by James Runcie
It was a lesson he still needed to learn himself.
Although Sidney knew that he would see Inspector George Keating for their regular game of backgammon the following day, he decided that he really did need to telephone his friend, even if it might incur wrath. This it did, as the inspector had made it clear in the past that he never liked to have open and shut cases questioned and he was still smarting from England’s loss at football to the Hungarians the previous evening.
‘6-3! And to think we invented the game, Sidney. Wembley Stadium is the home of football and a team no one’s ever heard of put six goals past us. Unbelievable!’
‘I don’t know why you are so fond of football,’ his friend replied. ‘It always leads to disappointment. Cricket is the game . . .’
‘Not in the winter . . .’
‘Then Rugby Union. Perhaps even hockey . . .’
‘Hockey!’ Inspector Keating exclaimed. ‘You think I should start taking an interest in hockey? Next thing it will be bloody badminton. Why are you on the telephone, man?’
‘There is something I wish to discuss with you.’
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘It could but I don’t want it to ruin our game of backgammon . . .’
The inspector let out a long slow sigh. ‘You had better pay a visit to my office, then. If you can fit me in between services . . .’
‘I think you are rather busier than me.’
‘Come to St Andrews Street, then.’
Sidney had never been invited into the inner sanctum of the police station and had been expecting something altogether more organised, modern and scientific than the sight that greeted him on arrival. Inspector George Keating’s private space was not the methodical hub of an organised crime-fighting force but a mass of manila files and papers, notes, diagrams, paper bags and old cups of tea that covered every conceivable space: desks, chairs and bookcases. The windows were lightly steamed from the heat of a two-bar electric fire, the ashtray was full and the desk-light had blown. The whole interior could easily have been mistaken for the rooms of a university don, an effect the inspector would not have intended.
Sidney often wondered whether he should say something about his friend’s demeanour. He was a man who was two inches shorter than he wanted to be, which was not his fault, and his suit needed pressing, which was. His tie was askew, his shoes were scuffed and his thinning sandy-coloured hair was not as familiar with a comb as it should have been. The demands of the job, three children at home and a wife who kept a tight control on the family finances were perhaps beginning to take their toll. There were times when Sidney was glad that he was still a bachelor.
He knew that his visit was something of an imposition and felt increasingly guilty, but his suspicions were on his conscience and he needed to share them. He reported what he had discovered and conveyed his concerns about the whisky.
‘Stephen Staunton’s wife specifically told me that he only drank Bushmills, which, as you may know, has a distinctive smoky, vanilla and bitter-toffee taste. However, the whisky in the office was of the more common or garden variety. Johnnie Walker, I suspect . . .’
‘Which leads you to conclude?’
‘That the whisky was placed on Stephen Staunton’s desk to give the illusion of Dutch courage but that he never drank any of it . . .’
‘Nor, I suppose you are about to tell me, did he put his revolver in his mouth and shoot himself?’
‘I seem to remember that there were no fingerprints on the revolver, Inspector?’
Sidney was not going to call his friend by his Christian name in the office.
‘None. We did check.’
‘And do you not think that is suspicious too?’
‘You’re suggesting the gun was wiped clean?’
‘It’s a possibility. Did you examine the decanter?’
Geordie Keating was now, if such a thing were possible, even more irritated. ‘Not especially closely. We didn’t really see the need. You’ll have to provide more evidence than this, Sidney. What you have told me just won’t do. Who would have killed Stephen Staunton, anyway? What was the motive? He didn’t have any enemies as far as we can make out. He was simply a hard-drinking and depressed solicitor from Northern Ireland. That is the beginning and the end of it.’
‘Yes, Inspector, only I don’t think that it is.’
‘Well, you’ll have to find more information from somewhere if you want me to do anything about it . . .’
‘But if I do so then you will investigate?’
‘If further evidence comes to light of course we will investigate; but in the meantime I’ve got a runaway teenager, a couple of burglaries and a nasty case of blackmail to contend with.’
‘Then I am sorry to have troubled you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sidney. If something comes up then of course we will investigate. You must know that we need more to go on than this. Jesus didn’t settle for one or two miracles, did he? He went on until people believed there was proof.’
‘I think we are quite a long way from Jesus, Inspector.’
Sidney left the police station, mounted his Raleigh Roadster and bicycled along Downing Street and past St Bene’t’s church. As he did so, he dreaded to think how Isaiah Shaw, the current vicar, would regard his current activities. Sidney could sense the man’s disapproval not only whenever they met but every time he passed his church. For Isaiah had let it be known that he disapproved of his colleague’s early rise through the ranks of the Church of England.
