Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night

by James Runcie

  ‘I don’t know if that will be Montague’s story or not. I am also not sure whether it is helpful if he confesses to any responsibility. It could lead to a manslaughter charge and we don’t want that.’

  Sidney finished his whisky. ‘We do, however, want the truth.’

  The Master was irritated. ‘The last thing this college needs is a scandal. We have already had a generous response to the appeal on our six-hundredth anniversary and I do not want to put that into jeopardy.’

  ‘We have to ascertain what happened.’

  ‘That, I recognise. We will behave with authority and fairness. It will be my official position.’

  ‘Then I must assume you have an unofficial position?’

  ‘It is a delicate matter, Sidney.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could explain?’

  ‘I am sure Inspector Keating will keep himself busy. Investigating. Asking questions.’

  ‘He certainly will. What of it?’

  The Master gave Sidney what he hoped was a confidential look. ‘I’d like you to tell me what he thinks. I would like some warning if his enquiries become too detailed, particularly regarding the personal lives of those involved. I wouldn’t like him to delve too closely, either into their relationships or their political interests.’

  ‘I thought Lyall was married?’

  ‘He was married, yes. But I think that was very much for show. I am sure you don’t need me to spell things out.’

  ‘You want me to keep watch over the police investigation?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. But I want you to be our college liaison. Inspector Keating knows and trusts you.’

  ‘He won’t trust me if he finds out that I am telling you everything he’s up to; and he certainly won’t take kindly to the idea of me spying on police procedures.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to put it as strongly as that. One needs to be very careful in Cambridge, as you know perfectly well, about the use of the word “spy”. It leads to unsavoury speculation and we have quite enough of that already.’

  Sidney was aware that the university had still not recovered from the ignominy of ‘the affair of the missing diplomats’, the former graduates Burgess and Maclean who, it was assumed, had defected to Moscow four years previously. Keating had been consulted about their disappearance and had protested that he hadn’t been given full-enough access to the investigation. Since then, things had certainly developed. There had also been rumours that another Cambridge Apostle, Kim Philby, was ‘a third man’ after his resignation from MI6 in 1951, and Keating had made it clear that he thought the newly formed KGB, led by Ivan ‘The Terrible’ Serov, regarded the university as a fertile recruiting ground.

  ‘I didn’t know that Lyall was working for the security services.’

  ‘I didn’t say that he was.’

  Sidney waited for the Master to explain but he did not. ‘You can’t expect me to talk in any detail about all of this. Some things are best left in the dark. I am sure there is a discreet way in which we can conduct the matter.’

  ‘I am not sure there is, Master. After a death . . .’

  Sidney knew there was a murky side to the relationship between the university and both MI5 and MI6 but he had always steered clear of asking too many questions about it. He recognised the appeal of recruiting intelligent agents but wished that it could be kept until after the students had graduated. It was too easy to exploit people who could not anticipate the consequences of their enthusiasm for intrigue; and, once they acquired a taste for secrecy and deceit, they could not always be relied upon to stay on the same side.

  ‘I thought you priests dealt in grey areas all the time. Very few moral dilemmas come in black and white. It’s a question of trust. Loyalty too.’

  Sidney was not at all sure that he liked where the conversation was heading. ‘I am perfectly aware of my loyalties, Master.’

  ‘To God, and your country; your college and your friends.’

  Sidney put his empty glass of whisky back on the drinks tray. ‘May they never come into conflict. Good evening, Master.’

  The snow returned once more, covering the ice on the roads and pavements, so that any movement across its surface was hazardous. Few people dared look up and ahead for long, offering only muted greetings to those they knew, preferring to concentrate on securing each footstep against a fall, eager to escape mishap and get home. Such careful responsibility was a far cry from Sidney’s childhood enthusiasm for tobogganing with his brother and sister on Primrose Hill before the war. Then danger was a thrill, but now that he was older and into his thirties, he would have preferred to use the wintry conditions as an excuse to stay at home and concentrate on his next sermon.

  The last thing he wanted was another tortuous inquiry. He had only just returned from a short holiday in Berlin with his friend Hildegard Staunton. She had been excellent company and it had been a relief to get away, both from his clerical duties and his criminal investigations. Indeed, he was still living in something of a post-holiday afterglow, and so he was as keen as the Master to ascertain that the events on the roof of King’s College Chapel had been unfortunate rather than sinister.

  Rory Montague had his rooms in New Court, on a staircase close to the Porter’s Lodge. Sidney was not looking forward to the meeting because he found it difficult to provide consolation and extract information at the same time.

  There was also the dilemma at the heart of the event. He could understand the idea of some amateur climbing for high jinks. He had done it himself. But for a fellow of the college to encourage his students to attempt such a risky ascent on a dark and snowy night in the middle of winter seemed the height of madness.

  Why on earth did they want to do it? he wondered. Could it simply be the excitement: the idea that action is life and here was jeopardy at its most distilled? Was it, as he imagined mountaineering to be, the hypnotism of an immense terror drawing them on, the narrowness of the gap between life and death, the fact that one slip or a lapse in concentration could result in a fatality?

