by James Runcie
‘Olivia would have to pretend to her mother that she had mislaid it all along. I don’t know how we could explain it without looking like idiots.’
‘Then I think you should give the necklace to me,’ said Sidney. ‘I will make sure it is returned without anyone knowing how it disappeared.’
‘And why would you do that?’
‘Because I believe in second chances, especially for the young. You’re a lucky young man and I hope that one day you will be aware of how privileged you are and will show mercy and generosity to others – especially if you ever become a judge. Perhaps that’s naive of me, but I think this was a desperate impulsive act, an opportunist moment of temptation, and you didn’t think through the consequences. As a result, you have been paralysed into silence. The more you kept your secret the harder it became to confess and so you have ended up doing nothing, hoping that the tension would dissipate or, at worst, that someone else would be blamed. But no one can be prosecuted as long as you have the necklace. And so the case will remain open, and you will live in fear unless you do something about it now. I am perhaps the answer to your prayer. I can make the whole thing go away. Only then need you decide how honest to be with Olivia.’
‘And do you think I should tell her?’
‘In time, perhaps you should. But if the relationship comes to an end, then perhaps you will only have taught her to be more careful; in what she does with her necklace and with her future choice of boyfriend.’
‘She’s not an easy girl.’
‘And you are not a simple man, Alexander. Give me the necklace.’
‘I have your word?’
‘I hope this unfortunate event will have taught you not to keep souvenirs of your conquests. Now please either give me the necklace or assure me that you will find a way of returning it anonymously.’
A few hours later, a package arrived at the Porters’ Lodge addressed to Mrs Hermione Randall, care of The Master, and Abigail Redmond was £100 better off. The mystery was not exactly solved but there was insufficient evidence for the police to proceed.
Geordie was relieved to be rid of the case but wasn’t prepared to let it go without comment. As he bought the first pint of the evening in the RAF bar of the Eagle, he noticed that his friend was smiling.
‘You’ve been up to something, Sidney, I know it.’
‘It’s nothing that need concern you. I have talked to people, that is all.’
‘I could have you for wasting police time.’
‘What about clergy time?’
‘Your attitude is very different to ours. You’ve got all day, or rather the whole of eternity.’
‘Not in the material world where all flesh is grass.’
‘And cows trample over it. Honestly, Sidney, I sometimes wonder if you really are on the side of the angels. I know you have been protecting the privileged.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Students . . .’
‘And others too. I have been looking after the young who make mistakes and haven’t yet found out who they are or what they’d like to bring to the world. Think of all the errors we both made in our youth.’
‘I’d rather not . . .’
‘Well, when I do I always remember those who gave me the benefit of the doubt. I think I was more shamed by them than those who set out to punish me straight away. Gracious behaviour can inspire others to do the same. People starting out in life need a little slack from time to time, whether it’s Abigail Redmond or the students or, indeed, anyone else. The quality of mercy is not strained.’
‘Say what you like. The whole lot of you have been wasting police time.’
‘On the contrary, Geordie, if I told you the full story I think you’d find that I’ve prevented a lengthy court case and have saved police time.’
‘Would you like to go into details, or am I just to trust in your promises of salvation?’
‘I think you can guess the answer to that by now.’
‘I won’t press you then. I know that you prefer the mystery of silence. But let me simply point out that although you may be able to preserve my time and rescue my soul, the one thing you’re not going to be able to save is money. It’s your round.’
‘I will be happy to oblige.’
‘In this case the wages of sin is not death but another pint.’
‘I think I can bear that purgatory, Geordie.’
‘Purgatory? With me? You don’t know you’re born, man.’
‘“’Tis virtue, and not birth that makes us noble: great actions speak great minds, and such should govern.” I’m on my way.’
Sidney put his order in at the bar. He was just about to pay when Helena Randall arrived. ‘I’ll get these,’ she said.
‘Where’s Malcolm?’
‘At home. I thought I’d surprise you. It’s a Thursday night. It’ll be like old times: just the three of us.’
‘Has your mother gone home?’
‘She has indeed.’
‘What about your sister?’
‘She’s with Alexander. I think he’s about to be dispatched.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘You know perfectly well, Sidney Chambers. I can read between the lines and so can Olivia. But don’t worry; your sleuthing is safe with us. I should thank you.’
‘Yes, you probably should.’
‘Then I will.’ Helena leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I knew you’d turn up trumps.’
‘Officially, of course, I have done nothing.’
‘Yes, and it is probably best if it stays that way.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell.’
‘Not even Geordie?’
‘Mum’s the word.’
‘No,’ said Helena, ‘it most definitely is not. Thank God she’s left. Now where is that man? Time for a final flirt!’
She winked at Sidney, picked up a pint glass and blew the inspector a slow-motion kiss.
