Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (42 page)

‘I hope productively?’

Sidney was not sure that he was. His thoughts had roamed from the question of dignity and status in the play – ‘Set honour in one eye and death i’the other’ – to the idea of reputation in general. Could there be a clue here?

The presiding ethic of the aristocracy was to be noble; and yet, perhaps Lord Teversham, in some aspect of his life, had lacked nobility and fallen short? But where? Could it be in his financial dealings, in his personal relationships, or in the management of his estate? Where might such a gentle man have behaved dishonourably? Sidney would have to talk to those who had been closest to him.

Simon Hackford, Lord Teversham’s former business associate, had been waiting for three hours and was in no mood for a close examination. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he began. ‘How can I possibly have committed this crime?’

Inspector Keating looked to Sidney to calm the situation. ‘You were playing the part of Brutus. The last man to strike,’ he said, ‘and therefore the most important. Can you remember how much stage blood there was on his costume before you struck the blow?’

‘It was all over the place . . .’

‘So you did not need to puncture the sachet?’

‘I did not.’

‘And where did you strike him?’

‘In the heart. I had to pull Dominic’s head back from his slumped and stabbed position with my right hand. Then he was to look me in the eye and say: “Et tu, Brute?” I stabbed him on the nearside left, the same side as his heart, so the audience could see us both. After I had done this he was to say “Then fall, Caesar”; but by the time I lifted him up he was already limp and half-dead and I couldn’t keep him upright.’

‘You think he was already wounded?’

‘I do now: although I didn’t think so at the time. I thought he was just over-acting. The director told him that he should be as passive as Jesus and that this would be a Christ-like moment. I was supposed to hold him by the hair at the back of his head and let him stand centre-stage with the conspirators in a semicircle around him. It was a version of the Last Supper, I suppose, and Caesar was then meant to open his arms, as if he had the stigmata, and fall forward, only turning on to his side at the last minute. But as soon as I let go of his body he just crumpled.’

‘Why did it take people so long to realise what had happened?’

‘Because we thought that Dominic was having his great moment. It didn’t occur to any of us that he was paying for the performance with his life.’

Inspector Keating allowed a moment’s silence. ‘Of course, it could still have been you that administered the fatal blow. You were playing the part of Brutus, the noblest Roman of them all.’

‘Yes, it could have been me, I suppose. But it was not. I loved that man. I would never have harmed him; no matter what happened between us. He was my friend.’

‘What do you mean, “What happened between us”?’

‘We used to work together; as I am sure you know.’

‘What was the state of your relationship on the day of the murder?’

‘We have always been perfectly civil to one another. There was no animosity, if that is what you are implying. We both acknowledged that some things have to come to an end.’

‘And you didn’t mind about that?’

‘There is no point dwelling on what might have been. My passion is for silver and for antiques, rather than paintings, and I set up a new business after I stopped working for Lord Teversham. Dominic even lent me some money.’

‘May I ask how much?’

‘A thousand pounds.’

‘Rather a lot.’

‘I was paying it back. I think he felt guilty that our working relationship had come to an end.’

‘And why did it?’

‘There was nothing specific. If anything, the feeling was mutual. I had always wanted to start something on my own and I had neglected my wife. I’m sure you know how it is, Inspector. When a man works too much his wife often complains.’

Sidney looked to his friend for a reply, but he said nothing. Instead, he nodded, encouraging Simon Hackford to continue.

‘Now I have my antique shop and I work with my wife all the time. That is why I would like to go home. I start to feel ill when we are apart. It’s almost a physical sensation. Have you ever felt like that, Inspector?’

Keating answered at last. ‘To be honest, most of the time I’m quite glad to get away from home; but I can see what you might mean. There’s no need to detain you any longer, Mr Hackford.’

It was three in the morning and Sidney was exhausted. If he had been a monk he would be getting up for the first prayers of the day. Instead he was at a crime scene, having a cup of tea with a police inspector who was becoming increasingly exasperated.

‘You would have thought it would be a simple matter, wouldn’t you, Sidney? One of the stage knives is tampered with, or replaced. It goes missing. We find it and then we discover who did the deed. But, in fact, we have no suspect, no fingerprints and, so far, no knife.’

‘I was wondering,’ Sidney said at last, ‘if the choice of murder scene might be deliberate?’

‘More than opportunist?’

‘What I mean is that there might be clues in the play itself. Caesar is killed for different reasons: partly because he is vain, and partly because of mob desire. But Brutus kills him out of civic duty: “a piece of work that will make sick men whole.” It could perhaps boil down to a question of honour, social obligation or revenge.’

The inspector gave one of his familiar sighs. ‘I’m all for revenge as a motive, Sidney, but you mean someone might also be doing it for the good of society?’

‘It’s a thought. The German poet Schiller, for example, referred to the theatre as a moral institution.’

‘With respect, I do feel you may be barking up the wrong tree, Sidney. This was cold-blooded murder. It wasn’t an act of social justice.’

Sidney hated the phrase ‘with respect’. It always meant the opposite. ‘I don’t think we can discount anything.’

‘Of course not.’

‘I think the idea of honour and reputation is important.’

‘It often is.’

‘People are terrified of losing face.’

‘Men like Simon Hackford?’

‘Indeed.’

Inspector Keating would not be committed. ‘Nice man; a bit weak, I would have thought.’

‘Too weak to do the deed?’

‘No. It doesn’t take much to stab a man, especially in those circumstances.’

‘He would be your chief suspect?’

