Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night

by James Runcie

  ‘Was Dr Cade aware of your work?’

  ‘We worked in the same department.’

  ‘I mean to say, had he read anything of it?’

  ‘Dr Cade was interested in the practical application; how you could use percolation theory to model the spread of a forest fire, the course of a disease or the increase of populations. I was more interested in the core mathematical material.’

  ‘And had you read any of Dr Cade’s practical applications of the theory yourself?’

  ‘You are taking an unusual interest in this, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘I believe there is always room to improve one’s knowledge. And there have been suggestions that mathematics and theology are not as far removed from each other as people might think.’

  ‘I hope you are not going to start talking to me about numerology,’ Todd warned.

  ‘The number twelve in the Bible is significant, I think.’

  ‘Not mathematically. It is thematic. Twelve tribes of Israel, twelve disciples, twelve foundations in the heavenly Jerusalem, twelve gates, twelve pearls and twelve angels. This is mere repetition.’

  ‘I am aware that it can be taken to extremes, but the number three, for the Trinity, is also important.’

  ‘Or six. Man was created on the sixth day, six words are used for Man and the mark of the Beast is 666, a mockery of the Trinity. You can do anything you like with the Bible. Dr Cade was more interested in musical numerology. He used to talk to Professor Richards about it all the time although, as far as I am concerned, most of the theories were too far-fetched to be given credence.’

  ‘Did you work closely with Dr Cade?’

  ‘Mathematics requires intense solitary concentration and that is precisely why Crawford’s rewiring was such a distraction. He kept coming in and out all the time. Neither of us could get any work done.’

  Professor Todd had finished his soup. Sidney had abandoned his. ‘Why did you suggest that it might have been a cause of Dr Cade’s death?’ he asked.

  ‘I said no such thing.’

  ‘Crawford has stated that you did.’

  ‘I can assure you that I did not. I hope that you are not going to take his word against mine?’

  The soup was removed from the table and spring chicken was served.

  Sidney recognised that Edward Todd was irritated and that he would have to be careful not to press matters further. There was, however, something about the tone of this conversation that was fiercer than mere donnish superiority. Todd had been quick to dismiss the college electrician, and he appeared to Sidney both defensive and aggressive. Sidney wondered if there might be a reason why he had wanted Adam Cade dead and Charlie Crawford so conveniently removed from the scene.

  He would have to make some discreet enquiries and then, if his fears were confirmed, he would have to tell Inspector Keating. It was not a prospect to which he looked forward. He could not quite believe, having often involved Amanda in his previous escapades, that Hildegard could already be embroiled in another. He worried how it might affect the future of their relationship, but if he were still to be, in Bunyan’s words, ‘valiant for truth’, then everything else in his life would have to be secondary to the process of investigation.

  Orlando had been happy to let Hildegard play Bach in his rooms and expressed the hope that the recent death of someone in such close proximity did not put her off her piano practice. He was clearly nervous about the situation and Hildegard wondered if the Professor of Music had even anticipated the death of a colleague. Perhaps he had deliberately made sure that he was conveniently out of the way and in another college at the time? It certainly seemed odd to give up such wonderful rooms for the sake of a little rewiring. But then much of Orlando’s behaviour was odd, she realised, even down to his bathing of hands in warm water before taking to the keyboard. He believed that he could only play well if his fingers were warmed slightly higher than the body’s natural temperature.

  ‘I think they are at their most dexterous at ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit,’ he said, ‘and so in summer I sometimes have to cool them down. The only concern is that you have to be careful not to play with damp hands.’

  Although Hildegard had already recognised the influence, and thought it precious to the point of being neurotic, Orlando went on to explain that he was following some of the techniques used by Glenn Gould. He wore gloves indoors, kept plunging his arms into hot water, and had his two-bar electric fire on in his rooms the whole time. Hildegard decided not to comment on such behaviour, believing that it had little to do with achieving any extra sensitivity of touch, but let Orlando explain that his nervousness had been recently increased by the pressure of a new composition for Good Friday. It was a setting of Psalm 44:

  If we have forgotten the name of our God, or stretched out our hands to a strange god; shall not God search this out? For he knoweth the secrets of the heart.

