Read Online An Unsuitable Job for a Woman by P. D. James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P. D. James
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matter of privilege, we all get the same share of it. Some people may be born at an easier time or be richer or more privileged than others, but that hasn’t anything to do with being young. And being young is terrible sometimes. Don’t you remember how terrible it could be?”
“Yes, I remember. But I remember other things, too.”
Cordelia sat in silence, thinking that the conversation was strange but somehow inevitable and that, for some reason, she didn’t resent it.
Miss Markland looked up. “His girlfriend visited him once. At least, I suppose she was his girlfriend or why should she have come? It was about three days after he started work.”
“What was she like?”
“Beautiful. Very fair, with a face like a Botticelli angel—smooth, oval, unintelligent. She was foreign, French, I think. She was also rich.”
“How could you tell that, Miss Markland?” Cordelia was intrigued.
“Because she spoke with a foreign accent; because she arrived driving a white Renault which I took to be her own car; because her clothes, although odd and unsuitable for the country, weren’t cheap; because she walked up to the front door and announced that she wanted to see him with the confident arrogance that one associates with the rich.”
“And did he see her?”
“He was working in the orchard at the time, scything the grass. I took her down to him. He greeted her calmly and without embarrassment and took her to sit in the cottage until it was time for him to stop work. He seemed pleased enough to see her but not, I thought, either delighted or surprised. He didn’t introduce her. I left them together and returned to the house before he had the chance to. I didn’t see her again.”
Before Cordelia could speak she said suddenly: “You’re thinking of living here for a time, aren’t you?”
“Will they mind? I didn’t like to ask in case they said no.”
“They won’t know, and if they did, they wouldn’t care.”
“But do you mind?”
“No. I shan’t worry you and I don’t mind.” They were talking in whispers as if in church. Then Miss Markland got up and moved to the door. She turned.
“You’ve taken on this job for the money, of course. Why not? But if I were you I’d keep it that way. It’s unwise to become too personally involved with another human being. When that human being is dead, it can be dangerous as well as unwise.”
Miss Markland stumped off down the garden path and disappeared through the wicker gate. Cordelia was glad to see her go. She was fidgeting with impatience to examine the cottage. This was where it had happened; this was where her job really began.
What was it that the Super had said? “When you’re examining a building look at it as you would a country church. Walk round it first. Look at the whole scene inside and out; then make your deductions. Ask yourself what you saw, not what you expected to see or what you hoped to see, but what you saw.”
He must be a man then who liked country churches and that at least was a point in his favour; for this, surely, was genuine Dalgliesh dogma. Bernie’s reaction to churches, whether country or town, had been one of half-superstitious wariness. Cordelia decided to follow the advice.
She made her way first to the east side of the cottage. Here, discreetly set back and almost smothered by the hedge, was a wooden privy with its latched stable-like door. Cordelia peeped inside. The privy was very clean and looked as if it had been recently repainted. When she pulled the chain, to her relief, the bowl flushed. There was a roll of lavatory paper hanging by a string from the door and nailed beside it a small plastic bag contained a crumpled collection of orange papers and othersoft wrappings. He had been an economical young man. Next to the privy was a large dilapidated shed containing a man’s bicycle, old but well cared for, a large tin of white emulsion paint with the lid rammed down hard and a clean brush upended in a
“Yes, I remember. But I remember other things, too.”
Cordelia sat in silence, thinking that the conversation was strange but somehow inevitable and that, for some reason, she didn’t resent it.
Miss Markland looked up. “His girlfriend visited him once. At least, I suppose she was his girlfriend or why should she have come? It was about three days after he started work.”
“What was she like?”
“Beautiful. Very fair, with a face like a Botticelli angel—smooth, oval, unintelligent. She was foreign, French, I think. She was also rich.”
“How could you tell that, Miss Markland?” Cordelia was intrigued.
“Because she spoke with a foreign accent; because she arrived driving a white Renault which I took to be her own car; because her clothes, although odd and unsuitable for the country, weren’t cheap; because she walked up to the front door and announced that she wanted to see him with the confident arrogance that one associates with the rich.”
“And did he see her?”
“He was working in the orchard at the time, scything the grass. I took her down to him. He greeted her calmly and without embarrassment and took her to sit in the cottage until it was time for him to stop work. He seemed pleased enough to see her but not, I thought, either delighted or surprised. He didn’t introduce her. I left them together and returned to the house before he had the chance to. I didn’t see her again.”
Before Cordelia could speak she said suddenly: “You’re thinking of living here for a time, aren’t you?”
“Will they mind? I didn’t like to ask in case they said no.”
“They won’t know, and if they did, they wouldn’t care.”
“But do you mind?”
“No. I shan’t worry you and I don’t mind.” They were talking in whispers as if in church. Then Miss Markland got up and moved to the door. She turned.
“You’ve taken on this job for the money, of course. Why not? But if I were you I’d keep it that way. It’s unwise to become too personally involved with another human being. When that human being is dead, it can be dangerous as well as unwise.”
Miss Markland stumped off down the garden path and disappeared through the wicker gate. Cordelia was glad to see her go. She was fidgeting with impatience to examine the cottage. This was where it had happened; this was where her job really began.
What was it that the Super had said? “When you’re examining a building look at it as you would a country church. Walk round it first. Look at the whole scene inside and out; then make your deductions. Ask yourself what you saw, not what you expected to see or what you hoped to see, but what you saw.”
He must be a man then who liked country churches and that at least was a point in his favour; for this, surely, was genuine Dalgliesh dogma. Bernie’s reaction to churches, whether country or town, had been one of half-superstitious wariness. Cordelia decided to follow the advice.
She made her way first to the east side of the cottage. Here, discreetly set back and almost smothered by the hedge, was a wooden privy with its latched stable-like door. Cordelia peeped inside. The privy was very clean and looked as if it had been recently repainted. When she pulled the chain, to her relief, the bowl flushed. There was a roll of lavatory paper hanging by a string from the door and nailed beside it a small plastic bag contained a crumpled collection of orange papers and othersoft wrappings. He had been an economical young man. Next to the privy was a large dilapidated shed containing a man’s bicycle, old but well cared for, a large tin of white emulsion paint with the lid rammed down hard and a clean brush upended in a
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