Death in Holy Orders

In setting this story of murder and mystery in a Church of England theological college I would not wish to discourage candidates for the Anglican priesthood, nor to suggest for one moment that visitors to such a college in search of rest and spiritual renewal are in danger of finding a more permanent peace than they had in mind. It is the more important, therefore, to emphasize that St. Anselm’s is not based on any real theological college, past or present, and that its eccentric priests, its ordinands, staff and visitors are purely fictitious and exist only in the imagination of the writer and her readers.

I am very grateful to a number of people who have kindly helped me by answering my questions; any errors, theological or otherwise, are my own. I am particularly grateful to the late Archbishop Lord Runcie, the Reverend Dr. Jeremy Sheehy, the Reverend Dr. Peter Groves, Dr. Ann Priston OBE of the Forensic Science Service, and to my secretary, Mrs. Joyce McLennan, whose help with this novel went far beyond her skill with a computer.

—
P. D. James

I
t was Father Martin’s idea that I should write an account of how I found the body
.

I asked, “You mean, as if I were writing a letter, telling it to a friend?
”

Father Martin said, “Writing it down as if it were fiction, as if you were standing outside yourself, watching it happen, remembering what you did, what you felt, as if it were all happening to someone else.
”

I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t sure I knew where to begin. I said, “Everything that happened, Father, or just that walk along the beach, uncovering Ronald’s body?
”

“
Anything and everything you want to say. Write about the college and about your life here if you like. I think you might find it helpful.
”

“
Did you find it helpful, Father?
”

I don’t know why I spoke these words, they just came into my mind and I let them out. It was silly really, and in a way it was impertinent, but he didn’t seem to mind
.

After a pause he said, “No, it didn’t really help me, but then, it was all a very long time ago. I think it might be different for you.
”

I suppose he was thinking about the war and being taken prisoner by the Japanese, the awful events that happened in the camp. He never speaks about the war, but then, why should he do so to me? But I don’t think he speaks to anyone, not even to the other priests
.

This conversation happened two days ago, when we were walking together through the cloisters after Evensong. I don’t go to Mass any more, not since Charlie died,
but I do go to Evensong. It’s a matter of courtesy really. It doesn’t seem right working at the college, taking money from them, accepting all their kindness and never attending any of the services in the church. But perhaps I’m being too sensitive. Mr. Gregory lives in one of the cottages, as I do, and teaches Greek part-time, but he never attends church except when there is music he wants to hear. No one ever presses me to attend, they never even asked why I stopped coming to Mass. But of course they noticed; they notice everything
.

When I got back to my cottage I thought about what Father Martin had said and whether perhaps it might not be a good idea. I’ve never had any difficulty about writing. At school I was good at composition and Miss Allison, who taught us English, said she thought I might have the talent to be a writer. But I knew that she was wrong. I haven’t any imagination, not the kind novelists need. I can’t make things up. I can only write about what I see and do and know—and sometimes what I feel, which isn’t as easy. Anyway, I always wanted to be a nurse, even from childhood. I’m sixty-four and retired now, but I still keep my hand in here at St. Anselm’s. I’m partly the Matron, dealing with minor illnesses, and I also look after the linen. It’s an easy job but I’ve got a weak heart and I’m lucky to be working. The college makes it as easy as possible for me. They’ve even provided a lightweight trolley so that I’m not tempted to carry heavy bundles of linen. I ought to have said all this before. And I haven’t even written down my name. It’s Munroe, Margaret Munroe
.

I think I know why Father Martin suggested it would be helpful if I began writing again. He knows that I used to write a long letter to Charlie every week. I think he’s the only person here except Ruby Pilbeam who does know that. Every week I’d sit down and remember what had happened since the last letter, the small unimportant things which wouldn’t be unimportant to Charlie: the meals I ate, the jokes I heard, stories about the students, descriptions of the weather. You wouldn’t think there would be much to tell in a quiet place like this on the edge
of the cliffs, remote from anywhere, but it was surprising what I found to write to him. And I know Charlie loved the letters. “Keep on writing, Mum,” he would say when he was home on leave. And I did
.

After he was killed, the Army sent me back all his belongings and there was the bundle of letters among them. Not every one I’d written, he couldn’t have kept them all, but he did keep some of the longest. I took them onto the headland and made a bonfire. It was a windy day, as it often is on the East Coast, and the flames roared and spat and changed direction with the wind. The charred pieces of paper rose and whirled about my face like black moths and the smoke stung my nose. It was odd, because it was only a little fire. But what I’m trying to say is that I know why Father Martin suggested I should write this account. He thought that writing something—anything—might help to bring me back to life. He’s a good man, perhaps he’s even a holy man, but there’s so much he doesn’t understand
.

It seems strange to be writing this account without knowing who, if anyone, will ever see it. And I’m not sure whether I’m writing for myself or for some imaginary reader to whom everything about St. Anselm’s will be new and strange. So perhaps I ought to write something about the college, to set the scene, as it were. It was founded in 1861 by a pious lady called Miss Agnes Arbuthnot, who wanted to ensure that there would always be “devout and learned young men ordained to the Catholic priesthood in the Church of England.” I’ve put in the inverted commas because those are her words. There’s a booklet about her in the church and that’s how I know. She gave the buildings, the land and nearly all her furniture, and enough money—so she thought—to keep the college going for ever. But there never is enough money, and now St. Anselm’s has to be mainly financed by the Church. I know that Father Sebastian and Father Martin are afraid that the Church is planning to close it down. This fear is never openly discussed, and certainly not with the staff, though we all know. In a small and isolated community like St.
Anselm’s, news and gossip seem to be carried, unspoken, on the wind
.