The Original Sin of Writing and Reading

Abstract

This study examines the possible points of connection between crime and reading on the basis of genre-typical roles and motifs in detective fiction. I aim to identify characteristic reading methods, strategies, locations, events, and professions with regard to the detective, the perpetrator and the victim. Following a general introduction with a focus on genre theory and thematic concerns, I proceed with an analysis of P. D. James’s crime novel Original Sin. This novel not only offers the posing and solving of a criminal puzzle, but also reflects powerfully on moral questions about sin, original sin and violent death. In my analysis, I follow the method of close reading, and as part of this approach, I also explore traces of biblical intertextuality. As a result of theoretical reflection and interpretation, I draw two important conclusions: (1) For investigators, reading texts constitutes an effective and indispensable instrument for reconstructing the past, thus uncovering the truth and revealing the perpetrator. (2) The reading events depicted in the novel refer to experiences and conceptual connections that justify discussing a kind of theology of reading: reading appears in the story as an intellectual activity that forms part of certain religious practices (penance, prayer, confession).

1. Introduction

If we ponder the relationship between crime and reading in the context of detective fiction, we can immediately encounter several different analytical perspectives.

(1) One possible approach is to examine the historical changes that have occurred in the critical reception of reading detective fiction. Many people, in many different ways and within markedly diverse cultural contexts, have read and continue to read crime fiction today (it is, after all, one of the most international literary genres); this practice, however, has always been regarded with a degree of suspicion or contempt by certain circles of critics and writers. It would be possible to explore within the framework of discourse analysis why the reading of detective fiction was considered a “guilty activity,” that is, what are the aesthetic and moral arguments based on which the representatives of this genre and its passionate consumers have been most frequently condemned.

(2) In close connection with the previous set of questions, one could also draw attention to the persistent presence of stigmatizing rhetorical clichés and pejorative metaphors in critical discourse which, to a certain extent, regrettably continue to shape professional and lay attitudes toward detective fiction to this day. At this point, the examination of the relationship between censorship and detective fiction becomes unavoidable, as one often observes—both in language use and in the exclusionary classification of texts—the continued presence of witch-hunting and exorcism.

(3) Crime narratives are literary accounts concerned with criminal acts depicted as mysteries, their investigation, and the enforcement of justice; therefore, they may be examined within the framework of a moral interpretation that enquires into the nature of crime, punishment, and justice. This may include both a genre-specific analysis of the forms of poetic justice and a discussion of the role moral emotions play in readers’ reactions. The latter perspective already presupposes the incorporation of narratology that draws on certain findings of cognitive psychology.

(4) Finally, the investigation into the nature and role of reading within detective fiction itself also promises to be a productive line of enquiry. In contrast to the previous perspective, the focus here is not on real, empirical readers, but on the intellectual and emotional processes associated with reading as performed by fictional characters, with particular attention to criminal investigations. Such an analysis may combine the perspectives and methods of genre theory, narratology, literary theories of reading, and semiotics.

The approaches outlined above are, of course, not mutually exclusive; by applying different emphases, all four directions may be integrated within the framework of a more comprehensive analysis.

In my present study I follow this last line of enquiry and I examine the possible points of connection between crime and reading on the basis of genre-typical roles and motifs in detective fiction. I seek to answer the question of who reads what, and how, in crime narratives. I aim to identify characteristic reading methods, strategies, locations, events, and professions with regard to the detective, the perpetrator, and the victim. This will help to shed light on the role that reading plays in the formulation and resolution of mystery narratives. Through this perspective, the range of characters who are professionally engaged in reading, and more broadly in the care and mediation of texts, as well as their institutional background, also becomes visible. For reading in the crime genre—and, in fact, in other genres as well—is inseparable from the many forms of professional, philological work performed on and with texts, ranging from transliteration, through copy editing and the preparation of explanatory notes, to more complex forms of textual interpretation. In crime fiction, the “criminally motivated” manipulation of texts is exceedingly common: falsification, distortion, mutilation, rewriting, misattribution, and, of course, theft. A more complex presentation of the relationship between fictional criminal investigation and reading therefore presupposes that this aspect is also taken into consideration.

Following a general introduction with a focus on genre theory and thematic concerns, I proceed with an analysis of P. D. James’s crime novel Original Sin (1994). I have chosen this particular work because it allows for a highly complex presentation of the phenomena under examination. The novel offers an opportunity for a case-study-like illustration of genre-typical representations of reading and it also necessitates reflection on the moral and theological (biblical) aspects of reading and interpretation. The reading events depicted in the novel refer to experiences and conceptual connections that justify discussing a kind of theology of reading. Reading, and in some cases writing, appear in the story as intellectual activities that form part of certain religious practices (penance, prayer, confession), in other instances, an analogy or a contrast can be drawn between reading, writing and the mentioned religious practices. In addition, it also shows a close connection with the semiotic opposition between the sacred and the profane, especially in terms of genres and spaces. For this reason, the important question to answer is not only that of what certain characters read and how but also where and under what circumstances they do so. Examining the relationship between reading and the environment contributes to a better understanding of the mindset of investigators in particular.

The length of the present paper does not allow me to address the question of reading detective fiction itself, which in the novel—by way of a metafictional device—repeatedly arises in the context of friendly conversations, passionate professional debates, individual character reflections and as part of the narratorial commentary.

In my analysis, I follow the method of close reading, which foregrounds narratological and genre theory aspects. As part of this approach, I also explore traces of biblical intertextuality. At the same time, the title of the novel warrants the clarification of certain theological contexts. The principal aspects of the doctrine of original sin are summarized on the basis of the articles of Duffy (1988) and Ricoeur (1974), solely with the aim of providing perspectives that facilitate the understanding of the reinterpretations of original sin in the novel.

2. Reading the Clues: Detectives

Reading and textual interpretation have played an important role in the genre from the earliest days of the history of detective fiction. It suffices here to recall the motifs that attest to this in the three genre-founding short stories by Edgar Allan Poe. It is already telling that the first encounter between the unnamed narrator and C. Auguste Dupin (The Murders in the Rue Morgue, 1841) takes place in “an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume brought us into closer communion” (Poe 1978, pp. 531–32). A newspaper article draws their attention to the mysterious murder in the Rue Morgue, followed by another that provides a summary of the witness testimonies. After carefully reading these texts and learning of the arrest of an innocent man, Dupin decides to hurry to the crime scene and become involved in the investigation. In The Mystery of Marie Rogêt (1843), the second Dupin story, the detective does not even leave his apartment; he relies solely on the critical reading of the materials of the police investigation—newspaper articles reporting on the results of the inquiry and letters from readers—and then goes on to formulate those fundamental observations and conclusions that subsequently steer the police investigations, which had until then been proceeding along erroneous paths, in the right direction. In The Purloined Letter (1844), by contrast, the plot revolves around the recovery of a compromising letter used for purposes of blackmail. The details of the letter-theft case are presented to Dupin by the prefect of the Paris police in Dupin’s “little back library, or book-closet” (Poe 1978, p. 975). Possession of the letter grants power, that is, political influence, to the thief, Minister D. Dupin eventually succeeds in finding and replacing the text in question, and in the forgery he also encloses a literary quotation addressed to the thief.

The attentive and in-depth reading, critical analysis, and, at times, manipulation of texts related to criminal cases; the search for literary works, valuable manuscripts, and official documents; and the use of bookshops and library rooms as settings are motifs that, as we shall see, recur repeatedly in the later history of the genre.

Even this brief overview has shown that the close interrelation between investigation and the reading of texts of various genres fundamentally derives from the fact that access to the revelation of a past crime leads, in part, through the reading and proper interpretation of text-based clues. The object of reading activity might come from diverse sources: maybe it is an official document directly or indirectly connected to the criminal case (witness testimony, will, invoice, business file, and so forth), a journalistic text, a personal document (diary, letter, invitation), or a literary work (manuscript, book), including even a detective novel itself. The diversity of genres justifies the recognition that the motivations for and the modes of reading may differ in the cases listed. One of the key conditions for the successful resolution of crime cases lies in the appropriate selection and alternation of reading and interpretive strategies, for the reading of texts in a crime narrative is generally not a self-serving aesthetic activity, but rather an indispensable, operative instrument of investigative work.

