Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries)

by James Runcie

  ‘Injects straight into his arm?’ Keating cut in.

  ‘I leave you to fill in the blanks. You don’t need me to tell you about that kind of thing.’

  There was a pause that Sidney soon remedied. ‘A long time ago, you told me that birds are your favourite form of taxidermy. “They die so beautifully,” you said. I wondered if you could help us consider the implications of one element of this case. Dead doves have been left on my doorstep. Do you think that this particular choice of birds is significant?’

  ‘As a portent or warning, you mean? I would have thought a raven might have more significance. Or a bird of prey – a falcon, for example, or even a vulture.’

  ‘They may not be so easy to come by.’

  Inspector Keating stopped his pacing round the room. ‘Have any of your animals gone missing recently?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Is your brother homosexual?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I just need to know.’

  ‘We don’t talk about things like that.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘That is none of your business.’

  ‘Neither of you are married.’ Keating continued.

  ‘That does not make us homosexual . . .’

  ‘I am aware of that.’

  ‘What am I being accused of?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I would like a lawyer if you are going to question me in this way . . .’

  ‘We are not accusing you of anything, Mr Benson . . .’

  ‘But you are asking leading questions. I prefer to live on my own without men or women. It is easier that way: protection from the false hopes and disappointments of love.’

  ‘And you have been let down in the past?’

  ‘My mother left my father. It broke his heart. Ever since then I swore that such a thing would never happen to me. Solitude makes life safer.’

  ‘You don’t feel that you are missing out?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘And your brother is the same?’

  ‘I cannot speak for him. I’ve told you.’

  Sidney was wondering where all this was leading but before they had finished what was intended to be a full interrogation Inspector Keating glanced at the clock and announced that he had to leave. He had an important meeting to attend. Sidney had assumed they would discuss matters informally in the pub and was therefore surprised by his friend’s imminent departure. As soon as they had left the room he asked Keating the obvious question. ‘Who are you going to see?’

  ‘Never you mind. In any case, it won’t take long.’ Keating smiled unconvincingly. ‘I’ll see you in the Eagle later on.’

  ‘But we haven’t finished the Benson interview . . .’

  ‘You get the pints in. I’ll worry about the investigation.’

  Sidney walked out of the police station and made his way towards Corpus to call in on some friends, but found himself waylaid by a chance encounter with the Inspector’s wife outside the butcher’s shop. Cathy Keating was a dark, handsome woman with a natural authority, taller than her husband, a fact only accentuated by her beehive hairdo, and cheekbones that were almost as high as her heels. Every time Sidney met her he was reminded both why his friend had so many children and, at the same time, why he spent so much time away from home. The woman was simultaneously attractive and terrifying.

  ‘I’m surprised that you’re so out and about after the recent murder, Canon Chambers. I would have thought you might want to stay indoors until the culprit is brought to justice.’

  ‘We cannot live in fear.’

  ‘And a low profile doesn’t really suit you, does it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You like to be at the centre of things. Are you going my way?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I thought I’d look in at Corpus.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk with you to the end of Pembroke Street. Have you been seeing my husband again?’

  ‘I hope you don’t disapprove of our friendship?’

  ‘Of course not. He enjoys your company. It keeps him out of the house. Although I didn’t know you were now meeting him twice a week. Tuesdays as well as Thursdays.’

  Sidney was about to say, ‘I’m not’, when he realised what was going on. Geordie was expecting him to cover his meetings with Miss Randall. ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘You mean you are not?’

  ‘I don’t think we had quite settled on making it a regular thing.’

  ‘Are you hiding something from me? What plans are you two cooking up?’

  ‘Nothing more than the usual.’

  ‘That’s often too much. I know about the journalist, if that’s what you’re worried about. I can tell she’s trouble and I’ve warned Geordie that I’ll change the locks and boot him out if there’s any nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll ever come to that.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be so daft but I don’t like people talking.’

  ‘I understand, Mrs Keating.’

  ‘He says she’s helpful. I know he just likes being with a pretty girl. It’s hard when you’ve got three children and you feel yourself getting older. Sometimes I think I can’t keep up. Men assume they get more attractive as they get older. Perhaps it’s just a question of confidence. Some people find certainty alluring, don’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they do.’

  ‘But you’re not that confident, are you, Mr Chambers?’

  ‘I try to be so about my faith.’

  ‘But you are reluctant to judge. You like to give people the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘I hope I do.’

  ‘And do you think the best of that girl? Tell me truly.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘You don’t like her either?’

  ‘I’d rather not answer that question, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘That means you don’t. Will you tell him?’

  ‘I think it would be better if he found out for himself.’

  ‘I don’t want him making a fool of himself,’ Cathy continued.

  ‘Perhaps if we allow events to take their course, common sense will prevail. You see, this is a tricky situation.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘I mean the case. The murders. There is evil involved. I don’t think either Miss Randall nor your husband know exactly what we are up against and there’s certainly no time for distractions. We’ll be too busy to go to the pub or worry about gossip. They’re underestimating everything.’

