by James Runcie
‘I think you both like working too much to do anything else. You’re both in love with your jobs.’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’
‘Well, Canon Chambers, that may be true in your case, since you seem to want to do my husband’s job as well as your own.’
‘Believe me, Mrs Keating . . .’
‘Cathy . . .’
‘I do not seek these things out.’
‘You enjoy it, though.’
‘As a matter of fact I do not. I wish people would lead better lives and did not resort to violence and murder in order to pursue their objectives, but if they insist on so doing then I will do everything in my power to help your husband.’
Hildegard put her arm through Sidney’s. Amanda noticed. ‘He can’t help himself. He is what he is.’
‘And that’s a good man,’ said Keating.
‘I’m not so sure about that either,’ Sidney replied, immediately realising that, on this day of days, he was as reluctant to be praised as he was to be teased.
Amanda drove back to London on the Sunday evening, having kissed Hildegard goodbye and told her how much she had enjoyed meeting her. Sidney found that her manners had been impeccable, and was delighted that his two closest friends seemed to get on so well.
‘She has sparkle,’ Hildegard told him afterwards. ‘And she is cleverer than people think she is. Is that deliberate?’
‘I’m not sure. Amanda doesn’t put on any airs and graces.’
‘Perhaps, because she is privileged, people think that she does not need to work.’
‘She takes her job very seriously, I do know that,’ Sidney replied.
‘More seriously than she takes you?’
‘She thinks I need to be teased.’
‘And do you?’
‘I’d rather be loved.’
Hildegard smiled. ‘I think you have to earn that, Sidney. It, too, requires hard work.’
The couple spent Easter Monday and Tuesday together. They walked in the Botanical Gardens, went to a concert in one of the college chapels and visited the Fitzwilliam Museum.
Sometimes, in front of a painting, Hildegard stood almost too close to Sidney, and he liked it. She was five or six inches smaller than him and he recalled once, when she had said goodbye to him, that she had stood on a higher step so that they were almost level and she had looked him straight in the eye before kissing him on each cheek. He remembered the first time they had sat together on the sofa, when he had had to tell her that they had discovered who had killed her husband, and how natural it had felt for them to be so intimate, even in the silences. He had never experienced the freedom to say nothing at all before.
‘When will I see you next?’ he asked as they made their farewells at the railway station.
‘You could come in the summer,’ Hildegard replied, ‘and see more of the Rhine. We have less murder in Germany. It is safer.’
‘I don’t know what it is about Cambridge.’
‘It is enclosed, so the rivalry is greater.’
‘You would have thought that they all would have better things to think about. Wasn’t it Friedrich Richter who said “a scholar knows no boredom”? German of course.’
Hildegard smiled. ‘Are you ever bored, Sidney? I sometimes worry that I am not enough for you. You need these distractions.’
‘I do not think I need them exactly, but they certainly put me on my mettle.’
‘As long as you do not get too many shocks.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I think that was another joke. Mettle and metal. I think you would say it was feeble.’
‘Nothing about you is feeble, Hildegard.’
‘Perhaps you will start to make jokes in German.’
‘I think I am quite a long way from that. Herr Gruner is very concerned that I should master the basics. I am still very much a beginner.’
The train pulled into the station and its noise drowned out Hildegard’s quiet observation. ‘And perhaps not only in German.’
She could not comprehend why a man who was so demonstrably adept at solving crime and understanding human character could be so dilatory with the love that was right in front of him. When, she wondered, would Sidney do anything about it?
The Hat Trick
It was a saturday in mid May, and Sidney had been prevailed upon to umpire a cricket match between Grantchester and Whittlesford at Fenners. The rain looked as if it was going to hold off, the wicket was good, and by mid morning an expectant crowd of picnickers had begun to gather at one of the most idyllic grounds in the country.
