Original Sin

by P. D. James

  He said, it seemed to Mandy with a great sadness: ‘It was always too late. Anyway, the police won’t want the body interfered with.’

  Interfered with? The words struck Mandy as funny. She fought an impulse to giggle, knowing that if she gave way to giggling she would end by crying. Oh God, she thought, why doesn’t he bloody well do something?

  She said: ‘If you two stay here I could ring the police. Give me the key and tell me where the phone is.’

  Frances said dully: ‘In the hall. And the door’s open – at least I think it’s open.’ She turned to de Witt, suddenly frantic: ‘Oh my God, James, have I locked us out?’

  ‘No,’ he said patiently. ‘I’ve got the key. It was in the front door.’

  He was about to hand it to Mandy when their ears caught the sound of feet approaching down Innocent Lane and Gabriel Dauntsey and Sydney Bartrum appeared. They were both wearing raincoats and brought with them a sense of the reassuringly normal. Something about the three still figures, faces turned towards them, alerted them and their footsteps quickened to a run.

  Dauntsey said: ‘We heard voices. Is something wrong?’

  Mandy took the key but did not move. There was no hurry anyway; the police couldn’t save Mrs Carling. No one could help her now. And now two more faces were peering down, two more voices murmuring their horror.

  De Witt said: ‘She’s left a note. Here, on the railings. A fulmination against the whole lot of us.’

  Frances said again: ‘Please get her out.’

  And now it was Dauntsey who took control. Looking at him, at the skin which in the light of the globes was as sickly green as river weeds, at the lines scarring the face like black wounds, Mandy thought: he’s an old, old man. This shouldn’t happen to him. What can he do?

  He said to de Witt, ‘You and Sydney could lift her using the steps. I haven’t the strength.’

  His words galvanized James who made no further objection but began walking carefully down the slimy steps holding on to the railings. Mandy saw his involuntary shiver at the bite of the cold water on his legs. She thought, the best way would be for Mr de Witt to support the body from the steps and Mr Dauntsey and Mr Bartrum to pull on the strap, but they won’t want to do it that way. And, indeed, the thought of watching the drowned face rise slowly from the water while the men pulled on the strap, as if deliberately hanging her again, was so horrible that she wondered how the thought could have come into her mind. Again it seemed to her that they had forgotten her presence. Frances Peverell had moved a little apart, her hands grasping the railings, her eyes fixed on the river. Mandy guessed a little of what she was feeling. She wanted the body brought out of the water, the dreadful strap removed; she needed to stay until that was done but she couldn’t bear to watch it happening. But, for Mandy, to look away was more horrible than to watch. If she had to stay it was better to know than to imagine. And of course she had to stay. No one had again taken up her suggestion that she should take the key and ring the police. And there was no hurry. What did it matter if they came later than sooner? Nothing they brought with them, nothing they could do, could revive Mrs Carling.

  Now de Witt, descending gingerly, was in the water up to his knees. With his right hand he grasped the bottom of the railings and, with his left, he fumbled for the sodden clothing and began drawing the body towards him. The surface of the river broke into ripples and the strap slackened, then strained tight. He said: ‘If one of you could undo the buckle I think I could get her on to the steps.’

  Dauntsey’s voice was calm. He too was holding on to the railings as if for support. ‘Don’t let her drift away, James. And keep hold of the railings. We don’t want you in the river.’

  It was Bartrum who came down the first two steps and leaned over to undo the buckle. His hands were pale in the light from the globes, his fingers like swollen sausages. He took his time, fumbling, seeming unaware how the buckle worked.

  When at last it was released, de Witt said: ‘I’ll need both hands. Grasp hold of my jacket will you.’

