Original Sin

by P. D. James

  ‘Even on matters which concern the job?’

  ‘Particularly on matters which concern the job. Anyway, this doesn’t concern the job except indirectly. The programme was intended to make me feel outrage. OK, it was skilfully made. The producer didn’t labour the point. You couldn’t say it was unfair. But at the end they gave a number to the viewers so that they could ring to express disgust. All I’m saying is that I didn’t feel quite the disgust they obviously intended. Anyway, I dislike television programmes which try to tell me what I ought to feel.’

  ‘In that case you’d better stop watching documentaries.’

  A police launch, sleek and fast, came into view travelling upstream, its prow searchlight raking the darkness, its wake a white fishtail of foam. Then it was gone and the dishevelled surface subsided into a gentle heaving calm on which the reflected lights of the river pubs threw shining pools of silver. Small beads of foam floated out of the darkness to break against the river wall. A silence fell. They were standing about two feet apart, each looking out over the river. Then simultaneously they turned and their eyes met. Kate couldn’t see his expression from the one wall-lamp but she could feel his force and hear his quickened breathing. Suddenly she felt a charge of physical longing so strong that she had to put out a hand and steady herself against the wall to prevent herself from stepping forward into his arms.

  He said, ‘Kate,’ and made a quick move towards her, but she had known what was coming and she turned quickly aside. The movement was slight but unmistakable. He said gently: ‘What’s wrong, Kate?’ and then, his voice sardonic, ‘Wouldn’t AD like it?’

  ‘I don’t arrange my private life to suit AD.’

  He didn’t touch her. It would, she thought, have been easier if he had. She said: ‘Look, I’ve chucked a man I love because of the job. Why should I mess it up for someone I don’t love?’

  ‘Would it mess it up, your job or mine?’

  ‘Oh Daniel, doesn’t it always?’

  He said, a little teasingly, ‘You did tell me I should train myself to fancy intelligent women.’

  ‘But I didn’t offer to be part of the training.’

  His low laugh broke the tension. She liked him immensely, not least because, unlike most men, he could take rejection without rancour. But why not? Neither of them could pretend to be in love. She thought, both of us are vulnerable, both a little lonely, but this isn’t the answer.

  As they turned to go back into the pub, he asked: ‘If it were AD here with you now, if he asked you to go home with him, would you?’

  She thought for a few seconds, then decided he deserved honesty.

  ‘Probably. Yes I would.’

  ‘And would that be love or sex?’

  ‘Neither,’ she said. ‘Call it curiosity.’

  45

  On Monday morning Daniel telephoned the switchboard at Innocent House and asked George Copeland to call in at Wapping during his lunch break. He arrived just after half past one, bringing into the room with him a weight of apprehension and tension which seemed to encumber the very air. When Kate suggested that the room was warm and that he might like to take off his coat, he did so at once, as if the suggestion had been a command, but looked after it with anxious eyes as Daniel received it and hung it up, as if fearing that this was the first stage of some premeditated divestation. Looking at the childlike face, Daniel thought that it must have changed little since he was a boy. The round cheeks with their moons of red, definite as patches, had the smoothness of rubber, an incongruous contrast to the dry thatch of grey hair. The eyes had a look of strained hopefulness and the voice, attractive but diffident, was, he suspected, more ready to propitiate than to assert. Probably bullied at school, thought Daniel, and been kicked around since. But apparently he had found his niche at Innocent House in a job which seemed to suit him and which he obviously did satisfactorily. How long, he wondered, would that have lasted under the new dispensation?

  Kate had settled him opposite her with more courtesy than she would have shown Claudia Etienne, or any of the other male suspects, but he sat facing her across the desk as rigid as a board, his hands like paws, close-fisted, in his lap.

  Kate said: ‘Mr Copeland, on the night of Mr Etienne’s engagement party on the 10th of July you were seen with Mrs Bartrum coming down from the archives floor at Innocent House. What were you doing there?’

  The question was gently put, but the effect was as devastating as if Kate had physically pinned him up against the wall and screamed in his face. He seemed literally to sink in his chair and the red moons flamed and grew, then faded, leaving him so pale that Daniel instinctively moved closer, half expecting him to faint.