In truth, Sidney was slightly irritated that he had been invited simply to umpire. In another life he might well have been a professional cricketer. At the age of eleven he had been the first boy in his year to get his colours. Then, at public school, he had scored a momentous seventy-eight runs in a tight-fought victory over Wellington. At thirteen his parents had taken him to see Bradman bat on this very ground only to see him bowled for a duck by J.G.W. Davies, misreading a straight one from the renowned off-spinner. Sidney had even played at Cambridge himself, batting at five for Corpus, hoping that he might take part in the annual Varsity Match. But then the war had come.
He missed playing cricket. He bought his copy of Wisden each year, listened to the Test matches on the wireless, and whenever he passed a match on a village green he would always stop to watch an over. The game created a parallel world, Sidney thought. It was drama; it was excitement; it was a metaphor for the vicissitudes of life.
It was also quintessentially English: democratic (there were teams with all levels of ability), communal (the cricket ‘square’ was often at the centre of the village green), and convivial (the game was full of eccentric characters.) It was the representation of a nation’s cuisine, with its milky tea, cucumber sandwiches, Victoria sponge and lashings of beer. It was also beautiful to watch, with fifteen men, dressed in white and moving on green, creating geometrical patterns that looked as if they had been choreographed by a divine choreographer.
As Sidney approached the ground he could feel both the humidity and a touch of moisture in the air. It was definitely a day on which to bowl first. There was enough to give the seamers something to work with and, provided Grantchester won the toss and had a couple of men who knew how to move the ball about a bit, there was a good chance of early wickets.
Sidney believed that there was a science to it all. A bowler who was able to read the prevailing conditions, and work with the moisture in the air, could disguise the flight of the ball or make it swing so that even a degree in physics might prove beneficial. A batsman facing such a bowler would need an anatomical knowledge of the human hand, recognising the different ways in which the fingers could grip a ball and the wrist could spin out any number of trajectories. It was a world in which the application of the scientist met the mind of the psychologist. A batsman who inspected the wicket in front of him, anticipating how it would wear and crack over time, would be better prepared to confront the wiles of a bowler who had undertaken a similar study of that very same patch of grass. And then, at the end of every summer, no matter how brown the surface or how weathered the pitch, there was a need to understand botany and geology as each twenty-two yards of hallowed turf rested over the winter before renewing itself each spring in order to offer another season of possibility.
Sidney felt at home at Fenners. The ground was graced with a handsome pavilion, a separate wooden scoreboard and a couple of nets. Soon the air was filled with the familiar sounds of bags being thrown down, bats being knocked up and cricket studs scraping on the concrete flooring. He had a brief and poignant memory of his schooldays: the smell of freshly mown grass, the sight of the roller on the wicket, the sound of the scoreboard ticking over; a day filled with promise.
He asked the two captains to step out into the middle and tossed up his half-crown. The opposition captain called out ‘Heads’ correctly and opted to field. This was a man who wanted to take adva
ntage of the conditions, capture a few early wickets, and then know how many runs his team would have to chase if they were to win the game. Sidney looked across to see two fast bowlers loosening up in the nets. They looked formidable.
His mood lowered when he saw two of the Grantchester wives arriving with picnic hampers. As the home team took to the field the women smiled and waved, holding up Thermos flasks, sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, and the all-important bottles of beer. How he wished Hildegard could be here, sitting on a rug by the boundary, with her legs stretched elegantly to one side and a wicker basket in front of her.
‘Come on, Sidney, let’s get out in the middle. You must be dreaming.’
It was Roger Wilson, the second umpire and one of Inspector Keating’s Special Constables, a man whom Sidney knew he should like but was unable to do so because of his relentless attempts to look busy when he was not.
Grantchester began badly, losing both openers to some frisky bowling by Horatio Walsh that provoked considerable muttering back in the pavilion. Was it fair, their captain Andrew Redmond wondered, that a West Indian should be able to turn out for Whittlesford? Should there be eligibility requirements, for example, stating that a person must have lived in a village for at least five years before being allowed to play for them? And what was a West Indian doing in Whittlesford anyway? Sidney had to point out that since Horatio had been allowed into the country, and probably on a colonial passport, he had every right to play for whatever team he chose. Furthermore, Grantchester could hardly complain when they had, in their Indian bowler Zafar Ali, one of the most devastating leg-spinners in the game.
