{"product_id":"the-lighthouse-isbn-9780307275738","title":"The Lighthouse","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • A secure and secluded retreat for the rich and powerful becomes the setting for an  unsettling series of murders • Part of the bestselling mystery series that inspired \u003ci\u003eDalgliesh\u003c\/i\u003e on Acorn TV\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One of the most compelling books of her remarkable career. . . . A magisterial and subtle exploration of all-too-human emotions.\"–\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCombe Island off the Cornish coast is a restful haven  for the elite. But when one of its distinguished visitors is found hanging from the  island’s famous lighthouse in what appears to have been a murder, the peace is shattered.  Commander Adam Dalgliesh is called in to handle the sensitive case, but at a difficult  time for him and his depleted team. He is uncertain about his future with his girlfriend  Emma Lavenham; his principle detective Kate Miskin is going through an emotional  crisis; and the ambitious Sergeant Francis Benton-Smith is not happy about having  a female boss. After a second brutal killing, the whole investigation is jeopardized,  and Dalgliesh is faced with a danger even more insidious than murder.\"One of the most compelling books of her remarkable career.... A magisterial and subtle exploration of all-too-human emotions.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Appealing. . . . Something to gladden hearts–at least among aficionados of the formally perfect murder scheme.... Even its murder victim is delectable.... The reader...secretly thrills to the discovery of each new corpse.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thrilling.... Tantalizing.... Intense.... The solution to the crime is satisfyingly elegant.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“James is at the height of her writing powers in describing this craggy bit of rock off England’s coast so thoroughly that you can feel the wind against your face and the scrubland brush against your boots. Like Dalgleish and Miskin, you will wish you could return.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Baltimore Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With her trademark blend of subtle characterization, vivid sense of place and deceptively simple plot, James pulls off another triumph. A beautifully written page-turner from the queen of the genre.”\u003ci\u003e—Toronto Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An elegant and perceptive writer – rich drifts of prose pile up on the page, descriptive passages are Dickensian in length, ornament and power...James’s many fans will relish \u003cb\u003eThe Lighthouse\u003c\/b\u003e, for all its poise and narrative familiarity.”\u003ci\u003e—The Globe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“James’s gifts animate and transform the armature into something exceptional. Her disciplined conventions, her observation of social and class niceties, renew the traditional Franco-British drama of domestic crime. She is a very superior writer of detection.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Times Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“James has proven that she deserves her reputation as our leading ‘literary’ crime writer. \u003cb\u003eThe Lighthouse\u003c\/b\u003e confirms that she is also the most enjoyable.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Daily Express\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cp\u003eP. D. James is the author of twenty books, many of which feature her detective hero Adam Dalgliesh and have been televised or filmed. She was the recipient of many honors, including the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and the National Arts Club Medal of Honor for Literature, and in 1991 was created Baroness James of Holland Park. She died in 2014.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCommander Adam Dalgliesh was not unused to being urgently summoned to  non-scheduled meetings with unspecified people at inconvenient times, but  usually with one purpose in common: he could be confident that somewhere  there lay a dead body awaiting his attention. There were other urgent  calls, other meetings, sometimes at the highest level. Dalgliesh, as a  permanent ADC to the Commissioner, had a number of functions which, as  they grew in number and importance, had become so ill-defined that most of  his colleagues had given up trying to define them. But this meeting,  called in Assistant Commissioner Harkness’s office on the seventh floor of  New Scotland Yard at ten-fifty-five on the morning of Saturday, 23  October, had, from his first   entry into the room, the unmistakable presaging of murder. This had  nothing to do with a certain serious tension on the faces turned towards   him; a departmental debacle would have caused greater concern. It was  rather that unnatural death always provoked a peculiar unease, an  uncomfortable realisation that there were still some things that might not  be susceptible to bureaucratic control.