  ‘But if the devil makes work for idle hands . . .’

  ‘Then the way to combat him is to make those hands less idle and fight evil with all the strength that we can muster.’

  They had arrived at the turn into Trumpington Street where their paths diverged. ‘You’re a good man,’ said Cathy Keating before leaning forward and giving her confidant an unexpected peck on the cheek.

  Sidney collected his post from the Porters’ Lodge, looked it through and then proceeded to the Eagle, where he intended to question his friend. Inspector Keating was, however, properly preoccupied. A decapitated blackbird had been left outside Helena Randall’s front door.

  ‘She’s frightened, Sidney. She needs a bit of comfort.’

  ‘That is bad. But you’ll have to work out how much comfort you are prepared to provide.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man, she’s a worried woman.’

  ‘We mustn’t be distracted.’

  ‘I’ve already told you. Miss Randall is a help and not a hindrance. She is a vulnerable young girl and a material witness. How many people do you know who have had dead blackbirds left on their doorstep? And dead doves too, for that matter? Look what happened after you found them.’

  ‘We don’t know the birds are connected with murder.’

  ‘I don’t know how much more evidence we need to draw that conclusion.’

  ‘Nothing more has happened since the blackbi
rd was found. And I still think it’s a mistake to see too much of Miss Randall.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a matter of reputation. You don’t want to be seen with her in off-duty situations that might be compromising. Your wife . . .’

  ‘What’s Cathy got to do with it?’

  Sidney realised he had put his foot in it and that it was now too late to retract. Why had he brought Geordie’s wife into the conversation?

  ‘She’s worried,’ he answered, rather too firmly, remembering how his father had once told him to be particularly emphatic when you already know that you are in the wrong.

  ‘Have you been talking to my wife?’

  ‘I bumped into her outside the butcher’s.’

  ‘That’s very convenient.’

  ‘It was a coincidence, I can assure you. We had a very good chat.’

  ‘My marriage is private, Sidney, as is yours,’ Keating snapped. ‘That’s one thing I can teach you: stay out of any relationship that’s not your own. You never know what goes on in other people’s bedrooms and never will. What we have to do is solve this bloody case before it gets even more out of hand than it is already.’ He slapped a half-crown on the bar. ‘Now get me a pint, for God’s sake, and have one yourself. You look like you need it and we have to sort this out.’

  Later that evening, as Sidney cycled slowly back to Grantchester, he considered the choice of birds in the case. Dead doves could simply be a warning of a shattered peace. Surely, he thought, a raven should have been next, the bird that never returned to Noah’s ark, scavenger of carrion, and, in some cultures, the ghost of a murder victim. So, why a blackbird? And did it provide any clues as to who might be the next victim? A journalist perhaps, since his own warning placement of doves had preceded the death of Philip Agnew, a man in the same profession as Sidney. He decided to make a few enquiries about the editor of the Cambridge Evening News and, even though he knew such thoughts were despicable, he might also find out if the man was married. Although he did not like Patrick Harland’s insinuations, he could not ignore them, especially if a hatred of homosexuals were to prove a motive for murder.

  Hildegard was working her way through a particularly stormy bit of Beethoven when he arrived home and Sidney was just thinking that it would be safest to let her get on with it and tiptoe to his study when she stopped playing and called him into the drawing-room.

  She did not move from the piano. Her hands lay on the silent keys and she stared at him over the music rest as he stood in the doorway. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  ‘I was a little delayed coming home.’

  ‘So . . . have you walked Dickens?’

  ‘No. Why? Have you?’

  ‘I just want to know what you have been doing?’

  ‘I’ve been out and about. The usual things. I can’t really remember all the details but I’m home now. There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘Don’t be evasive. I just want to know where you have been this evening?’

  ‘I was with Geordie. You know that.’

  ‘The whole time?’

  ‘Yes, just about.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone else?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Sidney, I want you to think very hard about this.’

  ‘I’ve got so much else to worry about. There have been developments.’

  ‘You can say that again. What were you doing with Mrs Keating?’

  ‘Oh, that? I just met her outside the butcher’s. It was nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? I think you gave her a little kiss.’

  ‘She gave me one. I haven’t done anything wrong, Hildegard.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  Sidney hesitated. ‘I suppose someone has said something. Is this Mrs Maguire being helpful?’

  ‘I’m grateful to her. She saw it all.’

  ‘It was a peck on the cheek, nothing more.’

  ‘People will talk.’

  ‘I could hardly cut her dead. Besides, it is my job to give pastoral care.’

  ‘When people are sick and distressed. There’s nothing wrong with Cathy Keating.’

  ‘You are right. There isn’t.’

  ‘Then why did she kiss you?’

  ‘Because I promised to help her. It’s difficult to explain, my darling.’

