by James Runcie
Inspector Keating admired her ‘critical intelligence’ (she could, apparently, grasp things before anyone else did) and he was happy to admit that her attractiveness to him resided both in her resemblance to the great Waterhouse painting The Lady of Shalott and in her ability to listen with what appeared to be rapt admiration to everything he said.
Sidney acknowledged that it was unchristian of him to harbour such dislike but there was something about her voice (simultaneously too high and too flat), her unconvincing laughter and her wheedling manner that got his goat. His distrust was compounded by the fact that he suspected that she didn’t like him. Keating had confessed that she had already asked several times what on earth a priest was doing involving himself in criminal affairs and ‘getting in the way of professionals who knew better’.
His friend said that he had defended Sidney. ‘Of course I put her right as soon as she started on that line of thinking.’
‘But did you hesitate at all? Did you give her cause to think you might agree, perhaps?’
‘Not at all. Don’t be so touchy. She’s a bright girl.’
Sidney did not think that he was the one being touchy. Now that he was more experienced as both a married man and a priest, he had learned to detect the danger signs at both the beginning and the end of relationships; a look that was held too long at the start and then not at all when a couple were hardly speaking; quiet intimacies such as a covert touch or glance; the public sharing of food, crossword puzzles and wine glasses; and the difference between a companionable and a hostile silence. The fact that Keating had not referred to Helena’s quiet brushing away of the dog hair had made it obvious that they were on dangerously familiar terms and Sidney knew he was going to have to be ever vigilant if he was to protect his friend from the destructive foolishness of an affair.
He spoke to Geordie about his encounters with both of the Benson brothers and was surprised by the ferocity of the response.
‘Why didn’t you tell me straight away?’
‘You were otherwise engaged.’
‘That is nonsense, Sidney.’
‘And I believe there is nothing to suggest that Jimmy Benson is the homeless stranger who was seen near the Agnew vicarage.’
‘He is a vagrant . . .’
‘He is a jazz musician.’
‘That is almost the same thing.’
‘It certainly is not.’
‘So where do you think your wandering minstrel is now?’
‘I think he is en route to Birmingham.’
‘You mean he’s left the crime scene already?’
‘I don’t think he’s committed any crime.’
‘That’s for me to judge.’
‘Technically it’s for a judge to judge.’
‘You might at least have let me get the cut of his jib.’
‘I will ask Jerome Benson when his brother is coming back.’
‘No, Sidney, we will ask that question. I’ll send the boys round right now. It may not be too late. Honestly, you’ve been very slow about this man. Helena was on to it like a flash. She must have asked every member of the congregation of the Round Church if they’d seen anything suspicious. It’s good to have her as an unofficial member of my team. She keeps everyone on their toes.’
‘So you will be involving Miss Randall in your investigation?’
‘I’d like to keep her on my side. Besides, she is as entitled to follow the case as you are.’
‘I only hope she does not prove a distraction to your work on it, Geordie.’
‘You don’t need to concern yourself about that.’
‘I think you should be very careful in your dealings with her.’
‘I am.’
‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘Perhaps not. It’s only that, well, to be honest, there are times when I must confess that I do need a bit of cheering up.’
‘I thought that was my job.’
‘Of course it is. But female company does have its charms, Sidney, as you well know. I get so discouraged these days. It’s just one thing after another and then, when I go home, it’s more of the same. Noise, arguments, nagging; children wanting things all the time; there’s no peace. Family life is more exhausting than work.’
‘Really?’
‘You’ll find out about all that soon enough. I just think I need a bit of a treat from time to time; a little holiday from everything that’s going on in my life. And Helena’s very easy on the eye, Sidney. I bet you’ve spotted that.’
‘I only have eyes for my wife.’
‘Give it a year or two and you may change your tune.’
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘Then I look forward to seeing whether you’re proved right or not.’
Sidney was not in the best of spirits when he returned home. He told Hildegard that Geordie had undermined his confidence and that he had felt like a gooseberry in Helena’s presence.
His wife did not understand the term and so he tried to explain. ‘I think the phrase originated in the nineteenth century when a chaperone accompanied two lovers into the garden and was supposed to pick gooseberries while the couple did whatever they had to do; in France the best man had to “tenir la chandelle”, to light the way for newlyweds. I wonder if there is a German equivalent.’
‘Yes, there is something like that: “drittes rad am wagen,”’ Hildegard answered. ‘It’s like being the extra wheel on a cart. It’s not needed. You felt like that when you were with them? Is Inspector Keating keen on this woman? I can’t understand what he sees in her.’
‘Youth. Attention.’
‘Is that what most men want?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Hildegard. My only contentment is with you.’
‘That is a good answer. We don’t have any need for gooseberries in this house.’
The telephone rang. It was Keating. They had gone to the taxidermist’s but Jimmy Benson had fled. Someone had evidently tipped him off, Geordie was certain. ‘Could it have been you, Sidney?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I was just checking that the comfort you give to the afflicted does not involve helping them resist arrest.’
