Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins

by James Runcie

  ‘There has to be a mutual understanding of what has taken place . . .’ Sidney went on. ‘A time for recognition and a place for silence: reflection on events in all humility. Forgiveness may be absolute but it cannot be taken for granted. It must be re-acknowledged each time we sin. But this is vital. Without forgiveness, we are condemned to the past. Forgiveness gives us our future.’

  ‘You got there in the end,’ his curate teased in the vestry afterwards.

  Mike Standing, the treasurer, was sorting through the collection. ‘Your words went over my head like migrating geese.’ He began to wheeze when he bent over to count the money.

  ‘I don’t suppose I need to declare my own offering?’ the curate asked.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Walnut cake from Mrs Maguire.’

  Sidney stopped as he took off his surplice. ‘So it’s true?’

  Mike Standing was impressed. ‘You’ve got them all eating out of your hand.’

  ‘Or rather, he’s eating out of theirs.’

  ‘How is your investigation coming along?’ Malcolm asked. ‘I was worried you were sounding a bit distracted.’

  ‘I wasn’t distracted at all,’ Sidney said fiercely. ‘But it is frustrating.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  Sidney could not think of a single thing his curate could do that might bring light to the darkness. He missed Leonard Graham.

  Later that day, while walking Byron, he was surprised by Inspector Keating pulling over in his car.

  ‘Get in. Both of you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘There’s been a murder after all.’

  ‘Sophie Madara?’

  ‘No. She’s still missing. It’s the other one.’

  ‘Natasha Zhirkov?’

  ‘That’s right. God knows what’s going on.’

  Sidney took in the news. ‘She was frightened that something was going to happen to her.’

  ‘Well it has.’

  ‘Where and when?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘London. Her flat. Looks like the husband did it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Stabbed. Not unlike the way Sophie Madara is supposed to have died.’

  ‘Could Madara have done it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It seems he was still in police custody at the time of the murder.’

  ‘He has his alibi then . . .’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘But he left as soon as the deed was done?’

  ‘A coincidence.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Sidney.

  Keating sighed. ‘You mean someone got a message to him telling him that he didn’t need his alibi any more?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘It sounds far-fetched. It also would have had to be some kind of inside job. Who else would have known about the Zhirkov murder?’

  ‘Perhaps he overheard a telephone call?’

  ‘To the police station? From his cell? I don’t think that’s likely.’

  ‘Or a young journalist told him . . .’

  ‘Helena doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘She soon will.’

  ‘Even she doesn’t find out about events before they happen.’

  ‘Then perhaps it is a coincidence. Any pointers?’

  ‘It’s the husband. Dmitri Zhirkov. There’s a knife with his fingerprints all over it. The victim was stabbed in the neck from behind and then in the throat. No sign of a forced entry. Natasha Zhirkov knew her killer. Nothing was stolen. But keep a lid on it. Williams is not saying anything publicly. And tell Helena that she can’t report any of this . . .’

  ‘She’s already asked if she can have an exclusive.’

  ‘You have to admire her tenacity. Can you come down to London with me, Sidney?’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘First thing in the morning.’

  ‘It’s my day off.’

  ‘Perfect. You’ve got no excuse. I’ll drop you back home. Think of the time I’ve saved you.’

  Dmitri Zhirkov was all over the place. He confessed to the murder of his wife, then retracted his story claiming manslaughter, before changing his mind one more time and saying that he was innocent. In his anger and panic he asserted that his wife had attacked him and he was acting in self-defence. Natasha had railed at him, provoked him, told him things about an affair with Madara that he hadn’t thought possible. He was also furious the police had let that bastard Josef Madara escape from custody. Everyone was conspiring against him.

  Natasha had been of unsound mind when she slept with Madara, he shouted, and now he was going mad; driven to insanity by his colleagues. He could not be expected to work with any of them any more. But it didn’t matter what he had done because he would always be a musician. He had talent. It was God-given. Nothing could take it away. Genius, he shouted, excused all sin.

