Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death

by James Runcie

  As soon as he returned to Grantchester, he poured himself a large whisky and lay down on his none too comfortable sofa. His Labrador snuggled up beside him. As he did so, Sidney patted him on the back and began to talk to him. Dickens yawned, stretched and laid his head on Sidney’s knee. He told him how it had been a testing few weeks and now, surely, he could return to his vocation. He ought to give jazz and crime a rest. It was hard enough doing one job in which he was never off duty; but to combine it with investigations on behalf of Inspector Keating was another matter entirely.

  He decided to unwind by reading some poetry and picked out a volume of George Herbert from his bookshelf. He began to read from ‘The Temple’, a poem in which Father Time pays the narrator a visit.

  In the poem, the old man’s scythe is dull and his role in human life has changed. Since the coming of Christ, and the promise of eternal life, he is no longer an executioner but a gardener:

  An usher to convey our souls

  Beyond the utmost starres and poles

  Sidney remembered how strikingly original the poem was. For George Herbert, the time we spend on earth is not all too brief and transient but too long: because it detains human beings from a life outside time and with God.

  Sidney decided to preach on the subject. He would outline the differences between our time and God’s time. Human beings live in the threefold present: the memory of the past, the expectation of the future and a perpetual ‘now’ that passes as soon as it is thought. God, however, is not bound by time. He is outside it. And so our bounded life moves from the world of time to the eternal world of the timeless.

  Sidney cast the book of poetry aside and lifted Dickens’s head from his lap. He would have to make a note of these thoughts because they would be forgotten by the morning. He moved towards his desk. Almost immediately the telephone rang.

  It was two o’clock in the morning. Sidney only hoped that it was not another death.

  ‘It’s me . . .’

  Amanda.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Nothing at all. I’m only telephoning to tell you the most ridiculous thing . . .’

  ‘It’s nothing serious?’

  ‘Nothing serious whatsoever. I’m sorry it’s so late. I did try before but there was no answer. Where were you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Amanda . . .’

  ‘I’m only telephoning because we couldn’t wait to tell you. Jenny and I have been to the most absurd concert. I can’t think why we went but I just wanted to let you know what happened. We’ve calmed down a bit now but we were spitting with rage.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The concert turned out to be all that modern plink-plonk music you know I can’t stand. We had to have a whole bottle of red wine afterwards . . .’

  ‘The plonk to cope with the plink?’

  ‘Exactly. I’d rather have gone to one of your jazz concerts . . .’

  ‘As bad as that, Amanda?’

  ‘It was atrocious. In the second half a man just sat at the piano and didn’t do anything at all. It was most odd. No one knew what to do or say.’

  ‘Nothing? He must have played something?’

  ‘No! That’s precisely my point. He didn’t play anything. He just sat there.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t tickle the ivories at all?’

  ‘Not a tusk. The piece consisted of the audience coughing and muttering and being embarrassed. We were, apparently, the music. The audience. Can you imagine? And to think we paid five bob to get in.’

  ‘Who was it by?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, some American: John Cage, I think he was called. He even had the nerve to give it a title. ‘Four minutes, thirty-three seconds.’ Can you imagine? It certainly didn’t feel like four minutes and thirty-three seconds. It felt like an eternity. I never knew four minutes could last so long. It was ridiculous. Four minutes! I kept thinking of all the other things I, or anyone else for that matter, could have done in the same time. Can you believe it, Sidney? It was appalling.’

  Sidney looked out into the dark night and thought of Gloria Dee’s voice, Claudette’s simple vulnerability and the terrible murder. He could not begin to explain to Amanda all that had happened or what he thought and felt.

  ‘Are you still there?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone all silent. Is there something the matter, Sidney, or are you trying to pretend you’re John Cage? Speak up!’

  ‘I’m still here,’ Sidney replied. ‘I’m always here, Amanda . . .’