Investigators primarily seek information and data in texts, which they then classify, correlate, and use to draw conclusions that nudge them toward the resolution of the case. Their reading is therefore largely referential, directed at the identification of the referents linguistically represented in the texts (persons, places, events). Attention is paid to a text’s style and to the manner of its linguistic and poetic construction only insofar as this directly affects the solution of the case (for example, a revealing turn of phrase in a suspect’s testimony) or insofar as the nature of the given source warrants it: for instance, when it is a poem, a novel, a dramatic work, or an essay that can be linked to the circumstances of the murder. We also have to include here such cases in which the author of the examined text has employed literary devices (such as metaphor, allusion, quotation, or irony) that make it necessary to apply—and successfully “deploy”—the experiences acquired and the reading strategies learned in the reception of artistic texts.

Referential reading and poetic reading do not necessarily exclude one another in this context; their joint, cooperative application is not uncommon in detective fiction. This is particularly unavoidable in cases in which the guiding thread of a series of murders is provided by a literary classic (Matthew Pearl: The Dante Club, 2003; Michael Connelly: The Poet, 1996; Jennifer Lee Carrell: Interred with Their Bones, 2007). This may also involve the perpetrator leaving literary quotations or passages at the crime scene, or communicating them to the public in the form of messages sent to the police or to the press. In such situations, investigators have no choice but to replace or supplement fact-finding, data-centered, “positivist” reading with an aesthetic mode of reading adapted to the demands of literary texts, which may even necessitate the involvement of an external philological expert (such as a literary historian, critic, or translator). The same applies when the object of the mystery is a coded text addressed only to the initiated, and deciphering it requires specialized knowledge (cryptography, or works related to various religious, philosophical, esoteric, or occult teachings, as well as to magic or alchemy). Incidentally, the model for this, too, was established by Edgar Allan Poe in his short story The Gold-Bug, which offers insight into the gradual and meticulous deciphering of a cryptogram that eventually leads to the discovery of a buried treasure (on the connection between cryptography and detective stories in relation to Poe, see: Rosenheim 1989, 1997).

In certain types of criminal cases, graphological analysis plays a prominent role. This is particularly true when doubts arise concerning the authenticity of an official document, when the author of a manuscript is unknown, or when, from the perspective of the investigation, it is important to clarify personality traits or states of consciousness reflected in the manner of writing. This constitutes a mode of analytical reading that requires specialized knowledge; by focusing on the individual formal and stylistic characteristics of handwriting, as well as on the material properties of the textual medium (the type of paper and ink), it formulates conclusions about the often elusive author and the circumstances of the act of writing. In this regard, the pioneering role of Arthur Conan Doyle must be emphasized: Sherlock Holmes successfully revealed the identity of his client or of a suspect by such means on several occasions (A Scandal in Bohemia, The Man with the Twisted Lip, The Adventure of the Naval Treaty, The Adventure of the Three Students, The Hound of the Baskervilles). Holmes’ graphological analyses were dealt with by Boucher and Perkins (2020), while Cockayne (2023) examined the subject in a broader historical context. In the later history of the genre, this type of textual examination becomes indispensable especially in the case of anonymous letters written with the intention of threat, blackmail, provocation, or defamation, as well as in the case of suicide notes (Agatha Christie: The ABC Murders, The Moving Finger; Georges Simenon: Maigret hésite—Maigret Hesitates; P. D. James: The Skull Beneath the Skin). The analysis of typed or collage-like anonymous letters presupposes the involvement of additional fields of expertise and investigative perspectives, as can also be observed in novels belonging to the police procedural subgenre (Ed McBain: Lady Killer). It should be noted that, as a consequence of the spread of digital text production, which has led to the decline of handwriting, this aspect plays an increasingly marginal role in contemporary detective fiction as well.

In addition to professional investigators, we have to mention those groups of amateur detectives who are engaged in reading either professionally or as laypersons. Especially in works belonging to the cozy mystery subgenre, librarians, booksellers, and the employees or owners of bookshops and second-hand bookstores appear with relative frequency in investigative roles (for example, in series written by Jo Dereske, Lauren Elliott, Ellie Alexander, or Merryn Allingham). With regard to the present topic, greater interest attaches to those novels in which, in contrast to Agatha Christie’s classic The Body in the Library, there is a closer connection between the setting and the nature and background of the crime. This is the case, for instance, when the acquisition of a valuable manuscript or book kept in a library leads to murder, or when the victim or an innocently suspected person is connected to the institution, prompting one of their colleagues to undertake an investigation. This connection becomes even stronger when the text in question is itself a detective novel, and when the solution of the mystery requires the higher level of professional experience and specialized textual reading skills of a librarian or publisher. Con Lehane’s recurring investigator-librarian, Raymond Ambler, is the crime fiction curator at the 42nd Street branch of the renowned New York Public Library. In the novel Murder by Definition, a crime story emerges from an author’s literary estate acquired by Ambler that very likely seems to be based on a real case involving a corrupt police officer.

Lawrence Block’s lovable burglar-detective, Bernie Rhodenbarr presents a unique case: in the third installment of the series, he purchases an antiquarian bookstore for himself, while continuing to practice his “profession” nonetheless. Among the valuables targeted for theft are literary manuscripts (The Burglar in the Library, 1997), rare editions of books (The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling, 1979), and documents from literary estates considered valuable (The Burglar in the Rye, 1999). As part of the recurring dramaturgy of the novels, Bernie repeatedly becomes a suspect in murders, since, unlike him, some individuals are not deterred from committing homicide in order to acquire or destroy the texts. Consequently, he is forced to engage in investigation in order to clear his name.

In conclusion, it can be stated that in detective fiction, the investigation essentially involves reading the traces of crime. The work of the detective is primarily directed toward the interpretation of signs left behind by the perpetrator—whether accidentally or deliberately, with the intention of misleading—which may include, alongside physical or material traces, simple linguistic signs (letters, words) as well as more complex linguistic configurations, that is, shorter or longer texts. In addition, any textual source capable of providing important information concerning the identity of the culprit, the motivation for the act, or the manner of its commission is likely to attract the detective’s interest. For investigators, reading texts constitutes an effective and indispensable instrument for reconstructing the past, aimed at uncovering the truth and revealing the perpetrator. In this sense, it may also be described as “revealing reading” (on the detective as reader from the perspective of narrativity, see: Hühn 1987).

It follows from the foregoing that, among the conceptual metaphors of reading, those most closely associated with the work of detectives are the ones emphasizing the acts of discovery and disclosure: Reading is clue-seeking, Reading is a goal-oriented process, Reading is exploration, Reading is anticipating the unknown (Shaw et al. 2021, pp. 17–19). These metaphors also help to explain the enduring popularity of this genre—a popularity frequently criticized from multiple perspectives.

3. The Dangers of Reading: Victims and Culprits

The importance of textual reading comes particularly to the fore in a detective novel when the victim’s occupation or hobby is connected to it—that is, when the person is a writer, translator, editor, copyist, literary critic, literature teacher, librarian, or publisher. In such cases, it is common for the circle of suspects to narrow down to representatives of one of these “philological professions,” so that the murderer must be sought among them. But what mortal dangers are entailed in reading?

A person may become a victim simply for reading a text that is forbidden. In such cases, the individual exposes themselves to danger either by violating the reading taboo itself or by acquiring knowledge through reading. They learn something that is potentially revealing about others, and the murderer strikes to prevent the disclosure of information holding personal, professional, political, religious, ethical, or other significance. A similar scenario comes into play when the victim is not the reader but the author of such a text—an article or literary work with allegorical content—intended for publication (Julian Symons: The Name of Annabel Lee; Robert Galbraith: The Silkworm).

