The Skull Beneath the Skin by P. D. James

face. His skin gleamed pink and white, the circular flush on each cheekbone looked almost artificial. His eyes were his most striking feature. They were large and sparkling bright as black, sea-washed pebbles, the surrounding whites clear and translucent. Above them the brows curved in a strong arch as tidily as if they had been plucked. The ends of the mouth curved upwards in a fixed smile so that the whole face heldthe shining humorous animation of a man enjoying a perpetual internal joke. He was wearing brown cotton trousers and a black short-sleeved singlet. Both were highly suitable for the weather and the occasion, yet to Cordelia they seemed incongruous. Something more formal was needed to define and control the latent strength of what she guessed was a complex and, perhaps, a formidable personality.
    In his way the manservant, now supervising the loading of the luggage and crates of supplies on to a small motorized truck, was equally remarkable. He must, thought Cordelia, be well over six feet in height and with his dark suit and heavy white lugubrious face had the spurious gloom of a Victorian undertaker’s mute. His long, rather pointed head sloped to a high and shiny forehead topped with a wig of coarse black hair, which made absolutely no pretensions to realism. It was parted in the middle and had been inexpertly hacked rather than trimmed. Cordelia thought that such a bizarre appearance could hardly be inadvertent and she wondered what perversity or secret compulsion had led him to contrive and present to his world a persona so uncompromisingly eccentric. Could it be revulsion against the tedium, the conformity or the deference demanded of his job? It seemed unlikely. Servants who found their duties frustrating or uncongenial nowadays had a simple remedy. They could always leave.
    Intrigued by the man’s appearance, she scarcely noticed his wife, a short, round-faced woman who stood always at her husband’s side and didn’t speak during the whole course of the disembarkation.
    Clarissa Lisle had taken absolutely no notice of her since their arrival but Ambrose Gorringe came forward, smiled and said: “You must be Miss Gray. Welcome to CourcyIsland. Mrs. Munter will look after you. We’ve put you next to Miss Lisle.” Cordelia waited until the Munters had finished unloading the launch. As the three of them walked together behind the main party, Munter handed his wife a small canvas bag with the words: “Not much post this morning. The parcel from the London Library hasn’t come. That means Mr. Gorringe probably won’t get his books until Monday.”
    The woman spoke for the first time. “He’ll have plenty to do this weekend without new library books.”
    At that moment Ambrose Gorringe turned and called to Munter. The man moved forward, changing his quick steps to a stately unhurried walk which was probably part of his act. As soon as he was out of earshot Cordelia said: “If there’s any post for Miss Lisle it comes first to me. I’m her new secretary. And I’ll take any telephone calls for her. Perhaps I’d better take a look at the post. We’re expecting a letter.”
    Rather to her surprise, Mrs. Munter handed over the bag without demur. There were only eight letters in all, held together in a rubber band. Two were for Clarissa Lisle. One, in a stout envelope, was obviously an invitation to a dress show. The name, but not the address, of the prestigious designer was engraved on the flap. The second, an ordinary white envelope, was addressed in typing to:
    The Duchess of Malfi,
c/o Miss Clarissa Lisle,
Courcy Island,
Speymouth,
Dorset
    She walked a few steps ahead. She knew that it would be wise to wait until she reached the privacy of her room, but restraint was impossible. Controlling her excitement and curiosity she slipped her finger under the flap. It was loosely gummed and came apart easily. She guessed the communication would be short and it was. Inside, on a small sheet of the same paper