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

by James Runcie

‘I’m sure you are a better judge of that than I am, Mr Delfino. Will I be seeing you on the set before filming comes to an end?’

  ‘I won’t leave Miss Manners,’ the dresser replied. ‘She’s never calm when she’s working. And I wouldn’t like anything else to happen to her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s suffered enough. She needs protecting.’

  ‘Really?’ Sidney asked. ‘I would have thought that she was more than capable of looking after herself.’

  ‘Well that’s just where you might be wrong, Canon Chambers.’

  Sidney felt distinctly uneasy when he returned to the vicarage. That had not been a satisfactory conversation at all. He felt that although people were telling him things, they weren’t telling him the right things. Everything was happening in front of his nose, but nothing was clear. Perhaps he was reading too much into the situation but he could not help but feel that Robert Vaizey’s death had been staged in some way. It had been too melodramatic, and too obvious.

  He had just poured himself a whisky and was about to settle in his favourite armchair when he remembered that Dickens had failed to greet him on his homecoming. This was out of character. Sidney’s fears were confirmed when he returned to the kitchen and saw his beloved Labrador in his basket, shivering under his blanket.

  Sidney crouched down and stroked his back and then the fur at the scruff of his neck.

  ‘What’s wrong, old boy? Have you got a chill?’

  Dickens gave him a mournful look but would not meet his eye. ‘Why are you putting me through this?’ he seemed to be asking. ‘What have I done wrong? I have been good and true and faithful and now I don’t know what is happening to me, or why I am suffering, or how long this will last.’

  Hildegard walked into the kitchen and saw Sidney kneeling beside his dog. ‘Robert Vaizey may not be the only victim of this sorry situation,’ she said.

  She told her husband that she had already telephoned Mandy Cartwright to ask for her advice and that the prospects were not good. They should prepare for the worst.

  Filming resumed a few days later. There were just a few scenes left to cover but each one took an age. Although the local publicans were happy with the increase in revenue, Sidney wished the crew would just leave and let the people of Grantchester get on with their lives.

  The next scene was supposed to be a straightforward interior, where Roger de la Tour, as Lord Peter Wimsey, had to bring in the cipher that would lead to the discovery of the emerald necklace in the church rafters. Theodore Venables then had to explain to him that the cryptogram was related to change ringing and the Book of Psalms.

  Sidney’s lines were tricky and he kept fluffing his longest speech:

  ‘It’s composed of verses from three psalms. Most singular. “He sitteth between the cherubims”; that’s Psalm 94 Verse 1. Then “The isles may be glad thereof.” That’s Psalm 97. Both those psalms begin alike: “Dominus regnavit”, “The Lord is King.’’ And then we get “as the rivers in the south”. That’s Psalm 126 Verse 5. “In convertendo”, “When the Lord turned the captivity of Sion”. This is a case of obscurum per obscuriora – the interpretation is even more perplexing than the cipher.’

  How was Sidney supposed to remember all of this? The language was almost deliberately obtuse in its construction. He kept thinking of his dear old dog until he was so distracted that he could hardly concentrate.

  After this last scene with Veronica Manners he took the opportunity to say farewell. ‘Will you be going back to London?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I can return to our house. It won’t be the same without Robert. Thank you again for the funeral.’

  ‘I’m happy to have been of service.’

  ‘And I’m glad that you’re a better priest than you are an actor.’

  ‘Ah. So are you saying I’m not a very good actor?’

  ‘No, I’m saying you’re an excellent priest. Just don’t let it go to your head.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that.’

  ‘There’s no room for complacency, Sidney. Once you’ve got a taste for an audience, you find that you want one all the time. It’s how we actors keep going.’

  ‘It’s been brave of you to stay.’

  ‘You know what they say. “The show must go on.’’ Besides, what have I got to go home to now?’

  ‘Your husband’s dresser told me that he has plans to look after you.’

  ‘Ray Delfino? I don’t think that’s a possibility.’

  ‘He was very close to your husband.’

  ‘Not in any physical way, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. He’s very concerned about you. Particularly protective, I should say.’

