Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death

by James Runcie

  Sidney could tell that she was intoxicated. ‘I need to ask where you were during the concert.’

  ‘Here,’ Justin replied.

  ‘All the time?’

  Justin set his crossword aside. ‘Sometimes we stand in the wings. For the main numbers.’

  ‘You never watch from the front?’ Sidney asked.

  Liza answered for them both. ‘They send for things all the time: water, towels, drink. It’s quicker if we’re here.’

  ‘And you were backstage during the drum solo?’

  ‘We watched that from the wings. Tony’s my boyfriend. The drumming is the best bit.’

  ‘Don’t tell Miss Dee that,’ Justin added.

  ‘You’ll be driving them back to the hotel?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been told to do.’

  Inspector Keating stepped in. ‘So we’ll know where to find you if we have any further questions?’

  ‘I live in Earls Court,’ Justin replied. ‘You can have my address. But, for the moment, I go where Miss Dee goes and I do what Miss Dee says.’

  ‘I hope she pays you well . . .’

  Liza sniggered and waited for Justin to answer. ‘She pays. It’s not always about the money . . .’

  Sidney accompanied the inspector back on to the stage, where Phil ‘the Cat’ was sitting on the piano stool. His body was slumped, as if half the bones in his body had been removed. An abandoned roll-up rested between his fingers.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would hold anything against your daughter?’ the inspector asked. ‘Anyone with a grudge?’

  ‘She’s a beautiful girl. All I’ve got. She’s never done anything wrong. None of the boys would touch her.’

  ‘Was there anything your daughter could have seen?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘You mean a witness to something? It’s possible.’

  ‘Was your daughter sweet on anyone?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘She’s too young for any of that.’

  Sidney noticed that Phil referred to his daughter in the present tense.

  Inspector Williams continued. ‘So you can’t think of anyone who would want to do her any harm?’

  ‘No one. I swear to God, Inspector – and in front of this clergyman. Everyone loves my girl. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.’

  Sidney rested his hand on Phil’s shoulder. ‘I will pray for her.’

  ‘She was an angel,’ Claudette’s father replied.

  Sidney timed the journey from the stage to the Ladies and diagonally across the room. Even with the crowded tables it would have taken little more than a minute to cross. He tried to think how a murderer could have struck so quickly and powerfully and without being seen. It seemed impossible, and yet it had happened. He watched as two ambulance men took Claudette’s body away. There was no beauty or stillness in her death, only absence.

  He returned to where he had been sitting and waited as the members of the audience gave their details and statements. Then he put his head in his hands.

  Where was God now? he asked himself. Where had He been on the battlefields of Normandy, in the Blitz over London and in the bombed cities of Europe? How could a loving God permit such monumental suffering and what purpose did it serve? And, in contrast with such a widespread human catastrophe, how could God also allow something so small in scale and yet so intimately brutal as the murder of this single girl on this particular night? What could anyone have had against her to provoke such violence? How could there be any reason or justification for her death?

  The two friends took the first morning train back to Cambridge. It was already light when they arrived and Sidney had only a few hours before early morning Communion. He would wash and shave and then try to catch some sleep in the afternoon. There was no time to go to bed.

  He took Dickens out for his favourite walk across the Meadows but, despite the stillness of the river and the beauty of the light amidst the willows, Sidney’s mood could not lift. He was haunted by the murder and what he might have done to prevent it.

  He walked across the graveyard filled with trees of yew, holm oak and cherry, and stopped before a broken column: the grave of a twenty-six-year-old man whose life had been cut short in 1843. He passed the memorial for the twenty-five soldiers from Grantchester who had died in the two wars:

  They shall not grow old

  As we that are left grow old . . .

  Inside the church, he began to pray for the soul of Claudie Johnson and for the sorrows of the world. Today, he decided, he would visit the sick of the parish: Beryl Cooper, who had acute arthritis; Harold Streat, the funeral director, whose elderly father was suffering from dementia; Brenda Hardy, the postman’s wife, who had breast cancer. He had to stay with each one for as long as possible, providing unhurried comfort, calm and companionship. It was the least he could do, and every time he did so, he realised that the sick and the dying could teach him more than he could ever learn amidst the hurly burly of the everyday. The elderly and the sick had a different view of the world; they were already more than halfway on their journey towards the invisible realm where, it had been promised, all things shall be made known.

  That afternoon, Sidney’s sister Jennifer telephoned to say that the Johnson family were inconsolable. There was nothing she could do or say that might comfort them. All she could do was offer practical help. Could she therefore ask for her brother’s advice regarding Claudette’s funeral arrangements? There was going to be a post-mortem, and then a service in a London crematorium but, as not one of the Johnson family was a churchgoer, perhaps Sidney could say a few words at the service?

