Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (26 page)
‘How do you know this?’
‘Inspector Keating told me that Dr Robinson found you rather disconcerting. It was why he sent you. He knew that moral authority would carry more weight than the force of the law. He’s cleverer than you think, that man.’
‘I do not doubt it.’
‘And there were things that you said. They made the doctor pause.’
‘I do not think I said very much.’
‘It was enough. Of course, I am guessing what passed between you but I know enough to realise that I need to thank you. You did not have to do what you did but you did and I appreciate it. I am sorry not to have been as welcoming as I should have been when you came to see me. I will not make that mistake in future.’
‘And I will try not to be disconcerting.’
‘To a man with a guilty conscience everything is troubling.’
‘I imagine so.’
‘And a clear conscience is the only way to live, Canon Chambers, and, of course, a clear head. Now, shall we open the wine? It must be six o’clock and we have an excuse. The Lenten days have passed.’
‘I would be delighted,’ Sidney replied.
On Easter Thursday the traditional social meeting with Inspector Keating in the RAF bar of The Eagle returned to form.
‘It’s good to see you back to your old self, Sidney,’ his friend began as they settled down to their first pint of the evening. ‘Although I wasn’t expecting you to come with Dickens. It’s a wife you need, not a dog.’
‘A dog is all that I was offered, unfortunately.’
‘There are women other than Miss Kendall. I thought you were rather partial to that German widow?’
‘Too soon, Geordie, and, in a way, too late.’
‘People always find excuses. Sometimes it’s best just to get on with it.’
‘Indeed,’ mused Sidney, thinking of Keating’s wife and three children.
The inspector took a long draft of beer. ‘At least your man seems to have got away with it.’
Sidney gave his friend a stern look. ‘He’s not “my man”, Geordie. And he acted within the boundaries of the law.’
‘The coroner’s turned a blind eye, if you ask me. He’s softer than I thought . . .’
‘That he may be,’ mused Sidney. ‘You still suspect malpractice?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘The doctor knew what he was doing.’
‘Only too well, it seems.’
‘And I think his motives were genuine. It was winter: the season of pneumonia, friend of the aged. A moral decision can sometimes take more courage than we think.’
Inspector Keating did not appear to be listening. He was still brooding over the case and finished his drink at a canter. ‘Nonetheless, you have to admit that it’s been a difficult business.’ He looked into his empty pint glass. ‘Sherlock Holmes may have had his two-pipe problem but I’m rather hoping ours are more like two-pint problems . . .’
‘Very droll . . .’ Sidney replied. ‘Another?’
‘That would be kind.’
‘We will never really know, will we? What goes on in the minds of men.’
‘Or women . . .’ his friend replied before catching the barman’s attention.
The inspector laid out the board of backgammon as Sidney collected the drinks. ‘It’s a funny thing, the whole business of love, is it not?’ He was speaking almost to himself. ‘I suppose I take it for granted, I have everything at home, Cathy and the children, and it just felt natural to us but I suppose for other people it’s a different story.’
Sidney put the pints down on the table. ‘I am sure that most people like to feel their own story is unique.’
‘But you, my friend, have a series of different possibilities: books with blank pages about to be filled.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’ Sidney could tell that the inspector was trying to turn this into a conversation about Amanda but he wasn’t having it. ‘I am only relieved that the marriage between Isabel and the doctor can go ahead.’
‘When is the great day?’
‘A week on Saturday.’
The inspector lit up a cigarette. ‘It’s a curious thing the way the mind works, Sidney. The doctor probably thought he was acting out of love by bumping off his fiancée’s mother.’
‘He didn’t “bump her off”.’
‘We both know he did. But he’s got away with it by disguising it as compassion.’ The inspector threw a double six. ‘Do you think the coroner was in on it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m still not so sure. It would be an easy thing to sort out amongst themselves. They could have been in it together and the coroner was only drawing attention to the incident as a double bluff. He was getting in first and making sure he was the one doing the investigating rather than any other coroner.’
‘That sounds a bit far-fetched.’
‘Nothing in crime is ever far-fetched, Sidney. You should know that by now. Anything is possible; and the most unlikely and unbelievable stories are often the truest. I wouldn’t mind looking at the wills of the old people who’ve died. If the doctor’s been left anything . . .’
‘You can always check, but I think you’ll find the coroner is a good man.’
‘I’ve not doubted it in the past, Sidney. You were the one who had reservations.’
‘I’ve rather warmed to him.’
‘Have you now?’
‘He came to the vicarage with a bottle of wine.’
‘Wine? You’re easily bought. I thought you were a beer man?’
‘It was a Château-Latour 1937. Smooth on the palate and long on the finish.’
‘I’ll wager he said it was. But wine’s a very expensive hobby for a clergyman. I’m not sure you should be developing a taste for something you cannot afford.’
‘Corpus does have a very fine cellar . . .’
‘It sends out the wrong signals too. You know for a fact that nothing beats a good pub. That’s where real people go: not your dons or your rich fancy types. Besides, I thought you didn’t like going to your old college?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’
‘I don’t know, man. You seem to have changed character. First you get a dog, and then you develop a taste for wine. God knows what might happen next.’
‘I am sure God does know, Inspector. It’s just as well we don’t.’
‘And I’m right glad we don’t.’
‘Another round?’
‘A third pint?’ Inspector Keating asked with affectionate surprise. ‘Are you sure you can take it, man?’
‘Lent is no more,’ Sidney reaffirmed. ‘You, my good friend, are here. We are talking about wine and crime and love. Sometimes I think there is nothing we cannot say to each other.’
