Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins (11 page)

‘Very well,’ her husband replied and resumed his instructions. ‘NO WOODCOCK. Don’t bother with the pigeons and no ground game. You need to see the sky behind your barrels at all times.’

Sleet had begun to fall: not fiercely but enough to lower the mood and make everything seem more of an effort. The gamekeeper set off to marshal the beaters, and the shoot divided into three Land Rovers and drove to the furthest copse from Witchford Hall. Sidney sat in the same vehicle as Sir Mark. ‘It’s a wonder how you manage it all,’ he said.

‘We do have staff. Although the cost is getting prohibitive. A Labour government doesn’t help. Wilson thinks the aristocracy is richer than it is. All the capital’s in the land. We’ve no cash for tax. Fortunately Elizabeth has quite a bit of money so we won’t run dry.’

‘I presume you have to be careful.’

‘She’s given over her finances to me. That gives us a bit of a buffer. There are also advantages in having a wife who’s a Roman Catholic. To some extent I can do what I like, knowing that she’s never going to divorce me.’

‘I am sure she could; in a civil capacity.’

‘But she won’t. She hates any kind of fuss and she’s made a vow before God. You, of all people, know how serious that is.’

‘Marriage vows are taken by both parties, are they not?’ Sidney asked mildly.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not planning on doing anything
mad
.’

Sir Mark turned his concentration back to the road ahead. The frost had melted, and the sleet gave the tarmac a light gleam. A pheasant flew out from the nearby hedgerow. Rooks perched in the skeletal trees.

Sidney pressed his point. ‘It still does not give either of you licence to do what you like.’ He tried to smile as he spoke in order to make his words sound less judgemental but Sir Mark either failed to notice his censure or ignored it, preferring to tell the other people in the Land Rover how he planned to sell off some of the land they were passing ‘to house a few plebs’.

Shouty Meynell made a loud observation from the back seat. ‘Builders will pay anything these days and there’s good money in property.’

‘Don’t you want to preserve the estate as it is?’ Henry Richmond asked. ‘Leave it for future generations?’

‘There’s plenty of land left for my nephew. Besides, what does it matter? If you only live once then you’ve got to live well. I’ve little hope of heaven.’

They arrived at the copse and before unloading the guns Sir Mark offered Sidney his hip flask. ‘Whisky Mac?’

‘Bit early for me.’

‘Nonsense. It’s a cold day . . .’

‘I wouldn’t like to see you run dry.’

‘Rita will come and replenish it soon enough – she sees to most of my needs . . .’

‘Rita?’

‘Her real name’s Nancy but her surname’s Hayworth, so I call her Rita. Makes her feel like a film star.’

‘I’m sure it does.’ Sidney knew that this might be the moment to ask more about Sir Mark’s marriage but Shouty Meynell was close. He didn’t want to make any questioning look obvious.

‘
Entre nous
I’m hoping she’ll soon be seeing to a lot more of them, if you know what I mean . . .’

Had Sir Mark forgotten that Sidney was a clergyman or did he not care? He was being addressed as if he was still in the army.

Shouty Meynell rejoined them. ‘We get your drift all right.’

‘It’s my house, my staff. One has to have the odd perk even if it does take a bit of time to scale the battlements. Let’s get going.’

Sir Mark strode ahead, assuming that everyone would follow. He was not the type of man to look back. ‘I normally start on the fourth. Then we take it in turns. The gamekeeper will sort you out. Make sure your gun is loaded and ready by the time you reach your stand. The beaters will let us know when the birds are on their way.’

The sleet eased, and the first drive was conducted in customary silence apart from the usual cries of ‘Yours’ when a gun was leaving a shot for the next man, or ‘Mine’. There was a goodly stock of birds and plenty of beaters to do the work, and the game was easy prey; somewhat too easy, Sidney thought as he fired at will. By the time they had reached the third drive there were murmurs of approval at his prowess.