Sidney found the process of umpiring more tiring than he had anticipated. He had to remember to count the number of balls for each over correctly, moving six pebbles from one pocket to another. He had to check the bowlers’ footmarks for no-balls, judge whether the numerous leg-before-wicket appeals were correct, assess whether catches were thin edges off the bat or if they had come off the pad, and anticipate what might happen next. It was exactly like being a detective, he decided. Nothing should pass him by.
After twenty minutes, Grantchester were 8 for 2 and Sidney had already given Geoffrey Thomas, the local grocer and number four batsman, the benefit of the doubt in an extremely close LBW decision. A few runs later, and without a single boundary to trouble the scorer, Grantchester were in deep trouble at 15 for 3. They needed the incoming batsman, Derek Jarvis, to steady the ship and find his form when he joined his captain at the crease.
Sidney had not expected the coroner to be such a good judge of line and length but he could clearly pick which ball to play and which to leave alone. Extraordinary, Sidney thought, how cricket revealed character so clearly; the patient and the impatient, the methodical and the careless, the brave and the fearful.
He was also reminded of the nature of timing. Some players were almost effortless in their stroke-play, letting the ball come on to the bat and guiding their shots with a minimum amount of back-lift, while others took wild swings and hoped to God they made a connection. Once again, Sidney marvelled at the different ways in which people could strike a ball.
After six overs, two maidens and figures of 3 for 15, Horatio Walsh was given a rest. The less troublesome medium pace of the Whittlesford undertaker replaced him, and soon both Derek Jarvis and Andrew Redmond were able to pile on the runs. They formed an easy, confident partnership, and Sidney was delighted when the coroner reached his fifty after little more than an hour at the crease.
He was impressed by his application. A man couldn’t arrive on a pitch and expect to play well. There had to be preparation. Of course there were events within a game that one could not necessarily anticipate, and Dame Fortune would always play her part, but Sidney believed that, over a sustained passage of time, a man could make his own luck. The cricketing averages did not lie, and although there could be magical days when all the predictions were confounded, it was important to study the statistics and take a long view. As the old adage had it: a man’s form could be temporary; class was permanent.
Derek Jarvis had made a chanceless fifty but his innings was ended, as was so often the case after a milestone had been reached, by a lapse of concentration. After edging the ball down to third man, he looked behind and called for a run, only to be sent back by his captain with a shouted ‘NO!’ It was Andrew Redmond’s call, and Derek Jarvis was forced to turn round when he was already halfway down the wicket. A swift and accurate throw back to the keeper made sure that he was unable to make his ground and he was soon back in the pavilion. From a confident position of 140 for 3, Grantchester slumped. At half past three Andrew Redmond flashed at a ball that was short of a length and was caught at point. Grantchester had reached 188 for 8 and the last two wickets fell in quick succession. The innings ended when Zafar Ali, their Indian spinner, was out for a duck, his middle stump ripped clean out of the ground by a snorter from Walsh.
Tea followed, and Sidney was pleased to see that Mrs Maguire had contributed two of her lardy cakes and was on hand to dispense the meat-paste sandwiches. Rosie Thomas, the grocer’s wife, doled out the tea from a large urn, while her daughter Annie offered homemade lemonade to the sweatier players after their exertions in the field.
It was an agreeable occasion, further enhanced by an impromptu visit from Leonard Graham, who had brought Dickens out for a walk and who required a quick consultation about parish matters. (One of the bellringers had fallen from a ladder and required a home visit; the churchwarden had forgotten to mow the verges at the front of the graveyard.) As the two men began their ‘quiet word’, Mrs Maguire intervened.
‘I hope you’ll keep that ruddy dog away from the food. You know what he’s like.’
‘I am sure he won’t do any harm, Mrs Maguire.’
‘Harm?’ their housekeeper replied. ‘That’s his middle name.’
