An Unsuitable Job for a Woman by P. D. James Read Free Book Online Page A

their plates back to the table with whatever combination of food, hot or cold, they fancied. The young scientists piled their plates high and Cordelia followed their example.
    She took little interest in the conversation except to notice that it was predominantly about science and that Lunn, although he spoke less than the others, spoke as their equal. He should, she thought, have looked ridiculous in his rather tight dinner jacket but, surprisingly, he looked the most at ease, the second most powerful personality in the room. Cordelia tried to analyse why this was so, but was defeated. He ate slowly, with finicky attention to the arrangement of the food on his plate, and from time to time, smiled secretly into his wine.
    At the other end of the table Sir Ronald was peeling an apple and talking to his guest, his head inclined. The green rind slid thinly over his long fingers and curved down towards his plate. Cordelia glanced at Miss Leaming. She was staring at Sir Ronald with such unwavering and speculative concern that Cordelia uncomfortably felt that every eye present must be irresistibly drawn to that pale disdainful mask. Then, Miss Leaming seemed to become aware of her glance. She relaxed and turned to Cordelia: “When we were travelling here together you were reading Hardy. Do you enjoy him?”
    “Very much. But I enjoy Jane Austen more.”
    “Then you must try to find an opportunity of visiting the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge. They have a letter written by Jane Austen. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
    She spoke with the controlled artificial brightness of a hostess trying to find a subject to interest a difficult guest. Cordelia, her mouth full of veal and mushrooms, wonderedhow she would manage to get through the rest of the meal. Luckily, however, the American professor had caught the word “Fitzwilliam” and now called down the table to enquire about the museum’s collection of majolica in which, apparently, he was interested. The conversation became general.
    It was Miss Leaming who drove Cordelia to the station, Audley End this time instead of Cambridge; a change for which no reason was given. They didn’t speak about the case during the drive. Cordelia was exhausted with tiredness, food and wine, and allowed herself to be firmly taken in hand and placed on the train without attempting to gain any further information. She didn’t really think she would have got it. As the train drew out, her tired fingers fumbled with the flap of the strong white envelope which Miss Leaming had handed to her and she drew out and read the enclosed note. It was expertly typed and set out, but told her little more than she had already learnt. With it was the photograph. She saw the picture of a laughing boy, his head half-turned towards the camera, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He was wearing jeans and a vest and was half-lying on the lawn, a pile of books on the grass beside him. Perhaps he had been working there under the trees when she had come out of the French windows with her camera and called imperiously to him to smile. The photograph told Cordelia nothing except that for one recorded second at least, he had known how to be happy. She placed it back in the envelope; her hands closed protectively over it. Cordelia slept.

2
    Next morning Cordelia left Cremona Road before seven o’clock. Despite her tiredness the night before, she had made her major preparations before she went to bed. They hadn’t taken long. As Bernie had taught her, she checked systematically the scene-of-crime kit, an unnecessary routine since nothing had been touched since, in celebration of their partnership, he had first set it up for her. She put ready the Polaroid camera; sorted into order the road maps from the jumble pushed into the back of his desk; shook out the sleeping bag and rolled it ready; filled a carrier bag with iron rations from Bernie’s store of tinned soup and baked beans; considered, and finally