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere were only three men awaiting him and Dalgliesh was surprised to see  Alexander Conistone of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. He liked  Conistone, who was one of the few eccentrics remaining in an increasingly  conformist and politicised service. Conistone had acquired a reputation  for crisis management. This was partly founded on his belief that there  was no emergency that was not   amenable to precedent or departmental regulations, but when these  orthodoxies failed, he could reveal a dangerous capacity for imaginative  initiatives which, by any bureaucratic logic, deserved to end in disaster  but never did. Dalgliesh, for whom few of the labyrinths of Westminster  bureaucracy were wholly unfamiliar, had earlier decided that this  dichotomy of character was inherited. Generations of Conistones had been  soldiers. The foreign fields of Britain’s imperialis-  tic past were enriched by the bodies of unmemorialised victims of   previous Conistones’ crises management. Even Conistone’s eccen-  tric appearance reflected a personal ambiguity. Alone among his  colleagues, he dressed with the careful pinstriped conformity of a civil  servant of the Thirties while, with his strong bony face, mottled cheeks  and hair with the resilient waywardness of straw, he looked like a farmer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was seated next to Dalgliesh opposite one of the wide windows. Having  sat through the first ten minutes of the present meeting with an unusual  economy of words, he sat, his chair a little tilted, complacently  surveying the panorama of towers and spires, lit by a transitory  unseasonable morning sun. Of the four men in the room—Conistone, Adam  Dalgliesh, Assistant Commissioner Harkness and a fresh-faced boy from MI5  who had been introduced as Colin Reeves—Conistone, the one most concerned  with the matter in hand, had so far said the least while Reeves,  preoccupied with the effort of remembering what was being said without the  humiliating expedient of being seen to take notes, hadn’t yet spoken. Now  Conistone stirred himself for a summing up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Murder would be the most embarrassing for us, suicide hardly less so in  the circumstances. Accidental death we could probably live with. Given the  victim, there’s bound to be publicity whichever it is, but it should be  manageable unless this is murder. The problem is that we haven’t much  time. No date has been fixed yet, but the PM would like to arrange this  top-secret international get-together in early January.   A good time. Parliament not sitting, nothing much happens just after  Christmas, nothing is expected to happen. The PM seems to have set his  mind on Combe. So you’ll take on the case, Adam? Good.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore Dalgliesh could reply, Harkness broke in, “The security rating, if  it comes off, couldn’t be higher.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDalgliesh thought, \u003ci\u003eAnd even if you’re in the know, which I doubt,   you have no intention of telling me who will be meeting at this top-secret   conference, or why\u003c\/i\u003e. Security was always on a need-to-know basis. He could  make his guesses, but had no particular curiosity. On the other hand, he  was being asked to investigate a violent death and there were things he  needed to be told.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore Colin Reeves had time to realise that this was his cue to  intervene, Conistone said, “All that will be taken care of, of course.  We’re not expecting problems. There was a similar situation some years  ago — before your time, Harkness — when a VIP politician thought he’d like a  respite from his protection officer and booked two weeks on Combe. The  visitor stood the silence and solitude for two days before realising that  his life was meaningless without his red boxes. I should have thought that  that was the message Combe was established to convey, but he didn’t get  it. No, I don’t think we’ll be worrying our friends south of the Thames.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell, that, at least, was a relief. To have the security services involved  was always a complication. Dalgliesh reflected that the secret service,  like the monarchy, in yielding up its mystique in response   to public enthusiasm for greater openness, seemed to have lost some   of that half-ecclesiastical patina of authority bestowed on those who  dealt in esoteric mysteries. Today its head was known by name and pictured  in the press, the previous head had actually written her autobiography,  and its headquarters, an eccentric oriental-looking monument to modernity  which dominated its stretch of the south bank of the Thames, seemed  designed to attract rather than repel curiosity. To surrender mystique had  its disadvantages; an organisation came to be regarded like any other  bureaucracy, staffed by the same fallible human beings and liable to the  same cock-ups. But he expected no problems with the secret service. The  fact that MI5 was represented at middle-grade level suggested that this  single death on an offshore island was among the least of their present  concerns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe said, “I can’t go inadequately briefed. You’ve given me nothing except  who’s dead, where he died and apparently how. Tell me about the island.  Where exactly is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness was in one of his more difficult moods, his ill humour  imperfectly concealed by self-importance and a tendency to verbosity. The  large map on the table was a little crooked. Frowning, he aligned it more  accurately with the edge of the table, pushed it towards Dalgliesh and  stabbed it with his forefinger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s here. Combe Island. Off the coast of Cornwall, about twenty miles  south-west of Lundy Island and roughly twelve miles from the mainland,  Pentworthy in this case. Newquay is the nearest large town.” He looked  over at Conistone. “You’d better carry on. It’s more your baby than ours.