  And now Dauntsey joined Bartrum on the second step. Together they steadied and held tightly to de Witt’s jacket while with both hands he drew the body towards him and released the strap from the neck. And now it lay sprawled face-downwards on the steps. De Witt took it by the legs which stuck out from the skirt like thin sticks and Bartrum and Dauntsey each took an arm. The sodden bundle was lifted up the steps and laid prone on the marble. Gently de Witt turned it over. Mandy had only one glimpse of the face, terrible in death, of the open mouth and protruding tongue, the eyes half opened under the crêped lids, the dreadful stigmata of death round her throat, before Dauntsey, with surprising speed, whipped off his coat and laid it over the body. From beneath the tweed a trickle of water, thin at first then stronger, crept over the marble, as dark as blood.

  Frances Peverell walked over to the body and knelt beside it. She said, ‘Poor woman. Oh, poor woman,’ and Mandy saw her lips move silently and wondered if she were praying. They waited in silence, the harsh gasps of their breath sounding unnaturally loud on the quiet air. The effort of raising the body from the water seemed to have drained de Witt and Bartrum of strength and decision, and it was Gabriel Dauntsey who took control.

  He said: ‘Someone had better stay by the body. Sydney and I will wait here. James, you take the women inside and phone the police. And we’ll all need hot coffee, or something stronger, and plenty of it.’

  47

  The front door of number 12 opened on to a narrow, rectangular hall and Mandy followed Frances Peverell and James de Witt up a flight of steep stairs carpeted in pale green. The staircase ended in another hall, squarer and larger with a door immediately ahead. Mandy found herself in a sitting-room which ran the whole length of the front of the house. The two tall windows leading to the balcony were curtained against the night and the river. There was a pile of smokeless coal in the basket by the grate. Mr de Witt took away the brass fireguard and settled Mandy in one of the high-backed chairs. Suddenly they were as solicitous of her as if she were a guest, perhaps, she thought, because fussing over her at least gave them something to do.

  Looking down at her, Miss Peverell said: ‘Mandy, I’m so very sorry. Two suicides and you found them both. First Miss Clements and now this. What can we give you? Coffee? Brandy? Or there’s red wine. But I don’t suppose you’ve eaten, have you? Are you hungry?’

  ‘I am rather.’

  She was, in fact, suddenly ravenous for food. The warm savoury smell pervading the flat was almost intolerable. Miss Peverell looked at Mr de Witt. She said: ‘We were going to have duck à l’orange. What about you, James?’

  ‘I’m not hungry but I’m sure Mandy is.’

  Mandy thought, she’s only got enough for two. Probably bought it from Μ & S. All right for those who can afford it! Miss Peverell had planned a cosy intimate dinner. And trouble, she saw, had been taken. A round table at the far end of the room had been set with white linen, three sparkling glasses at each setting, and a couple of low silver candlesticks with the candles still unlit. Moving closer she saw the salad had already been set out in small wooden bowls, delicate leaves in a variety of green and red, small toasted nuts, slivers of cheese. There was an open bottle of red wine and one of white in a wine cooler. Mandy had no appetite for the salad. What she craved was hot and savoury food.

  She could see, too, that Miss Peverell had taken trouble with more than the meal. The blue-green patterned dress with its pleated skirt and over-blouse tied with a bow at the side was real silk and it suited her colouring. Too old for her, of course, too conventional, a bit dull, and the skirt too long. It didn’t do much for her figure, which could have looked spectacular if Miss Peverell had known how to dress. The pearls gleaming against the silk were probably real. Mandy hoped Mr de Witt appreciated the efforts made for him. Mrs Demery had told her that he had been in love with Miss Peverell for years. Now with Mr Gerard out of the way it looked as if he was getting somewhere at l
ast.

  The duck came served with peas and small new potatoes. Mandy, her social insecurity swept away in a surge of hunger, fell upon it ravenously. They sat at the table with her. Neither ate but they both drank a glass of red wine. They waited on her with anxious care as if they felt somehow responsible for what had happened and were trying to make amends. Miss Peverell pressed her to a second helping of vegetables and Mr de Witt filled her glass. From time to time they went out together into the room she guessed was the kitchen and which overlooked Innocent Passage and she could hear the subdued mutter of their voices and knew that they were saying things they didn’t want to say in her presence while watching and listening for the arrival of the police.

