‘Absolutely,’ Emily said with warmth. ‘I’d never be able to get anyone to talk to me if I couldn’t promise that. Shall we do the food bit now, and get it out of the way? Then we can talk.’
The waiter came up and took their order: Emily went for the old-fashioned sausage sandwich; Mrs Taylor rather doubtfully chose the scampi and salad. She was very thin and looked as though remaining so was probably another demand of the job. She seemed in her forties, though under the professional, enamelled make-up she might have been older. Her dark brown hair was innocent of any thread of grey, and was glossy and immaculately cut; she wore pearl earrings and a string of pearls around the neck of her blouse; her hands were well kept with short but painted nails, and a heavy diamond band next to her wedding-ring. And she exuded an air of calm and efficiency, so that to Emily she seemed perfect for a medical secretary.
‘So, Mrs Taylor,’ Emily began when the waiter had gone away.
‘Oh, please call me Ros. Everyone does.’
‘Fine, Ros, then. And I’m Emily.
‘You said – Emily Stonax – you weren’t related to—?’
‘Ed Stonax was my father,’ Emily said, trying not to sound stilted about it. But she still found it hard to talk about him, except to those who had been closest to her during the investigation: Atherton, Slider and Joanna. It was perhaps part of why she felt so strongly for them.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ros said, holding her eyes in a way that suggested she was used to dealing with extreme emotions. ‘Was it tactless to mention it? But I thought him a fine journalist. You must be very proud to be following in his footsteps.’
‘I miss him,’ Emily said. ‘But let’s not talk about that. Tell me about when you were David Rogers’s secretary.’
‘Oh, I was never secretary to Mr Rogers. The papers at the time got that wrong, but it didn’t seem important to correct it. Let me explain. You see, there were three doctors sharing the premises. There was dear old Dr Freeling – he’s retired now. Lovely man, lovely to work for. I was his secretary. We had the ground floor. Private general practice. Then there was Mr Rogers and Mr Webber upstairs. They were old friends. We called Mr Rogers the Beauty Doctor.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a rather insulting nickname for plastics specialists who go in for that side of things rather than the reconstructive, but in his case we didn’t mean it unkindly. It was mostly because he was so handsome – goodness, you’d get goosebumps just looking at him! But he was nice with it. Always polite and pleasant, not arrogant like some of these good-looking men can be.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Emily said, since she seemed to want encouraging at that point.
‘He could wind anyone round his little finger. Well, I suppose in his line he really needed the bedside manner. His patients adored him. And then there was Mr Webber – Sir Bernard Webber he is now. The urologist.’ She wrinkled her nose a little. ‘He was supposed to be charming, too, but I never really took to him. Not that it mattered, because I had very little to do with him. And his secretary, Stephanie, spoke highly of him, but there was something a bit – I don’t know . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose he was more of a man’s man. He was one of these clubbable types, do you know what I mean? On all sorts of committees, had the ear of important people, knew how to get things done. I always picture him leaning on a bar in some golf club buying drinks and telling after-dinner jokes.’
The waiter arrived with their food and she stopped. When everything was arranged and he had departed, Emily said, ‘Go on. About that day – the incident.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, it was one of Mr Rogers’s patients – a Mrs Lescroit. Young – in her twenties – and very pretty. I’d seen her go past my office when she came in – I always kept the door open and my desk faced the hall, because I had to sign for deliveries. And Dr Freeling liked me to know who was going in and out. Anyway, I saw Mrs Lescroit go up. She was slim, gorgeous legs. Made-up regardless and very well dressed – well, all the patients were well off. You don’t run a Harley Street consultancy on low fees.’
‘What had she come in for?’ Emily asked. ‘It said in the papers “a minor procedure”, whatever that was.’
Ros wrinkled her brow. ‘Do you know, I can’t remember. Or perhaps I never knew. Something like the removal of a mole, was it? Anyway, it was after the procedure, and she was lying on the daybed in the ante-room, recovering.’
