The Private Patient by P. D. James Page B

hour. Fresh-pressed orange juice, one poached egg on white toast, then wholemeal toast and marmalade. I’ll have it in my room.”
    The poached egg was a test. If it came perfectly cooked, the toast lightly buttered and neither hard nor soggy, she could depend on good food when she returned for her operation and a longer stay. She would return—and to this room. Putting on her dressing gown, she went to the window and saw the landscape of wooded valleys and hills. A mist lay over the valley, so that the rounded hilltops looked like islands in a pale-silver sea. It had been a clear and cold night. The grass on the narrow stretch of lawn under her windows was pale and stiffened by frost, but already the misty sun was beginning to green and soften it. On the high twigs of a leaf-denuded oak three rooks were perched, unusually silent and motionless, like carefully placed black portents. Below stretched a lime avenue which led to a low stone wall, and beyond it a small circle of stones. At first only the tops of the stones were visible, but as she watched, the mist rose and the circle became complete. At this distance, and with the ring partly obscured by the wall, she could see only that the stones were of different sizes, crude misshapen lumps around a central, taller stone. They must, she thought, be prehistoric. As she gazed, her ears caught the soft closing of the sitting-room door. Tea had arrived. Still gazing, she saw in the far distance a narrow strip of silver light and, with a lifting of the heart, realised that it must be the sea.
    Reluctant to leave the view, she stood for a few seconds before turning and saw, with a small shock of surprise, that a young woman had entered noiselessly and was standing silently regarding her. She was a slight figure wearing a blue-checked dress with a shapeless fawn cardigan over it, which proclaimed an ambiguous status. She was obviously not a nurse, yet had none of the assurance of a servant, the confidence born of a recognised and familiar job. Rhoda thought she was probably older than she looked, but the uniform, particularly the ill-fitting cardigan, diminished her into childhood. She had a pale face and straight brown hair drawn to one side in a long patterned slide. Her mouth was small, the top lip a perfect bow so full that it looked swollen, but the bottom thinner. Her eyes were pale blue and a little protuberant under straight brows. They were watchful, almost wary, even a little judgemental in their unblinking scrutiny.
    She said, in a voice which was more town than country, an ordinary voice with a hint of deference which Rhoda thought deceptive, “I’ve brought your morning tea, madam. I’m Sharon Bateman and I help in the kitchen. The tray’s outside. Do you want it in here?”
    â€œYes, in a moment. Is the tea freshly made?”
    â€œYes, madam. I brought it up immediately.”
    Rhoda was tempted to say that the word “madam” was inappropriate but let it pass. She said, “Then leave it for a couple of minutes to brew. I’ve been looking at the stone circle. I’ve been told about it but didn’t realise that it was so close to the Manor. Presumably it’s prehistoric.”
    â€œYes, madam. The Cheverell Stones. They’re quite famous. Miss Cressett says they’re over three thousand years old. She says stone circles are rare in Dorset.”
    Rhoda said, “Last night, when I was opening the curtain, I saw a light flickering. It looked like a torch. It came from that direction. Perhaps someone was walking among the stones. Presumably the circle attracts a lot of visitors.”
    â€œNot that many, madam. I don’t think most people know they’re here. The villagers keep away. It was probably Mr. Chandler-Powell. He’s fond of walking in the grounds at night. We didn’t expect him, but he arrived last night. No one from the village goes to the stones after dark. They’re scared