  ‘I’m sure their vicar will be able to do that, Jennifer.’

  ‘They don’t have a vicar.’

  ‘Everyone has a vicar. Whether people choose to use him or not is another matter.’

  ‘But they like you, Sidney.’

  ‘Do you know what parish they are in?’

  ‘Somewhere in Brixton, I think. But Johnny has asked for you. They trust you.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Johnny’s father is so upset that he won’t speak.’

  ‘It will take a long time.’

  ‘I can’t believe anyone could have done such a thing, Sidney. Claudie was going to be a little sister to me.’

  ‘So it’s serious with Johnny?’

  ‘We can’t think about ourselves at the moment.’

  Sidney tried to imagine what it might be like to lose a sister. It was almost unthinkable. There was so much that he felt that he still had to share with Jennifer that to lose her so suddenly, as Johnny had lost Claudette, without any farewell, would make him regret all the times in his life that he had taken her for granted or been too preoccupied to see her.

  He resolved, then and there, and even as Jennifer was speaking, to spend more time with her, to cherish her presence and to be a better brother.

  ‘Do not think you have always to say the right thing,’ he began. ‘It does not have to be meaningful. It’s all right to be silent. All you can do is be alongside them.’

  ‘That’s what I am doing.’

  ‘Nothing can be hurried. Grief has to take its time.’

  For a moment Sidney worried that his sister was still on the line. Then she spoke. ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Claudie had a boyfriend.’

  ‘Did her father know?’

  ‘It was a secret. I don’t think that anyone knew. She was always her Daddy’s little girl. But the point is that they had broken it off.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Sam was in the club with some friends on the night of her death. Now he’s terrified of anyone finding out that he was ever her boyfriend.’

  ‘The police have questioned him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And he gave nothing away?’

  ‘He doesn’t think so, but it’s not only the police he’s worried about. It’s the Jo
hnson family. I’m sure they wouldn’t do anything but his father does have some nasty friends. They might put two and two together and make five.’

  ‘You mean they might think that he killed her?’

  ‘Exactly. And then take the law into their own hands. They don’t trust the police. I know that much. Will you speak to him, Sidney?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Who else can he talk to? You are used to sharing confidences and you know how the police work.’

  Sidney knew that he should help his sister but he did not want to become personally involved any more than he was already. ‘I do have my work to do here.’

  ‘Sam is frightened. Please will you see him? He’s willing to come to Grantchester. He’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘It’s not the type of thing I do, Jenny. I’m not sure anything I say will be of any benefit.’

  ‘But he needs help. That’s what you offer, isn’t it? And he’s a good boy. I know they loved each other but Sam was scared of her family. I think something may have happened that caused it all to end but neither of them would tell me. And now it’s too late. Please will you see him, Sidney, as a favour to me?’

  ‘Very well,’ Sidney replied. He could hardly refuse his own sister. ‘But I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘All I ask is that you see him.’

  A few days later, a shy-looking boy in a dark suit and a college tie was waiting to speak to Sidney after the Sunday morning Communion service. He made a tentative approach, as if his shoes were too tight for him. ‘I’m Sam Morris,’ he said.

  A wood pigeon flew out of the trees. Sidney steeled himself for another difficult confrontation. ‘I’ve been expecting you, Sam. I normally take my dog for a walk after the service. Perhaps you would like to join us?’

  ‘If it’s not any trouble.’

  They returned to the vicarage, put Dickens on his lead and set off for the Meadows. On the way Sidney expressed his condolences and established that he had understood the facts his sister had conveyed. He also needed to make clear that anything Sam said was, of course, in confidence, but also that his influence in the current situation was extremely limited. There was only so much he could do; but if Sam wanted someone with whom he could share any anxiety and who would not rush to judge him, then Sidney hoped he could be of assistance.

  ‘Some friends were going to the club and asked if I wanted to come along. They didn’t know about Claudette and I wasn’t sure she’d be there. She doesn’t work every night and I hadn’t seen her since Christmas.’

  ‘And did you speak to her at all?’

  ‘I said “Hello” and she looked a bit embarrassed.’

  ‘Did any of your friends notice her discomfort?’

  ‘I don’t think so. My friend Max was quite keen on her. But she couldn’t stop at any table for long. She had her job to do.’

  ‘And were you hoping to see her alone?’

  ‘She said if I waited until the end then perhaps we could talk but I knew she didn’t want us to be seen together. Her father is very protective.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’

  They had reached the Meadows, and Sidney set Dickens free to explore pastures both new and familiar. ‘How long were you together?’ he asked.

  ‘About six months. We used to walk by the Thames and hold hands. But then a strange thing happened. I was going home one night and a man started walking alongside me. I thought he wanted to get past so I slowed down but then he slowed down too. I picked up the pace and he did the same. He didn’t say anything. He just kept matching my footsteps. Eventually I stopped. I asked what he wanted and he just told me to stay away from Claudie if I knew what was good for me.’

