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The
Murder Room by P.D. James Rating: •• (Mildly
Recommended) |
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Prolonged Adam
Dalgliesh returns to solve more murders in P.D.
James’ latest offering, The
Murder Room. Weighing in at 432 pages, some readers will enjoy the slow
pace of the plot development, while others may become infuriated after ample
clues have been dropped. Here’s an excerpt from Part 1, Chapter 3, pp. 30-36: In his office overlooking St. James’s
Park, the eldest of the Dupaynes was clearing his
desk. He did it as he had done everything in his official life, methodically,
with thought and without hurry. There was little to dispose of, less to take
away with him; almost all record of his official life had already been
removed. An hour earlier the last file, containing his final minutes, had
been collected by the uniformed messenger as quietly and unceremoniously as
if this final emptying of his out-tray had been no different from any other.
His few personal books had been gradually removed from the bookcase which now
held only official publications, the criminal statistics, White Papers, Archbold and copies of recent legislation. Other hands
would be placing personal volumes on the empty shelves. He thought he knew
whose. In his view it was an unmerited promotion, premature, not yet earned,
but then his successor had earlier been marked out as one of the fortunate
ones who, in the jargon of the Service, were the designated high-fliers. So once had he been marked.
By the time he had reached the rank of Assistant Secretary, he had been
spoken of as a possible Head of Department. If all had gone well he would be
leaving now with his K, Sir Marcus Dupayne, with a
string of City companies ready to offer him directorships. That was what he
had expected, what Alison had expected. Sometimes he thought that this was
why she had married him. His own professional ambition had been strong but
disciplined, aware always of the unpredictability of success. His wife’s had
been rampant, embarrassingly public. Every social occasion had been arranged
with his success in view. A dinner party wasn’t a meeting of friends, it was a ploy in a carefully thought-out
campaign. The fact that nothing she could do would ever influence his career,
that his life outside the office was of no importance provided it was not
publicly disgraceful, never entered her consciousness. He would occasionally
say, “I’m not aiming to end up as a bishop, a headmaster or a Minister. I’m
not going to be damned or demoted because the claret was corked.” He had come with a duster in his
briefcase and now checked that all the drawers of the desk had been cleared. in the bottom left— hand drawer his exploring hand found a
stub of pencil. How many years, he wondered, had that lain there? He examined
his fingers, crusted with grey dust, and wiped them on the duster which he
folded carefully over the dirt and placed in his canvas bag. His briefcase
he would leave on his desk. The gold royal insignia on the case had faded
now, but it brought a memory: the day when he had first been issued with an
official black briefcase, its insignia bright as a badge of office. He had held the obligatory farewell
drinks party before luncheon. The Permanent Secretary had paid the expected
compliments with a suspicious fluency; he had done this before. A Minister
had put in an appearance and only once had glanced discreetly at his watch.
There had been an atmosphere of spurious conviviality interspersed with
moments of silent constraint. By one-thirty people had begun to drift
unobtrusively away. It was, after all, Friday. Their weekend arrangements
beckoned. Closing his office door for the last time
and entering the empty corridor, he was surprised and a little concerned at
his lack of emotion. Surely he should be feeling something—regret, mild
satisfaction, a small surge of nostalgia, the mental acknowledgement of a
rite of passage? He felt nothing. There were the usual officials at the
reception desk in the entrance hall and both were busy. It relieved him of
the obligation to say some embarrassed words of
farewell. He decided to take his favourite route to
A week ago he had taken the same path.
There had been a solitary woman feeding the ducks with crusts from her
sandwiches. She was short, her sturdy body enveloped in a thick tweed coat, a
woollen cap drawn down over her ears. The last
crumb tossed, she turned and, seeing him, had smiled a little tentatively.
From boyhood he had found unexpected intimacies from strangers repellent,
almost threatening, and he had nodded unsmiling and walked quickly away. It
had been as curtly dismissive as if she had been propositioning him. He had
reached the steps of the Duke of York’s column before sudden realization
came. She had been no stranger but Tally Clutton,
the housekeeper at the museum. He had failed to recognize her in other than
the brown button-up overall that she normally wore. Now the memory provoked a
spurt of irritation, as much against her as against himself. It was an
embarrassing mistake to have made and one that he would have to put right
when they next met. That would be the more difficult as they could be discussing
her future. The cottage she lived in rent-free must be worth at least ~35O a week in rent. Hampstead wasn’t cheap,
particularly Hampstead with a view of the Heath. If he decided to replace
her, the free accommodation would be an inducement. They might be able to
attract a married couple, the wife to do the housecleaning, the man to take
over the garden. On the other hand, Tally Clutton was
hardworking and well liked. It might be imprudent to unsettle the domestic
arrangements when there were so many other changes to be put in hand.
Caroline, of course, would fight to keep both Clutton
and Godby and he was anxious to avoid a fight with
Caroline. There was no problem with Muriel Godby.