  Sidney wondered how Dmitri Zhirkov had worked himself up into such a state. He had probably confronted his wife about her affair with Josef Madara and the row had escalated in the kitchen, where a block of carving knives was unhelpfully at the ready.

  Only one thought troubled Sidney. When Natasha Zhirkov had first come to see him she had been scared of the missing Sophie Madara rather than her husband. Might Sophie still be involved? Could she have committed the murder on behalf of Dmitri Zhirkov or even have framed him?

  Sidney was in the midst of speculation when a police officer told him that he was wanted on the telephone. He hoped it was not news from home because he was already late and he didn’t want Hildegard to tell him off again.

  ‘Sidney?’

  It was Malcolm, his curate, on the line. His voice sounded distant, almost strangulated.

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Is Hildegard all right? Anna?’

  Malcolm Mitchell coughed. He appeared to be choking.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, what is it?’

  ‘You know that man seeking sanctuary?’

  ‘Madara? What about him?’ Sidney asked, realising that his curate was not in the process of being garrotted but his mouth was full of cake.

  ‘He’s back.’

  Josef had gone first to the church and then to the police station as he had ‘many things’ he wanted to confess. The police officers had told him of the death of his former lover, Natasha Zhirkov, at which point he had wanted to run away. He had been prevented from doing so by the quick thinking of one of the more experienced sergeants who did not want to witness another of Keating’s tantrums.

  After they had ordered in their mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches, Sidney and the inspector took it in turns to ask Josef about his whereabouts. Had he been to the Zhirkov home? How had Dmitri found out about his wife’s affair?

  Sidney tried to be clear. ‘I think we need to know if either you or your missing wife could have murdered Natasha Zhirkov.’

  ‘How could I have killed her? I was at the police station.’

  ‘Could you wife have done so?’

  ‘She is dead. It must be Dmitri.’

  ‘And do you think your colleague is the angry, murdering type?’

  ‘No. But any man can be made to sin. That is his tragedy.’

  ‘And you are not surprised?’

  ‘If you live with a knowledge of human suffering then you learn to accept fate.’

  ‘But we can take steps . . .’ Sidney said, not wanting to get into a discussion of the nature of human responsibility and the problem of free will.

  Keating tried to be specific. ‘We are fairly sure Dmitri Zhirkov killed his wife. Probably because he found out that she had an affair with you. Were you still involved with her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t appear very upset by your lover’s death.’

  ‘I am still grieving for the loss of my wife.’

  ‘But we do not know she is dead.’

  ‘I know
what I saw.’

  ‘Tell me about Natasha Zhirkov,’ Sidney continued. ‘Why do you think she might have been afraid of your wife?’

  ‘My wife was a very strong woman. Like Dmitri, she had a temper.’

  ‘Natasha Zhirkov was more frightened of your wife than her own husband?’

  ‘I was more frightened of her too.’

  ‘How did Sophie react when she found out about your affair?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. She is dead.’

  ‘Did your wife threaten you?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Not me . . . no . . . not me . . . we loved each other.’

  ‘But about Mrs Zhirkov: what did she say about her?’

  ‘She said that if I didn’t stop it she would finish it all for ever.’

  ‘She did?’ Keating cut back in. ‘And did she say how?’

  ‘She said she would stab Natasha through the heart.’

  There was no peace at the vicarage. Anna had had a bad night, Byron needed walking, Mrs Maguire was cleaning the bathroom with intimidating vigour, and Malcolm appeared to be busy with a new section of railway line. He had got it on the cheap from one of the parishioners whose son had left for university.

  The only quiet to be found was in Sidney’s study. He retreated to think through events and to listen to a new recording of The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady by Charles Mingus. He had bought it as a little treat from Dobell’s in Charing Cross Road on his last trip to London. Impressed with the clergyman’s taste, the manager had ordered it in from America.

