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Authors: P. D. James
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down?”
“No. He was obviously dead and I thought it better to leave the body until the police arrived. But I did pick up the chair and place it so that it supported his feet. That was an irrational action, I know, but I couldn’t bear to see him hanging there without releasing the pressure on his throat. It was, as I’ve said, irrational.”
“I think it was very natural. Did you notice anything else about him, about the room?”
“There was a half-empty mug of what looked like coffee on the table and a great deal of ash in the grate. It looked as if he had been burning papers. His portable typewriter was whereyou see it now, on that side table; the suicide note was still in the machine. I read it, then I went back to the house, told my brother and sister-in-law what had happened and rang the police. After the police arrived I brought them to this cottage, and confirmed what I had seen. I never came in here again until this moment.”
“Did you, or Major and Mrs. Markland, see Mark on the night he died?”
“None of us saw him after he stopped work at about six-thirty. He was a little later that evening because he wanted to finish mowing the front lawn. We all saw him putting the mower away, then walking across the garden towards the orchard. We never saw him alive again. No one was at home at Summertrees that night. We had a dinner party at Trumpington—an old army colleague of my brother. We didn’t get home until after midnight. By then, according to the medical evidence, Mark must have been dead about four hours.”
Cordelia said: “Please tell me about him.”
“What is there to tell? His official hours were eight-thirty to six o’clock, with an hour for lunch and half an hour for tea. In the evenings he would work in the garden here or round the cottage. Sometimes in his lunch hour he would cycle to the village store. I used to meet him there from time to time. He didn’t buy much—a loaf of wholemeal bread, butter, the cheapest cut of bacon, tea, coffee—the usual things. I heard him ask about free-range eggs and Mrs. Morgan told him that Wilcox at Grange Farm would always sell him half a dozen. We didn’t speak when we met, but he would smile. In the evenings once the light had faded, he used to read or type at that table. I could see his head against the lamplight.”
“I thought Major Markland said that you didn’t visit the cottage?”
“They don’t; it holds certain embarrassing memories for them. I do.” She paused and looked into the dead fire. “My fiancé and I used to spend a great deal of time here before the war when he was at Cambridge. He was killed in 1937, fighting in Spain for the Republican cause.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cordelia. She felt the inadequacy, the insincerity of her response and yet, what else was there to say? It had all happened nearly forty years ago. She hadn’t heard of him before. The spasm of grief, so brief that it was hardly felt, was no more than a transitory inconvenience, a sentimental regret for all lovers who died young, for the inevitability of human loss.
Miss Markland spoke with sudden passion as if the words were being forced out of her: “I don’t like your generation, Miss Gray. I don’t like your arrogance, your selfishness, your violence, the curious selectivity of your compassion. You pay for nothing with your own coin, not even for your ideals. You denigrate and destroy and never build. You invite punishment like rebellious children, then scream when you are punished. The men I knew, the men I was brought up with, were not like that.”
Cordelia said gently: “I don’t think Mark Callender was like that either.”
“Perhaps not. At least the violence he practised was on himself.” She looked up at Cordelia searchingly. “No doubt you’ll say I’m jealous of youth. It’s a common-enough syndrome of my generation.”
“It ought not to be. I can never see why people should be jealous. After all, youth isn’t a
“No. He was obviously dead and I thought it better to leave the body until the police arrived. But I did pick up the chair and place it so that it supported his feet. That was an irrational action, I know, but I couldn’t bear to see him hanging there without releasing the pressure on his throat. It was, as I’ve said, irrational.”
“I think it was very natural. Did you notice anything else about him, about the room?”
“There was a half-empty mug of what looked like coffee on the table and a great deal of ash in the grate. It looked as if he had been burning papers. His portable typewriter was whereyou see it now, on that side table; the suicide note was still in the machine. I read it, then I went back to the house, told my brother and sister-in-law what had happened and rang the police. After the police arrived I brought them to this cottage, and confirmed what I had seen. I never came in here again until this moment.”
“Did you, or Major and Mrs. Markland, see Mark on the night he died?”
“None of us saw him after he stopped work at about six-thirty. He was a little later that evening because he wanted to finish mowing the front lawn. We all saw him putting the mower away, then walking across the garden towards the orchard. We never saw him alive again. No one was at home at Summertrees that night. We had a dinner party at Trumpington—an old army colleague of my brother. We didn’t get home until after midnight. By then, according to the medical evidence, Mark must have been dead about four hours.”
Cordelia said: “Please tell me about him.”
“What is there to tell? His official hours were eight-thirty to six o’clock, with an hour for lunch and half an hour for tea. In the evenings he would work in the garden here or round the cottage. Sometimes in his lunch hour he would cycle to the village store. I used to meet him there from time to time. He didn’t buy much—a loaf of wholemeal bread, butter, the cheapest cut of bacon, tea, coffee—the usual things. I heard him ask about free-range eggs and Mrs. Morgan told him that Wilcox at Grange Farm would always sell him half a dozen. We didn’t speak when we met, but he would smile. In the evenings once the light had faded, he used to read or type at that table. I could see his head against the lamplight.”
“I thought Major Markland said that you didn’t visit the cottage?”
“They don’t; it holds certain embarrassing memories for them. I do.” She paused and looked into the dead fire. “My fiancé and I used to spend a great deal of time here before the war when he was at Cambridge. He was killed in 1937, fighting in Spain for the Republican cause.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cordelia. She felt the inadequacy, the insincerity of her response and yet, what else was there to say? It had all happened nearly forty years ago. She hadn’t heard of him before. The spasm of grief, so brief that it was hardly felt, was no more than a transitory inconvenience, a sentimental regret for all lovers who died young, for the inevitability of human loss.
Miss Markland spoke with sudden passion as if the words were being forced out of her: “I don’t like your generation, Miss Gray. I don’t like your arrogance, your selfishness, your violence, the curious selectivity of your compassion. You pay for nothing with your own coin, not even for your ideals. You denigrate and destroy and never build. You invite punishment like rebellious children, then scream when you are punished. The men I knew, the men I was brought up with, were not like that.”
Cordelia said gently: “I don’t think Mark Callender was like that either.”
“Perhaps not. At least the violence he practised was on himself.” She looked up at Cordelia searchingly. “No doubt you’ll say I’m jealous of youth. It’s a common-enough syndrome of my generation.”
“It ought not to be. I can never see why people should be jealous. After all, youth isn’t a
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