The Private Patient by P. D. James

Early-nineteenth-century, I’d say.”
    He spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel, determined not to let the Manor intimidate him. It was to him Kim looked for reassurance and support. He mustn’t show that he needed them himself.
    Returning to the hallway, they found Maisie at the door of the great hall. She said, “Your tea’s in here. I’ll come back in a quarter of an hour and take you to the office.”
    At first the great hall overpowered them, and they moved forward like children beneath the huge rafters, under the gaze, or so it seemed, of Elizabethan gentlemen in doublet and hose and young soldiers arrogantly posed with their steeds. Bemused by the size and grandeur, it was only later that he noticed details. Now he was aware of the great tapestry on the right wall and beneath it a long oak table holding a huge vase of flowers.
    The tea was waiting for them, set out on a low table before the fireplace. They saw an elegant tea-service, a plate of sandwiches, scones with jam and butter and a fruit cake. They were both thirsty. Kim poured the tea with shaking fingers while Dean, having already had a surfeit of sandwiches on the train, took a scone and anointed it generously with butter and jam. After a bite he said, “The jam’s home-made, the scone isn’t. That’s bad.”
    Kim said, “The cake’s bought, too. Rather good, but it makes me wonder when the last cook left. I don’t think we’d want to give them bought cake. And that girl who opened the door, she must be a temp. I can’t see them taking on someone like that.” They found themselves whispering to each other like conspirators.
    Maisie returned promptly. Still unsmiling, she said rather pompously, “Will you follow me, please?” and led them through the square entrance hall to the opposite door, opened it and said, “The Bostocks are here, Miss Cressett. I’ve given them tea,” and disappeared.
    The room was small, oak-panelled and obviously highly functional, the large desk in contrast to the linen-fold panelling and the row of smaller pictures above it. Three women were seated at the desk and motioned them to the chairs set ready.
    The taller one said, “My name is Helena Cressett and this is Sister Holland and Mrs. Frensham. Did you have a comfortable journey?”
    Dean said, “Very comfortable, thank you.”
    â€œGood. You’ll need to see your accommodation and the kitchen before you make up your mind, but first we would like to explain about the job. In some ways it’s very different from the usual work of a cook. Mr. Chandler-Powell operates in London from Monday to Wednesday. That means that the beginning of each week will be comparatively easy for you. His assistant, Mr. Marcus Westhall, lives in one of the cottages with his sister and his father, and I usually cook for myself in my flat here, although I may from time to time have a small dinner party and ask you to cook for me. The second half of the week will be very busy. The anaesthetist and all the additional nursing and ancillary staff will be here, either overnight or returning to their homes at the end of the day. They have something when they arrive, a cooked lunch and a meal which one could describe as high tea before they leave. Sister Holland will also be in residence, as, of course, will Mr. Chandler-Powell and the patients. Mr. Chandler-Powell sometimes leaves the Manor as early as five-thirty to see his London patients. He’s usually back by one and requires a good luncheon, which he likes served in his own sitting room. Because of his need sometimes to return for part of a day to London, his meals can be erratic, but they are always important. I shall discuss the menus with you in advance. Sister is responsible for all the patients’ needs, so I’ll ask her now to describe what she expects.”
    Sister Holland said, “The patients are required to fast