Keating thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t like to say. But I wouldn’t mind you finding out a little more about his relationship with Lord Teversham. It doesn’t sound right. Perhaps you could go to Locket Hall and give them the once over?

‘Very well.’

‘You hesitate, Sidney.’

‘I do; but that is nothing to do with Locket Hall. A further thought troubles me . . .’

‘Which is?’

‘Was the person holding the dagger aware that he was doing the deed?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have to be sure,’ Sidney began, ‘that the person who administered the blow knew that the dagger had been switched. If he did not know, then he could have killed Lord Teversham by accident, leaving the real murderer with the perfect alibi. In fact, I might even be surprised if the murderer was one of the assassins. I would suggest it could equally well have been someone who switched the daggers and left the scene of the crime, knowing that the fatal blow would be administered in his, or even her, absence.’

‘That’s the kind of thing I’m supposed to come up with. It means the murderer could be anybody.’

‘Not if we find a motive. We need to look into the character of Lord Teversham.’

‘I agree. But there are six suspects and a reconstruction to get through first. By all means make a start on your theory. Any background you can get on Simon Hackford, then tell me in the pub on Thursday. Any foreground information or immediate suspicions, then come to me immediately . . .’

Sidney bicycled home, lights flaring, across the fields and against a harvest moon. He met no one. Everyone in the city appeared to be asleep. He wondered how many of them had said any prayers.

‘Forasmuch as all mortal men be subject to many sudden perils, diseases, and sicknesses, and ever uncertain what time they shall depart out of this life . . .’

He bicycled quickly because he was worried about having left Dickens for so long but, on opening the kitchen door, he was reassured to find him asleep in his basket and a note on the table: ‘Have walked dog. No mishaps. Leonard.’

That was a relief. He really would have to try and be more responsible about his dog in future. Sidney made himself a pot of tea and wondered why he had stayed and taken part in the investigation. There was no need, really. Inspector Keating had said as much.

So why had he done it? Was it vanity, he wondered, the idea that they could not manage to conduct a police inquiry without him? It was absurd to think like this, but he now had to admit that he was never far from the sin of pride. He tried to convince himself that his motives were born out of a desire to understand what had happened, to stand alongside people in their difficulty and also to be, in Bunyan’s words, ‘valiant for truth’. But it was going to take a long time both to justify his involvement and to find out the truth behind this particular murder.

The next morning, unsurprisingly, Sidney overslept, missing the eight o’clock Communion service. Over a late breakfast, Leonard Graham told him that he had been informed what had happened, that he hadn’t wanted to wake his boss and that there was little point in having a curate if he couldn’t be relied upon to take a service on his own.

There had been four people in the congregation: Agatha Redmond, the Labrador breeder; Isabel Robinson, the doctor’s wife; Gervase Bell, the local historian; and Frances Kirby, the wife of the butcher who had played Decius Brutus, a woman who made sixty toffees for her husband every week and could be relied upon to spread news of the murder, together with her personal opinion as to the most likely culprit, by lunchtime.

‘We must try to discourage any unnecessary rumours,’ Sidney urged Leonard after finishing his boiled egg. ‘The last thing we want is people jumping to conclusions.’

‘I am afraid,’ his curate replied, ‘it is too late for that.’

‘And what are they saying?’

‘They think it was Simon Hackford.’

‘That is ridiculous.’

‘He did play Brutus . . .’

‘But he is the most mild-mannered of men. And it is most likely that the fatal blow was administered before Simon Hackford got anywhere near Lord Teversham. ‘Why are they saying these things?’

Leonard Graham gave his vicar a steady look. ‘I think you can guess.’

‘Simon Hackford is a married man.’

‘But Lord Teversham was not.’

‘There is no proof of any indecent involvement on anyone’s part.’

‘Of course there isn’t, Sidney. If there was any evidence for that then both men would be in prison.’

‘I do think that is harsh.’

‘Do you?’

‘Some homosexuals receive longer sentences than burglars. It’s absurd. But surely this is all gossip?’

‘People are saying that there is no smoke without fire.’

‘That is one of Mrs Maguire’s favourite phrases. I have told her to stop saying that but she never listens. I can’t abide the way in which our country is losing its sense of discretion. Even if there was something between Simon Hackford and Lord Teversham, the fact of the matter is that it is none of anyone else’s business. People should have a right to privacy.’

‘I didn’t know you felt so strongly.’

‘We must think the best of people, Leonard, or we are lost. I think I’ll have to preach along those lines on Sunday.’

‘That would be a brave thing to do.’

‘It isn’t brave at all,’ Sidney replied. ‘It is necessary.’

‘Matthew chapter 7 would be an obvious text,’ Leonard advised. ‘ “Judge not that ye be not judged.” There is also the Book of Proverbs: “The words of a talebearer are as wounds . . .” ’

‘That’s a better idea . . .

‘ “And they go down into the innermost parts of the belly.” Do you think it’s a bit too apt? Lord Teversham was stabbed, after all.’

‘I’d like to give it to them straight: shake them up a bit.’

‘I think they are already quite shaken, Sidney.’

The telephone rang. It was Amanda. Sidney asked how she was feeling and if she was all right.

‘Never mind me,’ she began. ‘I hear Lord Teversham has been murdered.’

‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

‘Ben telephoned. He could hardly speak. This is a disaster.’

‘I know. It was, it seems, the perfect murder.’

‘How can a murder ever be “perfect”?’

‘There were multiple weapons and everyone in the cast was wearing gloves. It could have been any of them.’

‘But who would want to kill Lord Teversham? You could hardly hope to meet a kinder man. It’s so cruel.’