  Montague was a nervous, barrel-chested boy with curly brown hair, tortoiseshell spectacles and a small mole on his left cheek. He wore a tweed jacket, a mustard-coloured sleeveless jumper and a dark green tie over a Viyella shirt. There could hardly have been someone who looked less like a climber, let alone a man who might wilfully plan the death of another.

  Sidney introduced himself and began with an apology. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I know you must have had a difficult time.’

  ‘Why have you come?’ Montague answered. ‘Am I in trouble? Do people think it was my fault?’

  ‘I was asked if I could talk to you.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘The college. And I assure you that anything you tell me will be in confidence.’

  ‘I’ve already made one statement. I should have known it would not be enough. I can’t think why it happened.’

  Sidney knew he would have to choose his words carefully. ‘If you do not want to add anything to what you have said already then, of course, I understand. I know it is a distressing time. I merely wanted to say that I am at your disposal, should you wish to discuss anything more.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘I have some experience with the police. I think it was hoped that I might be able to help smooth things over.’

  ‘There is nothing to smooth over, Canon Chambers. It was an accident. Mr Lyall fell. It was a stupid thing to do and I suffer from vertigo. We shouldn’t have been up there in the first place.’

  ‘And why were you?’

  ‘Kit thought it would be a laugh. He knew his tutor did that kind of thing. They were close.’

  ‘And you and Bartlett were friends?’

  ‘Everyone loves Kit.’

  ‘And do you know where he is now?’

  ‘I thought he’d gone home.’

  ‘It seems he has not. That is a cause of considerable anxiety; both for his parents and, I imag
ine, for you.’

  ‘He probably thinks I can look after myself.’

  ‘And can you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How did you get involved in all this, may I ask?’

  ‘Mr Lyall knew I came from a family of mountaineers. My father was one of the youngest ever men to climb the north face of Ben Nevis in winter and on the ice. Now my brothers have all done it. I’m not so keen myself.’

  Sidney looked across the room to a neatly stacked boot-rack. ‘I see that you own a pair of climbing boots.’

  ‘In my family, everyone has to have them.’

  ‘Have you always had a fear of heights?’

  ‘I don’t mind up on the dales or on the fells in the Lake District. It’s a sheer physical drop that I can’t stand. Anything steeper than a 1 in 5.’

  ‘And on the roof of King’s?’

  ‘I panicked.’

  ‘Even if you could not see all the way down?’

  ‘That made it worse.’

  ‘I wonder why you went up in the first place?’

  ‘To prove myself. To try and get rid of the fear . . .’

  Sidney stopped for a moment, thinking that the answer had come too easily. He needed to press on. ‘Can you remember what happened?’

  ‘I had the rope and I couldn’t find a foothold. I asked Mr Lyall to slacken off and give me some more rope and I heard a cry. Then I thought I heard Kit scramble down. I’m not sure. It was dark.’

  ‘Despite the moon and the snow?’

  ‘I could only see things that were close.’

  ‘And you were there to take photographs?’

  ‘Yes, although I never got my camera out.’

  ‘You didn’t take a single exposure?’

  ‘No. I was going to do so but then everything went wrong.’ There was a silence before Rory Montague added a further thought which, perhaps, he did not mean to say aloud. ‘I hate this place.’

  Sidney was surprised by this sudden turn of emotion. ‘Have you always felt that? ‘‘Hate” is a strong word.’

  ‘Kit’s been kind to me. Mr Lyall too. He told me that it doesn’t matter where you’re from if you have strong beliefs.’

  ‘And what are they?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I’m not one for joining the Chapel Choir, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘I meant political beliefs.’

  ‘I believe in equality. We can’t live in a country where there is one law for the rich and another for the poor.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Sidney, familiar with the appeal of radical politics to the young.

  ‘You say you “understand”,’ Rory replied. ‘But the Church is part of the establishment. There comes a time when a man has to decide which side he is on.’

  ‘I don’t think it should be a question of sides.’ Sidney answered more defensively than he had intended. He did not like to be considered something he was not. ‘I think it’s a question of fairness and justice.’

  ‘Then we should agree with each other.’ Rory Montague almost smiled. ‘Although I am a member of the Communist Party.’

  ‘Some people would keep quiet about that. I admire your frankness.’

  ‘I am not ashamed. The revolution will come to this country one day, Canon Chambers. That, I can promise you.’

  Sidney was not sure if this was a threat or if Montague was speaking for effect. It was odd to volunteer this information so readily. If there was any connection with the KGB, however implausible that might seem, then the boy was hardly likely to draw attention to his membership of the Communist Party; and, by the same token, if he had been recruited on ‘our side’, such a move was an equally obvious act of attempted infiltration. Surely Montague’s only fault, if fault there was, was one of political naivety?

  Sidney dined in college on braised lamb, hoping the weather might ease, and was late back to the vicarage. Although the nuts, fruit and alcohol of the traditional ‘combinations’ after dinner had waylaid him, he was confident that he would be home in time to take Dickens out for his nocturnal constitutional. As he bicycled carefully through the gritted streets, he remembered that his dog had not shown much keenness to be out in the snow. In fact he had been a little lacklustre of late and Sidney worried there might be something wrong with him. It had been a while since his regular check-up with the vet.