Sometimes it is not the content of the book or manuscript, but its physical properties (for example, pages seeped in poison) that pose lethal danger. In such cases, the physical contact inherent in reading itself can have fatal consequences; the text itself becomes a murder weapon (Umberto Eco: Il nome della rosa—The Name of the Rose). These stories draw attention to the sensory complexity of the act of reading. Indeed, when we read, “the eyes drawing the words from the page, the ears echoing the sounds being read, the nose inhaling the familiar scent of paper, glue, ink, cardboard or leather, the touch caressing the rough of soft page, the smooth or hard binding; even the taste, at times, when the reader’s fingers are lifted to the tongue […]” (Manguel 2014, p. 3922).”

The possession of a valuable book or an original author’s manuscript is likewise a circumstance that can easily render the owner a target of thieves—or a victim of murderers—even if they have not read the text. Mystery narratives built around research and puzzle-solving frequently revolve around the history of stolen, hidden, or secretly circulated manuscripts. This device serves as an excellent means of heightening tension or creating a mysterious atmosphere, especially when the subsequent fate of the textual object is accompanied by mysterious deaths: anyone who had ever obtained or read it either died or disappeared under peculiar circumstances (Anna Porter: Hidden Agenda; Arturo Pérez-Reverte: El club Dumas—The Dumas Club; Giulio Leoni: Il manoscritto delle anime perdute).

As previously noted in connection with the reading practices of detectives, the perpetrator’s level of education, knowledge of literature, and reading habits acquire particular significance when they are directly related to the modus operandi of the crime: for instance, when the perpetrator follows a literary model, implements an idea derived from a detective story, or uses a specific book or text as a murder weapon. In Georges Simenon’s L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre (Maigret Goes Home), for example, the reading of a falsified obituary published in a newspaper induces a heart attack and ultimately causes death. A distinct type of homicidal reader is the psychopathic fan who seeks to shape the life of their beloved hero according to their own ideas. To achieve this, they may resort to violence, compelling the author to continue or rewrite the work, and punishing them for any disobedience. Stephen King has drawn two particularly memorable portraits of this figure in Annie Wilkes (Misery) and Morris Bellamy (Finders Keepers).

4. The Context of the Novel Under Scrutiny

P. D. James’s Original Sin (1994) was published as the ninth installment in the Dalgliesh series. Adam Dalgliesh first appeared in the author’s debut novel (Cover Her Face, 1962), as a Detective Chief Inspector who then gradually advanced through the ranks. In this novel, he is a Commander in charge of Scotland Yard’s regional homicide unit. A widower, reserved, calm, and persistent, he conducts his investigations with discretion, yet with determination, steadfastly pursuing his objectives. His only idiosyncrasy—in the classic style of great detectives—is that he is a relatively well-known poet, with several published collections to his name.

From the perspective of genre, the novel can be described as a distinctive blend of the Golden Age mystery novel (whodunit), centered on clue puzzles, and the police procedural. The former is indicated by the confined setting and the limited pool of suspects, the ingenious method of committing the murder, and the surprising revelation of the culprit, who remains in plain sight throughout the narrative until the very end. The latter is evident in that the successful resolution of the crime does not depend on the efforts of an amateur or professional private detective endowed with exceptional abilities, but rather on coordinated police teamwork. Within this framework, the reader is privy to such direct insight into investigative procedures that would scarcely have appeared in a classical detective story (autopsy, chemical trace analysis). The novel also points toward the police procedural in the fact that it offers a relatively detailed depiction not only of the suspects and witnesses, but of the private lives of the officers involved in the investigation as well.

Original Sin is moreover indebted to the tradition of the Gothic novel, most notably in its emphasis on the sublime and uncanny attributes of the publishing house, the poetically powerful depiction of nightmares, the intertwining of the sacred and the violent, and the persecution and suffering of innocent heirs. These connections to the history of the genre would certainly merit a separate, dedicated study (on the relationship between the Gothic novel and detective stories, see: (Spooner 2010; Sánchez-Verdejo Pérez 2021)).

In the novel, the mystery revolves around murders and suspicious deaths committed on the premises of the prestigious and venerable Peverell Press and in its immediate surroundings. In addition, the police have to investigate the disruptive offenses that impede the publisher’s work, such as the disappearance or manipulation of manuscripts and threatening letters. The majority of the characters involved in the case, and the narrower circle of suspects, are employed in the field of book publishing; depending on their professional roles, they engage in reading incoming manuscripts, editing, proofreading, and preparing texts, as well as overseeing sales and marketing-related matters.

Just as in her other novels, P. D. James here takes considerable care to capture the atmosphere of the setting—specifically, the publishing house, an imposing yet architecturally bizarre building on the bank of the Thames—and the microcommunity of those who work there. To achieve this, she employs techniques of shifting narrative perspective, combining psychonarration with free indirect speech. The text is dominated by an anonymous heterodiegetic narrator, who nonetheless continuously provides access to the mental processes of the characters. The focalized character frequently changes from chapter to chapter, resulting in recurrent exposure to differing interpretations of the same events.

5. Reading Original Sin

The title of P. D. James’s novel foregrounds an important biblical and doctrinal concept1. As Stephen J. Duffy points out, although the doctrine of original sin does not appear in the Bible, its development is linked to the interpretation of one of its important passages, Genesis 2–3 (the story of the first human couple’s fall into sin), and was closely related to questions concerning the nature of divine creation and evil, the voluntariness and punishability of sin, and individual responsibility. Augustine played a prominent role in the development of the doctrine of original sin, which had a decisive influence on all subsequent approaches: “The classical doctrine of original sin as formulated by Augustine derived from his reflection on his own conversion experience and the Scriptures and was given final shape in the fires of controversy with Gnosticism and Pelagianism.” (Duffy 1988, p. 598)

In short, original sin is the type of sin that spread to the entire human race as a consequence of Adam’s sinful act. It is therefore a sinful state associated with the very fact of birth, preceding any personal transgressions. In his interpretation of Augustine’s conceptual framework, Paul Ricoeur emphasizes the layers of meaning the concept of inheritance has, characterizing original sin as a kind of hereditary defect or disorder:

“it is not a question of sins we commit, of actual sin, but of the state of sin in which we find ourselves existing by reason of our birth. […] Contrary to every individual initiation of evil, inheritance is a question of a continuation, a perpetuation, which is like a hereditary taint transmitted to the entire human race by a first man who is the ancestor of all men”.

(Ricoeur 1974, p. 276, emphasis mine)

The semantic tension of the concept stems from this dual conception of sin. According to Ricoeur, original sin is the concept “that unites in an inconsistent notion a juridical category (voluntary punishable crime) and a biological category (the unity of the human species by generation)” (Ricoeur 1974, p. 277). For this reason, every self-aware individual is forced to confront the fact that this evil has existed prior to their birth and has inevitable influence on all their subsequent actions: “[…] each of us also discovers evil, finds it already there, in himself, outside himself, and before himself […] In tracing back the origin of evil to a distant ancestor, the myth discovers the situation of every man: evil has already taken place. I do not begin evil; I continue it. I am implicated in evil.” (Ricoeur 1974, p. 281). Adam’s sin brought death to all mankind: “Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned” (Romans 5:12)2. It was Jesus’ atoning sacrifice that freed mankind from this hopeless state, whom the Apostle Paul describes as the second Adam. “But the free gift is not like the trespass. For if many died through one man’s trespass, much more have the grace of God and the free gift by the grace of that one man Jesus Christ abounded for many” (Romans 5:15).

By virtue of its anticipatory function, the reader is naturally curious to see when and how the motif of original sin will intersect with the criminal investigation. In fact, this connection occurs only in the novel’s final, fifth section (Final Proof), in the scenes immediately preceding the resolution of the mystery, and specifically through the reading of two discovered texts. Before providing a detailed analysis of these passages, however, it is useful to draw attention to two earlier instances in which the concept is already mentioned—albeit in a less prominent and developed manner than in the conclusion. Were it not for the novel’s title, the reader might not even notice it, nor recognize that the references involve mutually contradictory statements.