The Trouble with Amanda
It was a summer’s day on the fens in the middle of the haymaking season, with the swifts too high to be heard, cabbage white butterflies hovering over cow parsley, grasshoppers chattering, moths hatching from their cocoons and green woodpeckers flurrying across the sky in search of rain. Behind the thirteenth-century wall of Canonry House, Anna was making a little den for her dolls, Byron was sleeping in the shade of an apple tree and Sidney was just finishing his correspondence.
Hildegard had laid a table for a picnic in the garden with elderflower cordial, quiche, salad and a lemon syllabub. Amanda and Henry were coming to lunch and the family was looking forward to a lazy sunny afternoon in the historic comfort of a cathedral cloister.
Just before the guests arrived, Hildegard had one more chore to complete. This was to persuade her husband to part with an old bottle-green jumper for one of the forthcoming church fêtes. His mother had knitted it for him some ten years previously.
She stood in the study doorway and held the innocent garment out for inspection. She was unsurprised when Sidney appeared reluctant to let his jumper go. ‘It has great sentimental value,’ he said.
‘But the moths have got to it.’
‘Then no one will buy it, my darling. The good people of Ely have taste and discretion. They will be after a better class of sweater. Besides, no one will want such a thing on a warm summer’s day.’
‘I don’t know. There’s always some kind of chill in the air.’
‘We are fortunate that there’s a breeze. Think how stifling it would be if we were in the south of France.’
‘You have so many clothes to keep you warm, Sidney. I can’t believe you are making such a fuss about giving away one stupid jumper.’
‘I’m not making a fuss.’
‘You’ve got that hurt-little-boy look on your face that always makes me cross. This is for charity, Sidney, and it’s not much of a sacrifice.’ Hildegard shook out and folded the jumper. ‘You never wear it anyway.’
Her hu
sband was not convinced. ‘I find it a comfort to know it’s there.’
‘You have others. Your mother seems to knit you something every year. I shouldn’t have asked. I could have just taken it away. I am sure you wouldn’t have noticed.’
‘All right,’ Sidney conceded. ‘I suppose I can live without it.’
‘There’s no need to be in such a mood.’
‘I’m not.’
Hildegard snatched up the jumper and left the room without another word. Even though her husband was infuriating, she was not going to pick a fight and she, at least, had better things to do than stand around discussing her husband’s knitwear. There was a Schubert impromptu to practise for a start.
This seemingly trivial scene, however, disguised a more unsettling touchiness about the subject of generosity in the light of recent events. The previous week, Sidney’s friend, Dr Nicholas Stacey, had telephoned in a fury to ask for help in persuading church leaders, politicians and people of influence to do far more for the suffering in Biafra. The television news showed malnourished children, victims of genocide by starvation, the result of a secessionist plan in Nigeria in which both sides blamed each other in a war that showed no sign of ending. The last time Sidney had seen such images had been after the liberation of Belsen. It was impossible to turn away without feeling appalled, guilty and determined to do something, however small, to alleviate the suffering.
When the Richmonds arrived for the garden picnic they were equally anxious about food, waste and unnecessary expenditure. Amanda said that she had recently attended a fundraising dinner for potential philanthropists at the National Gallery and hadn’t had the heart to enjoy it. ‘I hardly eat anything these days. I keep thinking about those poor children instead. What are we going to do, Sidney?’
‘Raise as much money as we can.’
‘I’ve made a donation but I still feel so helpless. People don’t realise how privileged we are in this country.’
‘Some things are hard to justify,’ Sidney replied. ‘Even the wealth of the Church makes me feel a bit queasy.’
‘At least it pays your salary,’ said Henry. ‘One can worry about these things too much.’
‘And it’s still a pittance,’ Amanda chipped in. ‘You’ve no need to be embarrassed about that.’
‘I have to confess that I do also have some anxiety about the cathedral itself,’ Sidney continued. ‘All that pomp and circumstance. It doesn’t sit very easily when you consider the simplicity of the early disciples breaking bread in the upper room.’
‘What about the parable of the talents and the Good Samaritan?’ Henry asked. ‘He had to have money to pay for the charity. And isn’t all that architecture supposed to reflect the glory of God? You need a bit of majesty, don’t you? I thought that was the point; a glimpse of heaven on earth.’
‘I’m going to try and organise a concert,’ said Hildegard. ‘We might have some African music like the Missa Luba. And we’re going to ask Dusty Springfield.’
‘Those poor little children,’ said Amanda. ‘I wish I could go over there and take them home. Adopt one of them, even.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ her husband replied.
‘Wouldn’t it be the right thing, though? Something practical.’
‘It sounds very impractical to me.’
Hildegard served up the quiche with new potatoes and a green bean salad as Sidney discreetly opened a bottle of white wine and tried not to be embarrassed by the conspicuous consumption. At the same time Byron padded round the guests with a baleful look in his eyes that attempted to persuade everyone present that he had never been fed in the whole of his life and that it was surely his turn for some food.
‘Whenever I see photographs of such helpless little creatures I weep,’ Amanda continued.
