The Black Tower by P. D. James Page A

dull, repressed, religious Grace. But how could she have guessed what Ursula had never admitted to herself?
    â€œYou must have known you were ill when you married him. What about those tremors, the weakness in your legs, the clumsiness in the mornings? You knew you were ill,didn’t you? You cheated him. No wonder he seldom writes, that he never visits. He’s not living alone, you know. You didn’t really expect him to stay faithful, did you?”
    And there the letter broke off. Somehow she felt that the writer hadn’t really come to the end, that some more dramatic and revelationary finish was intended. But perhaps he or she had been interrupted; someone might have come into the office unexpectedly. The note had been typed on Toynton Grange paper, cheap and absorbent and with the old Remington typewriter. Nearly all the patients and staff occasionally typed. She thought she could remember seeing most of them use the Remington at one time or another. Of course, it was really Grace’s machine; it was recognized as primarily hers; she used it to type the stencils for the quarterly newsletter. Often she worked alone in the office when the rest of the patients considered that they had finished the working day. And there would be no difficulty in ensuring that it reached the right recipient.
    Slipping it into a library book was the surest way of all. They all knew what the others were reading, how could they help it? Books were laid down on tables, on chairs, were easily accessible to anyone. All the staff and patients must have known that she was reading the latest Iris Murdoch. And, oddly enough, the poison letter had been placed at exactly the page which she had reached.
    At first she had taken it for granted that this was just a new example of Victor’s power to hurt and humiliate. It was only since his death that she had felt these doubts, had glanced surreptitiously at the faces of her fellow inmates, had wondered and feared. But surely this was nonsense? She was tormenting herself unnecessarily. It must have been Victor and, if it were Victor, then there would be no more letters. But how could even he have known about her and Steve; except that Victor did mysteriously know things.She remembered the scene when she and Grace Willison had been sitting with him here in the patients’ patio. Grace lifting her face to the sun and wearing that silly, gentle smile had begun to talk of her happiness, about the next Lourdes pilgrimage. Victor had broken in roughly:
    â€œYou’re cheerful because you’re euphoric. It’s a feature of your disease, D.S. patients always have this unreasonable happiness and hope. Read the textbooks. It’s a recognized symptom. It’s certainly no virtue on your part and it’s bloody irritating for the rest of us.”
    She recalled Grace’s voice already tremulous with hurt.
    â€œI wasn’t claiming happiness as a virtue. But even if it’s only a symptom, I can still give thanks for it; it’s a kind of grace.”
    â€œAs long as you don’t expect the rest of us to join in, give thanks by all means. Thank God for the privilege of being no bloody use to yourself or anyone else. And while you’re about it, thank Him for some of the other blessings of His creation; the millions toiling to get a living out of barren soil swept by flood, burnt by drought; for potbellied children; for tortured prisoners; for the whole doomed, bloody, pointless mess.”
    Grace Willison had protested quietly through the first smart of her tears:
    â€œBut Victor, how can you talk like that? Suffering isn’t the whole of life; you can’t really believe that God doesn’t care. You come with us to Lourdes.”
    â€œOf course I do. It’s the one chance to get out of this boring crack-brained penitentiary. I like movement, I like travel, I like the sight of the sun shining on the Pyrenees, I enjoy the colour. I even get some kind