  Yea, for thy sake are we killed all the day long; we are counted as sheep to the slaughter.

  He had chosen the verses as a prefiguring of the Easter sacrifice. On being shown the score, Hildegard had noticed that the piece was in 4/4 time and also that the fourth of the fourth month would be 4 April, the date of the first performance that Good Friday.

  Orlando was impressed that she had spotted his play with numerology. ‘I can see that nothing gets past you,’ he observed.

  ‘I think you have been very clever; a marriage of music and mathematics.’

  The Professor of Music tried to brush off her appreciation with false modesty. ‘Of course one can get carried away with this kind of thing.’ He leaned forward and smiled. ‘They are the little touches, perhaps, that only musicians are aware of.’

  ‘And mathematicians, I would have thought.’ Hildegard smiled back. Her green eyes sparkled. ‘But only the most intelligent.’ Anyone watching from outside would have thought that she was almost being flirtatious. ‘Do you think they will know?’ she asked.

  ‘Dr Cade always used to have a good stab at understanding what I was trying to do,’ Orlando continued, ‘and Professor Todd always knows more than he lets on. But they are philistines when it comes to proper musicianship . . .’

  Hildegard moved to the table where the score was laid out. ‘I have also noticed something else, if you don’t mind my saying so?’

  ‘Is there no limit to your perception, Mrs Staunton?’

  ‘Your scoring of the word “killed”. It sounds odd, I think?’

  Orlando gave his companion a somewhat shifty look before he made his explanation. ‘That is deliberate. The word ‘killed’ should sound odd, don’t you think? Bach, for example, is onomatopoeic all the time. The bass aria from Cantata 130 has the devil singing Der alte Drache brennt vor Neid and the music twists like the flames of hell. I am trying to do something similar.’

  What he did not admit, however, was that the word ‘killed’ was set to the notes C, A, D and E.

  Hildegard wondered when Orlando Richards had started to write the piece. It seemed unlikely that he could have composed so much music in the short time that had passed since Adam Cade’s death; but if he had begun it earlier, then how coincidental was the reference to the murder victim? Was Orlando issuing some kind of warning, or was there something even more sinister going on: a conspiracy, even?

  As soon as Sidney collected her for luncheon he could tell that Hildegard was preoccupied. She began to talk to him, carefully and quietly and without giving too much away.

  ‘I was thinking,’ she began. ‘When am I going to meet your friend Inspector Keating?’

  Sidney had instituted the new tradition of washing the feet of his parishioners on Maundy Thursday as a mark of priestly humility in commemoration of the Last Supper. He was inappropriately proud of the idea, and he brushed aside Leonard Graham’s observation that there would be a sharp drop in his enthusiasm when it came to the actual performance of the task.

  The curate’s instincts were, of course, correct. This irritated Sidney
beyond all reason as, with rising reluctance, he began to wash the feet of the thirty or so members of his congregation that evening. There was Hector Kirby, the over-hearty butcher, Mike Standing, the businessman with halitosis, Harold Streat the undertaker, Francis Tort, the dentist with a drink problem, and his new-found friend, Mark Bowen, the fire investigator. At least, Sidney felt, he now knew what an annual convention for chiropodists might be like.

  He moved on to Mike’s girlfriend Sandra, the East Anglian judo champion, Martha Headley the nervous organist, and even Mrs Maguire who had come with her spiritualist sister Gladys. Sidney was convinced that the latter two had decided to attend the service not for religious reasons but simply to enjoy his discomfort. He wondered if Hildegard would join the queue of bare-footed penitents.