  ‘Could you describe this man?’

  ‘I knew him. He was a friend of her father’s. He’s called Tommy Jackson. He runs a garage in Tooting.’

  ‘And then he just walked away?’

  ‘He called it a “friendly warning” but I didn’t know what to think. I spoke to Claudette and she told me not to worry. Tommy would never do anything. He was probably just having a laugh but it didn’t feel like that to me. And then, after that, things never quite felt the same. I was worried every time I saw her.’

  ‘She couldn’t put your mind at rest?’

  ‘We came from different backgrounds. I was at university. I couldn’t imagine bringing her home to meet my parents. But she was beautiful and she had such life in her. I didn’t know what to think or do, but in the end I told her I just couldn’t see her any more.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She thought I was a coward. How did I know, she asked, if she hadn’t sent Tommy Jackson herself as a test to see how much I loved her? I told her that if she had done that, it was a mean trick. We argued. Then it was over.’

  ‘And yet you went to the club on the night she died. Why did you do that?’

  ‘I missed her. And I wanted to see if she had found anyone else.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So you wanted her back?’

  ‘I wanted to see her. That was as far as I had thought. If we spoke then I hoped to take it from there. I didn’t have a proper plan, and it was so crowded I could never get near her. There was no time.’

  Sidney realised that Sam Morris was finding it difficult to express himself clearly and decided to ask a few direct questions in order to ascertain exactly what had happened. ‘Did you go to the Gents at all?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I did. It was a long night.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m not sure. About half an hour before she was discovered. I went at the same time as my friend Max. There were witnesses if that’s what you are worried about.’

  ‘I understand. When you were being questioned did you admit that you knew Claudette?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You lied?’

  ‘I was frightened.’

  ‘I understand, Sam, but if your relationship does come to light then this will not help your cause.’

  ‘No one will seriously think I was involved, will they?’

  ‘At some stage the police will need to know all the facts. I don’t want to alarm you unduly but a secret, whatever the context, is always problematic. If you reveal it, then at least you have control over how it is told and you can explain it in your own terms. If it is discovered, however, then you cannot predict when that will happen or how people might interpret it. It’s a matter of timing. If you go to the police, even now, and tell them what happened then you will have control over the information. If you do not . . .’

  ‘I don’t think I can do that.’

  ‘If Tommy Jackson knew that you were seeing Claudette then I am afraid that it will come to light. There is no escaping this, Sam.’

  ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I know it doesn’t sound serious in comparison with murder but, as a matter of fact, you have. You have told a direct lie to the police. They don’t take kindly to that sort of thing. Of course you could just carry on and hope that no one finds out.’

  ‘Do you think that’s likely?’

  ‘It’s possible. But then, once again, if you hope to conceal something, you have no control over the release of information, and so you live in a state of anxiety.’

  ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘I can have a word with Inspector Keating here in Cambridge if you like. He was there on the night and he’s a good man. But the information would be far better coming from you directly.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where are you living at the moment?’

  ‘In London University halls.’

  ‘Is it easy to find you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I need you to tell me if anything unusual happens or if you receive any more warnings. It would be easier if you had told the police at the time of Tommy Jackson’s warning.’

  ‘The Johnson family are not very keen on the police, as you can imagine. To go to
them would be the worst thing I could have done. Claudette told me that I just had to wait until she was eighteen and then we could do what we liked. It was only going to be another six months but I didn’t believe her. I thought there would always be pressure from her father and his friends.’

  Sidney was thinking about the events of 7 May. ‘I still don’t understand why you went to the club that night. You could have sent her a message and arranged to meet elsewhere. You must have known her father and all his friends would be there.’

  ‘I didn’t think it through. I was with my friends. I thought it would be all right, and I wanted to see Claudette. But, of course, as soon as I arrived I knew it was a mistake. She asked me what on earth I was doing there.’

  ‘I thought she just said “Hello”.’

  ‘No. I bumped into her again a bit later.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘When I was on the way back from the Gents.’

  Sidney thought it was incredible that this boy could neither tell his story clearly nor realise the potential trouble that he might be in. ‘Did anyone see you talking together?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was only looking at Claudette. The barman called her over.’

  ‘So he must have seen you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Sidney was momentarily infuriated. There was no suppose about it. How could this boy be so hapless?

  ‘I’m sorry, Canon Chambers, I’m scared. I am just a student who wants to become a doctor. I never intended to get mixed up in all this.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  Sidney was exasperated. How could Sam Morris be so aware of the trouble that he might be in but remain so ignorant of the implications of his behaviour? What had he been thinking in going to the club that night, seeing Claudette once more and then lying to the police?