James de Witt is a business partner at Innocent House and thus one of the suspects. His friends and colleagues perceive him (and he perceives himself) as someone who constantly feels the need to “search out and love the vulnerable, the innocent, the hurt and the weak, to give rather than to receive” (James 2009, pp. 319–20). De Witt is prone to self-blame in all matters, and because he is not religious, this constitutes an additional psychological burden: “He always did blame himself, and sometimes reflected that to have so lively a sense of sin without the religion which could assuage it by absolution was an uncomfortable idiosyncrasy” (James 2009, p. 54). A similar view is expressed by one of the minor characters, who is, incidentally, a nun. Sister Agnes likes de Witt because, for her, he exemplifies a man “who lives a good life without the help of religious belief. There are those who are apparently born with a deficiency of original sin. Goodness in them is hardly a merit” (James 2009, p. 271, emphasis mine).

Unlike his colleagues, Sergeant Robbins does not automatically accept the testimony of a child providing an alibi—not merely because he generally doubts all eyewitness accounts, but because, being religious, “he was more ready […] to believe in original sin” (James 2009, p. 353). One might add that this belief extends to everyone, including children who appear innocent in many respects. It is worth noting that theological debates about original sin often raise the question of the sinfulness of newborns and even fetuses (Ricoeur 1974, p. 269; Duffy 1988, pp. 603–4).

As I already mentioned, P. D. James does not venture into theological speculation regarding the possible interpretations of the concept either here or later. In any case, the contradictory relationship between two widely separated quotations is telling: in the first, the dogma is questioned; in the second, it is affirmed. The characterization of James de Witt is first conveyed through the narrator’s words, which incorporate the character’s self-perception. It is subsequently reinforced by the voice of another character, in the context of a conversation with the police. The striking element in Sister Agnes’s words is that one would least expect such a questioning of a fundamental tenet from her, as a representative of the Church. Sergeant Robbins, in contrast, is characterized through the perspective of his colleague Kate Miskin, who describes herself as a “natural pagan” and emphasizes that she does not “go in for all this emphasis on sin, suffering and judgment” (James 2009, p. 232).

The examples above illustrate the narrative strategy in the novel. The frequent shifts in perspective, and the blending of narrator and character voices, allow the author to juxtapose differing opinions and viewpoints, manifesting in the unresolved dissonance of evaluative emphasis. James does not lecture or pass judgment; rather, she presents a contrasting cross-section of possible approaches. Often, she does so without providing the expected answers to the questions raised.

The biblical and theological implications of original sin are brought into somewhat more explicit focus in the novel through the two texts discovered by Dalgliesh’s young and ambitious subordinate, Detective Daniel Aaron, during a search of the archives at Innocent House. Both texts confirm his superior’s suspicion that “the motive for this crime lay in the past, and that the missing evidence could be evidence in writing” (James 2009, p. 391). The first of these documents is the confession of Francis Peverell, one of the founders of the publishing company (pp. 378–79), in which he explains why and how he murdered his wife and how he managed to escape detection by presenting the act as a suicide.

The circumstances of the text’s discovery are noteworthy in themselves. The handwritten confession falls out of a leather-bound prayer book published in 1716, and James provides a precise philological description of its physical parameters and bibliographical data. She treats the confession with the same care: “It was folded once, whiter than the pages of the Prayer Book but as thick. There was no superscription. The message was written in black ink, the hand uncertain, but the words were as plain as the day they were penned” (James 2009, p. 378). Was the appearance of this manuscript, hidden since 1850, the result of chance—or rather divine intervention (deus ex machina)? Aaron would probably guess the former, but for now, let us focus on the author’s written statement as it appears in the text he reads. The confession contains a directive, and it is precisely this element that renders the interpretation of original sin in the novel particularly interesting. The confession concludes with the following provision:

“I have lived for Innocent House and killed for it but, since her death, the house has given me no joy. I leave this confession to be handed in each generation to the eldest son. I implore all who read it to keep my secret. It will come first to my son, Francis Henry, and then in time to his son, and to all my descendants”.

(James 2009, p. 379)

Peverell’s wish can be interpreted within the Old Testament context regarding the inheritance of sin. The murder of the wife constitutes the “primal sin,” the consequences of which the perpetrator’s descendants are compelled to endure. In this case, the punishment is neither biological nor legal in nature, but psychological, and it manifests as an initiation into the collective, familial memory. The firstborn sons, innocent of the deed itself, are forced to carry the oppressive burden of their ancestor’s murder. They receive this secret knowledge as a kind of cruel “family legacy.” Aaron himself feels that he has committed an indiscretion by reading Peverell’s words: “After reading the confession, Daniel sat still for a full two minutes, considering. He wondered why these words, speaking to him over a century and a half, should have affected him so powerfully. He felt that he had no right to read them, that the proper course was to replace the paper in the Prayer Book, rewrap the book and place it back on the shelf. But he supposed that he ought at least to let Dalgliesh know what he had found” (James 2009, p. 379).

Peverell’s confession not only refutes the official assessment of the death, but also sheds light on the real background of the eerie legend3 that subsequently took hold. This, in turn, points to yet another aspect of the relationship between crime and reading: the founding and gradual rise of a publishing house invested in supporting literary creation and in the broad promotion of reading was made possible at the cost of the gravest crime, homicide. Only in this way was Peverell able to gain access to his wife’s fortune, which he then used to build Innocent House.

The circumstances surrounding the discovery of the second text are also worthy of attention. Aaron frees a thick, untitled dossier from between two other volumes, several sheets of which, as a result of the sudden movement, “fell over his head like heavy leaves” (James 2009, p. 387). As he begins to arrange the scattered pages, two things catch his attention. One is the word “Jew,” which occurs frequently on the pages, and the other is a short anonymous text: “The papers were not numbered and he could only assume that they were in the correct order, but one, undated, caught his eye” (James 2009, p. 387). It soon becomes clear to him that the dossier contains the documents of historical research related to this novel outline.

The planned novel bears the working title Original Sin, and its subject matter concerns the deportation of Jews from France between 1940 and 1944: “During these four years nearly 76,000 Jews were deported, the great majority to die in concentration camps in Poland and Germany. The book will tell the story of one family divided by war in which a young Jewish mother and her four-year-old twins are trapped in France by the invasion, are hidden by friends and are provided with false papers, but are subsequently betrayed to be deported and murdered in Auschwitz. The novel will explore the effect of this betrayal—one small family among thousands of the victims—on the woman’s husband, on the betrayed and on the betrayers” (James 2009, p. 387). As the investigating officer studies the attached notes and the personal and official documents originating from various authors, it gradually becomes apparent to him that he is holding the outline of a literary adaptation of actual events, which at the same time constitute the key to the murder case. The author of the text and the compiler of the materials is the husband of the woman mentioned in the outline, Gabriel Dauntsey. The elderly man, who works as a poetry editor at the publishing house, has taken great care to remove his name and address from the textual sources; nevertheless, his identity can still be established on the basis of certain references. And when Aaron begins to suspect who the person in question is, he “was turning the papers as if in a trance” (James 2009, p. 389). And after he gains certainty about his suspicion from a note written on the back of a photograph, he reacts in a manner similar to his response after reading Peverell’s confession: “He closed the file and sat for a moment so still that he might have been a statue” (James 2009, p. 391).

It is important to emphasize that on this occasion as well, Daniel Aaron’s reading is not confined merely to extracting incriminating information, and that he becomes even more emotionally involved in the world of the texts than he did in the first case. He can scarcely restrain his agitation: “Then he got up and, moving into the archives room, began pacing between the racks, stopping occasionally to thump his palm against the struts. He was possessed by an emotion which he recognized as anger but which was like no anger he had ever felt before. He heard a strange inhuman noise and knew that he was groaning aloud with the pain and the horror of it” (James 2009, p. 391). This disturbing reading experience can be explained by his Jewish origin and by his negative attitude toward religion. He reacts to the materials in the dossier so intensely because these form parts of a traumatic chain of historical events as a result of which he lost his faith. “A Jew wasn’t even allowed his atheism. Burdened with guilt from childhood, he couldn’t reject his faith without feeling the need to apologize to the God he no longer believed in. It was always there at the back of his mind, silent witness of his apostasy, that moving army of naked humanity, the young, middle-aged, the elderly, flowing like a dark tide into the gas chambers” (James 2009, p. 124). In light of this, it becomes easier to understand why he does not immediately arrest Gabriel Dauntsey, and why he gives him the chance to end his own life rather than face justice: “But I couldn’t bear to see him handcuffed, in the dock, in prison. I wanted to give him the chance to take his own path home” (James 2009, p. 415).