  He remembered Gloria Dee’s voice in the darkness:

  ‘Four minutes

  Just four minutes to Midnight

  Four minutes

  I just want four more minutes with you

  If the world ends

  Then the world ends

  But all I need

  Is those four minutes

  With you . . .’

  The Lost Holbein

  Locket Hall, with its grand E-shaped exterior of Ham Hill stone and mullioned windows, had been built at the beginning of the sixteenth century and was one of the finest stately homes in the vicinity of Cambridge. It was the official seat of the Tevershams, a family able to date their lineage back to the Norman Conquest, and an invitation to attend a social function at the Hall was considered an honour, and even a right amongst those socialites whose bible was Debrett’s. Accustomed to abbeys and cathedrals, Sidney was not as humbled either by aristocracy or architecture as others might have been, but he still felt apprehensive as Mackay, the butler, opened the door and asked him to climb the grand staircase up to the long gallery, where Lord Teversham was entertaining his guests to midsummer drinks.

  Sidney had mixed feelings about the nobility. He enjoyed the spaciousness of their homes and the warmth of their hospitality but he found their sense of entitlement unnerving. ‘And if that isn’t enough,’ he could hear Lord Teversham complaining, ‘the government now wants us to open up to the public. This is my home, for goodness sake, not a tourist attraction. I might as well give it lock, stock and barrel to the National Trust.’

  This was a man who clearly took great pains over his appearance. He was the same height as Sidney, with an angular, matinée-idol jawline and luxuriant silver hair that, despite needing a cut, had been groomed in a manner designed to make bald men tremble. He was dressed in a handmade three-piece suit, with both tie and pocket handkerchief in matching navy blue; while his steel-rimmed pince-nez and silver accessories – cufflinks, fob watch and tie-pin – had all been chosen to set off his coiffure.

  He greeted his guest with manners that were so practised that they came without effort. ‘Canon Chambers, how very good of you to come; you’ll take a dry sherry, I presume . . .’

  ‘That would be most kind,’ Sidney answered. There was no point making a fuss.

  ‘Mackay will see to it. I can’t remember whether you’ve met my sister?’ He gestured into the middle distance where an elegant lady with similar hair was holding court. ‘I think you might have seen her last Christmas at King’s after the carols. I must introduce you.’

  Sidney knew that the family came to church on high days and holidays, and for social rather than religious reasons. When he was at his most mean-spirited, he sometimes wished that he had the courage to turn such people away.

  He looked around the room. There were over a hundred people in attendance but Sidney knew very few of them. He was just about to resort to bland clerical bonhomie with a lady of middle age, who was sporting a pair of unpleasantly practical sandals, when Ben Blackwood introduced himself. ‘Lord Teversham sent me over,’ he explained.

  Ben was an aesthetically pale young man who had studied at Magdalene. He was, he said, an architectural historian, and he was writing the official history of Locket Hall. ‘Of course, once they open it to the public it will make the family a fortune,’ Ben began. ‘Architecturally it’s one of the unacknowledged gems of England.’ He placed a Black Sobranie into a cigarette h
older. ‘The art collection alone is worth millions. Have you seen the portrait of Elizabeth I? She sent it as a gift after one of her visits . . .’

  Sidney tried to keep up. ‘I remember reading that the Royal Progress was very expensive. Hosts had to lay on banquets, masques and hunting expeditions . . .’

  ‘The Queen sometimes stayed for weeks! Nearly bankrupted the place. Now the government is trying to do the same thing with its insistence on death duties. It’s rather unfair considering the art has already been paid for.’

  As Sidney was a guest, his behaviour was restricted by the etiquette of a world in which he only had visiting rights. His only advantage, he thought, was that, as a priest, he could say things that others might not. And so he found himself suggesting that perhaps the loan of a few paintings either to the Fitzwilliam Museum or to the National Gallery might not necessarily be a bad thing.

  Lord Teversham overheard him and was unenthusiastic. ‘And why would I do that, Canon Chambers?’

  ‘I believe that you can then offset the death duties while retaining ownership . . .’

