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Unnatural Causes (Adam Dalgliesh Series #3)

Unnatural Causes (Adam Dalgliesh Series #3)

4.4 25
by P. D. James, John Franklyn-Robbins (Narrated by)

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A famous mystery writer is found dead at the bottom of a dinghy, with both hands chopped off at the wrists. Superintendent Adam Dalgliesh, with help from his remarkable Aunt Jane, must discover who typed the writer's death sentence before the plot takes another murderous turn.

Unnatural Causes inspired Cosmopolitan to fervently hope, "if we're


A famous mystery writer is found dead at the bottom of a dinghy, with both hands chopped off at the wrists. Superintendent Adam Dalgliesh, with help from his remarkable Aunt Jane, must discover who typed the writer's death sentence before the plot takes another murderous turn.

Unnatural Causes inspired Cosmopolitan to fervently hope, "if we're lucky, there will always be an England and there will always be a P. D. James."

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Time The reigning mistress of murder.

People P. D. James is the greatest living mystery writer.

"The reigning mistress of murder."
The Washington Post
“One of the finest, most absorbing craftsmen of the profession.”
“One of the most chilling crime writers around.”

Product Details

Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:
Adam Dalgliesh Series , #3

Read an Excerpt

Book One: Suffolk
The corpse without hands lay in the bottom of a small sailing dinghy drifting just within sight of the Suffolk coast. It was the body of a middle-aged man, a dapper little cadaver, its shroud a dark pin-striped suit which fitted the narrow body as elegantly in death as it had in life. The hand-made shoes still gleamed except for some scuffing of the toe caps, the silk tie was knotted under the prominent Adam’s apple. He had dressed with careful orthodoxy for the town, this hapless voyager; not for this lonely sea; nor for this death.
It was early afternoon in mid-October and the glazed eyes were turned upwards to a sky of surprising blue across which the light south-west wind was dragging a few torn rags of cloud. The wooden shell, without mast or rowlocks, bounced gently on the surge of the North Sea so that the head shifted and rolled as if in restless sleep. It had been an unremarkable face even in life and death had given it nothing but a pitiful vacuity. The fair hair grew sparsely from a high bumpy forehead, the nose was so narrow that the white ridge of bone looked as if it were about to pierce the flesh; the mouth, small and thin-lipped, had dropped open to reveal two prominent front teeth which gave the whole face the supercilious look of a dead hare.
The legs, still clamped in rigor, were wedged one each side of the centre-board case and the forearms had been placed resting on the thwart. Both hands had been taken off at the wrists. There had been little bleeding. On each forearm a trickle of blood had spun a black web between the stiff fair hairs and the thwart was stained as if it had been used as a chopping block. Butthat was all; the rest of the body and the boards of the dinghy were free of blood.
The right hand had been taken cleanly off and the curved end of the radius glistened white; but the left had been bungled and the jagged splinters of bone, needle sharp, stuck out from the receding flesh. Both jacket sleeves and shirt cuffs had been pulled up for the butchery and a pair of gold initialled cuff links dangled free, glinting as they slowly turned and were caught by the autumn sun.
The dinghy, its paintwork faded and peeling, drifted like a discarded toy on an almost empty sea. On the horizon the divided silhouette of a coaster was making her way down the Yarmouth Lanes; nothing else was in sight. About two o’clock a black dot swooped across the sky towards the land trailing its feathered tail and the air was torn by the scream of engines. Then the roar faded and there was again no sound but the sucking of the water against the boat and the occasional cry of a gull.
Suddenly the dinghy rocked violently, then steadied itself and swung slowly round. As if sensing the strong tug of the on-shore current, it began to move more purposefully. A blackheaded gull, which had dropped lightly on to the prow and had perched there, rigid as a figurehead, rose with wild cries to circle above the body. Slowly, inexorably, the water dancing at the prow, the little boat bore its dreadful cargo towards the shore.
Just before two o’clock on the afternoon of the same day Superintendent Adam Dalgliesh drove his Cooper Bristol gently on to the grass verge outside Blythburgh Church and, a minute later, passed through the north chantry-chapel door into the cold silvery whiteness of one of the loveliest church interiors in Suffolk. He was on his way to Monksmere Head just south of Dunwich to spend a ten-day autumn holiday with a spinster aunt, his only living relative, and this was his last stop on the way. He had started off from his City flat before London was stirring, and instead of taking the direct route to Monksmere through Ipswich, had struck north at Chelmsford to enter Suffolk at Sudbury. He had breakfasted at Long Melford and had then turned west through Lavenham to drive slowly and at will through the green and gold of this most unspoilt and unprettified of counties. His mood would have wholly matched the day if it weren’t for one persistent nagging worry. He had been deliberately putting off a personal decision until this holiday. Before he went back to London he must finally decide whether to ask Deborah Riscoe to marry him.
Irrationally, the decision would have been easier if he hadn’t known so certainly what her answer would be. This threw upon him the whole responsibility for deciding whether to change the present satisfactory status quo (well, satisfactory for him anyway, and it could be argued surely that Deborah was happier now than she had been a year ago?) for a commitment which both of them, he suspected, would regard as irrevocable no matter what the outcome. There are few couples as unhappy as those who are too proud to admit their unhappiness. Some of the hazards he knew. He knew that she disliked and resented his job. This wasn’t surprising nor, in itself, important. The job was his choice and he had never required anyone’s approval or encouragement. But it was a daunting prospect that every late duty, every emergency, might have to be preceded by an apologetic telephone call. As he walked to and fro under the marvellous cambered tie-beam roof and smelt the Anglican odour of wax polish, flowers and damp old hymn books, it came to him that he had got what he wanted at almost the precise moment of suspecting that he no longer wanted it. This experience is too common to cause an intelligent man lasting disappointment but it still has power to disconcert. It wasn’t the loss of freedom that deterred him; the men who squealed most about that were usually the least free. Much more difficult to face was the loss of privacy. Even the loss of physical privacy was hard to accept. Running his fingers over the carved fifteenth-century lectern he tried to picture life in the Queenhithe flat with Deborah always there, no longer the eagerly awaited visitor but part of his life, the legal, certificated next of kin.

