by P. D. James
“I don’t think so.”
“Or by bothering the Sûreté about that French girl who Miss Markland claims visited him at the cottage?”
“I think we can spare ourselves that embarrassment. There’s only one person now alive who knows the truth of these crimes and she’s proof against any interrogation we can use. I can comfort myself with the reason. With most suspects we have an invaluable ally lurking at the back of their minds to betray them. But whatever lies she’s been telling, she’s absolutely without guilt.”
“Do you think that she’s deluded herself that it’s all true?”
“I don’t think that young woman deludes herself about anything. I took to her, but I’m glad I shan’t be encountering her again. I dislike being made to feel during a perfectly ordinary interrogation that I’m corrupting the young.”
“So we can tell the Minister that his chum died by his own hand?”
“You can tell him that we are satisfied that no living finger pressed that trigger. But perhaps not. Even he might be capable of reasoning that one out. Tell him that he can safely accept the verdict of the inquest.”
“It would have saved a great deal of public time if he’d accepted it in the first place.”
The two men were silent for a moment. Then Dalgliesh said: “Cordelia Gray was right. I ought to have enquired what happened to Bernie Pryde.”
“You couldn’t be expected to. That wasn’t part of your duties.”
“Of course not. But then one’s more serious neglects seldom are part of one’s duty. And I find it ironic and oddly satisfying that Pryde took his revenge. Whatever mischief that child was up to in Cambridge, she was working under his direction.”
“You’re becoming more philosophical, Adam.”
“Only less obsessive, or perhaps merely older. It’s good to be able to feel occasionally that there are some cases which are better left unsolved.”
The Kingly Street building looked the same, smelt the same. It always would. But there was one difference. Outside the office a man was waiting, a middle-aged man in a tight blue suit, pig eyes sharp as flint among the fleshy folds of his face.
“Miss Gray? I’d nearly given you up. My name’s Fielding. I saw your plate and just came up by chance, don’t you know.” His eyes were avaricious, prurient. “Well now, you’re not quite what I expected, not the usual kind of Private Eye.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Fielding?”
He gazed furtively round the landing, seeming to find its sordidness reassuring.
“It’s my lady friend. I’ve reason to suspect that she’s getting a bit on the side. Well—a man likes to know where he stands. You get me?”
Cordelia fitted the key into the lock. “I understand, Mr. Fielding. Won’t you come in?”
P. D. James is the author of twenty-one books, most of which have been filmed for television. 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.
