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By P. D. James

Whilst the quiet Little sacristy of St. Matthew's Church turns into the blood-soaked scene of a double homicide, Scotland backyard Commander Adam Dalgliesh faces an exciting conundrum: How did an upper-crust Minister come to lie, slit throat to slit throat, subsequent to a local derelict of the bottom order? Challenged with the research of against the law that looks to have never-ending reasons, Dalgliesh explores the sinister net spun round a half-burnt diary and a violet-eyed widow who's pregnant and whole of malice--all the whereas hoping to fill the space of good judgment that joined those disparate males in shiny pink loss of life. . . .

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Mrs McBride, he thought, would soon put a stop to anything like that at St Matthew's. Indeed, she had put a stop to it. During his first week, Mrs Jordan had visited him with a homemade fruitcake. She had seen it on the table on her Wednesday visit and had said: 'One of Ethel Jordan's, is it? ' The words had hung on the air, heavy with innuendo, and an act of simple kindness had been spoiled. Eating the cake, he had felt it like tasteless dough in his mouth, every mouthful an act of shared indecency.

She was employed by the parish for twelve hours a week and her nominal duties were to come in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, clean the flat, wash and spin dry any linen or articles in the soiled linen basket, and prepare and leave for him a simple lunch on a tray. On the other weekdays and at weekends, Father Barnes was expected to look after himself. There had never been a job description. Mrs McBride and the current incumbent were expected to work out a mutually agreed arrangement of hours and duties.

Don't complicate his death which, God knows, is horrible enough, with old, irrelevant tragedies. ' 7O He didn't answer. ' 'Not yet. I tried to telephone her this morning at the flat but there was no reply. She was probably out getting a paper. ' 'Would you like me to go round? She is Paul's daughter, after all. This will be a terrible shock to her. ' 'She won't. ' 'But who will drive you? ' She resented the way in which he seemed to be taking over, insinuating himself into the family as cunningly as he once had in Oxford.

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A Taste for Death (Adam Dalgliesh Mysteries 7) by P. D. James

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