by James Runcie
Now it was over.
The vet positioned the syringe over the dog’s leg and slid the needle into the vein. Sidney stroked his beloved Labrador for that last moment, easing him into the next world.
‘Farewell, old man,’ said Sidney. ‘No one could have given more than you have done. What a joy you have been.’
Hildegard laid a hand on Sidney’s shoulder and wept with him. ‘He changed your life, my darling, and he made me welcome too.’
Sidney wondered where in the garden to dig the grave and if the earth would be warmer now that spring was here.
He recalled Kipling’s lines:
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart for a dog to tear.
For the next few days, Sidney’s sorrow could not be alleviated; either by compassionate friends, cheerful company or the warmer change in the weather. His return to daily duties did nothing to improve his mood and the sympathy of his parishioners only made him feel his grief for the loss of Dickens more keenly. Despite the undoubted love of his wife, and his popularity in the village, Sidney felt lonely and restless.
He returned to the Coroner’s Office and Derek Jarvis confirmed that the remains of several hydrating crystals had been discovered in the lining of the coat worn by Robert Vaizey.
Sidney asked, ‘You mean there’s a way of making the coat suddenly heavy in the water?’
‘Very heavy, yes,’ Derek agreed.
Sidney remembered the film sequence in the river and Robert Vaizey calling out.
‘The active agent in those crystals is an absorbent polyacrylamide; a polymer that expands when in contact with water.’
‘How does it work?’
‘It’s called sodium bentonite: it swells up to eighteen times its dry size when saturated.’
‘And it could have been stitched into Vaizey’s coat?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘How quickly does it work?’
‘With that amount of water it would have been a matter of moments. As long as the man was wearing that coat he didn’t have a chance. It would be relevant to know who supplied the coat, who last had it, and why the actor needed to wear it.’
‘May I then suggest that this coat is, in fact, a murder weapon?’
‘You may.’
‘And is it easy to get hold of these crystals?’
‘It’s used as a sealant in the building trade to absorb damp; and gardeners are starting to use hydrogels that swell to many times their original size in order to retain moisture which is then slowly released. It works particularly well in hot weather, not that we have very much of that round here at the moment.’
‘And so anyone with connections to the building or gardening trades would be able to access these chemicals?’
‘Exactly. But not anyone in the film business. Unless, of course, they took a particular interest, or had relations in those trades.’
‘So a special-effects man might know about it?’
‘It’s possible. Or a farmer. Didn’t one of your actors play a rustic?’
‘I don’t think his research would have gone as far as investigating bentonite.’
‘There are different kinds, of course. Calcium bentonite is an active ingredient in Fuller’s earth. It’s also used as a solvent purifier in the dry-cleaning industry.’
‘Dry cleaning! Ray Delfino’s father is a tailor.’
‘Sidney, I think you may be pushing things a bit, even by your standards.’
‘But surely tailors know all about dry cleaning?’
‘I thought they disapproved. A gentleman never has his suit cleaned; only aired and brushed. Those dry-cleaning agents damage the fabric.’
‘But Delfino could have done some research? And he would be able to access the chemicals.’
‘I’m not sure, Sidney. You’d better talk to Keating about this. It’s a long shot but the way you’re going you certainly seem on form. I would never have thought to look at the clothing rather than the man. I presume you are thinking that the murderer removed the swollen crystals from the coat after the deed had been done and re-stitched the lining.’
‘Yes, and thank goodness Daisy found it.’
‘And who is “Daisy”, might I ask?’
‘A very nice make-up artist.’
Derek Jarvis smiled. ‘Really, Sidney, you are incorrigible. By “nice” I presume you mean attractive?’
‘Extraordinarily so, but please don’t tell my wife I said that.’
‘The sooner you get out of this film business, the better. You know how fast those people can be.’
‘The situation is under control, Derek. Daisy is almost young enough to be my daughter. She is simply an invaluable aid who will be leaving the vicinity in the very near future.’
‘And I assume Hildegard has not met her?’
‘Oh but yes! She has indeed. Although it was not a success.’
‘You surprise me, Sidney,’ the coroner answered drily. ‘As you always do.’
For once Geordie Keating needed little persuasion to act and Sidney joined him when they confronted Ray Delfino at his lodgings in Mrs Maguire’s house. The facts of the case were presented to him along with the raincoat.
‘We know your father runs a business in the tailoring, altering and maintenance of high-quality clothing,’ Keating began. ‘We have checked and discovered that he also deals in dry-cleaning techniques. I assume that you yourself know about the chemicals involved and traces of bentonite have been found in Mrs Maguire’s house where you have been lodging for the past month.’
‘Then surely she must be the person who acquired them and used them for her own purposes, I would think.’
‘The traces were found in your room.’
‘You should have got a warrant. It is my room.’
