Death in Holy Orders [Hardcover]

Despite challenges from Ruth Rendell and (more recently) Minette Walters, PD James' position as Britain's Queen of Crime remains largely unassailed. Although a certain reaction has set in to her reputation (and there are those who claim her poetry-loving copper Dalgleish doesn't correspond to any of his counterparts in the real world), her detractors can scarcely deny her astonishing literary gifts. More than any other writer, she has elevated the detective story into the realms of literature, with the psychology of the characters treated in the most complex and authoritative fashion. Her plots, too, are full of intriguing detail and studded with brilliantly observed character studies. Who cares if Dalgleish belongs more in the pages of a book than poking around a graffiti-scrawled council estate? As a policeman, he is considerably more plausible than Doyle's Holmes, and that's never stopped us loving the Baker Street sleuth. Death in Holy Orders represents something of a challenge from James to her critics, taking on all the contentious elements and rigorously re-invigorating them. She had admitted that she was finding it increasingly difficult to find new plots for Dalgleish, and the locale here (a theological college on a lonely stretch of the East Anglian coast) turns out to be an inspired choice: we're presented with the enclosed setting so beloved of golden age detective writers, and James is able to incorporate her theological interests seamlessly into the plot--but never in any doctrinaire way; the non-believer is never uncomfortable. The body of a student at the college is found on the shore, suffocated by a fall of sand. Dalgleish is called upon to re-examine the verdict of accidental death (which the student's father would not accept). Having visited the College of St Anselm in his boyhood, he finds the investigation has a strong nostalgic aspect for him. But that is soon overtaken by the realisation that he has encountered the most horrific case of his career, and another visitor to the College dies a horrible death. As an exploration of evil--and as a piece of highly distinctive crime writing--this is James at her non-pareil best. Dalgleish, too, is rendered with new dimensions of psychological complexity.

--Barry Forshaw

"'P.D. James is one of the national treasures of British fiction...Each new book gives pleasure.' Malcolm Bradbury, Mail on Sunday"

With Death in Holy Orders, P. D. James makes a triumphant return to the genre for which she is best known - the classic English detective story. The story is set in an Anglican theological college on a desolate stretch of the East Anglian coast. When the body of one of the students is found on the shore, his wealthy father demands that Scotland Yard should reexamine the verdict of accidental death. Dalgliesh has visited St Anselm's in his boyhood and, as he is due for a holiday, agrees to pay a visit. As the weekend brings another murder, Dalgliesh soon finds himself embroiled in one of the most horrific and puzzling cases of his career...Death in Holy Orders is vintage P. D. James with sensitive evocation of place, a complex and credible mystery, respect for forensic detail and the tension a plot that never flags.

P.D. James served in the forensic and criminal justice departments of the Home Office until her retirement in 1979. She was made a Life Peer in 1991. Her many detective novels include Cover Her Face, An Unsuitable job for a Woman, Death of an Expert Witness, A Taste for Death, Original Sin and A Certain Justice, many of which have been adapted for television. She lives in London W11.

He needed no torch; a low light from a single bulb burned on each landing and the spiral staircase to the floor below, always a hazard, was kept well lit by the use of wall-mounted lights. There was a lull in the storm. The silence of the house was absolute, the muted moaning of the wind emphasizing an internal calm more portentous than the mere absence of human sounds. It was difficult to believe that there were sleepers behind the closed doors, that this silent air had ever echoed to the sound of hurrying feet and strong male voices, or that the heavy oak front door had not been closed and bolted for generations.

In the hall a single red light at the foot of the Virgin and Child cast a glow over the smiling face of the mother and touched with pink the chubby outstretched arms of the Christ-child. Wood was quickened into living flesh. He passed on his silent slippered feet across the hall and into the cloakroom. The row of brown cloaks were the first evidence of the house's occupation; they seemed to hang like forlorn relics of a long-dead generation. He could hear the wind very clearly now, and as he unlocked the door into the north cloister it rose suddenly into renewed fury.

To his surprise the light over the back door was off, as was the row of low-powered lights along the cloister. But when he stretched out his hand and pressed down the switch they came on and he could see that the stone floor was thick with leaves. Even as he closed the door behind him another gust shook the great tree and sent the drift of leaves around its trunk bowling and scurrying about his feet. They swirled about him like a flock of brown birds, pecked gently against his cheek and lay weightless as feathers on the shoulders of his cloak.

He scrunched his way to the door of the sacristy. It took a little time under the final light to identify the two keys and let himself in. He switched on the light beside the door, then punched out the code to silence the high insistent ringing of the alarm system, and went through into the body of the church. The switch for the two rows of ceiling lights over the nave was to his right and he put out his hand to press it down, then saw with a small shock of surprise but no anxiety that the spotlight which illuminated the Doom was on so that the west end of the church was bathed in its reflected glow. Without switching on the nave lights he moved along the north wall, his shadow moving with him on the stone.

Then he reached the Doom and stood transfixed at the horror that lay sprawled at his feet. The blood hadn't gone away. It was here in the very place in which he was seeking sanctuary, as red as in his nightmare, not rising like a strong feathered fountain but spread in blotches and rivulets over the stone floor. The stream was no longer moving but seemed to quiver and become viscous as he gazed. The nightmare hadn't ended. He was still trapped in a place of horror, but one which he couldn't now escape by waking. That or he was mad. He shut his eyes and prayed, 'Dear God, help me.' Then his conscious mind took hold and he opened his eyes and willed himself to look again.

His senses, unable to apprehend the whole scene in the enormity of its horror, were registering it by slow degrees, detail by detail. The smashed skull; the Archdeacon's spectacles lying a little apart but unbroken; the two brass candlesticks placed one on each side of the body as if in an act of sacrilegious contempt; the Archdeacon's hands stretched out, seeming to clutch at the stones but looking whiter, more delicate, than his hands had looked in life; the purple padded dressing-gown stiffening with his blood. Finally Father Martin raised his eyes to the Doom. The dancing devil in the front of the picture now wore spectacles, a moustache and a short beard, and his right arm had been elongated in a gesture of vulgar defiance. At the foot of the Doom was a small tin of black paint with a brush lying neatly over the lid.

Father Martin staggered forward and dropped to his knees beside the Archdeacon's head. He tried to pray but the words wouldn't come. Suddenly he needed to see other human beings, to hear human feet and human noises, to know the comfort of human companionship. Without thinking clearly he staggered to the west of the church and gave one vigorous tug on the bell pull. The bell sang out as sweetly as ever, but seeming to his ears clamorous in its dread.

Then he went to the south door and, with trembling hands, managed at last to draw back the heavy iron bolts. The wind rushed in, bringing with it a few torn leaves. He left it ajar and walked, more strongly and firmly now, back to the body. There were words he had to say and now he found the strength to say them.

He was still on his knees, the edge of his cloak trailing in the blood, when he heard footsteps and then a woman's voice. Emma knelt beside him and put her arms round his shoulders. He felt the soft brush of her hair against his cheek and could smell her sweet delicately-scented skin driving from his mind the metallic smell of the blood. He could feel her tremble but her voice was calm. She said, 'Come away Father, come away now. It's all right.'

But it wasn't all right. It was never going to be all right again.

He tried to look up at her but couldn't raise his head; only his lips could move. He whispered, 'Oh God, what have we done, what have we done?' And then he felt her arms tighten in terror. Behind them the great south door was creaking wider open.