  Kate said: ‘Do you admit that you did go to the top floor?’

  He found his voice: ‘Not to the archives room, not there. Mrs Bartrum wanted to use the toilet. I took her to the one on the top floor and waited outside.’

  ‘Why didn’t she use the lavatories in the women’s cloakroom on the first floor?’

  ‘She tried, but both cubicles were occupied and there was a queue. She was – she was in a hurry.’

  ‘So you took her upstairs. But why did she ask you, rather than one of the women staff?’

  It was a question which, Daniel thought, could more reasonably have been put to Mrs Bartrum. No doubt in time it would be.

  Now Copeland was silent. Kate persisted: ‘Wouldn’t it have been more natural for her to have asked one of the women?’

  ‘It might have been, but she was shy. She didn’t know any of them, and I was there on the desk.’

  ‘And she knew you, is that it?’ He didn’t answer, but he gave a little nod. Kate said: ‘How well does she know you?’

  And now, looking full in her face, he replied: ‘She’s my daughter.’

  ‘Mr Sydney Bartrum is married to your daughter? So that explains it. It’s all perfectly natural and understandable. She came to you because you’re her father. But that isn’t generally known, is it? Why the secrecy?’

  ‘If I tell you, does it have to go any further? Do you have to say that I’ve told?’

  ‘We don’t have to tell anyone else except Commander Dalgliesh and it won’t then go further unless it’s relevant to our inquiry. We can’t decide that unless you explain.’

  ‘It was Mr Bartrum – Sydney – who wanted it kept silent. He wanted it kept a secret, at least at the beginning. He’s a good husband, he loves her, they’re happy together. Her first husband was a brute. She tried to make a success of the marriage but I think it was a relief when he walked out. There had always been other women and he went off with one of them. They got a divorce, but it hit her very hard. She lost all her confidence. Luckily there were no children.’

  ‘How did she meet Mr Bartrum?’

  ‘She came to collect me from work one day. I’m usually the last out, so no one saw her except Mr Bartrum. His car wouldn’t start so Julie and I offered him a lift. When he got to his house he invited us in for coffee. I suppose he thought he had to. That’s when it began. They started writing to each other. He went down at weekends to Basingstoke, where she lived and worked, to see her.’

  ‘But surely people at Innocent House knew that you had a daughter?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They knew I was a widower but they never asked about my family. It wasn’t as if Julie lived with me. She worked in the tax office in Basingstoke and she wasn’t often at home. I think they must have known, but they didn’t ask about her. That’s why the secrecy was so easy when they married.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t people know?’

  ‘Mr Bartrum – Sydney – said he wanted to keep his private life private, that his marriage was nothing to do with Peverell Press, that he didn’t want the junior staff gossiping about his personal affairs. He didn’t invite any of them to the wedding but he did tell the directors that he was married. Well, of course he had to because of changing his tax code. And later he told them about the baby and showed everyone her photograph. He
’s very proud of her. I think to begin with he didn’t want people to know that he’d married – well, that he’d married the receptionist’s daughter. Perhaps he was afraid that he’d lose face with the staff here. He was brought up in an orphanage, and forty years ago institutions for children were different from how they are today. He was despised at school, made to feel inferior, and I don’t think he ever forgot it. He’s always been a little over-concerned about his status in the firm.’

  ‘And what does your daughter think about all this, the secrecy, concealing the fact that Mr Bartrum is your son-in-law?’

  ‘I don’t think that worries her. She’s probably forgotten by now. It’s not as if the firm is part of her life. She’s only been in Innocent House once since they were married and that was for Mr Gerard’s engagement party. She wanted to see inside the house, see number 10 and the room where he worked. She loves him. They’ve got the baby now, they’re happy together. He’s changed her life. And it’s not as if I don’t see them out of the office. I visit nearly every weekend. I see Rosie – the baby – whenever I like.’

  He looked from Daniel to Kate, imploring them to understand, then said: ‘I know it seems strange and I think Sydney regrets it now. He’s more or less said so. But I can see how it happened. He asked us on impulse to keep it secret and the longer we did the more impossible it was to tell the truth. And no one asked. No one was interested in whom he married. No one asked me about my daughter. People are only interested in your family if you talk about them, and even then it’s mostly just politeness. They don’t really care. It would be very hurtful to Mr Bartrum – to Sydney – if it came out now. And I wouldn’t like him to think that I told you. Does it need to go any further?’