  During the second track, Malcolm interrupted to ask for some advice about his next sermon. He stood in the doorway with a slice of poppyseed cake on a plate and explained that he was going to develop the theme of nature versus nurture. Was it possible, he mused, to nurture ourselves away from sin? How could we make the most of the spiritual nourishment Christ had to offer?

  Sidney wondered, having seen his curate’s prodigious cake-eating in action, if all of Malcolm’s homilies were to contain gastronomic metaphors. There were certainly plenty of biblical references to manna from heaven, the bread of life and thirsting for righteousness. At least there were few mentions of cake itself (Sidney dimly remembered a passage in the Book of Ezekiel about barley cake, and a fig concoction in 1 Samuel). But when had it been invented, he asked himself, and what was the moment when a biscuit became a cake? Was it the presence of sponge that allowed McVitie’s, for example, to refer to their produce as Jaffa cakes rather than biscuits?

  ‘Sidney,’ his wife interrupted as she gave him a goodbye kiss before popping out to the shops, ‘you are dreaming again.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘What? Sorry?’

  ‘Malcolm was asking if you had made any progress on the case.’

  ‘Sorry. I thought he said cake.’

  ‘I said nothing of the kind. But if there is any more going . . .’

  It had been Helena Randall at the door. She walked straight in and announced: ‘Sophie Madara is due to appear at a concert in York. I have my car.’

  ‘Good heavens . . .’

  ‘How far away is that?’ Hildegard asked.

  ‘A few hours. Geordie says Sidney’s to come. We can be back tonight. I’m a very fast driver.’

  Sidney looked to his wife. ‘I remember. I don’t find that reassuring.’

  ‘Go if you must,’ Hildegard replied. ‘Your curfew is midnight.’

  ‘I’ll hold the fort,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘What is the concert?’ Hildegard asked.

  ‘The Holst Invocation for Cello and Orchestra.’

  ‘An early version of one of The Planets.’

  Sidney was less interested in the musical programme, and more concerned about the case. ‘What about Geordie?’

  ‘He’s bringing Madara to verify that it really is his wife.’

  ‘It could be quite a reunion.’

  ‘I think that’s the point.’

  The concert was held on the campus of the recently established university at Heslington. It took over three hours to drive up the A1 to York in heavy rain and, after a brief stop for petrol in Stamford, Sidney knew they would have difficulty being home by midnight.

  A simple poster had been placed outside the hall offering a mixed programme culminating in what was clearly intended to be the university orchestra’s pièce de résistance, Haydn’s Symphony no. 35 in B flat major. There was even a photograph of a smiling Sophie Madara with her left hand holding the bow of her cello. Sidney noticed both an engagement and a wedding ring. He presumed she took them off to perform.

  Her husband had spruced up for the occasion. Sidney thought of a recent production of A Winter’s Tale in which the dead king’s wife had come back to him as a living statue. With the dramatic music of Holst in the background, this reunion could have proved equally dramatic but Inspector Keating’s thoughts were more prosaic. ‘Let’s get to Sophie Madara’s dressing-room. We don’t want to do this in front of the whole orchestra.’

  The unlikely foursome were let in at the stage door and shown up a flight of stairs.

  ‘This is a dream,’ said Madara.

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘I know she is dead.’

  Keating knocked on the door. It was opened by a small dark-haired woman who had not yet put on her make-up. She did not look very like Sophie Madara at all. Perhaps they had come to the wrong place? Could this be yet another wild-goose chase and, if it was, would Sidney be able to face a further explosion of frustration from his colleague?

  ‘Sorry, I was expecting the conductor. Josef! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Angela . . .’

  The woman kissed Madara on the cheeks. This was not the response of a wife who had been presumed dead. ‘Is Sophie coming? She told me that she was going away . . .’