‘Who’d have thought a clergyman would be so good with a gun?’ Sir Mark observed as Musket arrived at his feet with a pheasant. ‘Not sure if that’s one of mine. Could be yours. I’m not going to argue now I’ve seen the way you shoot.’

‘Army training . . .’ Sidney explained.

‘One wonders why you ever became a clergyman.’

‘Like the war itself, there wasn’t much choice.’

‘You could have been a padre.’

‘It was on my conscience to fight; just as now it is my duty to be a priest. To fail to do so would be to deny God. He has knocked and I have answered.’

‘Well I only hope he doesn’t come banging on my door.’

‘It is considered a blessing,’ Sidney replied.

‘I’m happy with my life as it is.’

‘Really?’ Sidney asked. ‘Most people feel that there’s always room for improvement.’

‘That may be true,’ Sir Mark replied, ‘but, as you can probably see, I’m more body than soul.’

Sidney was tempted to talk about the corruptibility of the flesh and the incorruptibility of the spirit but this was not the time. He unloaded his gun, slid it into its sleeve and joined Dr Robinson for the next drive.

Lunch had been arranged in a makeshift gazebo in the grounds of Denny Abbey. There was a sit-down meal for the guns and the women who had joined them for lunch while the beaters and the pickers-up had soup and sandwiches outside.

On the way over in the Land Rover, Hildegard had sat in the back and inspected the reddening around Elizabeth’s neck. A scarf could not quite conceal it. Perhaps something more had happened in the night? She decided to be Sidney’s eyes and ears, and would pay particular attention to the maid on whom her employer appeared so keen.

At lunch Amanda continued her flirtation with Henry Richmond. He talked about his estate, and how it had been in the family for over three hundred years, and that it was a heavy burden of responsibility to carry on his own, but he had good people around him and he had learned to manage even if it was a bit lonely at times.

There were two more drives in the afternoon before the mist drifted in from the east and the sun dropped below the tree line. Sidney remembered how quickly autumn days fell away into darkness. He used the pause between drives to replenish his stock of cartridges and have a quick word with Dr Robinson about Elizabeth.

‘What did you make of that wound on her neck? Did you think it was an accident?’

‘I have my doubts; and I think you do too.’

At the end of the last drive, the keeper blew his horn and told the guns to unload and re-sleeve their weapons. Sidney and his companions did as they were told, picked up any spent cartridges and stricken birds and took them to the game cart where they were matched into braces. The keeper counted the bag and made his tally: sixty-three pheasant, eighteen partridge and twelve geese. Each member of the party was given a brace and Sidney tipped with a half-crown as he had been told, only to notice that his fellow guns were handing over ten-bob notes.

‘Oh I’m so sorry . . .’

‘Don’t worry,’ the gamekeeper smiled. ‘I know you’re not made of money. We don’t often have people like you with us. To be honest, I didn’t expect a clergyman to be such a good shot.’

‘Did Sir Mark tell you I was a priest?’

‘Didn’t need to. You’re getting quite a reputation in the county. But I won’t tell anyone what you’re really here for.’

‘There’s nothing untoward, I can assure you. I have come for the shoot.’

‘Of course. Mum’s the word.’

‘Excuse me,’ Sidney asked as the man was leaving. ‘Actually, what
do
you think I’m here for?’

‘Lady Kirby-Grey.’

‘I’m not sure I understand?’

‘We all know what’s been going on, Canon Chambers. I, for one, am glad you’re here to see it. It’s got to stop.’

By the time Sidney arrived back at Witchford Hall he was wet, tired and longing for a cup of tea and a toasted teacake followed by a long hot bath and a whisky. So far, the day had passed without any incident other than the gamekeeper’s inscrutable warning. Did he mean what Sidney thought he meant or was there more? Perhaps Elizabeth was hiding something else that accounted for her nervousness; something other than grief after the loss of her son.

Sidney tried to concentrate on matters in hand, not least his need to change out of his muddy clothes and to see whether Hildegard had enjoyed a pleasant afternoon. Sir Mark called over to his butler. ‘Get Rita to run me a bath, will you? See to it that she makes it nice and hot. Now where’s that bloody wife of mine? I want a drink.’