  ‘But then I have to go to a museum to see paintings that have been in my family for generations . . .’

  His sister, Cicely, intervened. ‘It’s hardly as if you look at them on a daily basis. We could just let them have one or two. I’m sure we wouldn’t miss them. And we do have a few pecuniary issues . . .’

  Lord Teversham was building towards one of his famous tantrums. ‘But they’ll want the best ones!’

  ‘If it helps,’ Sidney continued, ‘I do have a very good friend at the National Gallery.’

  Lord Teversham was ill at ease. ‘I don’t want some chap with a monocle coming down here and eyeing up the family silver.’

  ‘She’s not a chap.’

  Cicely Teversham interrupted once more. ‘I’ve no doubt Canon Chambers’s “friend” would be tactful.’

  ‘I don’t like letting go of my possessions,’ Lord Teversham muttered. ‘Once those people start there’ll be no stopping them.’

  Ben Blackwood tried to compromise. ‘I suppose you could let them have one or two as divertissements – or loan them in lieu of tax. The lesser-known works, obviously . . .’

  Cicely Teversham put her hand on her brother’s arm. ‘What about the lady with the swollen chin? You never cared for her. I am sure you wouldn’t miss such a thing . . .’

  ‘I would miss it,’ Lord Teversham grumbled. ‘This is a collection. That is the point.’

  His sister did not agree. ‘You don’t like the painting, Dominic. You said as much when I sent it away to be restored. You thought it was a waste of money and then complained that she came back even uglier than when she left.’

  ‘Well, you could see more of her. Warts and all.’

  ‘She doesn’t have any warts, darling. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Sidney tried to calm the situation. ‘Perhaps I should not have made the suggestion. I wouldn’t want to create discord . . .’

  Lord Teversham turned to him. ‘Who is this woman of yours, anyway?’

  ‘Miss Amanda Kendall. She is the curator of sixteenth-century paintings. She trained at the Courtauld Institute under Sir Anthony Blunt.’

  Lord Teversham was surprised. ‘I was at Trinity with him. His father was a vicar. Do you know him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But Miss Kendall is a friend of my sister.’

  ‘Why isn’t she here?’ Cicely Teversham asked. ‘You could have brought her along.’

  ‘She is in London.’

  Lord Teversham was unimpressed. ‘There are trains every hour to Cambridge. It’s not difficult.’

  Cicely Teversham stepped in to smooth the way. ‘Do ask her, Canon Chambers. I am sure the collection will interest her. Only a few people realise what we have here because the insurance is so high. We have to be so careful. The portrait of Queen Elizabeth is known, but there’s a Raphael Madonna, and a Titian portrait. Some of our paintings are also without attribution, and so if Miss Kendall has a good eye then perhaps she would like to come and have a look?’

  ‘I am sure she would be glad to do so.’

  ‘I would like to show her our lady in black. The restorer did such a good job.’

  ‘Who is the painting by?’

  ‘We’re not too sure,’ Lord Teversham explained. ‘Netherlandish School, probably. It used to be in the attic. Cicely had it brought down.’

  His sister smiled. ‘Do bring your friend. Next time you must stay to lunch. It will be intriguing, I’m sure.’

  ‘Intriguing?’

  ‘You speak of her so fondly.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not what you think,’ Sidney replied hastily.

  Cicely Teversham smiled. ‘And how do you know what I think, Canon Chambers?’

  The painting in question was a sober, almost devotional piece, a full-length portrait of a russet-haired, dark-eyed woman in her early thirties. She wore a black, high-buttoned blouse that covered a long neck, and a headdress edged with pearls. Her hands were half-clasped, but not quite in prayer, and the only lightness of touch lay in the hint of a smile on the lady’s wide mouth. Her necklace consisted of a simple medal on a chain. In the background, and to the left, stood a table with a vase half-filled with water containing three carnations and sprigs of rosemary. A painting of Adam and Eve hung on the wall behind the table; a picture within a painting.