Daniel Aaron therefore chooses not to stop the killer but follows him by car in order to witness the final act of a revenge nurtured for almost fifty years: the confrontation. Along the way, he attempts to imagine, based on what he has read in the dossier, how it might have happened—why and how Gabriel Dauntsey killed Gerard and Claudia Étienne, and then, out of necessity, the writer Esmé Carling, who posed a danger to him. Here James employs a narrative solution that is, in several respects, quite unconventional within the genre. First, she does not gather the suspects together in order to confront the murderer publicly, who has until then remained hidden among them, with his deed and the evidence against him. Second, in a surprising turn, it is not the series protagonist, Adam Dalgliesh, who reveals the details of the resolved case, but one of his subordinates who does not appear in either the earlier or the later installments of the series. Third, the story of the murder does not unfold before the reader in the context of a spontaneous argument or a regulated professional dialogue (a police or courtroom interrogation), nor do we learn it through the perpetrator’s own account. The details of the crime become known exclusively through the representation of Detective Aaron’s consciousness, as the man, burning with the fever of recognition and agitated by the pursuit, reflects on them internally. Much of what takes shape in his mind is formulated only as a hypothesis; instead of certainties, he must content himself with probabilities, while a series of unanswered questions runs through his monologue. This inner oscillation of sudden recognitions, uncertain intuitions, and conclusions unfolding from questions is rendered a lasting experience for the reader through the use of free indirect speech, which alternates between the perspective and the voice of the narrator and those of the focalized character.

Aaron manages to get ahead of the killer and becomes an eyewitness to the moment when Dauntsey confronts Jean-Philippe Etienne with his crimes and forces him to make a confession. What outrages Aaron most deeply is the indifference of the man responsible for the deaths of those in the Dauntsey family: “Etienne couldn’t even remember their names. He could hardly remember what he’d done. He felt no guilt, no remorse. A mother and two small children. They didn’t exist. They weren’t human. He would have given more thought to putting down a dog. He didn’t think of them as people. They were expendable. They didn’t count. They were Jews” (James 2009, p. 415)—says Aaron while explaining to his colleague Kate Miskin his violation of police procedures. She, of course, does not share his view and finds no exoneration either for Dauntsey’s deed or for Aaron’s decision. When she reproaches him with the murder of the writer Esmé Carling, who had no connection whatsoever to the Etienne family (“What right had he to decide that her life didn’t count?” James 2009, p. 415), the man retorts in a mocking, bitter tone: “You’re so confident, aren’t you, Kate. So certain you know what’s right. It must be comforting, never having to face a moral dilemma. The criminal law and police regulations: they provide all you need, don’t they?” (James 2009, p. 415).

During the dramatically tense confrontation, Dauntsey defines the two murders not as acts of revenge, but as acts of justice. Aaron, who is present, responds to his words with a biblical passage: “It means an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” (James 2009, p. 592). Although Dauntsey does not believe in God (“Since there is no God there can be no divine justice. We have to make justice for ourselves and make it here on earth. It has taken me nearly fifty years but I have made my justice” James 2009, p. 411), he nevertheless acts in the spirit of the evoked Old Testament commandment (Exod. 21:24; Lev. 24:19–20) when he deprives Jean-Philippe Étienne of his children: “I have taken no more than you took, Etienne. A son and a daughter for a son and a daughter. You murdered my wife but yours was already dead when I learned the truth” (James 2009, p. 411). And later: “You killed my children; I have killed yours” (James 2009, p. 411). In this way, the title of the novel outline also becomes explicable: in Dauntsey’s view, Jean-Philippe Étienne’s betrayal, with its fatal consequences, constitutes the “original sin,” which is passed on to his descendants; indeed, it is they who, as part of an arbitrarily imposed punishment, pay the price with their lives. Thus the balance of personal human losses is evened out, at least for a vigilante who was, to quote Aaron’s words, at once “judge and jury, prosecutor and plaintiff” (James 2009, p. 391). What remains of Gabriel Dauntsey’s personal tragedy—though it may also be called the cruel irony of fate—is that at the end of the confrontation it is revealed that Jean-Philippe Étienne was infertile, and that he and his wife had adopted both of their children: “They are not related by blood either to each other or to me” (James 2009, p. 412).

Upon hearing this, the man breaks down completely, unable to speak, and then, pushing everyone aside, heads toward the rock at the edge of the marsh surrounding the house. To those present, it is immediately evident that he intends to commit suicide. Daniel Aaron firmly restrains Frances Peverell, who rushes to assist him (“She tried to struggle free but his arms were like iron bands” James 2009, p. 413), thereby—albeit indirectly—rendering himself complicit in Dauntsey’s death and simultaneously making him legally accountable impossible. The image of the elderly man, stumbling laboriously across the marshy field, tormented by guilt, ascends to a more general level of meaning: it becomes an allegory of the failure of a man attempting to play God. In this, we can observe yet another reinforcement of the biblical intertext of the fall and original sin: “The stumbling figure was dark against the night sky. It rose, then fell, then reared itself up and fought on. Again the clouds moved and by the light of the moon they could see him more clearly. From time to time he would fall, but then would rise to his feet again, looking immense as a giant, arms raised as if in a curse or a last beseeching gesture” (James 2009, p. 413).

6. The Reading of the Snake

The concept of original sin appears in the text not only explicitly—through quotations, biblical references, and updated lay interpretations, as explored in the previous section—but also more subtly, thanks to the recurring snake motif woven throughout the narrative. This refers to the green, striped velvet snake that is employed as a draft stopper or doorstop in the publishing house. The literal, hand-to-hand, place-to-place movement of this object is accompanied by its intratextual repetition in the narrative, which, by the conclusion of the story, transforms it into a complex sign imbued with various individual connotations.

The snake, in itself, is strongly connected to the Old Testament story of original sin, independently of the context of James’s novel, as it is the animal that plays a negative (leading into evil, tempting) role in the Fall, and is therefore heavily stigmatized in Christian religious and cultural memory. These associations become even more prominent in a crime narrative that not only references original sin in its title but continuously engages, at the level of both narrator and character voices, with questions of guilt and punishment in legal and religious terms. The frequent recurrence of the (velvet) snake, both as a utilitarian object and as a word, functions as a reminder of these connections and serves as a signal reinforcing the biblical subtext of the crime narrative.

It is an intriguing detail that the precise origin of the velvet snake remains shrouded in mystery. It was left at the publishing house “by a temporary shorthandtypist whose name and address no one now could remember” (James 2009, p. 188), as a sort of parting gift to the employees during a shared Christmas celebration. As Claudia Étienne notes, “it’s become something of an office mascot” (James 2009, p. 173), even acquiring a name: Hissing Sid. If one associates the snake embodied in this object with Satan, the circumstances of the gift take on a peculiar significance: it arrives at Innocent House on the birthday of the Redeemer, who, according to the divine prophecy uttered after the Fall, will “bruise” the head of the snake, that is, of Satan (Genesis 3:15)4.

The phrase “Christmas snake” can, at the same time, be interpreted in light of another Old Testament passage (Numbers 21:8–9), to which Jesus himself alludes when foreshadowing his crucifixion to Nicodemus: “And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:14–15). In the Old Testament, the bronze serpent mounted on a pole serves as the guarantee of deliverance and survival: “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Make a fiery serpent and set it on a pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live’” (Numbers 21:8). As such, it functions as a typological precursor to the symbol of redemption in the Gospel account.

This ambivalent evaluation of the biblical serpent—as both the instigator of damnation and the herald of salvation—is mirrored in the characters’ attitudes toward Hissing Sid in the novel.