  ‘Well that’s very kind of him, I’m sure. But I think I can do without a dresser in my own home.’

  ‘I’m sure you can.’

  ‘Do let me know if you’re ever in London, Sidney. Come and see me in a show. I think I might be doing a bit of Ibsen.’

  ‘Won’t that be rather gloomy, Miss Manners?’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve just had the perfect preparation.’

  Later that day, Roger de la Tour popped out of his dressing-room. He was still in his costume. ‘Coming for a drink, Sidney old boy?’ He spoke as if he was still playing the part of Peter Wimsey and the elision between illusion and reality continued some half an hour later in the Eagle when the two men bumped into Geordie Keating.

  ‘This is too much for my brain to comprehend,’ the Inspector railed. ‘I now have a clergyman who helps me in my inquiries, and an actor who plays an amateur sleuth. That’s two of you doing my job. I want it acknowledged that I am the real detective round here.’

  Roger de la Tour consoled him. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, we are all off duty now.’

  Sidney and Geordie looked at each other and replied simultaneously: ‘We are never off duty.’

  They settled by the fire with their pints. ‘Poor old Balfour,’ Roger began. ‘People are saying he should have done more. He could have pulled Robert to safety.’

  ‘I don’t think he saw where he’d got to in the water,’ said Keating.

  ‘He confesses to having kicked him,’ Sidney answered.

  ‘That’s not quite the same as bumping him off, though, is it?’

  ‘I don’t see why he had to do that,’ Roger de la Tour continued. ‘He hardly needed the husband out of the way to carry on with the wife but people are ascribing all sorts of base motives. It’ll be difficult for him to get decent work. Even though he’s got those dark matinée-idol looks and that great sweep of hair, he’ll always be known as the actor who was in an accident with Robert Vaizey. It’ll be the first thing people say about him. “He’s the one that drowned that actor while carrying on with his wife.’’ No one’s going to cast a chap like that any more. And it isn’t even his fault.’

  ‘Well,’ said Keating. ‘I would have to say that I think he’s responsible for the bit about the wife.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve always found that it’s best to stay faithful. Once you start messing around everything spirals out of control,’ Roger replied. ‘I don’t suppose you two men have ever been tempted by other women?’

  The lull in the filming had given Warwick Lyons plenty of time to work on his assembly but when Sidney called to see him he confessed that he was finding the editing of the drowning scene difficult. It was upsetting to keep seeing a man repeatedly die on camera and he still could not distinguish the moment when the performance became reality.

  ‘It looks like he’s acting all the time,’ he told Sidney. ‘I wonder when he knew.’

  ‘Perhaps he never did.’

  ‘The last time he comes up for air he seems to be saying something different. The word isn’t “help” but I can’t quite see what it is. The shot’s too wide at that point and the camera goes in to refocus just after. It might be “help”, of course, and we can try projecting it but
his mouth closes twice so I think the word in question has two syllables.’

  ‘Do you think his foot could have caught on something?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like that.’

  ‘Or that Andy Balfour could have punched him in the stomach on the turn?’

  ‘Like Houdini drowning, you mean?’

  ‘I think that’s a myth but you get the idea. I am not saying that the punch would have been on purpose. That too could have been accidental.’

  ‘Let me play it again. We can check the trim bins as well. It’s all here,’ Warwick Lyons continued. ‘Take hold of the controller. You can stop the film whenever you want. This is neutral. Right to play, left to rewind, you can zip forwards and backwards as well. Think of it as the gearbox to your car.’

  ‘I hope I’m better at this than I am at driving,’ Sidney answered, and he began to play through the scene. This included Dickens waiting by the weir, the fall of the dummy, a surge of water, Andy Balfour diving in and the two men struggling. Sidney stopped the Steenbeck just after the actors had separated from each other.

  ‘We can watch frame by frame.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Sidney.

  They advanced through the images. ‘Vaizey falls away to his left. Do you think that’s the current?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘And then he appears to get sucked down. Do you think the word could be “Heavy”?’

  ‘But why doesn’t he ask to be rescued?’