‘It is not. You are merely renting it. We did not need a warrant. Mrs Maguire was happy to allow the search.’
‘You are linking the discovery of bentonite with Robert Vaizey’s death?’
‘The same chemical that was found in the raincoat involved in the drowning.’
‘Then why was it not heavy afterwards?’
‘Because you removed the bentonite from the lining and sewed it back up again. Only a few traces remained.’
‘But enough for you to come up with this ludicrous theory, I imagine.’
‘You admit that you supplied the coat.’
‘It came from Angels. And I did not murder Robert Vaizey.’
Faced with this outright denial, Keating paused in his questioning. Sidney had been watching in silence but now found himself asking: ‘Why should we believe you?’
‘Let me tell you another version of the story. It’s about an unhappy man who takes his own life. He knows his wife is about to leave him and he can’t bear to live without her. He hates her lover. And so he arranged his own death in such a way that her lover would be blamed. He dies knowing that Andy Balfour will be found culpable and will spend the rest of his life in prison. This is his revenge; to remove both men from the life of Veronica Manners and leave her with her fading beauty and her failing career.’
‘There is no evidence that Robert Vaizey was unhappy,’ Sidney said.
‘He was an actor. How can you tell? Actors can deceive most people; even you, Canon Chambers.’
‘His wife says she loved him,’ Sidney replied.
‘And you believe her?’
‘I do. She may once have been a great beauty but I don’t think she’s ever been a good liar. I do believe her, as a matter of fact; and I don’t believe you, Mr Delfino.’
Ray Delfino turned to Keating. ‘I don’t know how you are going to prove anything at all.’
A few hours after they had left, and after a lengthy consultation, Veronica Manners found her way to the very same lodgings in Barnton Road. She asked Mrs Maguire if she could talk to the dresser.
Ray Delfino was surprised by the visit. ‘I thought you had gone back to London. We have
wrapped.’
Veronica spoke with a determined calmness of tone. ‘I am aware of that but I just hoped to go over a few things. I know you were close to Robert and I wanted to thank you for all that you have done for him.’
‘It has been a terrible tragedy.’
‘It has indeed, Ray. What are your plans for the future?’
‘I was thinking that I might work for you.’
‘That might be possible but I would like to know why. There are so many up-and-coming actors and actresses you could work for instead of me. Talent with the future all before them. You don’t want to hitch your wagon to a falling star.’
‘You will never fade, Miss Manners; and you will always be a star.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘It’s what I believe.’
‘And I am grateful. But something puzzles me, Mr Delfino.’
‘And what is that?’
‘It’s about my husband’s coat.’
‘What about it?’
‘You removed it after his death.’
‘I returned it to Wardrobe, as was my duty.’
‘But there was a delay . . .’
‘No more than usual.’
‘But I have a problem, Mr Delfino, and it’s a very grave one.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I think that coat may have killed my husband.’
‘I don’t know how you can say such a thing.’
‘It was all arranged to look like an accident.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘And it could have been someone like you that did it: someone who treated the coat and weighed it down.’
Veronica Manners held her gaze and waited for Ray Delfino’s reply.
‘If I did such a thing, and I am not saying that I did, then it was for you, Miss Manners.’
‘And why would anyone do that?’
‘Because you were not, and are not, happy.’
Veronica bristled. ‘Who are you to tell me whether I am content or not?’
‘You were having an affair. That means your marriage was unhappy.’
‘Having an affair and being in a happy marriage are not necessarily contradictory, Mr Delfino. A woman can be merely bored or lonely.’
‘You didn’t love Mr Balfour?’
‘Of course not. Although it’s no business of yours.’
‘I saw the way that you looked at each other.’
‘You are a very naive young man. Passion generally dwindles. Some of it is fantasy and that, too, goes all too quickly. Mr Balfour made me feel alive at one transient moment in time; he let me believe that I had retained my allure. It never meant that I wanted to leave my husband.’
‘But by your actions . . .’
‘What are actions, Mr Delfino? What do you think we mean by the word? It is mostly impulse. I’m sick of the word “action”.’
‘I thought you could be free.’
‘From my husband as well as Mr Balfour? Don’t tell me you intended to kill them both?’
‘I’m not saying anything at all.’
‘What on earth is the matter with you, Mr Delfino? I loved my husband.’
‘It didn’t look like you did.’
‘It doesn’t matter what things look like. It is how they are. You must have been in this business long enough to know not to trust appearances?’
‘I wanted you to be free; to protect you and to look after you.’
‘You don’t even know me,’ Veronica Manners replied.
‘I do. I have watched you for years.’
‘That is not the same thing. You have no idea what I think.’
‘I saw you with Mr Balfour.’
‘And so? Who is to say that I didn’t tell Robert everything? He was my best friend.’
