Free The Private Patient by P. D. James Page B

Wareham, she said, “You’ve got the references safe, darling?” She had asked about them every hour.
    At Wareham, a Range Rover was waiting in the forecourt with a stocky elderly man at the wheel. He didn’t get out but beckoned them over. He said, “You’ll be the Bostocks, I’m thinking. My name’s Tom Mogworthy. No luggage? No, there wouldn’t be, would there? You’ll not be staying. Climb in the back, then.”
    It wasn’t, thought Dean, a propitious welcome. But that hardly mattered when the air smelled so sweet and they were being driven through such beauty. It was a perfect summer day, the sky azure and cloudless. Through the open windows of the Range Rover, a cooling breeze fell on their faces, not strong enough even to stir the delicate branches of the trees or rustle the grasses. The trees were in full leaf, still with the freshness of spring, their branches not yet stagnant with the dusty heaviness of August. It was Kim who, after ten minutes of a silent drive, leaned forward and said, “Do you work at Cheverell Manor, Mr. Mogworthy?”
    â€œI’ve been there for just on forty-five years. Started as a boy in the grounds, clipping the knot garden. Still do. Sir Francis was the owner then, and after him Sir Nicholas. You’ll be working for Mr. Chandler-Powell now, if the women take you on.”
    â€œWon’t he be interviewing us?” asked Dean.
    â€œHe’ll be in London. He operates there on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Miss Cressett and Sister Holland will be interviewing you. Mr. Chandler-Powell doesn’t bother himself with domestic matters. Satisfy the women and you’re in. If not, pack your bags and you’re out.”

    It had not been a promising beginning, and on first sight even the beauty of the Manor, standing silent and silvery in the summer sun, was more intimidating than reassuring. Mogworthy left them at the front door, merely pointing at the bell, then returned to the Range Rover and drove it round the east wing of the house. Resolutely Dean tugged on the iron bell-pull. They heard no sound, but within half a minute the door opened and they saw a young woman. She had shoulder-length blond hair, which Dean thought looked none too clean and heavily applied lipstick. She wore jeans beneath a coloured apron. He put her down as someone from the village who helped out, a first impression which proved right. She regarded them with some distaste for a moment, then said, “I’m Maisie. Miss Cressett said I’m to give you tea in the great hall.”
    Now, recalling the arrival, Dean was surprised that he had become so used to the magnificence of the great hall. He could understand now how people who owned such a house could get used to its beauty, could move confidently down its corridors and through its rooms, hardly noticing the pictures and artefacts, the richness which surrounded them. He smiled, remembering how, after asking if they could wash their hands, they had been led through the hall to a room at the back which was obviously a lavatory and washroom. Maisie had disappeared, and he waited outside while Kim went in first.
    Three minutes later, she was out, eyes wide with surprise, saying in a whisper, “It’s so strange. The lavatory bowl is painted inside. It’s all blue, with flowers and foliage. And the seat is huge—it’s mahogany. And there’s no proper flush at all. You have to pull on a chain, like you do in my gran’s loo. The wallpaper’s lovely, though, and there are lots of towels. I didn’t know which to use. Expensive soap, too. Hurry up, darling. I don’t want to be left alone. Do you suppose the loo is as old as the house? It must be.”
    â€œNo,” he said, wanting to demonstrate superior knowledge, “there wouldn’t have been any lavatories when this house was built, not like that anyway. It sounds more Victorian.