‘You were going to arrest him?’
‘We were going to call him in for questioning. Now his behaviour is even more suspicious. He’s a fugitive.’
‘Perhaps he is frightened.’
‘How do you think he knew we were coming?’
‘His brother probably advised him to leave pretty quickly. He knows how easily loners and outsiders get blamed for things they have not done.’
‘Only if there’s a good reason. Strong evidence.’
‘That is not always the case. Sometimes they’re made scapegoats. We can’t be at all sure Jimmy Benson has anything to do with the Agnew murder. You can’t assume a man is guilty just because he likes jazz and lives the life of a drifter.’
‘What did he say to you? Did he ask you for money?’
‘He knows he’s unlikely to get much off a priest.’
‘You lot are a soft touch, though. And there’s always a bit of silver in the church.’
‘It’s mainly plate.’
‘He might not know that.’
‘I don’t think he’s our man.’
‘But you can’t know that, can you, Sidney? Miss Randall is convinced we should follow it up.’
‘And does she have any expertise in criminal investigation?’
‘No more than you.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true.’
‘She wants to be a crime reporter. I’ve already said she can follow the case, as you know.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be glad of your company.’
‘That is none of your business.’
‘It’s never quite clear what’s my business and what is not,’ Sidney replied.
‘My friend, it may have escaped your notice but we have a murder victim – a man of God, like yourself – and now we have a s
uspect on the run. There’s enough to worry about without you casting any aspersions about Miss Randall’s motives for helping me. Perhaps you’re just jealous.’
‘For heaven’s sake, it’s not that at all . . .’ Sidney began but the Inspector had put down the receiver.
Philip Agnew’s funeral took place in the middle of June. It was a hot, dry and airless day, as if the life had been sucked out of it. There was no breeze, simply the remorseless heat and the threaded hum of a town that stopped only briefly to acknowledge the arrival of the coffin and the shock of a murder.
The congregation was filled with priests who had known, respected and loved the victim, and there was an uneasy solemnity to the occasion. Sidney took the service, assisted by both Leonard Graham and Patrick Harland, the lay-reader who had sat beside them in Coventry only a few weeks previously. Harland was a small thin man with quick-moving eyes, dressed in a cheap suit that had started to shine at the knees and elbows and whose pockets had slackened. He prepared for the service with meticulous attention to every detail of the liturgy. Sidney wondered why he had never become a priest.
‘He gave up his training after a year,’ Leonard explained. ‘I think he found the academic side a bit too taxing after the excitement of divine revelation. But he’s a good sort even if he is prone to certainty.’
‘We all know what an error that can be,’ Sidney replied.
He decided that his sermon would reflect on Philip Agnew’s goodness in the face of evil. He would talk about how a God of Love could have allowed something so terrible to happen. One had to make a distinction between moral evil (that human beings originate) and natural evil such as disease, flood and earthquake. Sidney began to argue, as he had done before, that the problem of goodness was just as intractable as the problem of evil. In the words of the old Latin phrase: ‘Si Deus est, unde malum? Si non est, unde bonum?’ He was even tempted to leave his Latin untranslated but he knew that Mrs Maguire and some of the regulars would be in the congregation, and it would not be fair to show off his donnish capabilities in her presence. ‘If there is a God, why is there evil? If there is not, why is there good?’ The mystery of evil was complex upon the basis of a good God, but the mystery of goodness was, he suggested, impossible on the basis of no God.
‘That was very thought-provoking,’ Patrick Harland told him after the service. Sidney thought there was a slightly patronising tone to his voice but told himself not to be over-sensitive.
‘Of course it’s such a terrible loss. Agnew was a good man. Sometimes naive, of course . . .’
‘Goodness and naivety often go together, I find,’ Sidney replied. ‘The holiest men are often thought simple.’
Leonard hung up his robe, glanced at both men and muttered something about Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot before leaving the vestry to meet some friends. Sidney, who wondered how keenly Harland might really be feeling about the loss of Agnew’s fellowship, took the opportunity to ask how often he helped out at the Round Church and whether he had seen the victim on the day he had died.
‘A few hours before. He was talking to one of those waifs and strays who always want money. So many of them do. I think it’s better to give them food. You know they’re only going to drink any cash. You might as well throw it all into the lavatory.’
‘Have you told the police this?’
‘I didn’t think that it would make much difference to their line of enquiry.’
‘They haven’t interviewed you?’
‘I have been away for a few days.’
‘You could at least have provided a description.’
‘There were so many of them. Mr Agnew was always entertaining strangers.’
‘I’m not sure I would refer to it as “entertaining”.’
‘They stayed long enough.’
Sidney pressed. ‘About the visitor that you saw on the day of Philip’s death . . .’
‘He looked very much as they all do. He was very thin and he had a loping gait. You would think that he had become so adept at asking for money that his features had fixed into a permanently servile humility. It was not attractive.’
