An Unsuitable Job for a Woman

by P. D. James

  “Will you please describe to the court how you found Sir Ronald.”

  “He seemed to be tired and distracted. I tried to explain why I wanted to give up the case but I’m not sure that he heard me. He said I was to come back next morning for my money and I said that I had only proposed to charge expenses, but that I would like to have my gun. He just waved a hand in dismissal and said, ‘Tomorrow morning, Miss Gray. Tomorrow morning.’ ”

  “And then you left him?”

  “Yes, sir. Miss Leaming accompanied me back to the car and I was just about to drive away when we heard the shot.”

  “You didn’t see the gun in Sir Ronald’s possession while you were in the study with him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He didn’t talk to you about Mr. Lunn’s death or give you any idea that he was contemplating suicide?”

  “No, sir.”

  The coroner doodled on the pad before him. Without looking at Cordelia, he said: “And now, Miss Gray, will you please explain to the court how Sir Ronald came to have your gun.”

  This was the difficult part, but Cordelia had rehearsed it. The Cambridge Police had been very thorough. They had asked the same questions over and over again. She knew exactly how Sir Ronald had come to have the gun. She remembered a piece of Dalgliesh dogma, reported by Bernie, which had seemed to her at the time more appropriate advice for a criminal than a detective. “Never tell an unnecessary lie; the truth has great authority. The cleverest murderers have been caught, not because they told the one essential lie, but because they continued to lie about unimportant details when the truth could have done them no harm.”

  She said: “My partner, Mr. Pryde, owned the gun and was very proud of it. When he killed himself I knew that he meant me to have it. That was why he cut his wrists instead of shooting himself, which would have been quicker and easier.”

  The Coroner looked up sharply. “And were you there when he killed himself?”

  “No, sir. But I found the body.”

  There was a murmur of sympathy from the court; she could feel their concern.

  “Did you know that the gun wasn’t licensed?”

  “No, sir, but I think I suspected that it might not have been. I brought it with me on this case because I didn’t want to leave it in the office and because I found it a comfort. I meant to check up on the licence as soon as I got back. I didn’t expect ever to use the gun. I didn’t really think of it as a lethal weapon. It’s just that this was my first case and Bernie had left it to me and I felt happier having it with me.”

  “I see,” said the coroner.

  Cordelia thought that he probably did see and so did the court. They were having no difficulty in believing her because she was telling the somewhat improbable truth. Now that she was about to lie, they would go on believing her.

  “And now will you please tell the court how Sir Ronald came to take the gun from you.”

  “It was on my first visit to Garforth House when Sir Ronald was showing me his son’s bedroom. He knew that I was the sole owner of the Agency, and he asked me if it wasn’t a difficult and rather frightening job for a woman. I said that I wasn’t frightened but that I had Bernie’s gun. When he found that I had it with me in my bag he made me hand it over to him. He said that he didn’t propose to engage someone who might be a danger to other people or herself. He said that he wouldn’t take the responsibility. He took the gun and the ammunition.”

  “And what did he do with the gun?”

  Cordelia had thought this one out carefully. Obviously he hadn’t carried it downstairs in his hand or Miss Leaming would have seen it. She would have liked to have said that he put it into a drawer in Mark’s room but she couldn’t remember whether the bedside table had had any drawers. She said: “He took it out of the room with him; he didn’t tell me where. He was only away for a moment and then we went downstairs together.”

  “And you didn’t set eyes on the gun again until you saw it on the floor close to Sir Ronald’s hand when you and Miss Leaming found his body?”

  “No, sir.”

  Cordelia was the last witness. The verdict was quickly given, one that the court obviously felt would have been agreeable to Sir Ronald’s scrupulously exact and scientific brain. It was that the deceased had taken his own life but that there was no evidence as to the state of his mind. The coroner delivered at length the obligatory warning about the danger of guns. Guns, the court was informed, could kill people. He managed to convey that unlicensed guns were particularly prone to this danger. He pronounced no strictures on Cordelia personally although it was apparent that this restraint cost him an effort. He rose and the court rose with him.

  After the coroner had left the bench the court broke up into little whispering groups. Miss Leaming was quickly surrounded. Cordelia saw her shaking hands, receiving condolences, listening with grave assenting face to the first tentative proposals for a memorial service. Cordelia wondered how she could ever have feared that Miss Leaming would be suspected. She herself stood a little apart, delinquent. She knew that the police would charge her with illegal possession of the gun. They could do no less. True, she would be lightly punished, if punished at all. But for the rest of her life she would be the girl whose carelessness and naïveté had lost England one of her foremost scientists.

  As Hugo had said, all Cambridge suicides were brilliant. But about this one there could be little doubt. Sir Ronald’s death would probably raise him to the status of genius.

  Almost unnoticed, she came alone out of the courtroom on to Market Hill. Hugo must have been waiting; now he fell into step with her.

  “How did it go? I must say death seems to follow you around, doesn’t it?”

  “It went all right. I seem to follow death.”

  “I suppose he did shoot himself?”

  “Yes. He shot himself.”

  “And with your gun?”