‘She’d been anaesthetized?’ Emily queried.
‘Not a general, of course. She’d had a local anaesthetic, and an injection of Valium to keep her happy, so she was woozy but not unconscious during the procedure. Well, when the rumpus started my Dr Freeling told me to run upstairs and see what was happening. I dashed up and came into the middle of it. Mrs Lescroit said she’d been dozing lightly, and woke to find someone was touching her – you know, her down-theres.’ She nodded, closed- lipped, to emphasize the awfulness of it. ‘The vertical blinds were closed so it was dim in the room, and she was only half awake, and apparently she said, “What are you doing, doctor?” And he murmured to her, “Oh, call me David.” Then she started struggling and he got up and hurried out, and she woke up properly and started making a hullabaloo. When I got there Eunice, Mr Rogers’s nurse, was in there with her. Mr Rogers was standing in the corridor outside the room, and Mr Webber came out from his office, grabbed his arm and sort of bundled him into his room – Mr Rogers’s room – and slammed the door. Seconds later he’s out again and in the ante-room calming Mrs Lescroit down. It was amazing to watch him in action,’ she added. ‘He seemed to be everywhere at once, handling everything, talking to everyone, smoothing it all over. I got sent down to tell Dr Freeling it was all under control and to fetch some brandy.’
‘For Mrs Lescroit?’ Emily surmised.
Ros smiled. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t for Mr Webber. Anyway, Dr Freeling went up and there was all sorts of confabulation, but Mrs Lescroit insisted the police must be called and even the brandy wouldn’t change her mind. So Mr Rogers got taken away. He looked terribly shocked. Claimed it was all a mistake. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’
‘There must have been a terrible scandal,’ Emily suggested.
‘Well, there was and there wasn’t. Of course, everyone in the business knew about it, and there was some stuff in the papers, but not nearly as bad as it might have been. In the end Mr Webber got it all hushed up, Mrs Lescroit agreed to a large lump sum and there were no charges. We were all sworn to secrecy – not that we’d have talked anyway. You don’t keep your job in Harley Street if you’re thought to be a blabber. There had to be a GMC enquiry, of course, but Mr Webber was very well in with them and he squared it so that in the end Mr Rogers wasn’t struck off, provided he didn’t work with patients any more.’
‘What can a doctor do that doesn’t involve patients?’
‘Oh, lab work, research, lecturing, that sort of thing. Pharmacology. Pathology,’ she added with a twinkle. ‘I’m pretty sure Mr Webber fixed him up with something – they were great friends after all. I have an idea he became a rep for a pharmaceutical company, but I’m not sure,’ she finished vaguely. ‘He left our building and I didn’t really keep up with him. And not long after that Mr Webber left as well. We got new people in, but I think the upset had been too much for my dear old Dr Freeling because he decided to retire – but not until he’d got me an interview for another job, round the corner in Devonshire Street. That was the sort of man he was, bless him. A real old- fashioned gentleman.’
‘So everyone came out of it all right,’ Emily mused. ‘Quite an operator, your Mr Webber.’
‘Not
‘So were you surprised at what Mr Rogers had done?’ Emily asked, avoiding the question. ‘He was a bit of a ladies’ man, I gather?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said cautiously, ‘but you couldn’t help liking him. And it wasn’t the sort of thing you’d expect of him. I mean, he was so attractive he could have had anyone he wanted – he didn’t have to resort to groping patients. I know he was married, but there was plenty of talk about him having lady-friends. In fact –’ she lowered her voice and her head and looked at Emily from under her eyebrows – ‘there was a rumour going round that he was having an affair with Eunice, his nurse, at the time, though I don’t know if that was true or not.’ She straightened up. ‘Given what a tartar his wife was, it was hard to blame him.’
‘You knew her?’
‘Oh, not really – only seen her once or twice, but she didn’t look the sort to enjoy a cuddle and a giggle. Terribly high-nosed and haughty. Always looked down her nose at us mere minions. Though I suppose she had