The post-shoot dinner was an improvement on the previous evening: a robust French onion soup, boeuf bourguignon with passable mashed potato and a reassuring apple crumble. There was an air of tired satisfaction after the exertions of the day. Before Sir Mark dwindled into drunkenness he regaled the company with the story of a distant relative who had been duped into marriage and squandered his estate.

‘Let this be a warning to you, Richmond, now that you are back on the marriage market.’

‘I have no immediate plans.’

‘Even with our clergyman here to do the deed?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Then it can be a cautionary fable for you, Miss Kendall.’

‘I am aware of the need to be on my guard against fortune hunters,’ Amanda replied. ‘But this is hardly the right place to combine a discussion of marital prospects with money.’

‘What happened to your relative?’ Sidney asked, anxious to change the subject away from a public debate about his friend’s private future.

Sir Mark continued, enjoying the attention. ‘It was more than a hundred years ago, over in Norfolk. I think that everyone knew there was something wrong with Freddie from the start. From an early age he never could tell when he had had enough to eat, and there are stories of him screeching, howling, slavering, carpet-biting, gorging on food, vomiting at the table, and even, on one occasion, ordering seventeen eggs for breakfast.’

‘Extraordinary,’ Amanda commented.

‘He also loved dressing up. In that respect, he was like a little boy even when he became an adult. One night he was nearly arrested after impersonating a policeman and rounding up fallen women in the Haymarket.

‘How did he ever marry?’

‘He was taken in by a family in St James’s. That was supposed to sort things out, but it didn’t go entirely to plan. One night he scalded himself in the bath and ran through the corridors naked. His landlady mistook his horrified ranting as a chance to expose himself.’

‘She complained?’

‘Volubly. Although it’s easy enough to scald yourself.’ Sir Mark looked down the table to his wife at the opposite end. ‘You’ve done that yourself, haven’t you, my darling?’

‘It was a silly mistake. I wasn’t thinking . . .’

‘So what happened?’ Shouty interrupted. ‘To your relative?’

‘A beautiful woman called Agnes Willoughby is “what happened”; together with an Italian opera singer and a confidence trickster. She seduced Freddie, even though she had two lovers already, and persuaded him to make over his entire estate to her on marriage. His uncle then had to save the family fortune and annul the marriage by saying that Freddie was a lunatic.’

‘Did he succeed?’

‘No. The case,
De Lunatico Inquirendo
, took place in the winter of 1861–2. It lasted thirty-four days at a cost of £20,000. There were a hundred and forty witnesses called, fifty for the petitioners and ninety for Frederick Windham, who was proud of his marriage and his sanity. The case collapsed, Freddie was ruined and he ended up living with his nanny. He died at the age of twenty-five after a fourteen-hour drinking session with a group of Ipswich post-boys.’

‘A lesson to avoid excess,’ Dr Robinson observed.

‘I once knew a priest who was prone to depression,’ said Sidney, hoping that no one in the company had heard his story before. ‘When he felt the horrors approaching, he would hole up in the grimmest boarding house in the most depressing town he could find, in order to plumb the very depths of his slough of despond. The idea was, that after hitting rock bottom, he would emerge into a world in which everything would look so much better than his most recent dismal experience. The town he chose for this misery, curiously enough, was Ipswich.’

‘My grandmother is from round there,’ Serena Stein added airily. ‘Not that it matters. I only hope the lunacy doesn’t run in the family.’

‘I should think not.’ Sir Mark turned to his wife. ‘You got off lightly with me, my darling.’

‘I’m very grateful.’

‘You don’t sound convinced,’ Serena observed.

Elizabeth made to move and the men around the table began to stand up. ‘I’m rather tired, will you excuse me?’

Her husband was having none of it. ‘Sit down, everyone.’ He turned on his wife. ‘How can you be tired? We’ve been the people who’ve been out in the cold all day. What have you been doing, woman?’