  ‘Are you aware that you are talking about a missing woman?’ Keating asked.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A police officer. Where is Sophie Madara?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘But she’s alive?’

  ‘I hope so. I spoke to her on the telephone a few days ago.’

  ‘She told you she was going away. She didn’t say where?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘You haven’t been reading the papers?’

  ‘Is that a legal requirement?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Helena asked.

  ‘I might ask the same question about you. I have a concert to perform. Josef, who are all these people? What are they doing here? Can’t you get them out of my dressing-room?’

  Keating tried to restore order. ‘Please answer the question, madam.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should. But if you must know, I’m Angela Jones. Sophie’s dep. I think she’s helping me out in Yarmouth next week. I try to keep Easter free.’ She noticed Sidney. ‘My husband’s a priest. What are you doing here? Anyone would think I had died. Shouldn’t you be making your Easter garden?’

  ‘My wife’s a musician too . . .’

  ‘It’s more common than people think. God and music tend to go together.’

  Helena had her notebook at the ready. ‘But on the poster . . .’

  ‘We don’t bother with out-of-town concerts. We’re always covering for each other. Josef knows that, don’t you, Josef? Sophie did tell you about this, didn’t she?’

  Madara could hardly speak. ‘Sophie is alive? I didn’t kill her?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I think I’d better take over,’ said Keating. ‘There’s a lot to sort out. Bloody hell.’

  It was well after midnight when Sidney got home but he was too restless to go to bed.

  He took off his shoes, put on the thick pair of comforting bedsocks his mother had knitted him for Christmas, and made himself some baked beans on toast. He needed a good think.

  He was just about to make a list of all the things he still had to do when he heard Anna cry. He would have to see to
her quickly, before Hildegard woke, and he padded up the stairs in order to lift his daughter out of her cot.

  She was still so tiny, half awake and half asleep. She cradled into his shoulder. He gave her a little milk and walked the hall downstairs talking to her, as he spoke to Byron, about all his cares and worries. He asked her if she was looking forward to her christening (they still hadn’t arranged it and were thinking about Easter Day) and whether she thought all the stars had come out in the sky or were there more still to come?

  He told his daughter how he imagined that one of the stars was looking down on her. It was her star. Could she tell which one it was? Anna’s heavy eyelids closed once more, and he kept talking, as gently as he could, as he laid her down to sleep. When he turned to leave the room he saw that Hildegard had been watching from the doorway. She was wearing a nightdress that Sidney did not think he had seen before.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re very good at that when you want to be.’

  Josef Madara had been taken back into custody and a psychiatric visit was arranged for the Monday. Angela Jones was convinced that Sophie Madara was still in Britain but had been unable to provide any clues as to her whereabouts. In London, Inspector Williams had charged Dmitri Zhirkov with the murder of his wife.

  Sidney had to concentrate on his duties and it wasn’t until the middle of the week that he could catch up with Keating. If he really thought that Dmitri Zhirkov had been framed in some way then he had no time to prove it, and little hope, as the weapon, the motive and the evidence all pointed to the man’s guilt.

  It was also possible that Dmitri was involved in the staged scene of Sophie Madara’s death (if this had indeed occurred) and that he was working with either her or her husband, who could have been feigning his insanity.

  The only relatively innocent party in the whole quartet, as far as Sidney could see, was Natasha Zhirkov, and she was dead; just as she had feared she might be.

  It was one big mess and he was not sure that he was in a position to do anything about it. Was it even his responsibility any more? Madara had turned up in his church, it was true, but now ‘the experts’ had taken over there was little he could do. He had failed to protect Natasha Zhirkov, they had not yet found Josef’s wife, and the man himself was still in an advanced state of psychiatric delusion. If anything, his visit to the church in Grantchester, and the subsequent investigation, had only made matters worse. What would have happened if Sidney had simply sent him on his way after a cup of tea and a sandwich as many of his colleagues might have done? Could the situation have been any poorer?