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConistone spoke directly to Dalgliesh. “I’ll waste a little time on the  history. It explains Combe and if you don’t know it you may start under a  disadvantage. The island was owned for over four hundred years by the  Holcombe family, who acquired it in the sixteenth century, although no one  seems clear exactly how. Probably a Holcombe rowed out with a few armed  retainers, hoisted his personal standard and took it over. There can’t  have been much competition. The title was later ratified by Henry the  Eighth once he’d got rid of the Mediterranean pirates who’d established it  as a base for their slave-trading raids along the Devon and Cornish  coasts. After that Combe lay more or less neglected until the eighteenth  century, when the family began to take an interest in it, and visited  occasionally to look at the bird-life or spend the day picnicking. Then a  Gerald Holcombe, born in the late eighteen hundreds, decided to use the  island for family holidays. He restored the cottages and, in 1912, built a  house and additional accommodation for the staff. The family went there  every summer in those heady days before the First World War. The war  changed everything. The two elder sons were killed, one in France, the  other at Gallipoli. The Holcombes are the kind of family who die in wars,  not make money from them. That left only the youngest, Henry, who was  consumptive and unfit for military service. Apparently, after the death of  his brothers he was oppressed by a sense of general unworthiness and had  no particular wish to inherit. The money hadn’t come from land but from  fortunate investments, and by the late Twenties they had more or less  dried up. So in 1930 he set up a charitable trust with what was left,  found some wealthy supporters and handed over the island and the property.  His idea was that it should be used as a place of rest and seclusion for  men in positions of responsibility who needed to get away from the rigours  of their professional lives.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, for the first time, he bent down to open his briefcase and took out a  file with a security marking. Rummaging among the documents, he brought  out a single sheet of paper. “I’ve got the exact wording here. It makes  Henry Holcombe’s intentions clear. \u003ci\u003eFor men who undertake the dangerous and  arduous business of exercising high responsibility in the service of the  Crown and of their country, whether in the armed forces, politics,  science, industry or the arts, and who require a restorative period of  solitude, silence and peace\u003c\/i\u003e. Engagingly typical of its age, isn’t it? No  mention of women, of course. This was 1930, remember. However, the  accepted convention is held to apply, that the word ‘men’ embraces women.  They take a maximum of five visitors, whom they accommodate at their  choice either in the main house or in one of the stone cottages. Basically  what Combe Island offers is peace and security. In the last few decades  the latter has become probably the more important. People who want time to  think can go there without their protection officers in the knowledge that  they will be safe and completely undisturbed. There’s a helicopter pad for  bringing them in, and the small harbour is the only possible landing place  by sea. No casual visitors are ever allowed and even mobile phones are  forbidden — they wouldn’t get a signal there anyway. They keep a very low  profile. People who go there are generally on personal recommendation,  either from a Trustee or from a previous or regular visitor. You can see  its advantage for the PM’s purpose.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReeves blurted out, “What’s wrong with Chequers?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe others turned on him the brightly interested gaze of adults prepared  to humour a precocious child.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConistone said, “Nothing. An agreeable house with, I understand, every  comfort. But guests who are invited to Chequers tend to get noticed. Isn’t  that the purpose of their going there?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDalgliesh asked, “How did Downing Street get to know about   the island?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConistone slid the paper back into his file. “Through one of the PM’s  newly ennobled chums. He went to Combe to recover from the dangerous and  arduous responsibility of adding one more grocery chain to his empire and  another billion to his personal fortune.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There are some permanent staff, presumably. Or do the VIPs do their own  washing up?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s the secretary, Rupert Maycroft, previously a solicitor in  Warnborough. We’ve had to confide in him and, of course, inform the  Trustees that Number Ten would be grateful if some important visitors  could be accommodated in early January. At present it’s all very  tentative, but we’ve asked him to make no bookings after this month. There  are the usual staff—boatman, housekeeper, cook. We know something about  all of them. One or two of the previous visitors have been important  enough to warrant security checks. It’s all been done very discreetly.  