitchen was extraordinarily well arranged and equipped, the room of a woman who knew how to cook, although neither it nor the dining room showed any signs of recent use. They mounted the second flight. There was a guest bedroom with two single beds, the identical counterpanes tightly stretched, and, overlooking the courtyard, a shower and lavatory. Again neither room bore any signs of occupation. The room above was almost a replica, but the bedroom here, with one single bed only, was obviously Miss Gradwyn's. A bedside table held a modern anglepoise lamp, a carriage clock whose ticking sounded unnaturally loud in the silence, and three books: Claire Tomalin's biography of Pepys, a volume of Charles Causley's verse and a collection of modern short stories. The bathroom shelf held very few pots and jars, and Kate, stretching out her hand in feminine curiosity, drew back. Neither Dalgliesh nor she entered the private world of the victim without an awareness that their presence, although necessary, was a violation of privacy. Kate, he knew, had always drawn a distinction between the objects they needed to examine and take away and a natural curiosity about a life which had escaped for ever from any human power either to hurt or embarrass. She merely said, “It doesn't look as if she tried to camouflage the scar.”

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 graveside 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 Dalgliesh's mobile rang. Benton was speaking and Dalgliesh switched to speakerphone so that Kate could hear. Carefully controlling his excitement, Benton said, “We've traced the car, sir. It's a Ford Focus, W 341UDG.”

“That was quick, Sergeant. Congratulations.”

“Undeserved, I'm afraid, sir. We struck lucky. The Shepherds' grandson arrived late on Friday night to spend the 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 said 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, eleven and thirty-one. 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 sixteen, 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.”