Copyright© 2003 by P.D. James

Meet the Author

P.D. James is the author of twenty previous books, most of which have been filmed and broadcast on television in the United States and other countries. She spent thirty years in various departments of the British Civil Service, including the Police and Criminal Law Departments of Great Britain's Home Office. She has served as a magistrate and as a governor of the BBC. In 2000 she celebrated her eightieth birthday and published her autobiography, Time to Be in Earnest. The recipient of many prizes and honors, she was created Baroness James of Holland Park in 1991 and was inducted into the International Crime Writing Hall of Fame in 2008. She lives in London and Oxford.

Brief Biography

London, England
Date of Birth:
August 3, 1920
Place of Birth:
Oxford, England
Attended the Cambridge High School for Girls from 1931 to 1937 and later took evening classes in hospital administration

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Unnatural Causes 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 25 reviews.
GeoffSmock More than 1 year ago
This was the best installment of the Dalgliesh series so far. It moved a little quicker than the previous two and its narrative was a bit more gripping due to the enhancement of James' finely-crafted setting. The open headlands, the steep cliffs, and the raging waves of the Suffolk coast make the reading very piquant. In my estimation of fiction, especially mysteries, the setting is all-important and this book fit perfectly within my taste for country and coastal settings. I especially enjoyed and identified with these lines describing Dalgliesh at the beginning of chapter five of the first part:

"He had always enjoyed contrast in art or nature and at Pentlands, once night had fallen, the pleasures of contrast were easily self-induced. Inside the cottage there was light and warmth, all the colours and comfort of civilized domesticity; outside under the low clouds there was darkness, solitude, mystery."
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
As usual, PD James has done a fine job. This is the 3rd book in the Adam Dagliesh series and I enjoyed it more than some of the more recent boks in the Dagliesh series. Highly recommend.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
James can be too dark not in grafic violence but in situations without hope especially the young this is also a novel of just 210 pages a short but not a fast read . M.A.@spsrta
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
DFY More than 1 year ago
Excellent mystery. You have to read all the way to the end to figure out who did it.
mfz More than 1 year ago
I always enjoy P D James plots. The Adam Dagliesh books are always an interesting read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
LadyZin More than 1 year ago
Very creative, enjoyable reading
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
He yawns. "Ima go."
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Really an excellent mystery and a great atmosphere.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
not particularly impressed by P.D.James book
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Arent we all at some point?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anyone still here?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Flicks Stray. He laughs.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
That was embarrassing.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
She blinks, hugging the orange sweater to her chest. "Erm... hi." e-o
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sits down
Anonymous More than 1 year ago