As soon as her back was turned, Zafar Ali began feeding Dickens an egg sandwich.
‘Don’t encourage him!’ she shouted but Sidney’s dog was already sniffing around the lardy cakes and sidling up to any player who showed the slightest encouragement, giving them his most mournful ‘nobody ever feeds me’ look. It was extraordinary, Sidney recognised, how successful the Labrador’s patient and determined appeal could be. By the time he had finished he must have sampled everything the tea ladies had to offer.
Now it was Whittlesford’s turn to bat, and the two Redmond brothers, Andrew and Harding, opened the bowling. It was quite a family affair, Sidney noticed, since their sister Rosie was in charge of the catering, and her husband Geoffrey was fielding at deep mid-wicket. During the tea interval, Sidney also spotted that Rosie’s daughter Annie was on very friendly terms with Zafar Ali, a situation that appeared to create tension within the family. He only hoped that what looked like a burgeoning romance would not be cut short by prejudice.
Whittlesford made a confident start, reaching thirty without loss and, after watching their assured opening pair, Sidney fully expected them to win the game. However, nothing in cricket was ever predictable. Andrew Redmond took a few quick wickets, the game began to ebb and flow, and Whittlesford reached their hundred. Zafar Ali came on for some trademark leg-spin, licking his fingers before gripping the ball and flipping it out of the back of his hand, deceiving Whittlesford’s captain with a well-disguised googly that dislodged his leg bail, and soon the game was more evenly poised. At 160 for 6, the visitors began to take back the initiative but Grantchester were not out of it yet. A loud shout of ‘CATCH IT’ woke Sidney from a momentary loss of concentration, as the Whittlesford batsman skied a slog-shot to deep mid-wicket. Geoffrey Thomas ran to a position underneath it, steadied his stance as it reached the top of its trajectory, cupped his hands in expectation . . . and dropped it.
Sidney was reminded how quickly the game could change. He couldn’t switch off, even for a second, because, in cricket, no matter how long the game felt or how dull the passage of play, a chance could come off every ball.
The fielder had to wait for the moment: expecting it, trusting that it would come eventually, and then seize it. So much depended on whether that chance was taken or dropped, and those quick, unpredictable flashes of action could influence the outcome of the whole match. It was a game that, like many a crime, balanced patience with opportunity.
The Whittlesford captain edged a streaky four through the slips off the fast bowling of Gary Bell, and then cut for two. Whittlesford required four more runs to win with three wickets in hand. They were coasting. At the end of the over, Sidney walked over from short-leg and took his position at the Gresham Road end. He then checked the six pebbles in his right pocket, ready to transfer them, a ball at a time, to its opposite side.
The sun was lower, and shadows had begun to lengthen over the boundary. This would be the last over. Andrew Redmond asked for the ball, inspected it, rubbed it against his thigh and threw it to his spin bowler.
Grantchester’s only hope lay in the fact that Whittlesford’s star opening batsman, who had scored seventy-three runs, was stranded at the opposite end, and Zafar was bowling to their number nine. The batsman took a swing at the first delivery and missed it completely. He was determined to win the game in style, and his partner walked down the pitch to urge patience. A quick single was all that was required and the better player would be on strike.
Andrew Redmond was fielding at mid on and the players threw him the ball between each delivery. He had a little routine going now, inspecting the ball, rubbing it on his cricket whites, and then handing it to the bowler. The Whittlesford number nine defended the second delivery of the over with a simple prod to short extra cover, but there was no run. Zafar’s third ball offered plenty of temptation in the flight, and with a rush of blood to the head, the Whittlesford man skipped down the pitch to meet it, was deceived by the spin, missed the ball entirely and was well out of his crease when stumped by the wicket keeper.
The new batsman arrived and took guard. Andrew Redmond rubbed the ball on his thigh once more before throwing it to Zafar, who licked his fingers before applying them to the seam of the ball. He walked to the end of his short run, turned, and delivered a quicker ball to the batsman’s feet which span sharply through the gap between bat and pad and lifted the bail of the off-stump.