The woman was cheap and remarkably competent, qualities rare today. There
might later be difficulties about the chain of command. Godby
obviously saw herself as responsible to Caroline, not unreasonably since it
was his sister who had given her the job. But the allocation of duties and
responsibilities could wait until the new lease had been signed. He would
retain both women. The boy, Ryan Archer, wouldn’t stick at the job for long,
the young never did. He
thought, If only I could feel passionately, even strongly about anything. His
career had long since failed to provide emotional satisfaction. Even music
was losing its power. He remembered the last time, only three weeks ago, when
he had played Bach’s Double Violin Concerto with a teacher of the
instrument. His performance had been accurate, even sensitive, but it had not
come from the heart. Perhaps half a lifetime of conscientious political
neutrality, of the careful documentation of both sides of any argument, had
bred a debilitating caution of the spirit. But now there was hope. He might
find the enthusiasm and fulfilment he craved in
taking over the museum that bore his name. He thought, I
need this. I can make a success of it. I’m not going to let
Neville take it away from me. Already crossing the road at the Athenaeum,
his mind was disengaging from the recent past. The revitalizing of the museum
would provide an interest which would replace and redeem the dead
undistinguished years. His homecoming to the detached,
boringly conventional house in a leafy road on the outskirts of “Did the Home Secretary turn up?” “No, it wouldn’t be expected. The
Minister did.” “Oh
well, they’ve always made it plain what they think of you. You’ve never been
given the respect you deserve.” But
she spoke with less rancour than he had expected.
Watching her, he thought he detected in her voice a suppressed excitement,
half guilty and half defiant. She
said, “See to the sherry, will you, darling? There’s a new bottle of the Fino in the fridge.” The
endearment was a matter of habit. The persona she had presented to the world
for the twenty-three years of their marriage was that of a happy and
fortunate wife; other marriages might humiliatingly fail, hers was secure. As
he set down the tray of drinks, she said, “I had lunch with Jim and Mavis.
They’re planning to go out to “Jim
and Mavis?” “The
Calverts. You must remember. She’s on the Help the
Aged committee with me. They had dinner here a month ago.” “The
redhead with the halitosis?” “Oh,
that isn’t normal. It must have been something she’d eaten. You know how
Stephen and Susie have been urging us to visit. The grandchildren too. It
seems too good an opportunity to miss, having company on the flight. I must
say I’m rather dreading that part of it. Jim is so competent he’ll probably
get us an upgrade.” He
said, “I can’t possibly go to “I
realize that, darling, but you can come out and visit for a couple of weeks
while I’m there. Escape the winter.” “How
long are you thinking of staying?” “Six
months, a year maybe. There’s no point in going that far just for a short
stay. I’d hardly have got over the jet lag. I won’t be staying with Stephen
and Susie all the time. No one wants a mother-in-law moving in for months.
Jim and Mavis plan to travel. Mavis’s brother Jack will be with us, so we’ll
be four, and I won’t feel de trop. A party of three never works.” He thought, I’m
listening to the break-up of my marriage.
He was surprised how
little he cared. She
went on, “1Ne can afford it, can’t we? You’ll have your retirement
lump sum?” “Yes,
it can be afforded.” He
looked at her as dispassionately as he might have studied a stranger. At
fifty-two she was still handsome with a carefully preserved, almost clinical
elegance. She was still desirable to him, if not often and then not
passionately. They made love infrequently, usually after a period when drink
and habit induced an insistent sexuality soon satisfied. They had nothing
new to learn about each other, nothing they wanted to learn. He knew that,
for her, these occasional joyless couplings were her affirmation that the
marriage still existed. She might be unfaithful but she was always
conventional. Her love-affairs were discreet rather than furtive. She
pretended that they didn’t happen; he pretended that he didn’t know. Their
marriage was regulated by a concordat never ratified in words. He provided
the income, she ensured that his life was comfortable, his preferences
indulged, his meals excellently cooked, that he was
spared even the minor inconvenience of housekeeping. They each respected the
limits of the other’s tolerance in what was essentially a marriage of
convenience. She had been a good mother to Stephen, their only child, and was
a doting grandmother to his and Susie’s children. She would be more warmly
welcomed in She
had relaxed now, the news given. She said, “What will you do about this
house? You won’t want a place this size. It’s probably worth close to
three-quarters of a million. The Rawlinsons got six
hundred thousand for High Trees and it needed a lot doing to it. If you want
to sell before I get back, that’s all right by me. I’m sorry I won’t be here
to help but all you need is a reliable firm of removers. Leave it to them.” So
she was thinking of coming back, even if temporarily. Perhaps this new
adventure would be no different from the others except in being more
prolonged. And then there would be matters to arrange, including her share of
that three-quarters of a million. He said, “Yes, I’ll probably sell, but
there’s no hurry.” “Can’t you move into the fiat at the museum? That’s the obvious plan. “Caroline wouldn’t agree. She sees the
flat as her home since she took it over after Father died.” “But she doesn’t actually live there,
not all the time. She’s got her rooms in the school. You’d be there
permanently, able to keep an eye on security. As I remember it, it’s an
agreeable enough place, plenty of room. I think you would be very comfortable
there.” “Caroline needs to get away from the
school occasionally. Keeping the flat will be her price for cooperating in
keeping the museum open. I need her vote. You know about the trust deed.” “I’ve never understood it.” “It’s simple enough. Any major decision
regarding the museum, including the negotiation of a new lease, requires the
consent of the three trustees. If Neville won’t sign, we’re finished.” And now she was roused to genuine
indignation. She might be planning to leave him for a lover, to stay away or
return as the whim took her, but in any dispute with the family she would be
on his side. She was capable of fighting ruthlessly for what she thought he
wanted. She cried, “Then you and Caroline must
make him! What’s it to him anyway? He’s got his own job. He’s never cared a
damn about the museum. You can’t have your whole future life ruined because
Neville won’t sign a piece of paper. You must put a stop to that nonsense.” He took up the sherry bottle and,
moving over to her, refilled both their glasses. They raised them
simultaneously as if in a pledge. “Yes,” he said gravely. “If necessary I
must put a stop to Neville.” Read
on to find out if he does put a stop to Neville in The
Murder Room. Steve
Hopkins, February 23, 2004 |
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ă 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the March 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Murder Room.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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