Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death

by James Runcie

  ‘Miss Young, to you.’

  ‘But I would have seen her,’ said Mary Dowland. ‘I had the dustpan and brush.’

  ‘But,’ Sidney explained, ‘Miss Young had the dishcloth. It was a simple matter to wipe away the ring at the same time as she mopped the table. If anyone noticed she could easily explain her behaviour as absent-mindedness and put it back. But if no one spotted her . . .’

  ‘But how could she hide the thing?’ Johnny Johnson asked. ‘She emptied her bag on to the table and opened her purse. There was nothing in it.’

  ‘That was something of a masterstroke. To conceal the ring in an item that had already been searched and then to walk calmly away . . .’

  ‘But how?’ Amanda asked.

  Sidney began to walk round the table. ‘The idea came to me when I was searching the room myself. It was the first time that I have been permitted to be on my own in this house and I was able to think the matter over without distraction. Then I remembered one of my friend Inspector Keating’s first questions. “Did you look under the table?” ’

  ‘Of course we did,’ answered Nigel.

  ‘I don’t think you understand. When I say “under the table” I mean something slightly different. Miss Kendall, and Mr Johnson, I would like you to think about your positions at dinner.’

  ‘I was sitting next to the host and Johnny was next to the hostess,’ Amanda answered.

  ‘My God,’ said Johnny Johnson, ‘I think you have got it.’

  ‘You are also sitting, as is Miss Young, at the ridge of the table, where it extends. Of course, this is not noticeable with a tablecloth, but it is common enough. At Miss Young’s place there is a slight scratch mark in the ridge where she hid the ring.’

  ‘You mean it was wedged in the ridge underneath the table?’ asked Nigel

  ‘Exactly so. And then removed when Miss Young went to fetch her stole. We, of course, were all distracted by the contents of her handbag. The action would have required only the simplest sleight of hand.’

  Daphne Young rose from her seat. ‘Very good, Canon Chambers. We can all applaud your persistence. If only you had demonstrated the same level of dedication to the priesthood. I presume you have summoned the police.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have not. I think it is for Miss Kendall to decide. It is her ring.’

  Guy Hopkins cut in. ‘I rather think it is mine.’

  ‘You gave it to me,’ Amanda Kendall replied.

  ‘But you have turned me down. I think a return is customary.’

  One thing Sidney had not expected was the aftermath of his revelation. Daphne Young took advantage of the hiatus and walked to the door. ‘I shall leave you all to it. I am expected at the opera. You have my address.’

  ‘Daphne,’ Nigel Thompson announced before she left. ‘You will never be welcome in this house again.’

  His former guest replied without emotion, ‘I have no excuse.’

  The assembled company listened to her footsteps recede in the hall and the front door open and close. They even heard her sharp whistle for a taxi. ‘What an extraordinary woman,’ said Mary Dowland. ‘She never even apologised.’

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about her father,’ said Johnny. ‘I can’t imagine that was the first time. She must have stolen before.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Sidney.

  Mark Dowland offered another explanation. ‘Perhaps she thought she deserved it more than Amanda. A better cause . . .’

  ‘I’ve always thought she was a bitch,’ said Guy.

  ‘Your thoughts on women are a disgrace,’ Amanda replied. It was the first time she had looked at him properly all evening. The ring was still in front of her. She looked at Sidney. ‘What shall I do with it now?’ she asked.

  In 1954, Valentine’s Day, which was also Sidney’s birthday, fell on a Sunday. He was thirty-three years old. Because he was unable to leave his pastoral duties, his sister Jennifer brought Amanda up to Grantchester to mark the occasion. They came with cards from the rest of the family and a chocolate cake that they had made themselves. The celebration was to consist of a trip along the River Cam and a winter picnic.

  It was a crisp but bright winter day and Jennifer and Amanda were sitting in the front of the punt with rugs over their knees and a hamper in front of them. It contained two flasks of milky tea laced with a little brandy; ham and mustard sandwiches; a selection of dainties from Fitzbillies; and the chocolate birthday cake with a candle which they would light at dusk.