  Amanda Kendall inspected the panel from every angle, looking at it closely and then stepping back to ascertain its effect. She was dressed elegantly, in a chemise dress by Coco Chanel that made her look decidedly French.

  ‘Do you mind if I take the picture down?’ Amanda asked.

  Ben Blackwood stepped in. ‘Let me help you . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. I am perfectly capable . . .’ Amanda put on a pair of gloves, lifted the painting away from the wall, and carried it over to the window. She placed it on a side table and then knelt down and looked at it closely, inspecting the edges with a magnifying glass.

  She looked at Lord Teversham. ‘Could I take it out of its frame?’

  He turned to Ben, who nodded in resignation. ‘As long as you don’t do any damage. It’s Tudor wood, you know . . .’

  ‘Indeed . . .’ Amanda removed a scalpel from her handbag and prized the panel away from the frame.

  Sidney had never seen her at work before.

  ‘The frame is original,’ she said before putting the panel back. ‘It would be good to get the painting back to the Gallery and take some samples. You’ve had it restored, I see.’

  ‘Ten years ago.’

  Amanda hung the painting back on the wall, and then put her magnifying glass and her scalpel back in her handbag. ‘A very unusual piece,’ she said.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ Ben asked.

  ‘By no means. Has this portrait always been in your possession?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Lord Teversham replied. ‘It’s an heirloom. It must have been in the family since the sixteenth century.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry to have to repeat myself. I have to be sure of the provenance. Has this portrait always been in your possession? It has never left the building?’

  ‘Not apart from when it was restored.’

  ‘And who did the restoration?’

  ‘Some chap in Saffron Walden. He was very good value.’

  ‘I imagine that he was. What differences did you notice when the painting was returned?’

  Lord Teversham could not understand why Amanda was asking such an obvious question. ‘Well, it was cleaner and brighter. You could see everything . . .’

  ‘And he got rid of the woodworm,’ Cicely Teversham added. ‘I was worried that the panel had a bit of rot and that it would get worse.’

  ‘Well,’ said Amanda. ‘There’s certainly no woodworm now; just a little residue in the frame.’

  ‘The panel is as good as new . . .’

  ‘Tell me, did the panel once have a cartellino?’

&nbs
p; Lord Teversham was confused. ‘A cartellino?’

  ‘A painted inscription, often giving the name of the person represented.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No trace of any over-painting?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. Why do you ask?’

  Amanda explained. ‘The cartellino was a common feature of the Lumley Collection, a group of paintings dispersed in 1785. It is possible the work comes from that collection. Do you have a library?’

  ‘I don’t imagine our household accounts go back that far,’

  ‘The provenance is crucial. We do have a copy of the Lumley Inventory at the Gallery.’

  ‘Why are you asking all this?’

  ‘Do you still have the restorer’s address?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Cicely Teversham remembered. ‘Frederick Wyatt was his name . . .’

  ‘Although if he recognised the painting I would be surprised if he was still living there.’

  ‘Recognised? Is something wrong?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Amanda replied. She turned to Lord and Lady Teversham. ‘I think we all need to sit down with a cup of tea. Or something stronger.’

  ‘Very well; but why are you looking so concerned?’

  Amanda was still guarded. ‘The frame is the original sixteenth-century mounting, but the panel itself has been replaced.’

  ‘Replaced?’ Ben Blackwood asked. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘It’s a copy; a very good one, but a copy nonetheless. The paint surface is even; the wood is new. I would need to take a sample to be sure . . .’

  ‘Good heavens . . .’

  ‘Which would not matter so much if this was originally the work of a minor Netherlandish master . . .’

  Lord Teversham could not believe her. ‘I thought it was . . .’

  Amanda continued. ‘So did I. But look at the jewellery the lady is wearing. I am pretty sure that it was made either by Cornelius Hayes or John of Antwerp. It is an exact match of a coronation medal in the British Museum.’