  ‘Perhaps because he doesn’t yet know he’s drowning.’

  ‘You would expect the coat to flare out as well, wouldn’t you? The tails should be floating on the surface of the water.’

  ‘I think it was quite tightly belted.’

  ‘I wonder why that was? Do you think it could have been deliberate? Is there any sign of him trying to get the coat off?’

  They played on and saw that one arm had become free of its sleeve. Robert Vaizey was, indeed, trying to remove his outer clothing as he drowned.

  ‘I think I need to find that coat,’ said Sidney.

  It was now late April and the film had over-run by two weeks. If there was to be any further investigation they didn’t have much time. As soon as the crew moved out of the village, scattering themselves across the country to their next jobs, the memory of events would fade and it would be harder to get to the truth. Sidney therefore asked Daisy Playfair if she could do him an urgent but secret favour.

  ‘What kind are you after?’ she asked, slipping her arm through his companionably. ‘Nothing too kinky, I hope?’ She was wearing a low-cut white blouse and a black and white mini-skirt.

  ‘No, really, Daisy, this is quite straightforward.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  Sidney explained his need for the coat without giving away his suspicions. The fewer people who knew he was conducting his own unofficial inquiry, the better.

  ‘It’s funny you should ask for that,’ Daisy went on, suddenly serious. ‘I heard one of the wardrobe girls complaining that the coat had gone missing. It was due to be returned to the hire company.’

  ‘Perhaps it was lost in the aftermath of the tragedy?’

  ‘Or it could have been ruined and Wardrobe decided to throw it out.’

  ‘Who would have been the last person to have it?’

  ‘The dresser, I suppose.’

  ‘Ray Delfino?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I wonder if his father supplied the coat?’

  ‘I can find that out for you easily enough. But what do you want to do about it? You’re not going to stir up any trouble, are you? I wouldn’t want anything bad happening to the girls in Wardrobe. They’re decent and they need the work.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true.’

  ‘Although not as nice as me.’ She dazzled Sidney with her smile.

  ‘No, Daisy, that would be impossible.’

  Sidney returned home to find that Dickens was still poorly and Mandy Cartwright was with him. The Labrador’s chill had developed into a kidney infection and she believed, sorrowfully, that he did not have long to live.

  ‘Do you think his time in the water during filming is to blame?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘It did not help. But you know he was getting older and he was a little frail. I shouldn’t have asked you to let him be involved.’

  ‘I’d like to say that I enjoyed it all but that would be a lie. And Dickens hated it, I know.’

  ‘It’s been a tragic few days. Poor Dickens. And I’m sorry for Robert Vaizey. It’s hard to believe it was an accident, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why do you say that, Mandy?’

  ‘Because film people are generally so organised. They plan for every eventuality. You would have thought it more likely that someone had meant it to happen.’

  ‘And who would that someone be, do you think?’

  ‘I know people think it was Andy Balfour. He had a motive, the perfect opportunity and an excuse. He could have rehearsed a few extra moves and disguised his attack underwater. But he’s a gentleman. I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  Sidney remembered Cardinal Newman’s definition of a gentleman as ‘one who inflicts no pain’. Now it was possible that they were dealing with the exact opposite.

  ‘Then who do you think would?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Someone who had other reasons. Someone who wanted, perhaps, to ruin Andy Balfour’s career.’

  They took it in turns to stroke Dickens’s back and massage his legs, placing warm blankets around him. He had given up wanting food and water and was waiting to die. Sidney felt that all he could do now was to stay by the side of his loyal old friend for as long as he needed him.

  The doorbell rang and Sidney assumed it might be the vet but the visitor was none other than Daisy Playfair. She was dropping off the coat Sidney had asked about.

  ‘That is not my husband’s,’ Hildegard was saying.

  ‘It’s the one he asked for.’

  Sidney emerged from the kitchen. ‘It’s all right, Hildegard. Daisy and I . . . we have . . .’ and with Hildegard’s gaze upon him he felt temporarily unable to express what it was they actually did have.

  ‘I’ve been looking after him,’ Daisy explained. ‘Making sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Hildegard asked calmly.

