by James Runcie
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.’
‘It’s hard to find a genuine motive, I must admit.’
‘Ben has asked me to come and stay. He said that it would be a comfort. Then I can see you at the same time. Are you all right?’
‘I think the correct word would be “preoccupied”.’
‘I was thinking of the five o’clock train. Would you like to come to Locket Hall for drinks? I just need to see you, Sidney. For both of our sakes.’
Sidney thought how good it would be to see Amanda once more, but worried about exposing her to the darker side of life once again. He tidied his desk, took Dickens for what was now becoming yet another brief walk across the Meadows and returned to his neglected paperwork. As soon as he did so, Mrs Maguire seized the opportunity to remind him about the peeling wallpaper in the bathroom.
‘I do have more important things to think about than wallpaper,’ Sidney snapped.
‘If you weren’t so involved in all that crime then you would have plenty of time.’
‘I am aware of that.’
Mrs Maguire continued to grumble. ‘They should never have put a bathroom and toilet next to the kitchen. That sort of thing belongs outside.’
‘It is 1954, Mrs Maguire. Times change.’
‘Some things never change,’ the housekeeper replied, ominously. ‘Just like people.’
Sidney was not going to rise to the challenge of yet another gnomic remark. He pretended that he was writing a sermon.
‘You’re busy, then?’
‘I’m always busy, Mrs Maguire.’
‘Then I suppose I’ll have to let you get on. I’ve left you a steak and kidney pudding,’ she added. ‘I hope you don’t burn it.’
‘Very good, Mrs Maguire.’
When she had finally left him alone, Sidney picked up his pen and wrote out the list of principal suspects.
Simon Hackford: he and Lord Teversham had been former business partners; there had clearly been a row of some sort, and there were rumours of intimacy. But he seemed an unlikely murderer.
Clive Morton: Sidney would need to check the will. There could be a financial motive.
Michel Morel: unlikely, Sidney thought, but he did have considerable expertise in knives.
Frank Blackwood: it was hard to know what he was doing in the production in the first place. It was out of character, Sidney thought ruefully. But if he had joined the cast for the explicit purpose of murdering Lord Teversham, then what was his motive?
Ben Blackwood: despite not being a conspirator, Sidney had to admit that, however unlikely, it was not impossible. Perhaps he stood to inherit the art collection? He could have had a concealed weapon when he was crouched over the body and committed the crime while pretending to weep. But his behaviour on the night in question, and his grief after the death, were surely genuine? If Sidney were to pursue this line he would have to be careful.
Later that day he put down his pen, fetched his hat and coat and set off on the half-hour bicycle ride to Locket Hall. After he had ridden through Trumpington and carried on for a few miles he realised that, rather than burning Mrs Maguire’s steak and kidney pudding, he had completely forgotten about it. No wonder he felt hungry. But it was too late to go back. Perhaps Leonard Graham would help himself and finish it off? Sidney certainly hoped so, because if Mrs Maguire discovered that it had not been touched when she returned the next morning with her welsh rarebit, then there would be hell to pay.
But how was he supposed to remember everything? Sidney thought to himself. The things he had to keep in his head . . .
On arrival at Locket Hall, Forbes Mackay took his hat and coat and offered him ‘a wee sharpener’ to steady himself ‘in these coal-black times’. He warned his guest that the mood upstairs was more sombre than he had ever known.
The butler gestured to the staircase and Sidney climbed it to find Ben and Amanda sitting together on the sofa.
‘Forgive me for borrowing your friend but I’ve been in a funk,’ Ben began. ‘Cicely has taken to her bed, the staff have been stunned into silence and I don’t know how what to do. I keep thinking of Dominic and wandering about the house. I forget why I have come into a room. I’m unable to listen to anything people are saying or make any reply. Nothing has any point any more.’
‘You need to rest,’ said Sidney. ‘And sleep.’
‘I try, but then, just before I fall asleep I remember what has happened and all I can think about is that appalling crime.’
‘The police have been to see you?’
‘They wanted a lot of personal information. I suppose it is understandable. Is Mackay getting you a drink?’
‘He is . . .’
Amanda turned to Sidney and asked, ‘Why do such terrible things have to happen? Surely it shakes your faith?’
‘Not in God. It shakes my faith in people.’
‘Have the police finished with their interviews?’ Ben asked.
‘They will probably have to go round again. Do you know who benefits from the will?’
‘Most people get something. I think Clive Morton has handed it over.’
‘Yourself?’
‘I have been bequeathed some of the lesser paintings. A Pa
lmer landscape that I always admired, a charming Landseer and a beautiful set of Bewick engravings. It was incredibly thoughtful of Dominic but I’d rather he was still alive. The works don’t mean anything without him.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Cicely inherits the whole collection but there are a few other bequests: Simon Hackford, for example. I think Dominic changed the will recently to cut his inheritance down. At one point he was going to give Simon a Turner. That would have raised a few eyebrows.’
‘I think they were already raised. Did Simon Hackford and Lord Teversham work together?’
‘I thought you knew that?’
Sidney smiled. ‘I don’t always admit to what I know, Ben.’
‘They were the greatest of friends. They went to auctions together. In fact, Simon is responsible for many of the items in the collection. He would spot the painting, Lord Teversham would buy it and then they would either keep it or sell it on. Simon’s really an expert on silver, but he knows his eighteenth century, although he did manage to miss out on an unattributed Gainsborough . . .’
‘He failed to spot what you might call a “sleeper”?’
‘Very good, Canon Chambers, you’re catching up on the lingo.’
‘Why did Simon Hackford stop working here?’
‘Dominic told me that he began to doubt his abilities. He didn’t feel that he could quite trust him any more and then, after I came along, they saw rather less of each other. I don’t think there was any great falling out: just a drifting apart. Sometimes friendships fade away, don’t they?’
‘You’re a bit young to know that.’
‘I saw it at university, Canon Chambers. People develop sudden likings for each other and then, when they get to know each other better, that knowledge isn’t as exciting as the initial promise . . .’
Amanda sighed. ‘It happens in London all the time. It’s so hard to know whether people are genuine or not. Don’t you agree, Sidney?’
‘I have to give people the benefit of the doubt, of course.’
‘But not when you are investigating a murder, surely?’
‘No,’ Sidney agreed. His thoughts were becoming alarmingly familiar. ‘Then, it seems, I can’t think like a priest at all.’
