Original Sin by P. D. James Read Free Book Online

I think she’s satisfied enough that old Seabright died from natural causes.”
    “So what am I expected to do?”
    “There must have been inquests in the last two cases and presumably the police carried out an investigation. Your people could take a look at the papers, have a word with the officersconcerned, that sort of thing. Then, if Dorothy could be assured that a senior Metropolitan detective has looked at all the evidence and is satisfied, she might give her husband, and Peverell Press, some peace.”
    Dalgliesh said: “That might serve to satisfy her that Sonia Clements’ death was suicide. It will hardly content her if she’s superstitious, and I don’t see what will. The essence of superstition is that it isn’t amenable to reason. She’ll probably take the view that an unlucky publisher is as bad as a murderous one. I suppose she isn’t seriously suggesting that someone at Peverell Press put an unidentifiable poison in Sonia Clements’ wine?”
    “No, I don’t think she’s going as far as that.”
    “Just as well or her husband will have his profits eaten up by a libel action. I’m surprised he didn’t go straight to the Commissioner or to me direct.”
    “Are you? I’m not sure. It would have looked—well, shall we say a little timid, a trifle overconcerned. Besides he doesn’t know you, I do. I can understand why he spoke to me first. And of course, one can hardly see him calling in at the local nick, joining the queue of lost-dog owners, assaulted wives and aggrieved motorists and explaining his dilemma to the duty sergeant. Frankly I don’t think he believed it would be taken seriously. His view is that, having regard to his wife’s concern and that anonymous note, he’s justified in asking the police to take a look at what is happening at the Peverell Press.”
    The lamb had arrived, pink and succulent and tender enough to be eaten with a spoon. In the few minutes of silence which Ackroyd thought a necessary tribute to a perfectly cooked meal, Dalgliesh recalled the first time he had seen Innocent House.
    His father had taken him to London for his eighth birthday treat; they were to spend two whole days sightseeing and stay overnight with a friend, who was a parish priest in Kensington,and his wife. He could remember lying in bed the night before, fitfully sleeping and almost sick with excitement, the cavernous immensity and clamour of the old Liverpool Street Station, his terror of losing his father, of being caught up and swept along with the great army of grey-faced marching people. In the two days in which his father had intended to combine pleasure with education—to his scholarly mind the two were indistinguishable—they had perhaps inevitably tried to do too much. The visit had been overwhelming for an eight-year-old, leaving a confused memory of churches and galleries, restaurants and unfamiliar food, of floodlit towers and the dancing reflection of light on the black creased surface of the water, of sleek, prancing horses and silver helmets, of the glamour and terror of history made manifest in brick and stone. But London had laid on him her spell which no adult experience, no exploration of other great cities had been able to break.
    It was on the second day that they had visited St. Paul’s Cathedral and later taken a river steamer from Charing Cross pier to Greenwich and he had first seen Innocent House, glittering in the morning sun, seeming to rise like a golden mirage from the shimmering water. He had gazed at it in wonder. His father had explained that the name was derived from Innocent Walk which ran behind the house, at the end of which had once stood an early eighteenth-century magistrates’ court. Defendants taken into custody after their first hearing were removed to the Fleet prison; the more fortunate walked down the cobbled lane to freedom. He had started to tell his son something of the house’s architectural history, but his voice had been overpowered by