  Their temporary absence gave her an opportunity to look more closely at the room as she ate. Its elegant simplicity was too formal, too conventional for Mandy’s more eccentric and iconoclastic taste, but she admitted to herself that it looked all right if this was the kind of thing you liked and had the money to afford. The colour scheme was conventional enough, soft blue-green with touches of rose-red. The curtains of draped satin hung from simple poles. At each side of the fireplace was an alcove fitted with bookshelves, the spines of the books gleaming in the firelight. On each top shelf was what looked like the marble head of a girl crowned with roses and closely veiled. They were probably meant to be brides but the veils, marvellously delicate and realistic, looked more like shrouds. Morbid, thought Mandy, cramming her mouth with duck. The picture over the mantelpiece was of an eighteenth-century mother holding her two daughters and was obviously original, as was a curious picture of a woman lying in bed in a room which reminded Mandy of her schoolgirl visit to Venice. The two winged armchairs, one on each side of the fire, were covered in plain linen in a faded pink, but only one chair, with its creased seat and back, looked as if it were much used. So that was where Miss Peverell sat, thought Mandy, facing an empty chair and beyond it the river. She supposed that the picture on the right-hand wall was an icon, but couldn’t imagine why anyone should want a Virgin Mary who looked so old and black, or an adult-looking baby who obviously hadn’t had a decent meal for weeks.

  She envied neither the room nor anything in it and thought with satisfaction of the large low attic which was her share of the rented house in Stratford East, the wall opposite the bed with her hats hung on a peg board, in a riotous flowering of ribbon, flowers and coloured felt: the single bed, just wide enough for two when a boyfriend occasionally spent the night, covered with its striped blanket, the drawing board which she used for her designs, the bean-bag cushions which littered the floor, the hi-fi and television, and the deep cupboard which held her clothes. There was only one room which she longed for more.

  Suddenly she paused, fork halfway to her mouth, and listened intently. Surely she could hear the grind of car-wheels on the cobbles. Seconds later James and Frances returned from the kitchen.

  James de Witt said: ‘The police have arrived. Two cars. We couldn’t see how many people they’ve brought.’ He turned to Frances Peverell, sounding for the first time uncertain, needing reassurance. ‘I wonder if I ought to go down.’

  ‘Oh surely not. They won’t want anyone extra there. Gabriel and Sydney can give them the facts. Anyway, I expect they’ll come up here when they’ve finished. They’ll want to talk to Mandy. She is the most important witness. She was there first.’ She sat down again at the table and said gently: ‘I expect you’re longing to get home, Mandy, and Mr de Witt or I will take you later, but I think you ought to stay until the police come.’

  It had never occurred to Mandy to do otherwise. She said: ‘That’s OK by me. They’ll think I’m bad luck, won’t they? Everywhere I go I find a suicide.’

  The words were only half in earnest, but to her surprise Miss Peverell cried out: ‘Don’t say that, Mandy! You mustn’t even think like that. That’s just superstition. Of course no one will think you’re bad luck! Look, Mandy, I don’t like to think of you being on your own tonight. Would you like to telephone your parents – your mother? Wouldn’t it be better to go home tonight? She could come here to collect you.’

  Like a bloody parcel, thought Mandy. She said: ‘I don’t know where she is,’ and was tempted to add, ‘You could always try the Red Cow at Ηayling Island.’

  But the words and the kindness that prompted them touched in her a previously unacknowledged need for female comfort, for the cosiness of that upstairs room off the Whitechapel Road. She wanted to smell the familiar frowst compounded of drink and Mrs Crealey’s scent, to curl up in front of the gas fire in the low chair which enclosed her like a womb, to hear outside the comforting rumble of the traffic on Whitechapel Road. She wasn’t at ease in this elegant flat, and these people, for all their kindness, weren’t her people. She wanted Mrs Crealey.

  She said: ‘I could telephone the agency. Mrs Crealey might still be there.’

  Frances Peverell looked surprised, but led Mandy upstairs into her bedroom. She said, ‘It will be more private for you here, Mandy, and there’s a bathroom next door if you need it.’