  Sidney was punting in his clerical cloak and he wore a wide-brimmed hat that made him look like a nineteenth-century eccentric. This was paradise, he thought: to be free of the cares of the world with his adorable sister and her beautiful best friend on his birthday. They would spend an hour or two chatting away and then the girls would return to London and Sidney would take Evensong and allow himself time to contemplate his blessings.

  ‘I have never known anything so unusual as a winter picnic on the river,’ said Amanda, ‘and I am enjoying it immensely. Where shall we moor?’

  ‘Just a little upstream,’ said Sidney. ‘Past Byron’s Pool. I know a spot.’

  He dropped the pole into the water, pushed down, and then as he let the punt move away he began to recite: ‘Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.’

  ‘Oh Byron,’ said Amanda. ‘My favourite poet. “Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate.” ’

  Sidney smiled. ‘I’m so glad that you seem to have recovered from all that sorry business on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Such a pity we couldn’t pin the whole business of the ring on Guy,’ Amanda replied. ‘I’d enjoy his fury at going to prison.’

  ‘That’s not very charitable.’

  ‘We’ve been generous enough with everyone else.’

  ‘You decided to let Daphne off?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘It would have finished her . . .’ Jennifer answered. ‘And Nigel was keen to avoid a scene.’

  ‘And so a crime has been ignored? That was very forgiving of you.’

  ‘We just have to trust she won’t ever do it again.’

  Amanda was dubious. ‘I don’t see how we’ll ever know. I don’t think any of us will be inviting her again. But I suppose she did me a favour. Not that I’d tell her that.’

  Sidney manoeuvred the punt round a corner, letting it glide past the frosted willows. ‘And you let Guy keep the ring?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘He can give it to some other fool deluded by his so-called good looks. I don’t want it. It would just be a reminder of the whole ghastly evening. It was very good of your clerical friend to go all the way to Brighton and get it back. Are you taking him on?’

  ‘He should be joining me after Easter.’

  ‘Johnny thinks he might be a pansy,’ said Jennifer. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of enquiring,’ Sidney replied as he ducked under a low branch of wych elm.

  ‘Isn’t that rather unlike you?’ Amanda inquired. ‘You have such an inquisitive mind.’

  Sidney let the punt glide to the side of the river and moored in readiness for the picnic. ‘It is my belief that a private life should remain private. If Leonard Graham has something to tell me I am sure he will do so. I have asked him, in a rather informal way, to shave off his moustache. It makes him look a bit of a spiv and I don’t think it suits him. Other than that, I do not intend to pry.’

  ‘Even if your curiosity is piqued?’ his sister asked as she unwrapped the picnic.

  ‘I think I pique my curiosity whenever it can be of benefit to others,’ Sidney replied. ‘Otherwise, I try not to spend too much time on tittle-tattle, however pleasurable it may seem at the time. It never does anyone any good and it makes you feel cheap afterwards.’

  ‘I’m sorry I raised the question,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘I don’t mind you asking an
y question you like, my dear sister, just so long as you don’t mind my not answering it.’

  ‘But surely you must wonder?’

  ‘I try not to think about that kind of thing. It serves no purpose. Discretion is a very underrated virtue, don’t you think, Amanda?’

  ‘I suppose it must be. But one can’t be serious all the time. Gossip can be quite fun.’

  ‘I am sure it can be, and I can see the temptation; but it’s too dangerous for a priest.’

  Amanda gave Sidney what he now recognised as one of her quizzical looks. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with such moral certainty,’ she replied. ‘You make me feel quite the flibbertigibbet.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a flibbertigibbet,’ said Sidney. ‘In fact, I think the world needs all the flibbertigibbets it can get.’

  ‘Then I am glad to be of assistance,’ said Amanda. ‘I wonder what the derivation of the word is? “Gibbet” is not very encouraging, is it?’