Miss Blackett was the character most attached to the green velvet snake, not only for practical reasons but for personal and emotional ones as well. Her former superior, Henry Peverell—whit whom she was hopelessly and devotedly in love—disliked the telephone; she therefore used the snake to prop open the door between his office and that of the secretary, “so that he could call for her when he wanted her” (James 2009, p. 188). For the woman, then, this utilitarian object functioned as a symbol of trust. In the eyes of the outsider Mandy Price, however, it was “a ridiculous object, a kind of kid’s toy” (James 2009, p. 21), which, in her view, was precisely why it did not belong in the environment of Innocent House. Similarly, the new director, Gerard Étienne, regarded it in the same way; in a tone of irritation, he instructed his secretary to dispose of it: “Chuck it in the river. It makes this office look like a kindergarten” (James 2009, p. 97).

The velvet snake truly comes into the spotlight when, shortly thereafter, it is found on his corpse: “The velvet snake was wound twice round his neck, the tail lying against his chest, the head jammed into the wide-stretched mouth” (James 2009, p. 131). He had not been strangled with the snake; rather, someone had used the object as a tasteless decoration. At the outset of the investigation, Dalgliesh considers that either it was the act of the murderer, intending to obscure evidence of bodily manipulation (removing incriminating traces from the mouth), or the work of the mischievous prankster at the publishing house who happened upon the corpse by chance. Of course, it is also possible—and as is later confirmed—that the two are one and the same person (p. 217). Daniel Aaron hypothesizes that Gabriel Dauntsey acted not according to a premeditated plan but instinctively, as the snake was conveniently at hand: it served to obstruct the flow of fresh air beneath the door, thereby increasing the effectiveness of the gas poisoning (p. 397). Thus, Hissing Sid, if only indirectly but still contributed to Gerard Étienne’s death. Dauntsey himself also reflects on the malevolent use of the snake: “That was an abomination, a desecration of death” (James 2009, p. 198). One may wonder whether he is simultaneously thinking of the deaths of his loved ones, as immediately afterward he makes a statement which, in retrospect, given knowledge of his personal motives, seems to suggest precisely that: “I prefer the guilty to be convicted and the innocent vindicated” (James 2009, p. 198).

Even if Dauntsey himself does not, two other characters involved in the case find the velvet snake horrifying indeed. One of the co-owners of the publishing house, Frances Peverell, explicitly associates it with the presence of evil: “No, it’s worse than that. Fear of what’s going on here. That snake–whoever did that to Gerard is evil. Don’t you find it, the presence of evil in Innocent House?” (James 2009, p. 157). The image of the evil snake continues to haunt her and even appears in a nightmare. In it, she sees it coiled around the neck of her now-deceased father, but it is no longer Hissing Sid; it is a real venomous snake: “It was a real snake, immense as a cobra, expanding and contracting, draped round his shoulders, hissing with its evil life, ready to crush the breath out of him” (James 2009, p. 222, emphasis mine). In Mandy Price’s half-asleep imagination, the velvet snake also comes alive as a monster: she “(…) would watch terrified while the dull and lifeless eyes blinked and brightened and the snake pulsated into slimy life, red tongue darting to find the dead mouth, the muscles tightening to squeeze out breath” (James 2009, p. 294, emphasis mine).

We also witness the metaphorical transformation of the snake in Adam Dalgliesh’s thoughts. The detective senses, even in the absence of immediate evidence, that the solution to the murder must be sought in the victim’s father’s past: “What tentacles, if any, had stretched out from those momentous years to wind themselves round Gerard Etienne’s neck?” (James 2009, p. 246).

The simultaneity of innocent playfulness and threatening death is manifested in a scene that, in retrospect, once the murder is known, can also be interpreted as an ominous premonition. James de Witt’s roommate recalls the memory of a company boat trip to which the publishing house employees brought along Hissing Sid and played various pranks with it: “Some of the girls hung it over the side threatening to drown it, and one of them pretended to feed it champagne. In the end they wound it round Eric’s neck and he wore it all the way home” (James 2009, p. 60, emphasis mine). It later emerges that Eric was infected with AIDS and, in all probability, the disease was already in its latent stage in him at that time.

The encounter with death has a revitalizing effect on another occasion, further intensifying the eerie presence of the animal. The following quotation describes the scene just before the autopsy begins, from either the narrator’s or Dalgliesh’s perspective: “The body lay exposed like the contents of some great Christmas cracker. The eyes were duller now; only the snake taped to the cheek, its head gagging the mouth, seemed to have life or vitality” (James 2009, p. 209, emphasis mine).

The motif of the snake and snakelike qualities, however, manifests further in other thematic analogies throughout the text, primarily in the similarities between characters, objects, and gestures. In Gabriel Dauntsey’s cunning5 and persuasive manner of speaking, one can recognize attributes of the biblical serpent that tempts humankind into sin. The former trait is especially evident in the execution of his murders and the successful manipulation of his surroundings, while the latter emerges in his reassuring, deceptively trust-inducing mode of speech. Dauntsey belongs to the category of foresighted killers who consciously plan every minor detail, yet he is also capable of skillful improvisation when circumstances require. It also becomes clear that he was behind the disturbing textual manipulations occurring at the publishing house. He was the one who stole the valuable illustrations for a forthcoming book, only to unexpectedly return them to their previously secured location after printing. He manipulated the proofreading of a manuscript, “changed a number of the names, altered punctuation, deleted a couple of sentences” (James 2009, p. 35). He was also the one who sent an anonymous threatening letter to an author working on their memoirs, giving the impression that the writer’s life was in danger6. According to Aaron, Dauntsey undertook “on the series of malicious pranks to confuse the investigation if Etienne’s death wasn’t accepted as suicide” (James 2009, p. 397) Even when directly informing Claudia Étienne of the reason for her imminent death, Dauntsey does not alter his engaging and reassuring manner of speech. His victim perceives his voice as calm, persuasive and kind: “His voice was speaking quietly, persuasively […] He explained this to her patiently, almost kindly” (James 2009, p. 382). Moreover, his breathing in the moments preceding the attack may even evoke the hissing of a snake: “And then, as she stood there irresolute, she was aware of the sound of gentle breathing, the knowledge, immediate and terrifying, that someone was standing there in the darkness. And at that moment the noose of leather came down over her head and tightened round her neck” (James 2009, pp. 381–82, emphasis mine).

As the previous excerpt also demonstrates, Dauntsey does not confine himself to using Hissing Sid in the murders. Both of his female victims are strangled with a leather strap, and this murder weapon evokes the snake both metaphorically (through formal resemblance) and metonymically (through material contact). The desperate writhing of the victims on the ground also recalls the characteristic movements of snakes. Gerard Étienne, disoriented from gas poisoning, “had been crawling across the floor when unconsciousness supervened” (James 2009, p. 397), while his stepsibling struggles for her life on the concrete floor of the garage under the constraint of the long leather strap. Frances Peverell, who arrives as an unwelcome witness, is bound, wrapped in a blanket, and laid on the floor of the rear seat of Dauntsey’s car as he transports her to the site of the confrontation. Considering possible means of escape, she thinks: “But at least she could vigorously move her body. If they were in traffic it was possible that a passing motorist might look through the window and see the heaving blanket and wonder” (James 2009, p. 398, emphasis mine).

The murderer uses a vacuum cleaner to erase certain traces at the crime scene, its hose and long electric cord once again evoking the image of a snake, which further recalls the biblical punishment of the serpent: “Because you have done this, cursed are you above all livestock and above all beasts of the field; on your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat all the days of your life” (Genesis 3:14, emphasis mine).

To conclude, the motif of the snake—sometimes lifeless, sometimes animated, on one hand childish and ridiculous, on the other hand fearsome due to its lethal strangulation—along with its figurative metamorphoses, links the biblical story of original sin with its contemporized interpretation within the plot. This chain of motifs unites the episodes depicting the motivation for the murders, the methods of their execution, and the impact of the crime on the community. Its comprehensive significance, however, only becomes apparent to the reader upon a rereading—after becoming familiar with both Dauntsey’s novel draft and Peverell’s confession.