  “As you will know if you were in court. I didn’t see you.”

  “I wasn’t there, I had a tutorial, but the news did get around. I shouldn’t let it worry you. Ronald Callender wasn’t as important as some people in Cambridge may choose to believe.”

  “You know nothing about him. He was a human being and he’s dead. The fact is always important.”

  “It isn’t, you know, Cordelia. Death is the least important thing about us. Comfort yourself with Joseph Hall. ‘Death borders upon our birth and our cradle stands in the grave.’ And he did choose his own weapon, his own time. He’d had enough of himself. Plenty of people had had enough of him.”

  They walked together down St. Edward’s Passage towards King’s Parade. Cordelia wasn’t sure where they were making for. Her need at present was just to walk, but she didn’t find her companion disagreeable.

  She asked: “Where’s Isabelle?”

  “Isabelle is home in Lyons. Papa turned up unexpectedly yesterday and found that Mademoiselle wasn’t exactly earning her wages. Papa decided that dear Isabelle was getting less—or it may have been more—out of her Cambridge education than he had expected. I don’t think you need worry about her. Isabelle is safe enough now. Even if the police do decide that it’s worthwhile going to France to question her—and why on earth should they?—it won’t help them. Papa will surround her with a barrage of lawyers. He’s not in a mood to stand any nonsense from Englishmen at present.”

  “And what about you? If anyone asks you how Mark died, you’ll never tell them the truth?”

  “What do you think? Sophie, Davie and I are safe enough. I’m reliable when it comes to essentials.”

  For a moment Cordelia wished that he were reliable in less essential matters. She asked: “Are you sorry about Isabelle leaving?”

  “I am rather. Beauty is intellectually confusing; it sabotages common sense. I could never quite accept that Isabelle was what she is: a generous, indolent, over-affectionate and stupid young woman. I thought that any woman as beautiful as she must have an instinct about life, access to some s
ecret wisdom which is beyond cleverness. Every time she opened that delicious mouth I was expecting her to illumine life. I think I could have spent all my life just looking at her and waiting for the oracle. And all she could talk about was clothes.”

  “Poor Hugo.”

  “Never poor Hugo. I’m not unhappy. The secret of contentment is never to allow yourself to want anything which reason tells you you haven’t a chance of getting.”

  Cordelia thought that he was young, well-off, clever, even if not clever enough, handsome; there wasn’t much that he would have to forgo on that or any other criteria.

  She heard him speaking: “Why not stay in Cambridge for a week or so and let me show you the city? Sophie would let you have her spare room.”

  “No thank you, Hugo. I have to get back to town.”

  There was nothing in town for her, but with Hugo there would be nothing in Cambridge for her either. There was only one reason for staying in this city. She would remain at the cottage until Sunday and her meeting with Miss Leaming. After that, as far as she was concerned, the case of Mark Callender would be finished for good.

  Sunday afternoon Evensong was over and the congregation, who had listened in respectful silence to the singing of responses, psalms and anthem by one of the finest choirs in the world, rose and joined with joyous abandon in the final hymn. Cordelia rose and sang with them. She had seated herself at the end of the row close to the richly carved screen. From here she could see into the chancel. The robes of the choristers gleamed scarlet and white; the candles flickered in patterned rows and high circles of golden light; two tall and slender candles stood each side of the softly illuminated Reubens above the high altar, seen dimly as a distant smudge of crimson, blue and gold. The blessing was pronounced, the final amen impeccably sung and the choir began to file decorously out of the chancel. The south door was opened and sunlight flooded into the chapel. The members of the college who had attended divine service strolled out after the Provost and Fellows in casual disarray, their regulation surplices dingy and limp over a cheerful incongruity of corduroy and tweed. The great organ snuffled and groaned like an animal gathering breath, before giving forth its magnificent voice in a Bach fugue. Cordelia sat quietly in her chair, listening and waiting. Now the congregation was moving down the main aisle—small groups in bright summer cottons whispering discreetly, serious young men in sober Sunday black, tourists clutching their illustrated guides and half-embarrassed by their obtrusive cameras, a group of nuns with calm and cheerful faces.

  Miss Leaming was one of the last, a tall figure in a grey linen dress and white gloves, her head bare, a white cardigan slung carelessly around her shoulders against the chill of the chapel. She was obviously alone and unwatched and her careful pretence of surprise at recognizing Cordelia was probably an unnecessary precaution. They passed out of the chapel together.

  The gravel path outside the doorway was thronged with people. A little party of Japanese, festooned with cameras and accessories, added their high staccato jabber to the muted Sunday afternoon chat. From here the silver stream of the Cam was invisible but the truncated bodies of punters glided against the far bank like puppets in a show, raising their arms above the pole and turning to thrust it backwards as if participating in some ritual dance. The great lawn lay unshadowed in the sun, a quintessence of greenness staining the scented air. A frail and elderly Don in gown and mortar board was limping across the grass; the sleeves of his gown caught a stray breeze and billowed out so that he looked like a winged and monstrous crow struggling to rise.

  Miss Leaming said, as if Cordelia had asked for an explanation: “He’s a Fellow. The sacred turf is, therefore, uncontaminated by his feet.”

