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Authors: P. D. James

Death in Holy Orders

BOOK: Death in Holy Orders
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“ABSORBING … [JAMES’S] PLOTTING AND CHARACTERIZATION [ARE] IMPECCABLE.”

Orlando Sentinel

“For the reader who cherishes the classic whodunit in which a master detective matches wits with a clever killer and, through ingenious deduction, brings the villain to justice, the news here is good. For the reader who relishes a novel in which delving into the human psyche is more rewarding than solving the puzzle, well, the news here is also good. In other words, P. D. James is back, blending with her customary skill the old (traditional detective story) and the new (psychological thriller).”


The San Diego Union-Tribune

“Character, plot, and setting take equal part in the work of P. D. James, and never have they been in greater supply than in
Death in Holy Orders
. Here, within the setting of a great Victorian mansion set on crumbling cliffs—a large cast of variously unscrupulous men and women is brought together in a tangle of murder, mayhem, betrayal, incest, and generally bad behavior.”


The New York Times Book Review

“A wonderful quality about James’s mysteries is that the setting is as rich in character as the people.”


USA Today

“BRILLIANT … A TRULY CLASSY WHODUNIT.”
—Texas
Times Record News

“P. D. James is the Shakespeare of mystery writers. When scholars study the genre 200 years from now, they’ll continue to marvel at her intricate language, plotting, and true-to-life characters. In short, she writes mysteries as literature.… As suspenseful as it is,
Death in Holy Orders
is equally as impressive for the almost God-like way Baroness James creates full-bodied characters.… This is another James for the ages.”


The Grand Rapids Press

“James’s characters—priests, students, incestuous lovers, nearly all with dark secrets to hide—are so deliciously sketched out.”


Entertainment Weekly

“[
Death in Holy Orders
] showcases P. D. James at the height of her incomparable powers.… This is a superbly crafted, meticulously layered novel, and one can only hope that P. D. James will go on writing forever.”


The Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Masterful … [A] superb whodunit, with [an] extraordinarily complex and nuanced plot and large cast of credible characters.”


Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“MAGNIFICENT …

P. D. James is a great writer at the very top of her art.… Always a master of her form, in this brilliant novel she seems to transcend it as she reflects on everything from contemporary politics and religion to the uses of literature, and ultimately to the veiled mysteries of the human heart.”


The Roanoke Times

“The revered Ms. James has created yet another classic detective story, intelligently built and with emotional depth and brilliantly drawn characters.… Ms. James has proved yet again that she is a master of the classic crime novel. Long may she reign.”


The Dallas Morning News

“This tightly woven but curiously expansive novel has all the elements that set P. D. James apart from even her most adroit contemporaries … a grasp of contemporary social, spiritual, and psychological nuance that pushes her stories well beyond mere whodunitry.”

—Raleigh
News & Observer

“It is a pleasure to put oneself in the hands of an author who savors the challenge of creating complex, believable characters and situations.… Dalgliesh, a marvelously sustained creation, remains the contemporary mystery novel’s most fully realized detective, a meditative, solitary man.”

—Memphis
Commercial Appeal

Also by P. D. James

FICTION

COVER HER FACE

A MIND TO MURDER

UNNATURAL CAUSES

SHROUD FOR A NIGHTINGALE

AN UNSUITABLE JOB FOR A WOMAN

THE BLACK TOWER

DEATH OF AN EXPERT WITNESS

INNOCENT BLOOD

THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN

A TASTE FOR DEATH

DEVICES AND DESIRES

THE CHILDREN OF MEN

ORIGINAL SIN

A CERTAIN JUSTICE

THE MURDER ROOM

THE LIGHTHOUSE

NONFICTION

THE MAUL AND THE PEAR TREE: THE RATCLIFFE HIGHWAY MURDERS, 1811 (with T. A. Critchley)

TIME TO BE IN EARNEST: A FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Death in Holy Orders
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2001 by P. D. James
Dossier copyright © 2007 by Random House, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

M
ORTALIS
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in Great Britain by Faber and Faber Limited, London, in 2001. Subsequently published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2001.

eISBN: 978-0-375-41384-1

www.mortalis-books.com

v3.1_r1

for Rosemary Goad
For forty years editor and friend

Contents
Author’s Note

In setting this story of murder and mystery in a Church of England theological college I would not wish to discourage candidates for the Anglican priesthood, nor to suggest for one moment that visitors to such a college in search of rest and spiritual renewal are in danger of finding a more permanent peace than they had in mind. It is the more important, therefore, to emphasize that St. Anselm’s is not based on any real theological college, past or present, and that its eccentric priests, its ordinands, staff and visitors are purely fictitious and exist only in the imagination of the writer and her readers.

I am very grateful to a number of people who have kindly helped me by answering my questions; any errors, theological or otherwise, are my own. I am particularly grateful to the late Archbishop Lord Runcie, the Reverend Dr. Jeremy Sheehy, the Reverend Dr. Peter Groves, Dr. Ann Priston OBE of the Forensic Science Service, and to my secretary, Mrs. Joyce McLennan, whose help with this novel went far beyond her skill with a computer.