  ‘No,’ said Kate, ‘I don’t think it does.’

  He seemed reassured and Daniel helped him into his coat. When he came back from seeing him off the premises he found Kate pacing the room in a furious temper.

  ‘Of all the bloody pompous stupid snobs! That man is worth ten of Bartrum. Oh, I can see how it happened, all right, the social insecurity I mean. He’s the only one of the senior staff – isn’t he? – who hasn’t been to Oxbridge. These things seem to matter to your sex. God knows why. And it tells you something about Peverell Press, doesn’t it? That man has worked for them for – how long? – nearly twenty years, and they’ve never even inquired about his daughter.’

  Daniel said: ‘If they had asked he would have replied that she was now married and very happy, thank you. But why should they inquire? AD doesn’t inquire about your home life. Would you want him to? I can see how it began, the first snobbish impulse to keep it secret and then the realization that he had to go on keeping it a secret unless he wanted to look a fool. I wonder how much Bartrum would pay to prevent it being known. At least we know now why Copeland and Mrs Bartrum were on the top floor together. Not that he needed an excuse to be there, he can go up any time. That’s one small problem out of the way.’

  Kate said: ‘Not really. They were all pretty discreet at Innocent House, particularly the partners, but we’ve heard enough from Mrs Demery and the junior staff to get a good idea of what was going on. With Gerard Etienne as boss, how long do you think either Bartrum or Copeland would have lasted in their jobs? Copeland loves his daughter and she loves her husband – God knows why but apparently she does. They’re happy together, they’ve got a child. There was a lot at stake for both of them, wasn’t there, Bartrum and Gopeland? And don’t forget one thing about George Copeland. He’s the handyman. He does the repairs. He’s one of the people at Innocent House who would have had no trouble in disconnecting that gas fire. And he could have done it safely at any time. The only person who regularly uses the little archives room is Gabriel Dauntsey and he never lights the gas. He takes in his own electric fire if he needs it. This isn’t one small problem out of the way. It’s one more bloody complication.’

  BOOK FOUR

  Evidence in Writing

  46

  On the evening of Thursday, 21 October Mandy left the office an hour later than usual. She was to meet her housemate, Maureen, at the White Horse on the Wan-stead Road for a pub meal followed by a gig. The outing was a double celebration; it was Maureen’s nineteenth birthday and the drummer in the band, the Devils on Horseback, was her current boyfriend. The gig was due to begin at eight but the party would meet at the pub an hour earlier for a preliminary meal. Mandy had brought a change of clothes to the office in her bike pannier and planned to go straight to the White Horse. The prospect of the evening, and in particular of meeting again the band leader, Roy, whom she had decided that she rather fancied, or was prepared to fancy if the evening went well, had cast a glow of happy anticipation over the day which not even Miss Blackett’s silent and almost manic concentration on work could dim. Miss Blackett was now working for Miss Claudia, who had moved into her dead brother’s office. Three days after his death Mandy had overheard Mr de Witt encouraging her.

  ‘It’s what he would have wanted. You’re chairman and managing director now, or will be when we’ve got round to passing the necessary resolution. We can’t just leave the room empty. Gerard wouldn’t have wanted it kept as a shrine.’