‘I suppose that’s right.’
‘The fire is lit. A dog is by my side. The mood, if I may say so, is jovial. And furthermore,’ Sidney continued, ‘I am looking forward to some very unsteady bicycling on the way home.’
The following week the air softened and spring came at last. Primroses, violets and coltsfoot bloomed; woodlarks hung suspended in the air all day and sang all night. Lapwings haunted the downs, the stone-curlew returned from the uplands down to the meadows and banks, blackbirds and thrushes laid their eggs.
So late the spring, and yet so welcome. It had come to fruition in perfect time for Isabel’s wedding. Sidney was delighted to see the new fashions amongst the female guests: the full skirts, soft shoulders and pinched waists, the figure-hugging dresses and glorious hats with their floral blooms and swirls of organza. The women of Grantchester had cast off their winter darkness and were showing summer colour at last.
Sidney greeted the doctor as he arrived with his best man. ‘A happy day,’ he said. ‘I do hope you enjoy it.’
‘I intend to. And I should thank you, of course.’
‘I don’t think I did anything.’
‘You did what you had to do and said what you had to say.’
‘That was my duty.’
‘It would take a brave man to disagree with you.’
‘Alas, Dr Robinson, many do.’
‘That’s as may be. But you were fair-minded and you said the right things. You made me think differently about the world and its ways. We are both very grateful.’
‘I suppose that is a clergyman’s duty.’
‘Ah, yes. The poet George Crabbe wrote about that, didn’t he? The priest as an example to his flock:
Sober, chaste devout and just
One whom his neighbours could believe and trust.
It must be hard to set such an example.’
‘It is almost impossible,’ Sidney replied.
‘Sometimes, it is not the achievement but the intention that matters.’ The doctor smiled.
The organist struck up the wedding march and they were off.
Sidney tried to cheer himself up by reminding himself that he enjoyed a good wedding. He was not so keen on the receptions that followed: the nervous bonhomie, the lengthy speeches and the warm white wine, but he had learned to walk through them with a semi-detached benevolence that many people, he was relieved to notice, mistook for holiness.
Isabel Livingstone, soon to be Robinson, was dressed in white taffeta, and Sidney noticed she had chosen an empire line dress rather than the currently fashionable fitted waist and full skirt. She appeared younger than when Sidney had last seen her as if it was only now, at this moment, that she had become herself. The anxiety and grief of the previous months had fallen away, and her walk up the aisle had the air of a triumphal march.
She was followed by two bridesmaids dressed in frocks of buttercup yellow. Both girls were under the age of eight and they walked with a grace and a solemnity of purpose that Sidney hoped might provide an example to the rest of the congregation.
He smiled as he gave the opening welcome but something held him back. He was not going to let the couple off lightly. He spoke slowly, clearly and with authority. He emphasised the fact that marriage had to be entered into reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God. He would explain each of these phrases in his sermon and he would expect everyone to pay attention. This was not just a social event. It was a sombre religious ceremony in which the promises made had eternal consequences.
He would preach, as he often did, on Christ’s first miracle, at a wedding feast at Cana of Galilee. The water was changed into wine, as Michael and Isabel would be changed, the two becoming one; but, rather than losing themselves in self-indulgence, the challenge would be to bring out the best in one another. They would have to become different people, better, stronger, more tolerant and more generous.
Even though he told the congregation that the best wedding present they could give the happy couple would be to love, support and be watchful of this marriage, both Michael and Isabel Robinson knew that Canon Sidney Chambers was speaking directly to them. He was telling them to be careful. He was telling them to
watch out
. There was steel, both in his compassion, and in his Christianity. This was not so much a sermon as a moral warning.
God was watching them.
Sidney was watching them.
Six months later Isabel Robinson gave birth to a baby boy.
It was the
seventh of May 1954 and Sidney had, at last, perfected the art of boiling an egg. He filled a saucepan with water, lowered a speckled specimen into position and placed it on the stove. As the water began to heat up, Sidney commenced his morning routine. It was vital to complete his shaving at the exact moment the water reached boiling point. Then he would prepare his toast. The time taken to cook, turn and remove the toast from the grill, butter it and then cut it into soldiers, was the exact time needed to boil his egg. If successfully achieved, the toast would still be hot, the butter melted and the egg in perfect condition. It was extraordinary that he was now able to combine the preparation of breakfast with the act of shaving and, every time he did so, Sidney was filled with quiet satisfaction.
On a bright spring morning, as the last of the frost was disappearing from the meadows, Sidney’s attention turned to the news on the wireless. Roger Bannister had broken the four-minute mile on the Iffley Road athletics track in Oxford. How odd, Sidney thought, that a man could run a mile in the same length of time that it took to boil an egg. It was also the time needed for an over of cricket, or for that other Sidney, Bechet, to work his way through ‘Summertime’ on the soprano saxophone. It was extraordinary how much could be achieved in such a short space of time.
He tried to spend a great deal longer walking Dickens as Sidney was, at last, beginning to enjoy the company of his dog. His presence brought new challenges – discipline, training, routine – but also, it had to be said, benefits. Although his desire for attention and reward could be relentless, Sidney found that his Labrador was not only an ice-breaker with new parishioners but also, crucially, a conversation-stopper. In fact Dickens freed Sidney from the time-consuming complaints of the more troublesome members of his congregation. If the dog strained at the leash or made a mad dash after rabbits then his owner would have to break off his conversation and follow Dickens’s mazy runs across the Meadows. The dog’s sudden bursts of speed or changes of direction were, Sidney decided, like an improvised saxophone solo. You never knew what was going to happen next.