P. D. James

BOOK ONE
THE KILLING SAND
1

I
t was Father Martin’s idea that I should write an account of how I found the body
.

I asked, “You mean, as if I were writing a letter, telling it to a friend?

Father Martin said, “Writing it down as if it were fiction, as if you were standing outside yourself, watching it happen, remembering what you did, what you felt, as if it were all happening to someone else.

I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t sure I knew where to begin. I said, “Everything that happened, Father, or just that walk along the beach, uncovering Ronald’s body?


Anything and everything you want to say. Write about the college and about your life here if you like. I think you might find it helpful.


Did you find it helpful, Father?

I don’t know why I spoke these words, they just came into my mind and I let them out. It was silly really, and in a way it was impertinent, but he didn’t seem to mind
.

After a pause he said, “No, it didn’t really help me, but then, it was all a very long time ago. I think it might be different for you.

I suppose he was thinking about the war and being taken prisoner by the Japanese, the awful events that happened in the camp. He never speaks about the war, but then, why should he do so to me? But I don’t think he speaks to anyone, not even to the other priests
.

This conversation happened two days ago, when we were walking together through the cloisters after Evensong. I don’t go to Mass any more, not since Charlie died,
but I do go to Evensong. It’s a matter of courtesy really. It doesn’t seem right working at the college, taking money from them, accepting all their kindness and never attending any of the services in the church. But perhaps I’m being too sensitive. Mr. Gregory lives in one of the cottages, as I do, and teaches Greek part-time, but he never attends church except when there is music he wants to hear. No one ever presses me to attend, they never even asked why I stopped coming to Mass. But of course they noticed; they notice everything
.

When I got back to my cottage I thought about what Father Martin had said and whether perhaps it might not be a good idea. I’ve never had any difficulty about writing. At school I was good at composition and Miss Allison, who taught us English, said she thought I might have the talent to be a writer. But I knew that she was wrong. I haven’t any imagination, not the kind novelists need. I can’t make things up. I can only write about what I see and do and know—and sometimes what I feel, which isn’t as easy. Anyway, I always wanted to be a nurse, even from childhood. I’m sixty-four and retired now, but I still keep my hand in here at St. Anselm’s. I’m partly the Matron, dealing with minor illnesses, and I also look after the linen. It’s an easy job but I’ve got a weak heart and I’m lucky to be working. The college makes it as easy as possible for me. They’ve even provided a lightweight trolley so that I’m not tempted to carry heavy bundles of linen. I ought to have said all this before. And I haven’t even written down my name. It’s Munroe, Margaret Munroe
.

I think I know why Father Martin suggested it would be helpful if I began writing again. He knows that I used to write a long letter to Charlie every week. I think he’s the only person here except Ruby Pilbeam who does know that. Every week I’d sit down and remember what had happened since the last letter, the small unimportant things which wouldn’t be unimportant to Charlie: the meals I ate, the jokes I heard, stories about the students, descriptions of the weather. You wouldn’t think there would be much to tell in a quiet place like this on the edge
of the cliffs, remote from anywhere, but it was surprising what I found to write to him. And I know Charlie loved the letters. “Keep on writing, Mum,” he would say when he was home on leave. And I did
.

After he was killed, the Army sent me back all his belongings and there was the bundle of letters among them. Not every one I’d written, he couldn’t have kept them all, but he did keep some of the longest. I took them onto the headland and made a bonfire. It was a windy day, as it often is on the East Coast, and the flames roared and spat and changed direction with the wind. The charred pieces of paper rose and whirled about my face like black moths and the smoke stung my nose. It was odd, because it was only a little fire. But what I’m trying to say is that I know why Father Martin suggested I should write this account. He thought that writing something—anything—might help to bring me back to life. He’s a good man, perhaps he’s even a holy man, but there’s so much he doesn’t understand
.

It seems strange to be writing this account without knowing who, if anyone, will ever see it. And I’m not sure whether I’m writing for myself or for some imaginary reader to whom everything about St. Anselm’s will be new and strange. So perhaps I ought to write something about the college, to set the scene, as it were. It was founded in 1861 by a pious lady called Miss Agnes Arbuthnot, who wanted to ensure that there would always be “devout and learned young men ordained to the Catholic priesthood in the Church of England.” I’ve put in the inverted commas because those are her words. There’s a booklet about her in the church and that’s how I know. She gave the buildings, the land and nearly all her furniture, and enough money—so she thought—to keep the college going for ever. But there never is enough money, and now St. Anselm’s has to be mainly financed by the Church. I know that Father Sebastian and Father Martin are afraid that the Church is planning to close it down. This fear is never openly discussed, and certainly not with the staff, though we all know. In a small and isolated community like St.
Anselm’s, news and gossip seem to be carried, unspoken, on the wind
.

BOOK: Death in Holy Orders
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