There’s a resident physician, Dr. Guy Staveley, and his wife, although I  gather she’s more off than on the island. Can’t stand the boredom  apparently. Staveley’s a refugee from a London general practice.  Apparently he made a wrong diagnosis and a child died, so he’s got himself  a job where the worst that can happen is someone falling off a cliff, and  he can’t be blamed for that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness said, “Only one resident has a criminal conviction, the boatman  Jago Tamlyn in 1998 for GBH. I gather there were mitigating circumstances  but it must have been a serious attack. He got twelve months. He’s been in  no trouble since.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDalgliesh asked, “When did the current visitors arrive?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All five in the last week. The writer Nathan Oliver, together with his  daughter Miranda and copy-editor Dennis Tremlett, came on Monday. A  retired German diplomat, Dr. Raimund Speidel, ex-Ambassador to Beijing,  came by private yacht from France on Wednesday, and Dr. Mark Yelland,  director of the Hayes-Skolling research laboratory in the Midlands, which  has been targeted by the animal-liberation activists, arrived on Thursday.  Maycroft will be able to put you in the picture.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness broke in, “Better take the minimum of people, at least until you  know what you’re dealing with. The smaller the invasion the better.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDalgliesh said, “It will hardly be an invasion. I’m still awaiting a  replacement for Tarrant, but I’ll take Inspector Miskin and Sergeant  Benton-Smith. We can probably manage without a SOCO or official  photographer at this stage, but if it proves to be murder, I’ll have to  have reinforcements or let the local force take over. I’ll need a  pathologist. I’ll speak to Kynaston if I can reach him. He may be away  from his lab on a case.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness said, “That won’t be necessary. We’re using Edith Glenister. You  know her, of course.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hasn’t she retired?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConistone said, “Officially two years ago, but she does work occasionally,  mostly on sensitive overseas cases. At sixty-five she’s probably had  enough of trudging gum-booted through muddy fields with the local CID,  examining decomposing bodies in ditches.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDalgliesh doubted whether this was why Professor Glenister had officially  retired. He had never worked with her but he knew her reputation. She was  among the most highly regarded of women forensic pathologists, notable for  an almost uncanny accuracy in assessing the time of death, for the speed  and comprehensiveness of her reports and for the clarity and authority  with which she gave evidence in court. She was notable, too, for her  insistence on maintaining the distinction between the functions of the  pathologist and the investigating officer. Professor Glenister, he knew,  would never hear details of the circumstances of the murder before  examining the body, ensuring, presumably, that she came to the corpse with  no preconceived ideas. He was intrigued by the prospect of working with  her and had no doubt that it was the FCO who had originally suggested  using her. All the same, he would have preferred his usual forensic  pathologist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe said, “You’re not implying that Miles Kynaston can’t be trusted to keep  his mouth shut?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness broke in. “Of course not, but Cornwall is hardly his patch.  Professor Glenister is stationed at present in the south-west. Anyway,  Kynaston isn’t available, we’ve checked.” Dalgliesh was tempted to say,  How convenient for the FCO. They certainly hadn’t lost any time. Harkness  went on, “You can pick her up at RAF St. Mawgan, near Newquay, and they’ll  arrange a special helicopter to take the body to the mortuary she uses.  She’ll treat the case as urgent. You should get her report sometime  tomorrow.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDalgliesh said, “So Maycroft rang you as soon as possible after finding  the body? I suppose he was following instructions.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness said, “He was given a phone number, told that it was   top secret and instructed to phone the Trustees if anything untoward  happened on the island. He’s been warned that you’ll be arriving by  helicopter and to expect you by early afternoon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDalgliesh said, “He’ll have some difficulty explaining to his colleagues  why this particular death should attract a Metropolitan Police commander  and a detective inspector instead of being dealt with by the local CID,  but I suppose you’ve covered that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness said, “As well as we can. The Chief Constable has been put in the  picture, of course. There’s no point in arguing over which force should  take responsibility until we know whether we’ve got a murder to  investigate. In the meantime they’ll cooperate. If it is murder and the  island is as secure as they claim, there’ll be a limited number of  suspects. That should speed up the inquiry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly someone ignorant of a murder investigation, or who had conveniently  forgotten the less successful incidents of his past, could have been so  misjudging. A small group of suspects, if each was intelligent and prudent  enough to keep his or her counsel and resist the fateful impulse to  volunteer more than was asked, could complicate any investigation and  bedevil the prosecution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the door Conistone turned. “The food’s all right on Combe Island, I  suppose? The beds comfortable?