  ‘Have a try.’

  ‘I’m worried about Geordie, if you must know. He seems to have taken a shine to a local journalist.’

  ‘The one I met?’

  ‘Yes. Helena Randall.’

  ‘His wife is more attractive.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I think.’

  Hildegard smiled at her husband. He had walked right into her trap. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she asked.

  Dickens brought them his favourite shoe, then his old red sock and finally his squeaky rabbit, forcing the couple to think of other things and take him for a brief walk to the end of the road and back, before the ritual of evening cocoa.

  All was calm once more, and Hildegard had gone up to bed when the fragile peace of the vicarage was broken by a knock on the door from a police officer. He had time for neither friendliness nor formality. Earlier that evening, the body of another clergyman, Isaiah Shaw, had been discovered on Jesus Green. At first it appeared that it was suicide. He had hung himself from a tree. Then the same hatched stab marks were found on his chest: the mark of the beast.

  Sidney asked for a few moments alone before accompanying the police officer to the station. He went upstairs, kissed his sleeping wife, and left her a note in case she woke up.

  Even though it was almost midnight, he wanted to pray before he did anything else. He knelt briefly at his prie-dieu and remembered the dead.

  Isaiah Shaw had been a studious, hard-working clergyman with skeletal features, a slightly hooked nose, and dark recessed eyes that gave the appearance of never seeing daylight. He was a somewhat tortured man who was perhaps too sensitive to his own flaws, and who took to the bottle when he worried how far he fell short of living in God’s image. He felt the cold easily, complained of poor circulation and was well known in clerical circles for greeting friends and neighbours with ‘the icy hand of doom’. This was unfortunate because although he had neither small talk nor a sense of humour, preferring books to people, Sidney recognised that Isaiah’s heart was in the right place and that his patient, prayerful worship of God and the saving of souls was far more important than easy popularity.

  He had also had his troubles: a dead wife (cancer at thirty-two) and an estranged son who worked as a builder, with no interest in his father’s vocation to the point where Isaiah had once confessed to Sidney that he was not sure if he had ever been ‘the right father for the boy’.

  Sidney was desperately sad as he made his way to the police station to talk to Inspector Keating. He was then asked if he wanted any protection. ‘There’s a full-scale manhunt for Jimmy Benson on now and we have to remember that he’s met you already and knows where you live. The doves were an omen. The blackbird was a warning. Miss Randall has been provided with an officer of her own. I could give you one of my constables.’

  ‘That would look like favouritism. You can’t protect every priest.’

  ‘But you have been warned specifically, Sidney. There were dead doves outside your door. It would give Hildegard some reassurance.’

  ‘I think a police presence might alarm her even more.’

  ‘I will need to know where you are at all times.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too hard.’

  ‘And I’ll certainly ask my men to keep a look-out. I don’t want to lose you, Sidney.’

  ‘Or anybody else, for that matter. This is evil, Geordie, pure evil.’

  The following evening, Sidney confided his darkest anxieties to his curate. He did not want to appear frightened in front of his wife or his parishioners but he was fearful none the less. ‘Perhaps this is something we can’t ever fully comprehend, Leonard; evil without any
rational explanation.’

  ‘I am never quite sure, Sidney, if people are wicked from birth or if they become so. I’m interested in how the good can turn or become possessed.’

  ‘Or if evil can be disguised or hidden beneath an apparent normality; that humanity pivots between the two.’

  ‘“This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill, cannot be good.”’

  ‘Macbeth. Exactly.’

  Hildegard called out that supper was nearly ready. If the men could come and lay the table that would be helpful.

  Leonard continued. ‘I have always been interested in the theory that we are not made in God’s image at all. Instead we are deliberately created incomplete.’

  ‘That is not the traditional Augustinian position, of course,’ Sidney pointed out. ‘As you recall, according to the great church father, we are creatures who have sinned, whether literally or metaphorically, thereby disrupting God’s plans. We have fallen from grace.’

  ‘But if we are now born sinners, if we have already sinned, why then should each generation be punished for the wickedness of their fathers, yea, even unto the end of time?’

  Sidney thought for a minute. ‘Because it underpins the idea of redemption.’

  ‘But why should we have to redeem ourselves? Are not human beings created innocent rather than sinners?’

  ‘As you know, there is an alternative argument.’

  ‘I remember this from theological college; it’s the idea that we are created neither innocent nor guilty but immature, and yet to be fully formed. One has to decide if human beings were once good (and have fallen) or if they have yet to be good? Perhaps this life is not meant to be lived as punishment for the evils of the past (and therefore is our chance to make amends) but is, instead, a vale of soul-making that offers us the chance to evolve into goodness? In this tradition, humankind is still in the process of creation. We look forwards to a future life instead of backwards to a life for which we must atone. Life becomes a classroom, or a laboratory, in which we acquire moral discipline as we live, testing both good and evil.’