  ‘I think,’ said Sidney, ‘ “flibber” suggests “flighty”; it’s onomatopoeic.’

  ‘And where would you like to fly to?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘The moon and back, Miss Kendall, the moon and back.’

  Jennifer handed out mugs of tea. ‘Are you two flirting?’ she asked.

  ‘I think that should remain private,’ Amanda giggled. ‘I have heard that discretion is a very underrated virtue.’

  ‘I was only asking,’ said Jennifer, beginning to find herself quite the gooseberry. ‘My brother is something of a dark horse in that department.’

  Amanda let her gloved hand skim the surface of the water. ‘Well, I always enjoy a day at the races; not that it did Daphne’s father any good.’

  ‘I felt rather sorry for her in the end,’ said Sidney.

  ‘I love the way you think the best of people. She was quite short with you, wasn’t she? When she said,’ and here Amanda began to imitate the deep voice of her former friend, ‘ “if only you had demonstrated the same level of dedication to the priesthood,” I thought it was unnecessarily barbed.’

  ‘I don’t mind barbs.’

  ‘Really, Sidney. You are almost unnatural. I’m not sure I believe you.’

  ‘He likes to retain an air of mystery about him,’ Jennifer explained. ‘Although he is yet to realise how effective a ploy that is.’

  Amanda remembered what she had been meaning to say. ‘Perhaps, one day, you could take me to Newmarket, Sidney. We could have a bit of a flutter.’

  Her companion smiled. ‘That would be fun. Or, perhaps, we could go to a jazz concert. There’s a very good singer coming over from America later in the year, Gloria Dee . . .’

  ‘Oh I don’t think so,’ said Amanda quickly. ‘I draw the line at jazz.’

  ‘Dearie me,’ said Jennifer. ‘It was all going so well.’

  The three friends laughed and Sidney could not remember a time when he had been happier. They lit the candle on his cake, and the two girls sang ‘Happy Birthday’ in harmony. Then he blew out the candle and wished that he could have more of these moments away from the cares of the world. They remained sitting in the punt, singing and teasing each other for a good half-hour before they found that it was too cold to continue and decided it was time to go home.

  There would be a freeze that night and both women were anxious to return to London after Evensong in order to avoid any delay on the railway. Jennifer was starting a new secretarial job in the morning, while Amanda was preparing for the display of a newly cleaned Van Dyck double portrait at the National Gallery. It was, Sidney felt, a familiar Sunday evening experience for those involved in regular employment. The anxiety of Monday morning always seemed to cast a retrospective shadow.

  At Cambridge station, Amanda left in search of a cigarette while Jennifer took advantage of a moment alone with her brother.

  ‘I’m glad you two are getting on so well,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sidney said, almost involuntarily. ‘We’re thick as thieves these days.’

  Jennifer gave her brother a little punch on the shoulder. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I think she’s out of my league.’

  ‘Perhaps, my dear Sidney, that is because you are in a league of your own. Happy birthday.’

  She let her brother kiss her lightly and then looked out for her friend. The train doors were slamming. The train guard looked at his watch and put his whistle between his lips. Amanda returned. ‘We must hurry,’ she said, without appearing to do so. ‘Although I’ve told the guard to wait.’

  She took Sidney’s hand in hers. ‘Happy birthday, Sidney. I do hope I can come again. Knowing you is such an adventure.’

  ‘You will always be welcome,’ Sidney smiled.

  Amanda leant forward to kiss him. As she did so she accidentally brushed her lips against his. ‘I think you’re wonderful,’ she said, looking into his eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ Jennifer called.

  Sidney watched the two women board the London train and waved them goodbye. Then he bicycled back through the dark and icy roads to Grantchester. There were only a few, minor mishaps as he made his dreamy return; a front-wheel skid, a near miss with a cat and a wobble as he waved to a colleague from his college: the usual, unpredictable, moments that made it a relief to arrive home safely.

  The next morning Sidney stooped down to pick up a letter that had arrived in the second post. It looked like a birthday card and it had been sent from Germany. The writing was Hildegard’s.

