Free Death in Holy Orders by P. D. James Page B

more logical, like. Mr. Mellish sat with the jury, he likes to do that if the case is a bit complicated or there’s public interest, and the jury were unanimous, all eight of them. There’s nodenying that an open verdict is never satisfactory, and St. Anselm’s is highly respected hereabouts. They’re isolated, I don’t deny it, but the young men preach at local churches and they do a bit of good in the community. Mind you, I’m not saying that the jury were wrong. Anyway, that’s what they found.”
    Dalgliesh said, “Sir Alred can hardly complain about the thoroughness of the investigation. I don’t see that you could have done more.”
    “Nor do I, Mr. Dalgliesh, and the Coroner said the same.”
    There seemed nothing more to be learned, and after thanking Sergeant Jones for his help and for the coffee, Dalgliesh left. The spar of wood with its trace of blue paint had been wrapped and labelled. Dalgliesh took it with him because it seemed expected of him, rather than because he thought it would be of use.
    At the far end of the parking lot a man was loading cardboard boxes into the back seat of a Rover. Looking round, he saw Dalgliesh getting into the Jaguar, gazed fixedly at him for a moment and then, as if coming to a sudden resolution, walked over. Dalgliesh found himself gazing into a prematurely aged face which looked wracked by lack of sleep or pain. It was a look which he had seen too often before not to recognize.
    “You must be Commander Adam Dalgliesh. Ted Williams said you’d be looking in. I’m Inspector Roger Yarwood. I’m on sick-leave and here to collect some of my gear. I just want to say that you’ll be seeing me at St. Anselm’s. The fathers take me in from time to time. It’s cheaper than a hotel and the company’s better than in the local loony-bin, which is the usual alternative. Oh, and the food’s better.”
    The words came out in a fluent stream as if rehearsed, and there was a look both challenging and shamed in the dark eyes. The news was unwelcome. Perhaps unreasonably, Dalgliesh had thought that he would be the only visitor.
    As if sensing this reaction, Yarwood said, “Don’t worry, I shan’t be joining you in your room after Compline for a jar. I want to get away from police gossip and I dare say you do too.”
    Before Dalgliesh could do more than shake hands, Yarwood gave a quick nod, turned away and walked quickly back to his car.

8
    D algliesh had said that he would arrive at the college after lunch. Before leaving Lowestoft, he found a delicatessen and bought hot rolls, a pat of butter, some coarse-textured pâté and a half-bottle of wine. As always when driving in the country, he had come provided with a glass and with a thermos of coffee.
    Leaving the town, he took side roads and then a rutted and overgrown lane just wide enough for the Jaguar. There was an open gate giving a wide view over the autumn fields and here he parked to eat his picnic. But first he turned off his mobile phone. Leaving the car, he leaned against the gatepost and shut his eyes to listen to the silence. These were the moments he craved in an over-busy life, the knowledge that no one in the world knew exactly where he was or could reach him. The small, almost indistinguishable sounds of the countryside came to him on the sweet-smelling air, a distant unidentifiable bird-song, the susurration of the breeze in the tall grasses, the creaking of a branch over his head. After he had finished his lunch he walked vigorously down the lane for a half-mile, then returned to the car and made his way back to the A12 and towards Ballard’s Mere.
    And here, a little sooner than expected, was the turning: the same huge ash, but now ivy-covered and looking close to decay, and to his left the two trim cottages with their ordered front gardens. The narrow road, little more than a lane, was slightly sunken, and the tangled winter hedge topping the bank obscured the view of the headland, so that nothing could