  The telephone was on the bedside table and above it hung a crucifix. Mandy had seen crucifixes before, usually outside churches, but this one was different. The Christ, almost beardless, looked very young and his head, instead of drooping in death, was flung back, the mouth wide as if he were crying for vengeance or pity to his God. Mandy thought it was not the kind of object she would like to find hanging beside her bed, but she knew that it had power. Religious people prayed before a crucifix and if they were lucky their prayers were answered. It was worth a try. Punching out Mrs Crealey’s office number she made herself gaze hard at the silver figure crowned with its bush of thorns and soundlessly formed the words: ‘Please make her answer, please let her be there. Please make her answer, please let her be there.’ But the telephone continued its intermittent ring and there was no reply.

  Less than five minutes later the doorbell rang. James de Witt went down and came back with Dauntsey and Bartrum.

  Frances Peverell said: ‘What’s happening, Gabriel? Is Commander Dalgliesh there?’

  ‘No, just Inspector Miskin and Inspector Aaron. Oh, and there’s that young detective sergeant and a photographer. They’re waiting now for the police surgeon to arrive and certify that she’s dead.’

  Frances cried: ‘But of course she’s dead! They don’t need a police surgeon to tell them that.’

  ‘I know, Frances, but it’s normal procedure apparently. No, I won’t have any wine, thank you. Sydney and I have been drinking at the Sailor’s Return since half past seven.’

  ‘Coffee then. What about coffee? You too, Sydney?’

  Sydney Bartrum seemed embarrassed. He said: ‘No thank you, Miss Peverell. I really have to go. I told my wife that I was meeting Mr Dauntsey for a quick drink and would be a little late, but I’m always home before ten.’

  ‘Of course you must go. She’ll be getting worried. Ring her from here.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’d better. Thank you.’ He followed her out of the room.

  De Witt asked: ‘How are they taking it – the police I mean?’

  ‘Professionally. How else would they take it? They aren’t saying much. I got the impression they were none too pleased that we’d moved the body, or even read the note for that matter.’

  De Witt poured himself another glass of wine.

  ‘What the hell did they expect us to do? And the note was addressed to us. If we hadn’t read it, I wonder if they would have told us what it said? They’ve been keeping us pretty much in the dark about Gerard’s death.’

  Gabriel said: ‘They’ll be up here as soon as the van comes to take her away.’ He paused, and then added: ‘I think I may have seen her arriving. Sydney and I agreed to be at the Sailor’s Return at half past seven and when I reached Wapping Way I saw a taxi turning into Innocent Walk.’

  ‘Did you see the passenger?’

  ‘I wasn’t really close enough. I probably wouldn’t have noticed he
r anyway. But I did see the driver. He was large and black. The police think that will be helpful in tracing him. Black drivers are still in a minority.’

  Bartrum had made his call and now returned. He said with his usual nervous clearing of his throat: ‘Well, I’d better be off. Thank you, Miss Peverell, I won’t stay for coffee. I want to get home. The police have said I needn’t stay. I’ve told them all I know, that I was with Mr Dauntsey in the pub from 7.30. If they want me again I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning. Business as usual.’

  The false jauntiness of his voice disconcerted them. For a moment, looking up from her meal, Mandy thought that he was going to shake hands all round. Then he turned and left, and Frances Peverell went to show him out. It seemed to Mandy that they were all glad to be rid of him.

  An uneasy silence fell; ordinary conversation, the small talk of a dinner party, chat about work, all seemed inappropriate, almost indecent. Innocent House and the horror of death were all they had in common. Mandy sensed that they would have been more at ease without her, that the bonds of shared shock and terror were loosening and that they were reminding themselves that she was only the temporary shorthand-typist, Mrs Demery’s companion in gossip, that the whole story would be round Innocent House next day and the less said by them now the better.

  From time to time one of them went to telephone Claudia Etienne. From their brief subsequent conversations Mandy gathered that she wasn’t at home. There was another number they could try but James de Witt said: ‘Better leave it. We’ll get her later. There’s nothing she can do here anyway.’