Approaching it from the perspective of biblical symbolism, the snake motif constantly present in the text may also refer to the pre-existence of evil and the ceaselessness of temptation. As Duffy notes, the figure of the serpent in the story of The Fall “symbolizes the seductive power of evil” (Duffy 1988, p. 607). Adam and Eve “do not absolutely give rise to evil. They find it already there, lying in wait, in the form of temptation” (Duffy 1988, p. 598). The question of evil thus goes beyond the horizon of individual choice, as mentioned earlier in connection with original sin, and its manifestation is trans-subjective: “There is a serpent within, but also without, always already there waiting. We institute evil, but we also discover it; we are responsible agents but also tragic victims” (Duffy 1988, p. 616). This idea fits well with the life situations of the perpetrators of the murders revealed in the novel and the ambivalent moral judgment of their resulting decisions.

7. The Sins of Pretend Reading

Both of the aforementioned perpetrators’ criminal activities are linked to reading (their own or the reading activities of others, such as Daniel Aaron) not only through the texts they themselves produce, but also because they are readers in their own right. Moreover, they engage in reading as a means of concealing their crimes. They practice it as a kind of “cover activity,” thereby providing themselves with an alibi.

In his written confession, Francis Peverell also reveals that after he pushed his wife from the balcony to her death, he went down to the library to read: “Then, without hurrying, I went swiftly downstairs to the library and was there, sitting quietly reading, when they brought me the terrible news. I was never suspected” (James 2009, p. 379). Can one trust the man’s words? Could he, burdened with the weight of murder, truly focus on anything? What exactly does the phrase “sitting quietly reading” signify here? Should it be understood literally—that he genuinely immersed himself in a book immediately after committing the crime? This would suggest an exceptionally cold-blooded murderer. Or did he merely pretend to read, for staring into an open book does not necessarily mean one is reading? The text provides no further guidance on this point. In any case, Peverell’s pretense must have been convincing: indeed, who would suspect of a husband appearing to read “innocently” in the library that he had just killed his wife a few moments earlier?

After setting up the murders, Gabriel Dauntsey attends a literary evening where the invited poets read from their own works. While his victim struggles for breath in the archive converted into a gas chamber, he recites his poems to an audience. In Peverell’s case, the shock arises from the immediate succession of murder and reading; in Dauntsey’s case, it is the simultaneity of these events that is staggering. This impression is intensified when one considers what Dauntsey later reveals to Dalgliesh during his interrogation: “I came back to my flat and spent the next two hours in reading over the poems I’d selected for the evening, thinking about them, making coffee” (James 2009, p. 162). How could he read—first privately, then publicly—while fully aware of the slow death of the head of the publishing house? To answer this question, one must understand his primary motivation: that he is enacting vengeance for his relatives who were killed in the gas chambers of Nazi death camps. Moreover, Dalgliesh, himself a poet, is familiar with the other author’s oeuvre, and when he searches his memory to recall its poetic characteristics, he inadvertently grasps this motive. From the poems, he discerns the poet’s conviction that “there was a betrayal for which only death could atone” (James 2009, p. 159). Gabriel Dauntsey acts precisely in this spirit, sending to death the son and daughter of the man who delivered his hidden wife and two children into German hands, thereby sealing their fate. Thus, the personal traumas caused by the war resonate throughout his poetry, including those pieces recited at the literary evening. Furthermore, it was important to Dauntsey that his victim understand that the punishment meted out to her was for her father’s sins. He conveyed this through a message recorded on a tape and later destroyed. In this way, past and present, cause and effect, the performed poem and the recorded message are intertwined, creating a highly complex resonance between reading and crime (betrayal, murder, vengeance).

In this case, Dalgliesh, following the practice of poetic reading, intuits something that carries referential authority. James does not elaborate on her character’s precise reading techniques, yet from Kate Miskin’s offhand remark about her superior’s poetry, one may infer that the man possesses a highly refined sensitivity to minute (linguistic) details. “He notices too much,” Miskin observes when characterizing his poems (James 2009, p. 116).

Though not motivated by the same impulse, two other characters in the narrative likewise take advantage of the benefits of “pretend reading” when the occasion arises. The reading serves as a disguise for the young girl who eavesdrops on the confidential conversation of the adults—her mother and grandfather: “I don’t think that they cared then whether I heard or not. I was sitting quietly reading in the room when they spoke” (James 2009, p. 390). Among other sources, it is from her later written testimony that Dauntsey learns the details of the betrayal that ultimately leads to his family’s destruction. The other such reader is Adam Dalgliesh, who, however, resorts to the practice of “pretend reading” for professional reasons. After his conversation with the father of the first victim, he enters an ancient chapel. The narrator describes it as silent and simple and “sparsely furnished” (James 2009, p. 245). Although it is very cold inside, the inspector takes a guidebook from a bookshelf near the altar and, seating himself on a bench, begins to study it. Thanks to the employed psychonarration, we learn that he skims the text only superficially, and rather than the building’s history, his attention is first drawn to his own immediate feelings, memories, and desires, and then to questions concerning the crime. He does not understand why the spirit of the sacred place, one of exceptional significance, does not move him, and why, instead of awe, he feels only “emptiness and mild depression” (James 2009, p. 245). The reading evokes in him a longing for the sea, which in turn leads him to meditate upon the nature of time: “He wished that, sitting there quietly, he could hear the sea, with a need that was almost a longing—that ceaseless rise and fall which, more than any other natural sound, touched mind and heart with a sense of time’s inexorable passing, of the centuries of unknown and unknowable human lives with their brief miseries and even briefer joys” (James 2009, pp. 245–46). When his thoughts reach this point, he reminds himself of the true purpose of the chapel visit: “But he had come here not to meditate but to think about murder and of murder’s more immediate degradations. He put down the guidebook and mentally reviewed the recent interview” (James 2009, p. 246). His reflection is interrupted by the arrival of visitors: “He was still sitting, guidebook held loosely in his hand, when the door opened and two elderly women entered” (James 2009, p. 246). He greets them and then leaves. As he glances back from the doorway to the women now kneeling, another question arises in his mind: He “wondered what it was they found in this quiet place and whether, if he had come with more humility, he might have found it also” (James 2009, p. 247).

This closing sentence also suggests the inspector’s indifference and doubts regarding religious faith. This may come as a surprise, since a later passage reveals that his father was an Anglican priest, so it is not only that he had a religious upbringing, but as a child he also regularly attended services conducted by his father, including funerals. However, this did not strengthen his faith, on the contrary, it contributed to its weakening and loss: “And he would picture the man or woman he had known, the shrouded body encased in padded imitation silk, more ostentatiously bedded than it had ever been in life, and would picture every stage of its dissolution: the rotting shroud, the slowly decaying flesh, the final falling-in of the coffin-lid on the denuded bones, and had never from childhood been able to believe that magnificent proclamation of immortality: “And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God” (James 2009, p. 336). It is worth juxtaposing this passage with the circumstances and agents of the previously analyzed reading events, as doing so reveals interesting parallels and contrasts.

First and foremost, we can observe the similarity between the reading locations of the two detectives, Aaron and Dalgliesh. The puritanically simple interior of the cold chapel evokes the equally cold and bleak archive: “Without the fire, the cold struck with an immediate chill which was almost unnatural; (…) The room was bleak, soulless, commonplace, evoking only a vague unease born paradoxically not of horror’s contagion but of its absence” (James 2009, p. 377). Secondly, in both cases, a tension-filled relationship is revealed between space and text. While Dalgliesh reads a profane text (a travel guide) in a sacred place, Aaron begins leafing through an Anglican prayer book in a decidedly profane location. Thirdly, in both cases, the readers’ state of mind, attitude, and self-perception stand in contrast to the original purpose of the space. Aaron feels that “selfimposed penance” (James 2009, p. 377) brought him back to the narrow, crowded space filled with bookshelves. He seeks, through reading, to make amends for, or at least compensate for, an error he committed during the investigation. It is noteworthy that he frames reading as a sacred activity in his choice of words. He imposes upon himself the long and arduous task of studying the contents of the files as a kind of deserved punishment. He is reading a strange prayer of thanksgiving from an old Anglican prayer book when Francis Peverell’s note, in which he admits his crimes, falls out of it, turning the prayer into confession. Aaron, as the reader, unexpectedly finds himself in the confidential position of the listening priest, which makes him uncomfortable.