  ‘That’s very kind but I can’t stop. I’m always on the go. Your husband just wanted the coat.’

  ‘You’re a dear,’ said Sidney, letting the coat drop from his hand. ‘It’s lighter than I expected. I thought it would be heavier. Are you sure it’s the right one?’

  ‘It’s labelled with the actor’s name. We always do that.’

  ‘You couldn’t have made a mistake?’

  ‘We don’t make mistakes, Sidney.’ She knelt down to pick up the coat. ‘Look.’

  ‘Curious.’

  ‘I need it before we go, mind, or the girls will have to pay for it. It’s due back at Angels on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll come and find you.’

  ‘You know where I am,’ Daisy smiled.

  Sidney closed the door to meet the quizzical gaze of his wife. ‘That was entertaining. First that woman in the art gallery and now this . . .’

  ‘I like to think of them as my reward for all the elderly spinsters I visit.’

  ‘You haven’t seen many of them lately, Sidney. What are you up to?’

  Derek Jarvis had been the Cambridge coroner for over ten years. Sidney had not liked the man at first, principally because he had a slightly awkward manner and put efficiency before charm, telling him that a clergyman had no place in the world of criminal investigation. He had suggested that Sidney should confine himself to providing consolation after death rather than enquiring why it had happened in the first place.

  However, after a few initial problems, the two men had become firm friends through a mutual love of cricket and fine wine. They also trusted each other’s judgement and Derek Jarv
is had made it clear to Sidney that he no longer considered his semi-professional visits a waste of time.

  ‘You are, however, pushing me on this one, Sidney. The case is considered closed.’

  ‘I know, Derek, but what’s an overcoat between friends?’

  ‘And you’d like my colleagues to take a close look at it without telling anyone else?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Not even Keating?’

  ‘I am more afraid of him than I am of you.’

  ‘That is a lie, Sidney. You just trouble him more frequently.’

  The coroner listened to a further account of the priest’s suspicions and asked if he was to check for evidence of lead weights or any other heavy substance in the lining.

  ‘It looks like the coat has been mended recently, perhaps since the drowning.’

  ‘Well then, this really is a job for Keating’s boys. I would guess a good many people have handled it since the accident.’

  ‘I’d like you to take a look inside,’ Sidney asked, ‘where perhaps only one person has looked before. Because I believe that this coat is nothing less than the murder weapon itself.’

  ‘Unless, of course, we are dealing with an elaborate case of suicide,’ Derek Jarvis answered.

  Sidney was perplexed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  The next few days were awful. Dickens was immobile, his face a mask of canine despair. Sidney and Hildegard took it in turns to massage his legs every few hours but he was pitifully lethargic, his paws were deathly cold, and he had difficulty breathing.

  The vet made a further visit and confirmed that Dickens had had a stroke. There was no hope. He had been a jolly good dog, but he’d had his innings. The kindest thing was to put him to sleep.

  Sidney took time to pause. He remembered his Labrador’s first arrival as a puppy ten years previously, scampering between Mrs Maguire’s legs, confused by the stairs, with the Church Times littered across the kitchen floor in case of accidents, and his new basket by the stove. After his owner’s initial misgivings Sidney had come to depend on this splendid animal; grateful, appreciative and seldom tired, eager for activity, always enthusiastic for the next adventure. Dickens had been Sidney’s daily companion on walks through the town, along the river and across the meadows. He had eaten cake at every fête, been made drunk on beer by mischievous students on Guy Fawkes Night, and once he had somehow managed to drape a bra over his head. On another occasion he had stolen an entire Cheddar from Hildegard’s Women’s Institute picnic; and, on a different summer afternoon, he had run off with a cricket ball as it rolled across the boundary rope to end the match. He had discovered crucial evidence, been a silent presence at murder scenes, had nearly been poisoned and, most recently, almost drowned. His amber eyes were the windows of expectation, his waving tail eternally optimistic. Most importantly he had been Sidney’s friend, teaching him more about loyalty, fidelity, patience and trust than any human being he had known.