‘There are some things that are inexplicable,’ said Sidney. ‘How can those children be to blame? They cannot. We have to do whatever we can and fall on the mercy of God’s grace.’
‘But why have I got that grace and not the children in Biafra, Sidney? Why me and not them? I don’t deserve my good fortune. All I do is shop. Now I can’t even do that without feeling guilty.’
‘Anything you can do to alleviate the situation is better than nothing.’
‘I will and I have. But it frightens me.’
‘Why?’
Amanda looked down at a plate of food that she had not finished. ‘Because it shows me how shallow my life has been.’
A few days later, Sidney bumped into Henry’s first wife, Connie Richmond, walking on the fens to the north of Ely. She was a patient in a hospital for the mentally fragile outside Chettisham. As a charitable foundation, it believed in giving patients as much freedom as possible within a secure environment. Henry was still paying for her care.
It had been a long time since Sidney had seen her, a couple of years he thought, and at first he tried, rather uncharitably, to avoid her by changing the direction of his walk. Unfortunately he had failed to communicate this plan to his Labrador, who made straight for her.
‘I see that Byron is keener to speak to me than you are, Mr Archdeacon,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t aware that you knew my dog’s name.’
‘I know a lot more than you think I do.’
‘I don’t believe I have ever underestimated the wealth of your knowledge, Mrs Richmond.’
The woman had been a formidable opponent in the past and Sidney still suspected her of the murder of her friend, Virginia Newburn, who had drowned almost four years previously. He still couldn’t understand how the psychiatric institution where she lived allowed her the freedom to roam around the fens, seemingly at will. She must have been drawn by the heat of summer, a clear day and the need to appreciate the breezy air.
‘Do you think my husband is happy with his new wife?’ she asked. ‘Or, more relevant to your enquiries . . .’
‘I’m not involved in any inquiry . . .’
‘Do you think his new wife is happy with him?’
‘I have always assumed that to be the case.’
‘You have, have you?’
‘Every marriage has its ups and downs.’
‘That is especially true if one part of the so-called couple has already enjoyed a past with someone else. You know all about that, don’t you, Mr Archdeacon?’
Sidney just stopped himself questioning the word ‘enjoyed’ and replied simply. ‘I don’t think it’s helpful for anyone in a marriage to dwell too much on what has gone before.’ He did not want to say anything provocative that might prolong the conversation.
‘But what if that history clouds the present?’
‘I try not to let it do so myself.’
‘Or if the past keeps yielding up its secrets in bits and bobs?’
‘Sometimes you need a clean break.’
‘“Bits and bobs” is such a funny phrase, is it not, Mr Archdeacon? Straight from the sewing basket. You remember I am a seamstress?’
‘I admired the wedding dress you made to resemble Miss Kendall’s.’
‘You noticed.’
‘It was quite a bold thing to do, Mrs Richmond, to approach Ely Cathedral on the day of the nuptials wearing the same outfit as the bride. I don’t know how you discovered what Miss Kendall’s dress was going to be like.’
‘There’s a lot about me you’ll never know, Mr Archdeacon. Perhaps my husband sees me more often than anyone suspects?’
‘He may well do so. But I don’t think Henry’s the kind of man to retain an intimate knowledge of dressmaking.’
‘You are right. But he can be “intimate” in other ways.’
‘That is a scandalous suggestion.’
‘I am talking about my husband.’
‘Your former husband.’
‘Joined together in holy matrimony in the sight of God. “Let no man put asunder.” You should know that, Mr Archdeacon. People say that love has such complexity, but it should be simple, shouldn’t it? You keep your promi
ses. That’s all there is to it, surely?’
‘I am not going to argue with the principle.’
‘But then,’ Connie Richmond continued, ‘people make the mistake of thinking they can change everything and get away with something else and it leads to all manner of complications. They start to have secrets and do strange things and then no one knows where they are any more. If you want to find out what’s been going on then you have to start unpicking things and if you try and sew the original back together after all that, well, someone like me can always tell a garment’s never as good as it was the first time.’
‘Mrs Richmond, I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me. I should really be getting on; and so if you do have something specific to say . . .’
‘Look at your dog,’ Connie replied as Byron was pawing at the mud on the edge of a reservoir. ‘Who knows what he’s going to find? He’ll always be interested in what’s underneath the surface; what’s been buried. Just as you should be. No matter how deep he goes, there’s always more to uncover.’
‘I have already had difficulties with my Labrador’s discoveries. He’s a very inquisitive animal.’
‘It’s like history, isn’t it, Mr Archdeacon? I call it emotional archaeology. Just when you think you’ve buried something, someone can come along and dig it up again. And who knows what could be lying down there covered in the silt of good fenland. There might be a bone and, if there is, then one would have to ask: whose bone was it, and are there any more? Might there be enough to make a body?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Richmond, I really must be getting on.’ Sidney no longer cared how rude he was; he just had to make his escape. He could not be a Christian all the time. He called Byron and, fortunately, his Labrador obeyed. Even he had had enough.