  As he knelt down and sponged away the water from Mrs Maguire’s bunioned white feet, he thought not of Martha, pouring oil on the feet of Jesus and using her long hair to caress them dry, but of Adam Cade, dead in his bath. If he had not suffered a heart attack then how had he died? Had Michael Robinson, the doctor at this very service, examined the body in any detail, and had Harold Streat, the undertaker with whom the body was now lodged, noticed anything amiss? It would be unlikely that either of them had looked at Dr Cade’s feet, for example, with Sidney’s current level of attention. He would have to talk to them both and then, even if they expressed no concern, he would suggest that Derek Jarvis, the coroner, might take a look. He would have to ask Keating’s permission, of course, and he knew that this would not go down well, particularly since their meeting that evening would also be the inspector’s first encounter with Hildegard. But it was essential to do things properly, and Sidney was alarmed that no one, apart from Hildegard, was taking Cade’s death as seriously as he thought they should.

  She sat on the stool before him and took off a pair of simple black pumps. Sidney did not need to look up to know that she was there. He took her naked left foot and let it rest in his left hand. It was pale but warm, with a delicate, almost Romanesque arch, and her toenails were trimmed, childlike and ageless. Sidney sponged each foot in turn, taking his time, feeling their weight in his hands, before using a cloth to pat them dry. When he had finished, he held her right foot for a little longer than was necessary and gave it a little squeeze before looking up and daring to catch her eye. She smiled down at him. Sidney held the moment. He imagined that everyone would surely notice that he had spent more time with Hildegard than with anyone else but he didn’t care who knew it.

  It was the only gentle moment in an evening that became a good deal rougher when the two of them raised the subject of Adam Cade’s possible murder with Inspector Keating.

  ‘I can’t believe that you are attempting to ruin a perfectly convivial night out with anxieties about a death that the doctor has assured everyone necessary was perfectly natural,’ was his infuriated response to the suggestion that all was not as it seemed. ‘Mrs Staunton, I must apologise on behalf of my friend. There are times when he can’t help himself.’

  It was eight-thirty in the evening and the three of them were sitting in the RAF bar of the Eagle. Hildegard recognised that it was a privilege to share in what was a traditional, masculine routine, and was apologetic. ‘I feel that I must take some of the blame.’

  ‘On what grounds? Please don’t tell me,’ and here the inspector’s face began to suffuse itself with dread, ‘that this is all your idea? It was bad enough with Miss Kendall.’

  ‘Miss Kendall has nothing to do with this, I can assure you,’ Sidney began.

  ‘Honestly, Sidney,’ the inspector continued, still trying to make a joke out of it all, ‘where do you get these women from?’

  Hildegard turned to Sidney, her tone changing more rapidly than he could have imagined. ‘I wasn’t aware that we are many in number?’

  ‘Two is bad enough,’ Keating said as he stood up, headed for the bar and ordered another pint for himself and two bitter lemons for his Lenten troublemakers.

  Sidney was feeling distinctly uncomfortable in the silence that followed and could not think how to remedy the situation. In fact, for the first time in his relationships with both Hildegard and Inspector Keating, he was lost for words.

  ‘What evidence do either of you have for any malpractice?’ Keating asked on his return.

  Hildegard looked to Sidney before answering. ‘There is too much coincidence.’

  ‘That is not sufficient.’

  ‘Dr Cade was young,’ Hildegard added.

  ‘I realise that this is a delicate situation, and I do remember that sad business with your husband, Mrs Staunton. I was as reluctant to get involved then as I am now. However, what do you want me to do about all this? I can’t go poking my nose into college business. I am unlikely to be the winner of its annual popularity contest as it is.’

  ‘Fortunately, we do not have one,’ Sidney replied, collecting himself at last. ‘All I am suggesting is that you have a word with Derek Jarvis and persuade him to have a look at the body.’

  ‘You want me to try and sort out an unofficial post mortem?’

  ‘What harm is there? If nothing is amiss then no one need know.’

  ‘Honestly, Sidney . . .’

  ‘It can be our little secret.’

  ‘And if something is amiss?’