  They walked in silence by Gibbs Building. Cordelia wondered when Miss Leaming would speak. When she did, her first question was unexpected.

  “Do you think you’ll make a success of it?” Sensing Cordelia’s surprise, she added impatiently: “The Detective Agency. Do you think you’ll be able to cope?”

  “I shall have to try. It’s the only job I know.”

  She had no intention of justifying to Miss Leaming her affection and loyalty to Bernie; she would have had some difficulty in explaining it to herself.

  “Your overheads are too high.”

  It was a pronouncement made with all the authority of a verdict.

  “Do you mean the office and the Mini?” asked Cordelia.

  “Yes. In your job I don’t see how one person in the field can bring in sufficient income to cover expenses. You can’t be sitting in the office taking orders and typing letters and be out solving cases at the same time. On the other hand, I don’t suppose you can afford help.”

  “Not yet. I’ve been thinking that I might rent a telephone-answering service. That will take care of the orders although, of course, clients much prefer to come to the office and discuss their case. If I can only make enough in expenses just to live, then any fees can cover the overheads.”

  “If there are any fees.”

  There seemed nothing to say to this and they walked on in silence for a few seconds. Then Miss Leaming said: “There’ll be the expenses from this case anyway. That at least should help towards your fine for illegal possession of the gun. I’ve put the matter in the hands of my solicitors. You should be getting a cheque fairly soon.”

  “I don’t want to take any money for this case.”

  “I can understand that. As you pointed out to Ronald, it falls under your fair-play clause. Strictly speaking you aren’t entitled to any. All the same, I think it would look less suspicious if you took your expenses. Would thirty pounds strike you as reasonable?”

  “Perfectly, thank you.”

  They had reached the corner of the lawn and had turned to walk towards King’s Bridge. Miss Leaming said: “I shall have to be grateful to you for the rest of my life. That for me is an unaccustomed humility and I’m not sure that I like it.”

  “Then don’t feel it. I was thinking of Mark, not of you.”

  “I thought you might have acted in the service of justice or some such abstraction.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about any abstraction. I was thinking about a person.”

  They had reached the bridge now and leaned over it side by side to look down into the bright water. The paths leading up to the bridge were, for a few minutes, empty of people. Miss Leaming said: “Pregnancy isn’t difficult to fake, you know. It only needs a loose corset and judicious stuffing. It’s humiliating for the woman, of course, almost indecent if she happens to be barren. But it isn’t difficult, particularly if she isn’t closely watched. Evelyn wasn’t. She had always been a shy, self-contained woman. People expected her to be excessively modest about her pregnancy. Garforth House wasn’t filled with friends and relations swapping horror stories about the antenatal clinic and patting her stomach. We had to get rid of that tedious fool Nanny Pilbeam, of course. Ronald regarded her departure as one of the subsidiary benefits of the pseudo pregnancy. He was tired of being spoken to as if he were still Ronnie Callender, the bright grammar school boy from Harrogate.”

  Cordelia said: “Mrs. Goddard told me that Mark had a great look of his mother.”

  “She would. She was sentimental as well as stupid.”

  Cordelia did not speak. After a few moments’ silence Miss Leaming went on: “I discovered that I was carrying Ronald’s child at about the same time as a London specialist confirmed what the three of us already guessed, that Evelyn was most unlikely to conceive. I wanted to have the baby; Ronald desperately wanted a son; Evelyn’s father was obsessional about his need for a grandson and was willing to part with half a million to prove it. It was all so easy. I resigned from my teaching job and went off to the safe anonymity of London and Evelyn told her father she was pregnant at last. Neither Ronald nor I had any conscience about defrauding George Bottley. He was an arrogant, brutal, self-satisfied fool who couldn’t imagine how the world would continue without his issue to supervise it. He ev
en subsidized his own deceit. The cheques for Evelyn began to arrive, each with a note imploring her to look after her health, to consult the best London doctors, to rest, to take a holiday in the sun. She had always loved Italy, and Italy became part of the plan. The three of us would meet in London every two months and fly together to Pisa. Ronald would rent a small villa outside Florence and, once there, I became Mrs. Callender and Evelyn became me. We had only daily servants and there was no need for them to look at our passports. They got used to our visits and so did the local doctor who was called in to supervise my health. The locals thought it flattering that the English lady should be so fond of Italy that she came back month after month, so close to her confinement.”

  Cordelia asked: “But how could she do it, how could she bear to be there with you in the house, watching you with her husband, knowing that you were going to have his child?”

  “She did it because she loved Ronald and couldn’t bear to lose him. She hadn’t been much success as a woman. If she lost her husband, what else was there for her? She couldn’t have gone back to her father. Besides, we had a bribe for her. She was to have the child. If she refused, then Ronald would leave her and seek a divorce to marry me.”

  “I would rather have left him and gone off to scrub doorsteps.”

  “Not everyone has a talent for scrubbing doorsteps and not everyone has your capacity for moral indignation. Evelyn was religious. She was, therefore, practised in self-deception. She convinced herself that what we were doing was best for the child.”