‘But this man might either be responsible for Philip’s death or know something very important. We have to find him.’
‘I don’t think that’s our job.’
‘It is our duty to share any knowledge with the police. I must insist that you tell my friend Inspector Keating what you know.’
‘Very well. But I fear we may be barking up the wrong tree. Rather like your dog, I should imagine.’
‘Dickens doesn’t bark very often. Only when he senses something is very wrong.’
‘Perhaps he is like his master in that respect, Canon Chambers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to the candles and check the hassocks are all in the right place. I like to leave things tidy. Good day to you.’
‘Mr Harland, you seem to be reluctant to confront some aspects of the way in which our poor friend Philip left this world. What is on your mind, I wonder?’
‘Not at all. I merely ask myself if the crime was not perhaps sexually motivated in some way. You know that Mr Agnew was a confirmed bachelor. He never married.’
‘But that does not make him a homosexual.’
‘We all know that he was.’
‘I always think it’s better not to ask,’ Sidney replied.
‘Canon Chambers, for a man of such curiosity you seem very squeamish about things that might matter.’
‘I don’t see how this could possibly be construed as a sexually motivated crime and this is hardly the place to be talking about it.’
‘Then I apologise, Canon Chambers. I was merely making a suggestion.’
‘However, I do not shy away from pursuing questions that may lead to some kind of truth. Did Philip Agnew have any particular friends?’
‘No. I rather think that was the problem. Because there was not one person, there were many.’
‘I’m not sure how you can know that.’
‘Trust me, Canon Chambers. I do.’
The next day, Helena Randall stopped Sidney in the street. She wanted his thoughts, both on the murder and on the missing vagrant. He told her firmly that he was not ready to share them because he was inwardly uncertain if this was a deliberate crime against a possibly homosexual priest, or a consciously misleading suggestion by Patrick Harland who might, or might not, have been a spurned lover himself.
‘And so,’ Sidney replied, ‘I don’t think I can have much to offer Inspector Keating. In any case, I think we are both peripheral figures in his life . . .’
‘You may be, Canon Chambers, but I am not. It’s my job to report. It’s Inspector Keating’s to investigate and solve the case. Perhaps you could remind me of your vocation?’
‘I am helping a friend . . .’
‘And so am I.’
‘I worry that in so doing you may, in fact, be distracting him.’
‘You’re being very solicitous.’
‘I don’t want to intrude . . .’
‘You are intruding. But there’s no need for you to worry about Geordie and me. There’s nothing going on, you know. It’s only a bit of fun.’
Sidney remembered being with a London girl, Janet, during the war before he went off to fight. His friends had told him that he could not die without knowing a woman first. Then Janet had said the same thing. He shouldn’t worry about making love to her. It was ‘only a bit of fun’.
It was so long ago and he had never told anyone about it. He wondered what had happened to her: if she still lived in the East End, if she had survived the Blitz, if she was perhaps married with three children, or if she was alive at all.
Helena looked at him quizzically and he realised he had repeated the words ‘only a bit of fun’ out loud. She shrugged and turned away. Sidney watched her go, and then pushed his bike forward into the road, towards home.
He missed Hildegard, though it wasn’t even lunchtime. He remembered her coming naked to bed th
e previous night and saying, ‘Don’t look at me. I’m shy.’
‘I can’t help it,’ Sidney had replied. ‘It’s the best bit of the day.’
That afternoon, Jerome Benson was taken to St Andrew’s Street police station and questioned about his brother’s disappearance. Despite the heat he had persisted in wearing his hunting clothes. He would not sit down or accept a glass of water and it was clear that he did not intend to be persecuted on account of his profession or appearance. After a series of ‘No Comments’ he finally snapped, ‘I don’t know why you are asking me all these questions. I am not my brother’s keeper.’
Keating remained unusually patient. ‘We need to know where your brother might have gone . . .’
‘He told the clergyman Birmingham . . .’
‘Do you believe he has got anything against priests?’
‘No more than most people.’
‘You think most people don’t value priests?’ Sidney asked.
‘They are tolerated. I don’t think many people take what you do seriously. Look at how much spare time you have to go meddling in other people’s lives . . .’
‘I don’t see it as meddling.’
‘Well, I do. My brother and I have done nothing wrong. We’re both pretty anti-social . . . a bit misanthropic, I suppose, as you may have noticed; and we are likely to become more so after all this.’
Keating began to pace around the room, leaving Sidney to continue with the questioning. ‘Your brother is a jazz musician?’
‘That is no insurance against misanthropy.’
‘But he gets out and about. He goes on tour. He plays nightclubs. People applaud . . .’
‘And then he has to face himself again when all the clapping stops. We are both prone to depression, if you must know. Jimmy has more ups and downs than I do. But that is probably because he uses chemicals rather differently. I use them for my taxidermy whereas he . . .’