‘He neglected you. Then you sought comfort elsewhere. Your husband was not good enough for you; and neither was Mr Balfour. I could offer a better constancy in their place. I would never leave you or let you down.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘I think you know,’ Delfino answered.
‘What have you done?’
‘My only crime has been to love you.’
‘But we hardly know each other.’
‘We do; and I adore you.’
‘Love and adoration are not the same thing.’
Ray Delfino sat down at last. ‘I think you are wrong.’
Veronica picked up her gloves and prepared to leave. ‘I don’t know whatever gave you the idea that anything could ever be possible between us. If you have always felt this way then you should have come and told me. Why didn’t you do that?’
Delfino leant back in his chair. ‘Because I did not want to lose hope. If I had asked and you had said no, then I would have known it was not to be and I couldn’t have lived with myself. But if you were alive and on your own then I could wait until you loved me. I could have waited for ever but there would always be the possibility that you would come to me eventually.’
‘I don’t understand. You murdered my husband and framed my lover. How is that going to make me love you?’
‘No one knows that is the case. It’s for the police to prove. And I don’t believe they can. I’ll deny everything. There’s no evidence.’
‘Yet you admit it to me?’
‘And only to you.’
‘Or not,’ said Inspector Keating as he entered the room, followed by two police officers and a priest.
Inspector Keating was in a surprisingly mellow mood the next time the two friends met for their regular backgammon game in the RAF bar of the Eagle after the trauma of the case had settled. The sun shone, there were hyacinths and daffodils on village windowsills, and the world had righted itself, if only temporarily, at last.
‘Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother, Sidney. I should leave it all to you. But then if we had to swap roles I know that I would be useless at being a priest.’
‘I’m not so sure. You have the capacity to get to the heart of things, Geordie. And you have the confidence of your convictions.’
‘Even if I am wrong?’
‘People like certainty.’
‘Isn’t that what the Christian faith is supposed to give?’
‘Hope. I think that’s different from certainty. A home for love and a future after death.’
‘In heaven, you mean?’
‘Whatever one chooses to call it.’
Inspector Keating became thoughtful. ‘I see that one of those bishops of yours has been getting into a spot of bother lately.’
Sidney raised a metaphorical eyebrow at the implied criticism. ‘And which one might that be?’
‘I don’t know his name. The Bishop of Arsenal or somewhere. The one that says that God is like Father Christmas and there’s no such thing as heaven.’
‘Ah yes. You mean Woolwich . . .’
‘What’s his game then? Once you start saying you’re not so sure about bits of Christianity you’re in a minefield. You can’t pick’n’mix with faith. You’ve got to stay true to the whole thing like the Catholics do . . .’
‘I am aware of their position.’
‘And what is yours then?’
‘The Anglican tradition is one of tolerance . . .’
‘Come on, man, spit it out!’
‘I try to give people hope in faith and trust in the promises of Christ. That then means I can have uncertainties in other parts of my life.’
‘Even if it leads you into trouble?’
‘Even so.’
The Inspector laid out the board for their game of backgammon. It had been a long time since he had claimed a victory. ‘I’m surprised you pursued this case, Sidney. Many people would have preferred to think it was an accident and kept their mouths shut. It was all done and dusted. Least said, soonest mended.’
‘I know. But when one has doubts . . .’
‘Sometimes I think you substitute your religious doubts for those about other people’s motivation
s . . .’
‘Be careful, Inspector.’
‘You’re not offended, are you?’
‘On the contrary. I am worried you are too close to the truth.’
‘I am sorry, Sidney. There’s no need to be cagey. I know you’re on edge so I’m going to let you win this game . . .’
‘There’s no need to do that, Geordie. I’ll fight you fair and square. But to be honest, it’s just good to be with you. Life has been a little discombobulating of late.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘The accident that turned out to be murder. The end of an affair and the death of a marriage. Hopeless, misguided infatuations . . .’
‘And don’t forget the make-up artist.’
‘I don’t mean her.’
‘Only teasing, Sidney.’
The Inspector, who knew how to stop Sidney’s philosophical pondering, had already gone to the pub’s jukebox and put on Elvis Presley’s ‘Old Shep’.
‘All these things stop you in your tracks, Geordie. Not to mention the loss of dear old Dickens.’
‘I’m sorry about your Labrador,’ Geordie began as the jukebox played. ‘He was a lovely dog. I think this might be appropriate.’ He joined in with the chorus, vowing that Dickens, just like Old Shep, would have his own place in heaven.
Sidney listened to the song and thought, fervently, what a dreadful dirge it was but, despite his misgivings, it proved the resilience of the human heart and a steady belief in its future; and, as he swallowed down his second pint of the evening, he avowed that it was certainly going to take a lot more than a book by that upstart suffragan Bishop of Woolwich, the so-called John A.T. Robinson, to demolish the idea of an optimistic future in heaven for our greatest loves.