  Sidney’s pleasure at receiving the letter was mixed with guilt about his friendship with Amanda. He passed it from one hand to the other, uncertain whether to open it or not. ‘I might just save this for later,’ he said to himself. ‘I think I’ve had enough excitement in my life for the time being.’

  First, Do No Harm

  One of the clerical undertakings that Sidney least enjoyed was the abstinence of Lent. The rejection of alcohol between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday had always been a tradition amongst the clergy of Cambridge but Sidney noticed that it neither improved their spirituality nor their patience. In fact, it made some of them positively murderous.

  It had been a Siberian winter. The roads were blocked with drifted snow, rooks fell silent in the deep woods and arctic geese passed over fields where lambs had frozen to the ground. It was a bad time to be old, and Sidney had already spent too much time at the bedsides of elderly men and women who had fallen victim to influenza, hypothermia, pleurisy and pneumonia, a disease that seldom warranted its nickname as the old man’s friend. Instead, there was anxiety both in the village and in the town, a sense of unease and even unhappiness in the darkness. It was a world where people seldom looked up, but checked their footing on the road ahead, wary of falling, trusting neither weather nor fate.

  What Sidney needed, he thought, was either a single malt or a pint of warm ale – perhaps even both – but he knew that he had to resist.

  The strictures of this self-imposed restraint amused Inspector George Keating, who stuck to his regulation two pints of bitter on the regular backgammon night he shared with Sidney, each Thursday, in the RAF bar of The Eagle.

  ‘Still on the tonic water, Sidney? You don’t want me to liven it up with some gin? It’s cold out.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Such a shame. Still, if you catch your death I can always slip you a brandy.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. We are encouraged,’ Sidney continued dejectedly, as if he had learned the words by heart and no longer believed in them, ‘to reject such temptations and observe a time of fasting, prayer and silence.’

  Inspector Keating tried to cheer things up. ‘You could have just the one. No one would notice. It is only us.’

  ‘But I would know. It would be on my conscience.’

  ‘I wish some of the members of the public had your self-awareness. This town would be a lot quieter if they did.’

  ‘The Anglican Church is supposed to be the conscience of the nation
,’ Sidney mused. ‘We encourage people to believe that a moral life is, in fact, a happier life.’

  ‘People should be good for selfish reasons?’

  ‘Indeed. Shall we begin?’

  Sidney laid out the backgammon on the old oak table in the lounge and the two men began to play their favourite game, gambling moderately for a penny a piece. Sidney found this to be one of the consoling moments of his week, a refuge from the cares of the world and the tribulations of office. He took a sip of his tonic water and tried to concentrate on the game. He threw a five and a four and began to move the checkers away from his home board.

  Inspector Keating threw in response and was delighted to open with a double six. ‘I think it’s going to be my night . . .’

  Sidney smiled. ‘I like it when you have a strong start. It lulls you into a false sense of security.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. I’m on the top of my game . . .’

  Sidney threw a three and a two and tried to think tactically. He moved his pieces and said, quietly, but with a hint of friendly menace, ‘Of course I do feel guilty when I keep winning so often . . .’

  The inspector did not rise immediately. He threw a four and a one but noticed that he still had the advantage from his early sixes. ‘Double?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sidney asked. ‘I wouldn’t want another victory on my conscience.’

  The inspector smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’

  Sidney threw a two and a one and began to realise that he might lose.

  ‘Talking of conscience,’ Inspector Keating continued, in a tone of voice that Sidney both recognised and dreaded, ‘I think I may be facing what you call “a moral dilemma”.’ He threw a three and a six, moved one of his checkers nine points.

  ‘Oh really?’ Sidney threw once more; a four and a three. ‘I have warned you to be careful about such things.’

  ‘The coroner came to see me. Re-double?’

  ‘Of course. I am not afraid. What has happened?’

  ‘It seems a certain lady has asked for her mother to be cremated rather too quickly.’