  A few of the staff had left immediately, but those who remained, either by choice or necessity, found themselves bound by an unacknowledged comradeship and shared experience. Together they waited and wondered and, when the partners weren’t present, speculated and gossiped Mandy’s bright eyes and keen ears missed nothing. It seemed to her now that Innocent House held her in some mysterious thrall. She came to work each morning energized with a mixture of excitement and anticipation spiced with fear. That small bare room in which, on her first day, she had stood looking down at the body of Sonia Clements possessed her imagination so powerfully that the whole top floor, still securely locked by the police, had assumed some of the terrifying potency of a child’s fairy-tale, Bluebeard’s lair, the forbidden territory of horror. She hadn’t seen Gerard Etienne’s body but in imagination it shone with the vivid imagery of a dream. Sometimes before sleep she would picture the two bodies there together, Miss Clements lying in her sad decrepitude, the half-naked male body sprawled on the floor beside her; would watch terrified while the dull and lifeless eyes blinked and brightened and the snake pulsated into slimy life, red tongue darting to find the dead mouth, the muscles tightening to squeeze out breath. But these imaginings, she knew, were still controllable. Secure in the knowledge of her own innocence, never feeling herself seriously at risk, she could enjoy the half-guilty exhilaration of simulated terror. But she knew that Innocent House was contaminated with a fear which went beyond her self-indulgent imaginings. She would begin to smell the fear like a river fog as she dismounted from her bike in the mornings, and it strengthened and engulfed her as she stepped over the portal. She saw fear in George’s anxious gaze as he greeted her, in Miss Blackett’s taut face and restless eyes, in Mr Dauntsey’s steps as, suddenly an old man, all vigour drained, he drew himself painfully up the stairs. She heard fear in the voices of all the partners.

  On the Wednesday morning, just before ten o’clock, Miss Claudia had summoned the staff to a meeting in the boardroom. They had all been there, even George, his switchboard left on the answerphone, and Fred Bowling from the launch. Chairs had been brought in to form a half-circle and the other three partners had sat at the table, Miss Claudia with Miss Peverell on her right and Mr de Witt and Mr Dauntsey on her left. When the call to the meeting came, Miss Blackett had put down the telephone and said, ‘You, too, Mandy. You’re one of us now,’ and Mandy, despite herself, had felt a small surge of gratification. They had seated themselves, a little selfconsciously filling the second row first, and Mandy had been aware of the collected weight of excitement, anticipation and anxiety.

  When the last arrival scurried red-faced to her chair in the front row and the door was closed, Miss Claudia said: ‘Where is Mrs Demery?’

  It was Miss Blackett who answered. ‘Perhaps she
thought she wasn’t included.’

  ‘Everyone is included. Find her will you please, Blackie.’

  Miss Blackett hurried out and, within a couple of minutes during which the meeting waited in total silence, reappeared with Mrs Demery, still wearing her apron. She opened her mouth as if to make some derogatory comment, then, obviously thinking better of it, closed it and took the only remaining chair in the middle of the front row.

  Miss Claudia spoke: ‘First of all I would like to thank you all for your loyalty. My brother’s death and the method of it has been a horrible shock for us all. This is a difficult time for Peverell Press, but I hope and believe that we shall come through it together. We have a responsibility to our authors and to the books which they expect us to publish to the same high standard that has characterized the Peverell Press for over two hundred years. I have now been informed of the result of the inquest. My brother died of carbon-monoxide poisoning, obviously from the gas fire in the little archives room. Precisely how that death occurred the police aren’t yet able to say. I know that Commander Dalgliesh or one of his officers has already spoken to all of you. There will probably be continued interviews and I know that all of you will do what you can to help the police in their inquiries, as shall we the partners.

  ‘A word about the future. You have probably heard rumours about plans to sell Innocent House and move down-river. All those plans are now in abeyance. Things will continue as they are, at least until the end of the financial year next April. Much will depend on the success of our autumn list and on how well we do over Christmas. The list is particularly strong this year and we are all optimistic. But I have to tell you that there is no prospect of anyone getting a rise in pay during the rest of this year and all the partners have agreed to take a 10 per cent cut. There will be no more changes in the present staff, at least until next April, but inevitably there will have to be some reorganization: I shall be taking over as chairman and managing director, at first in an acting capacity. This means that I shall be responsible for production, accounts and the warehouse as was my brother. Miss Peverell will take over my present responsibilities as sales and publicity director, and Mr de Witt with Mr Dauntsey will add contracts and rights to their editorial responsibilities. We have recruited Virginia Scott-Headley from Herne & Illingworth to assist Maggie in publicity. She is highly competent and experienced and she will also help with the spate of press and outside inquiries about my brother’s death. George has been fielding most of it magnificently but when Miss Scott-Headley arrives all those calls will be directed to publicity. I don’t think there is anything else I need to say except that Peverell Press is the oldest independent publisher in the country and all we partners are determined that it shall survive and flourish. That is all. Thank you for coming. Are there any questions?’