by P. D. James
“Which they’ll be lucky to find. And even if they do and the copy, after four years, is as clear as the one you so carelessly lost, I shall still have my defence. Obviously I have a double somewhere in England. Or he could have been a foreign visitor. Let’s say that I have a double somewhere in the world. Is that so unusual? Finding any real proof that I was in the United Kingdom in 1977 will get more difficult with every month that passes. In a year or so I should have felt safe even from Clarissa. And even if they can prove I was here that doesn’t make me a murderer or a murderer’s accomplice. Simon Lessing’s death was suicide and it was he, not I, who killed Clarissa. He confessed the truth to me before he disappeared. He fractured her skull, beat her face to pulp in his hatred and disgust, then made his escape through the bathroom window. And last night, unable any longer to face the truth of what he’d done or its consequences, he tried to kill himself. Despite your heroic attempt to save him, he succeeded. It was fortunate that he didn’t take you with him. I had no hand in any of it. That, Cordelia, is my story and nothing you choose to fabricate can disprove it.”
“Why should I want to fabricate? Why should I lie?”
“That’s what the police asked me. I had to reply that the imagination of young women is notoriously fertile and that you had, after all, been through an appalling experience. I added that you are the proprietress of a detective agency which—forgive me, I’m judging from externals—isn’t exactly prospering. You’d have to spend a fortune to get the kind of publicity that this case will bring you if it ever comes to trial.”
“Hardly the kind of publicity anyone would want. Failure.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too depressed about that. You showed admirable courage and intelligence. ‘Above the call of duty’ is how poor George Ralston would put it. I think that George will feel that he’s had value for money.”
He added: “If you persist in going on with this it will be my word against yours. Simon’s dead. Nothing can touch him further. It isn’t going to be comfortable for either of us.”
Did he think that she hadn’t thought of that, of the long months of waiting, the interrogations, the trauma of the trial, the speculative eyes, the verdict which could brand her as a liar, or worse, a publicity-crazed hysteric? She said: “I know. But then I’m not much used to comfort.”
So he was going to make a fight for it. Even as he watched her rescue last night he must have been planning, scheming, perfecting his lies. He would use every ounce of his skill, his reputation, his knowledge, his intelligence. He would hold onto his private kingdom until his last breath. She glanced up at him, at the half smile, the calm, almost exultant confidence. Already he was rejoicing in the release from boredom, buoyant with the euphoria of success. He would buy the best advice, the most prestigious lawyers. But essentially it would be his fight and he wouldn’t yield an inch now or later.
And if he succeeded, how would he live with the memory of what he had done? Easily enough. As easily as Clarissa had lived with the memory of Viccy’s death, Sir George with his guilt over Carl Blythe. You didn’t need to believe in the sacrament of penance to find expedients for coping with guilt. She had hers; he would contrive his. And was it so very remarkable, what had happened to him? Somewhere, every minute of every day, a man or woman was suddenly faced with an overwhelming temptation. It had gone ill with Ambrose Gorringe. But what had he been able to draw upon at the core of his being which could give him the strength to resist? Perhaps if you opted out long enough from human concerns, from human life with all its messiness, you opted out also from human pity.
She said: “Please leave me. I want you to go away.”
But he didn’t move. After a moment she heard him say, quietly and gently: “I’m sorry, Cordelia. I’m sorry.”
And then, as if aware for the first time of that silent uniformed watcher he added: “Your first visit to Courcy Island hasn’t been as happy for you as I hoped. I wish it could have been otherwise. Please forgive me.”
She knew that this was the only admission that he would ever make. It had no validity in law. It would never be given in evidence. But she believed, almost despite herself, that it had been sincere.
She watched him as he walked briskly towards his castle. At the doorway Chief Inspector Grogan appeared and moved out to meet him. Without speaking they went inside together.
And still she sat and waited. A uniformed officer, painfully young and with the face of a Donatello angel, came across to her. He blushed and said: “There’s a telephone call for you, Miss Gray. In the library.”
Miss Maudsley was trying hard not to sound fussed but her voice was close to panic.
“Oh, Miss Gray, I do hope it’s all right to call you. The young man who answered said that it was. He was so helpful. But I wondered when you’ll be coming home. There’s a new case just in. It’s terribly urgent, a lost Siamese kitten, a seal point. It belongs to a child who is just out of hospital after her leukemia treatment and she’s only had it a week. It was a coming-home present. She’s dreadfully distressed. Bevis is at another audition. If I go there’s no one to look after the office. And Mrs. Sutcliffe has just rung. Her Pekinese, Nanki-Poo, is lost again. She wants someone to go round at once.”
Cordelia said: “Put a notice on the door to say that we’ll be open at nine o’clock tomorrow. Then lock up and start looking for the kitten. Ring Mrs. Sutcliffe and tell her I’ll call round this evening about Nanki-Poo. I’m just on my way to the inquest, but Chief Inspector Grogan will ask for an adjournment. It shouldn’t take long. And then I’ll catch the mid-afternoon train.”
Putting down the receiver, she thought: and why not? The police would know where to find her. She wasn’t yet free of Courcy Island. Perhaps she never would be. But she had a job waiting for her. It was a job that needed doing, one that she was good at. She knew that it couldn’t satisfy her for ever but she didn’t despise its simplicities, almost she welcomed them. Animals didn’t torment themselves with the fear of death, or torment you with the horror of their dying. They didn’t burden you with their psychological problems. They didn’t surround themselves with possessions, nor live in the past. They didn’t scream with pain because of the loss of love. They didn’t expect you to die for them. They didn’t try to murder you.
She walked through the drawing room and out to the terrace. Grogan and Buckley were waiting for her, standing motionless, Grogan at the prow of the police launch, Buckley at the stern. In their still intensity they looked like unweaponed knights standing guardian over some fabled vessel, waiting to bear their king to Avalon. She paused and regarded them, feeling the concentrated gaze of their unwavering eyes, aware that the moment held a significance which all three recognized but which none of them would ever put into words. They were struggling with their own dilemma. How far could they rely on her sanity, her honesty, her memory, her nerve? How far dare they trust their reputations to her fortitude when the going got rough? How would she acquit herself if the case ever came to trial and she found herself standing in that loneliest of places, the witness box of the Crown Court? But she felt distanced from their preoccupations as if nothing that they could do or think or plan had any relevance to her. It would all pass as they and she would pass. Time would take their story and fold it with the half-forgotten legends of the island: Carl Blythe’s lonely death, Lillie Langtry sweeping down the great staircase, the crumbling skulls of Courcy.
Suddenly she felt inviolate. The police would have to make their own decisions. She had already made hers, without hesitation and without a struggle. She would tell the truth, and she would survive. Nothing could touch her. She hitched her bag more firmly on her shoulder and moved resolutely towards the launch. For one sunlit moment it was as if Courcy Island and all that had happened during that fateful weekend was as unconcerned with her life, her future, her steadily beating heart, as was the blue uncaring sea.
P. D. James is the author of twenty-one books, most of which have been filmed for telev
ision. She spent thirty years in various departments of the British Civil Service, including the Police and Criminal Law Departments of Great Britain’s Home Office. She has served as a magistrate and as a governor of the BBC. The recipient of many prizes and honours, she was created Baroness James of Holland Park in 1991 and was inducted into the International Crime Writing Hall of Fame in 2008. She lives in London and Oxford.