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness said coolly, “We’ve had no time to enquire. Frankly, it didn’t  occur to me. I should have thought that whether the cook knows her job and  the state of the mattresses is more your concern than ours. Our interest  is in a dead body.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConistone took the barb with good humour. “True. We’ll check on the  amenities if this conference comes off. The first thing the rich and  powerful learn is the value of comfort. I should have mentioned that the  last surviving Holcombe is a permanent resident on the island, Miss Emily  Holcombe, aged eighty plus, a former Oxford academic. History, I believe.  Your subject, wasn’t it, Adam — but weren’t you at the other place? She’ll  either be an ally or a perfect nuisance. If I know anything about academic  women it will be the latter. Thank you for taking this on. We’ll be in  touch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarkness rose to escort Conistone and Reeves out of the building. Leaving  them at the lifts, Dalgliesh went back to his office. First he must phone  Kate and Benton-Smith. After that there was a more difficult call. He and  Emma Lavenham were to have spent tonight and tomorrow together. If she  planned to spend the afternoon in London, she might already be on her way.  He’d have to reach her on her mobile phone. It wouldn’t be the first call  of its kind and, as always, she would be half expecting it. She wouldn’t  complain — Emma never did. Both of them had occasional urgent commitments  and their time together was the more precious because it could never be  relied upon. And there were three words he wanted to say to her which he  found he could never speak over the phone. They too would have to wait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe put his head round the door of his PA’s room. “Get DI Miskin and  Sergeant Benton-Smith for me, will you, Susie. Then I’ll need a car to go  to Battersea Heliport, picking up Sergeant Benton-Smith first, then  Inspector Miskin. Her murder case is in her office. See that it’s put in  the car, will you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe call could hardly have come at a less convenient time. After   a month of working a sixteen-hour day tiredness had caught up with him  and, although he could manage tiredness, what he longed for   was rest, peace and, for two blessed days, the company of Emma. He told  himself that he had only himself to blame for the spoilt weekend. He  wasn’t compelled to undertake a possible murder investigation, however  politically or socially important the victim or challenging the crime.  There were senior officers who would have preferred him to concentrate on  initiatives with which he was already closely involved, the complications  of policing a multiracial society in which drugs,   terrorism and international crime conglomerates were the major challenges,  the proposal for a new detective force to deal with serious crimes best  investigated nationally. The plans would be bedevilled with politics;  top-level policing always had been. The Met needed senior officers who  were at ease in that duplicitous world. He saw himself   as in danger of becoming one more bureaucrat, a committee member,   adviser, co-ordinator — not a detective. If this happened, would he any  longer be a poet? Wasn’t it in the rich soil of a murder investigation, in  the fascination of the gradual unveiling of truth, in shared exertion and  the prospect of danger, and in the pitiableness of desperate and broken  lives that his poetry put out its shoots?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now, with Kate and Benton-Smith on their way, there were things to be  done and quickly, meetings to be tactfully cancelled, papers to be locked  away, the public-relations branch to be put in the picture. He kept a bag  always packed for these sudden emergencies, but it was in his Queenhithe  flat and he was glad that he needed to call in there. He had never yet  phoned Emma from New Scotland Yard. She would know as soon as she heard  his voice what he was about to say. She would make her own arrangements  for the weekend, perhaps excluding him from her thoughts as he was from  her company.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTen minutes later he closed the door of his office and for the first time  with a backward glance, as if taking leave of a long-familiar place he  might not see again.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302191091941,"sku":"NP9780307275738","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307275738.jpg?v=1767740240","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-lighthouse-isbn-9780307275738","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}