  ‘Then you can thank me for bringing it to your attention.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it. Haven’t you two got better things to do than embroil yourselves in all this?’

  ‘Mr Crawford has been wronged,’ Hildegard added quietly.

  ‘He has been dismissed. That is, I am afraid, what happens,’ Keating continued. ‘And people react very badly to that kind of thing. But to start accusing people of murder . . .’

  ‘He hasn’t accused anyone directly.’

  ‘Well, you should tell him to keep it that way. You are quite sure that something is awry?’

  ‘Oddly enough, Geordie, I am.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. I am not promising anything, mind?’

  ‘I wouldn’t presume to expect anything more than your consideration.’

  ‘Are you teasing me, Sidney?’ Keating asked.

  ‘No,’ Sidney replied. ‘I am merely being careful. I do not want to make you angry.’

  ‘And when have I ever been angry with you?’ Keating asked, already forgetting the temper he had displayed not half an hour previously.

  The evening wound to a close and Sidney escorted Hildegard back to her lodgings in Portugal Place. As they walked down Trinity Street, Hildegard slipped her arm through his and asked: ‘Are you really as sure as you said you were?’

  ‘Of course I am not. But if I expressed any doubt at all then the inspector wouldn’t have agreed to do anything.’

  ‘He still hasn’t.’

  ‘He will. I know it will prey on his mind.’

  The night was cold and clear. Hildegard shivered and Sidney gave her arm a little squeeze in silent comfort. She looked down at their feet as they walked and then back up at her companion. ‘Do you think it is the same with faith? If you express any doubt, people won’t believe what you are saying?’

  They stopped outside the university bookshop. ‘Sometimes, Hildegard, I think criminal investigation needs a certain hardness of heart, a grim determination, whereas faith requires an open heart . . .’

  ‘And an open mind.’

  ‘I see you are beginning to get the idea.’

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to.’

  ‘It is difficult,’ Sidney replied, ‘Once you start out on these investigations, I am afraid there’s no stopping them, and you can then end up in all sorts of trouble.’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat? Isn’t that an English expression?’

  ‘Yes, but the death of the cat probably still needed investigation in order to ascertain that curiosity was the cause of its demise. It could be that someone might have placed something deliberately in the cat’s way, knowing that it would arou
se its curiosity. Then the cause of death becomes more complicated. Is it the cat’s fault for being curious, or the person who aroused his curiosity?’

  ‘So,’ Hildegard continued, ‘if someone knew that Dr Cade always took a bath at a certain time and in a certain way, he might have been able to arrange the murder without arousing any suspicion.’

  ‘Or even curiosity,’ Sidney agreed.

  Corpus Christi Chapel was almost full on Good Friday, although Sidney knew that some members of the college would drift in and out during the service. Three hours was a hefty undertaking, and although many of the fellows regarded it as too much of an effort, Sidney had requested that the college kitchens be shut so that there was no chance of a luncheon alternative. If the more corpulent ‘corpuscles’ could not fast on one day of the year then there really was no salvation for them.

  The service began in silence, followed by solemn music and a first meditation: ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’. Sidney had decided to concentrate on the concept of responsibility. Although Jesus claimed that those responsible for his death were ignorant of the consequences of their actions, those in college today could have no excuse for their sins. This was a day on which they should look into the darker recesses of their hearts, bring their sins out into the light and ask God for mercy.

  The opening anthem was taken from the Book of Lamentations, chapter 5, and had been set to music by Professor Richards:

  The joy of our heart is ceased; our dance is turned to mourning.

  The crown is fallen from our head: woe unto us, that we have sinned.

  Hildegard was impressed by the stark simplicity of a composition that was sung without accompaniment building up to the word ‘sinned’ in a way that perfectly matched Sidney’s preaching. Orlando had thought very hard, dwelling on the ‘i’ of the word ‘sinned’, using six notes to spread out the two syllables, elongating the idea of crime and guilt.