Sidney was forced to acknowledge that Isaiah had a point. He had, indeed, been fortunate. Following the untimely demise of his predecessor, the new Bishop of Ely, a Corpus man, had wanted to install his own domestic chaplain in Sidney’s place, and had therefore moved him swiftly onwards and upwards to the fortuitously vacant parish of Grantchester. This promotion to such a plum position at the relatively young age of thirty, followed by his acquisition of a canonry only two years later, was regarded with considerable jealousy by colleagues of a similar age who found Sidney’s effortless friendship with the senior clergy nothing less than an affront to their piety and hard work. There was more to being a priest, they argued, than their rival’s easy charm.
Consequently, Sidney felt that he had to prove himself not only to his parishioners, but also to his rivals. He had to earn his position as Vicar of Grantchester after the fact. This was not always easy, and so he took it upon himself to throw himself into as many situations as possible, doing whatever he could to bring a Christian perspective to everyday events.
He turned into Trumpington Street. There, even though he knew that it might ruin his appetite for lunch, he decided to stop off at Fitzbillies for a consoling Chelsea bun. He wondered what Mrs Maguire, his daily help, might have left for him back at the vicarage. On a Wednesday it was normally sausages. For some reason he didn’t fancy sausages, but then halfway through his bun he found that he didn’t feel like something sweet either. He was out of sorts.
He returned to his bicycle and set off down Mill Lane towards Grantchester Meadows. He hoped that the wind against his face might freshen him up a bit but nothing seemed to make any difference. A group of students in duffel coats and long college scarves were talking loudly on their way to lectures, walking off the pavement and into the road, paying no heed to passing cyclists. A sign writer was repainting the façade of the butcher’s shop and a window cleaner was at work above the new bank. Both of their ladders spanned the entire pavement, so that those of a superstitious nature, who did not want to walk under ladders, swayed on to the road and into the traffic. How removed all this was from the desperate world of suicide, or, more likely, murder, Sidney thought.
He passed Hildegard Staunton’s house and headed off across the fields to Grantchester. When he arrived home all was as he had expected. Mrs Maguire had done some of her famous tidying, moving papers that Sidney had carefully left in separate and organised stacks on the floor, and piling them
all together on his desk so she could vacuum. There were sausages in a Pyrex dish in the kitchen and potatoes she had peeled and left in cold water. There was also a note:
‘More Vim please. And Harpic. Fish tomorrow. Not Friday.’
Sidney found it hard to address these concerns. He turned on the wireless and listened to the news. The Queen had just arrived in Canada on her Commonwealth tour. The Piltdown Man had been exposed as a hoax; and the Salvation Army were about to open a café in Korea. Sidney listened, ate his sausages and wondered what impact any of this information would have on the people of Cambridge.
As he cleared away his lunch and contemplated the possibility both of a cup of coffee and the second half of his Chelsea bun – there might even be a few quiet minutes in which he could listen to a bit of his beloved jazz music – there was a knock on the door.
Sidney opened it to find Miss Morrison standing on the step. ‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’ she apologised. She was wearing an elegant dark mackintosh and her hair was wet and windswept. ‘I saw the bus to Grantchester and just stepped on to it.’
Sidney had not noticed that it had been raining. ‘This is a surprise,’ he replied.
‘I hope a not unpleasant one.’
‘Of course not. Do come in . . .’
‘I won’t stay if you don’t mind, Canon Chambers. It’s only that I have something that I think you should see . . .’
‘What is it?’
Miss Morrison produced a piece of paper from her handbag but appeared reluctant to hand it over. ‘I’m very sorry. It’s evidence. I should have told you about it earlier. In fact I should have given it to the police but it’s private. I hope I won’t get into trouble.’
‘What is it?’
‘A letter; or rather a note . . .’
‘To you?’
‘Yes. It’s addressed to me. From Mr Staunton.’
‘May I see it?’
‘Yes. But if you could just read it and give it back I would be very grateful. It’s rather upsetting.’
‘I see . . .’ Sidney took the note. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Mr Staunton left it on my desk. It’s very short. But it leaves you in no doubt as to what must have happened.’
‘Are you sure you won’t come in?’
‘I’d rather not if you don’t mind.’
Sidney stood in the doorway and began to read:
A,
I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it has come to this. I know you will find it upsetting and I wish there was something I could do to make things right. I can’t go on any more. I’m sorry – so sorry. You know how hard it has been and how impossible it is to continue.
Forgive me
S
It had begun to rain again, and it was absurd that they were both still standing in the doorway of the vicarage, but Stephen Staunton’s secretary remained in righteous defiance.
‘I can see how upsetting this must be, Miss Morrison, but it would have been helpful if you had shown this to the police. I notice that he refers to you by your initial: A. Was that his usual practice?’
‘We both used to initial everything to show that we had read things. He’d sign a single “S” for me and a double “S” for Mr Morton’s papers – that is, until Mr Morton made a joke of it. They did not get on as well as they once had . . .’