  Apart from one light in the kitchen the house was in darkness and it seemed colder than it was outside. Dickens greeted him with his usual mixture of affection and expectation and carried one of Sidney’s slippers in his mouth as he followed him into the kitchen, circling his bowl in the hope of a second dinner.

  A pan of milk was warming under a low gas flame. Sidney’s curate was making his night-time cocoa. ‘We’ve had a bit of an adventure,’ Leonard began.

  ‘Both of you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I went out to see Isabel Robinson. You are aware that she has been ill?’

  ‘I am, but I thought that, being a doctor’s wife, she would be well looked after.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Doctors sometimes neglect those closest to them. We can all be guilty of that from time to time.’

  Sidney wondered whether this remark was meant for him, but let his curate continue. ‘When I returned, the window of your study was wide open and there was a breeze blowing. I thought that perhaps Mrs Maguire had been giving it an airing, but she doesn’t come after dark. Then I noticed that some of your papers had fallen on to the floor. It could have been the wind, of course, but Dickens had a copy of The Cloud of Unknowing shoved in his mouth. It must have been a ploy to shut him up. Not that he is much of a barker.’

  ‘You mean we’ve had burglars?’

  ‘Yes, but nothing appears to be missing. Perhaps they were disturbed by my return. It is a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘Have you called the police, Leonard?’

  ‘I presumed you had just been with them. And I couldn’t be sure it means a break-in. As I said, I don’t think that anything has been taken. Perhaps you should check?’

  Sidney left the kitchen and walked into his study. Nothing seemed to have been removed. The silver cufflinks that he thought he had lost remained on a corner of his desk; the jazz records that he so loved were stacked by the gramophone (the burglar was clearly no fan of Acker Bilk); and the porcelain figurine of a girl feeding chickens, Mädchen füttert Hühner, that Hildegard had given him stood in its usual position on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Sidney remarked as he returned to the kitchen with Dickens padding behind him.

  ‘I can’t think why anyone would want to burgle a vicarage,’ Leonard answered, ‘especially in such dreadful weather. Besides, people must know we can’t have anything worth stealing. It’s rather an affront, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’ve lost nothing yourself?’

  ‘As far as I can tell.’

  ‘Perhaps your collection of Dostoevsky put them off?’ Sidney asked, trying to cheer himself up.

  Leonard pretended that he had not heard the remark, raised his lips to his cocoa and blew on it. ‘Still too hot,’ he observed. ‘Maybe they were looking for something specific or someone was trying to frighten us. It might even be a warning of some kind. Is there anything I should know about?’

  Sidney had to decide how much to confide in his curate. ‘I don’t think so,’ he began, but then set off on a different track. ‘Why do you think people betray their country, Leonard?’

  ‘That’s an odd question at a time like this . . .’

  ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘Are you referring to the communists?’

  Sidney sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I could understand it before the war, perhaps. It was all part of the fight against fascism; too many members of the British establishment were keen on Hitler. Many of them were anti-Semitic. To fight against them from within must have been considered as working for the greater good. But it’s hard to understand why people might do it now.’

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t think the British establishment has changed all that much,’ said Leonard. ‘Communism will always have its attractions. People are fired up by ideas of equality. They want to change the world. Sometimes I suppose they want to take revenge.’

  ‘I also wonder if some people pretend to be communists when they are not?’

  ‘That would be very perverse, wouldn’t it?’ Leonard asked. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘That’s what I may well need to find out.’

  Sidney took Dickens out and tried to let events settle in his mind. He felt uneasy and he could not quite work out why. It wasn’t just the death of Lyall, or the possible burglary, but the sense that this was the beginning of something more sinister; something he could not predict or plan for.

  He walked out of the vicarage, down the wide high street with its thatched cottages, its village school, pubs and garage, and took the narrow snowy path behind the Green Man, down to the meadows and frozen river. There were few remains of that day’s activity: a completed snowman with coal buttons, eyes, mouth and carrot nose; the tracks of a toboggan; a circled cluster of footsteps from what might have been a snowball fight. Looking back to the easterly edge of the village, Sidney could just make out the silhouette of a group of bombed-out buildings that had still not been rebuilt since the war. The snow covering looked like giant sheeting left by removal men who had forgotten all about them.

  Sidney tried to concentrate on something altogether more enjoyable, but found his thoughts about Hildegard and his recent German visit were equally unsettling. He wondered if it was snowing there too, what Hildegard might be doing, and when on earth he was going to see her again. He missed her far more than he had anticipated, and wished she were with him.

  After the death of her husband, Hildegard had been the catalyst for Sidney’s adventures in crime. He had felt an almost inexpressible sorrow on meeting her and they had begun to share an intimacy that was yet to be defined. She understood what he was thinking better than anyone he knew. She was also able to get away with asking questions that would have been too direct if posed by anyone else.

  ‘Do you think you might, in your heart, be embarrassed about being a clergyman?’ she had said.