His superior, by contrast, does not enter the chapel to pray, but to reflect on the details of the murder case. Neither is affected by the spirit or memory of the place. Regarding Aaron, we read: “He wasn’t superstitious. He had no sense that the ghosts of the unquiet dead were the watchers of his solitary, methodical search” (James 2009, p. 377). For the sake of accuracy, however, it should be noted that after reading Peverell’s confession, the approach of a woman’s footsteps along the corridor “he was touched with a slight shiver of superstitious awe”. But afterwards we read: “Then sense reasserted itself” (James 2009, p. 380). His work is not hindered by the knowledge that he is in a place where both a suicide and a murder occurred, and he is alone. Dalgliesh’s spatial experience, on the other hand, remains outside the realm of sacred perception, which, in his view, is “a matter of personal perception” (James 2009, p. 245). Even his initial sensory impressions strip the chapel of its sacral attributes: “The air was very cold and smelled of earth and mortar grit, an unecclesiastical smell, domestic and contemporary” (James 2009, p. 245). He knows that “he should surely have heard the dying echoes of plainsong and the vibration of 1300 years of muttered prayer”, but he is incapable of doing so, because he did not possess enough imagination: “Whether one found the building holy or empty of holiness was a matter of personal perception, and his failure in this moment to experience more than the out-flowing of tension he could always feel when totally alone was a failure of imagination, not of the place itself” (James 2009, p. 245). (It is as if this is precisely the opposite of Aaron, whose imagination almost brings to life the sequences of the murders.) Although the detective is physically surrounded by what he reads about, it is not the history of the chapel but the past antecedents of the crime he seeks to solve that occupy his attention. In one case, mystical, superstitious fear, and in the other, the absence of sacred awe, enable the reader to engage in focused, analytical reading.

Like Francis Peverell and the eavesdropping little girl, Dalgliesh only pretends to be reading, although this remains hidden from the external observer; the pose here also carries a somewhat deceptive effect. While the girl’s attention is turned outward, the inspector’s focus is turning inward. Just as with Peverell, his thoughts are absorbed by the murders, though here they are considered from the perspective of the investigator, not the perpetrator. At the same time, reading functions for him merely as a sort of surrogate activity, providing the desired opportunity for solitary seclusion and serving to release tension, reorganize new memories, and stimulate rational reasoning. Dalgliesh is interrupted in his reading by thoughts of the crime, yet in this instance, the effect is positive. What he reads is not important, but rather the new insights he attains by mentally detaching from the text, insights that advance the ongoing investigation are significant.

8. Conclusions

What are the lessons offered by the novel from the perspective of the relationship between reading, culpability, and investigation?

P. D. James, through her depiction of the complexity of human situations and the vulnerability of individuals to emotions and passions, emphasizes that, in contrast to many traditional crime novels, the evaluation of her characters’ personalities and actions—according to the dichotomies of good and evil, guilty and innocent, lawful and unlawful—is by no means straightforward. The character of Gabriel Dauntsey and the motivations behind his actions serve as a particularly clear illustration of this generally characteristic tendency in the author’s novels: „She depicts villains who are not entirely criminal and victims who are not wholly innocent. Most of her murderers kill for honorable reasons—usually to avenge some previous injustice. Like the rest of us, they commit evil in the name of good” (Wood 2022).

Likewise, Daniel Aaron’s transgression results from the resolution of a moral dilemma. In the conflict between professional regulations and personal conviction, the latter ultimately prevails. By allowing the criminal to go free, he acknowledges that the individual has the right to take his own life. While Aaron cannot be explicitly accused of murder, his passivity, combined with his obstruction of those who seek to provide assistance, nevertheless contributes indirectly to the death of a human being.

The morally ambiguous evaluation of the two aforementioned characters is also reflected in the partial fusion of their narrative roles. Dauntsey, before he became a murderer, demonstrated his investigative abilities, as he successfully uncovered the culprit through the retrieval and interpretation of texts from the past. Aaron’s character, however, is displaced from the role of the unimpeachable police detective precisely as a result of Dauntsey’s family tragedy and his overly empathetic engagement with the texts; he not only understands the criminal but also condones his vigilante revenge and subsequent suicide. In accordance with the conventions of the crime genre, both achieve insight into the crime through reading: by interpreting the information obtained from the texts they discover, they succeed in resolving the mystery, that is, in exposing the perpetrator. (about the moral ambiguities in James’s novels, see Ward 1984).

It is important to add that Jean-Philippe Etienne, unmasked as a traitor, also finds exoneration for his actions. He claims that he acted under duress, stating that he had to sacrifice some of the Jews in hiding in order to save a greater number: “I did what was necessary at the time. A great number of French lives depended on me. It was important that the Germans continued to trust me if I were to get my allocation of paper, ink and resources for the underground press” (James 2009, p. 411). For the public, therefore, Jean-Philippe Etienne is not regarded as a traitor but as a hero of the Resistance: “He’s been authenticated; there’s no doubt there, the genuine hero” (James 2009, p. 59).

From my previous arguments, it follows that the aesthetic responses of readers of Original Sin are shaped not solely by the astonishment, surprise, and relief arising from the revelation of the murderer, but equally by moral emotions such as indignation, the anger that springs from it, and the vicarious satisfaction derived from witnessing the fulfillment of expected justice. By foregrounding the depiction of moral dilemmas arising from existentially coercive situations, the text compels the audience not merely to enjoy the suspenseful crime narrative as passive spectators, but—similarly to the aforementioned characters—to pass judgment upon or exonerate certain figures. We are therefore dealing with a work in which both pleasure-seeking enjoyment and truth-seeking evaluation (Oliver and Raney 2011) play a central role in the selection and reading of the text.

What I referred to in the introduction as the “theology of reading” has gained confirmation in the reading practices of the two investigators. As I pointed out, Daniel Aaron reads as a form of penance, while Adam Dalgliesh reads instead of praying. When Aaron comes across Francis Peverell’s confession to murder, his position as a reader is analogous to that of a priest listening to a confession. The contrast between the sacred and the profane was also linked to the reading practices of the two detectives. While in Aaron’s case there was a contrast between the profane space (the archive) and the sacred text (the prayer book), in Dalgliesh’s case the opposite was true, with the simultaneity of the sacred space (the church) and the profane text (the travel guide). In both cases, reading plays an important role in the detection of sin and the reflection on the nature of sin.

P. D. James’s novel not only convincingly challenges genre-based prejudices concerning the schematic nature of characters and narrative roles. The alternation of the narrator’s and characters’ perspectives, the dramatic collision of emotional tensions, and the biblical allusions and quotations that serve to amplify meanings—most notably the poetically elaborated snake motif—make it unequivocally clear that we are dealing with a crime novel in which deliberate narrative construction is paired with stylistic sophistication. For this reason, the text not only withstands the test of rereading but explicitly invites it.

As I have pointed out in my analysis, Original Sin unites at least three layers of context: (1) the Old Testament story of the Fall; (2) the fictional novel outline of the same title, written by the murderer; and (3) the context of P. D. James’s novel. The middle layer, in relation to the other two, is not a completed text but merely a schematic extract of a work in progress: “There was no evidence that any of this particular research had been used, that the book had even been started, let alone finished” (James 2009, p. 388). One may, however, assert that it is P. D. James, rather than Dauntsey, who has written this novel—the shared title is pointing in that direction—shifting the emphasis onto the consequences of a tragic family history. Dauntsey’s novel draft thus functions as a mise en abyme, serving as an embedded text that mirrors the surrounding narrative, James’s novel, in a shortened and miniaturized form. Within the framework of a plot focused on criminal investigation, the author demonstrates why the outline’s writer ultimately chose the path of vengeful vigilantism over literary revelation—a choice that results in the deaths of three innocent individuals.

Gabriel Dauntsey is not a hardened criminal; he does not kill out of greed or for the mere pleasure of killing. Rather, as a consequence of a family trauma impossible to process, he comes to the conviction that punishing the guilty, rather than forgiving them, constitutes the only solution. His fate appears to validate James’s position on the nature of crime: “I tend to believe in original sin, and in the need for grace. We are all capable of criminal and dreadful behavior” (James 2000, emphasis mine).