‘And “A”?’
‘My name is Annabel, Canon Chambers.’
She waited for Sidney to return the note. This he did not do.
‘Miss Morrison, there are some unusual features about your employer’s death in which the police have become interested.’
Sidney knew that he was exaggerating Inspector Keating’s level of concern but decided that it was the only way in which Miss Morrison would grant the request he was about to make.
‘Are there?’ Miss Morrison looked shocked. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t think it is anything to worry about but I very much hope that you will allow me to keep this note so that I can show it, in confidence, to my friend Inspector Keating in order to set his mind at rest. As soon as I have done so, then I will return it. May I have your permission to do this? I can assure you that the information would remain confidential.’
‘I won’t get into trouble, will I?
‘I think that is unlikely. The police are convinced Mr Staunton died by his own hand and this note appears to prove it.’
‘Appears? It states it quite clearly.’
‘Indeed it does,’ Sidney admitted. ‘And so I am sure that it will be returned to you shortly. The only strange thing is why it has come to light now.’
‘I explained. It is private. I was upset. And it is mine. Meant only for me.’
Sidney realised that he would have to give Inspector Keating the note and accept the reality of what had happened. All that he had been doing was to complicate a straightforward case and arouse doubt. He should never have listened to Pamela Morton’s suspicions or been railroaded by her charm. Clearly the pressure of the infidelity had been too much for Stephen Staunton and he had taken the only escape route that he could find.
And yet, for reasons he could not quite fathom, Sidney’s suspicions would not abate. Why, for example, would Stephen Staunton leave a note for his secretary but not for his wife? What made Miss Morrison so hesitant to provide the police with information? And who had replaced the whiskey in the office?
Annabel Morrison looked him in the eye. ‘Please return the note as soon as you can.’
‘Of course.’
‘I hope you can understand how distressing this has been, Canon Chambers . . .’
‘I can, Miss Morrison. It has been distressing for everyone.’
‘I am glad you understand that. Good day, Canon Chambers.’
Sidney closed his front door and made his way back into the hall. He was still holding the note. He looked down but could not focus on the words. And then, unbidden, he imagined Stephen Staunton’s widow, Hildegard, sitting alone with her porcelain figures, due to receive Christmas cards from people who did not yet know that her husband was dead.
The following Sunday, having attended the last, and the shortest, Communion service before lunch, Pamela Morton knocked on the vicarage door. She was dressed in a dark navy coat with a wide-brimmed saucer hat that looked extraordinarily formal, even for church. She informed Sidney that she would take a very small whisky but could not stay long. She was expected for lunch at Peterhouse. A driver was waiting.
Once she had sat down her impatience was revealed. ‘I am rather disappointed in you, Canon Chambers,’ she began, her voice altogether more strident than Sidney had remembered. ‘I was hoping that you might have something for me by now. Have you found anything at all?’
‘A little,’ Sidney answered. Despite the imperious charms of his guest, his attitude to her plight had cooled since his meeting with Hildegard Staunton. If any one person involved in this sorry business required his time and sympathy it was surely the widow rather than the mistress.
‘Then what have you discovered?’ Pamela asked.
‘I am afraid that, despite my endeavours, your suspicions of foul play are going to be difficult to prove. Stephen Staunton left a note.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘I do.’
‘Can I see it?’
Sidney crossed over to his desk and handed the piece of paper to the dead man’s mistress. He knew that this was a breach of Miss Morrison’s privacy and that he should have taken the evidence straight to the police as he had promised but he wanted to see what Pamela Morton had to say.
She was less interested than he had hoped. In fact she was unimpressed. ‘No date, I see.’
Sidney was almost irritated by her dismissal of the only fact he had uncovered. ‘It is Stephen Staunton’s handwriting, is it not?’
‘It is . . .’
‘You hesitate to accept it as genuine.’
Pamela Morton was thinking. ‘His secretary could
just as well have written it. She certainly knew how to forge his signature.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Stephen told me. It was a tacit agreement between them. He let her go home early on Wednesday afternoons – I think she saw her mother – and then, on other days, if he had to leave before she had finished his letters, he would trust her to read them through and dash off his signature. It gave him more time to see me, he said, and then he could get home sooner without arousing the suspicions of his frumpy wife.’
‘Do you think she is frumpy?’
‘I wouldn’t call her stylish. And no one would say she was thin.’
Sidney suddenly felt very sad. There was no need for Pamela Morton to talk like this. He had been moved and haunted by his visit to Stephen Staunton’s widow and he had kept remembering it: her poised profile as she looked out of a window; the way that she would stop in the middle of a sentence as if she had suddenly remembered something else; the fact that she turned to Bach for consolation. He was upset that Pamela Morton could be so dismissive.
