Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins

by James Runcie

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Her being a Roman Catholic.’

  ‘I don’t think that makes much difference in a situation like this.’

  ‘I think we should leave them to their own devices. Muir! Where’s the bloody port?’

  Serena Stein withdrew with the doctor’s wife while the remaining men stayed at the table. Just after the women had left the room a plate was dropped.

  ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ Sir Mark shouted but immediately relented on seeing that the culprit was Nancy Hayworth. ‘That’s all right, Rita, just clear it up.’

  The conversation resumed, with more thoughts about shooting, estate management and the forthcoming balls, before the men finally rejoined the ladies in order to play a few rounds of bridge. Lady Kirby-Grey was ‘resting’ and Amanda tried not to look piqued in front of Henry Richmond. The row had left a stain on the proceedings, the resulting congenial atmosphere was unconvincing and the party broke up well before midnight.

  Once they had retired to their room and exchanged a few eyebrow-raising observations on the course of the evening, Hildegard said that she was thirsty. She wasn’t sure how well she was going to sleep and wondered if there was any chance of a bedtime cup of cocoa. Sidney offered to find out.

  As he descended the back stairs to the kitchen he saw Sir Mark leaning down in a distant doorway.

  He heard a woman’s voice: ‘Get off me. I’ve told you. No hanky-panky. Someone will see.’

  ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘Then you have to bring me the money.’

  It was Nancy Hayworth.

  Sidney retreated quietly back up the stairs. Hildegard would have to survive without cocoa.

  The next morning was Advent Sunday and, because the living at the local church of St Magnus the Martyr was vacant, Sidney had to sing for his supper. He preached on the subject of fragility and vulnerability, thinking not only of the Christ child but of Elizabeth, his hostess. He wanted to make sure that even Sir Mark understood what he was saying, and so he spoke slowly, without his customary friendliness, about how it was our responsibility to console those who mourn, support the weak and comfort the afflicted be they near to us or far. Sometimes, Sidney argued, the need for moral decency was closer to home than we thought. We might not necessarily, for example, behave as well with our loved ones as we did with friends or even colleagues and strangers. It was our Christian duty, therefore, to examine our consciences and understand that our greatest strength might be to show our weaknesses; to confess our failings, and acknowledge our helplessness; to become as open and defenceless as the Christ child who came amongst us.

  (As soon as Sidney started talking about the infant wrapped in swaddling clothes he missed Anna all over again. In three weeks’ time she would be one year old. He was desperate to return home and see her.)

  Amanda walked with him on the way back from church. After praising him for his sermon, she said that she was still concerned about Elizabeth. Sidney had brought their anxieties into focus. But how much should she confront a woman who kept saying that there was nothing to worry about when so clearly there was quite a lot going on, most obviously that Sir Mark was taking out his frustration on being unable to have an affair, and possibly on being blackmailed, by hitting his wife?

  As they gathered for drinks before lunch, both Sidney and Hildegard spotted that Elizabeth appeared to have a new bruise on the back of her calf. It showed underneath her stockings. It was discreet, as if she had been kicked in order to make her fall down, and then, perhaps, struck again, but visible.

  Dr Robinson had already noticed it and, at Sidney’s prompting, offered to take a closer look but their hostess refused. ‘Please don’t tell anyone. Especially Mark. It’s such a silly thing. I banged it on the car door. It’s my pale skin. I bruise very easily. I wouldn’t want anyone making a fuss. It happens all the time. I’m perfectly all right. I promise.’

  ‘Do you have any other bruises?’ Dr Robinson asked.

  ‘No. Not a scratch. We’re home now. I must check if everything is in order for the lunch. Mark hates it if the food is late. I’ll ask Nancy.’

  ‘Is that the maid your husband calls “Rita”?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s his little joke; after Rita Hayworth. Gilda is his favourite film.’

  ‘Has she been with you long?’

  ‘A few months. Her mother is an old friend of Mark’s.’

  ‘Is it working out well?’

  ‘Mark likes her and that’s generally what matters. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  There was roast lamb for lunch, a good-enough claret and a treacle sponge with custard for pudding. Sidney was patronised about his sermon and Hildegard was asked once more about the war, explaining yet again that, no, her father had not been a Nazi but a Communist, and that she had settled very well in England and considered it to be her home. It was clear that they had exhausted all their conversational opportunities and that they really should get home before dark.

  As with all country-house parties, and despite the help of Muir and the two maids, it took a further half an hour for everyone to make sure they had all their possessions, get into the right cars, and say their goodbyes. Dr Robinson and his wife, like Sidney and Hildegard, were driving back to Cambridge. Amanda was catching a train to London with Shouty Meynell, Serena Stein and Henry Richmond.

  Sidney noticed that Elizabeth was anxious with Amanda before she departed, saying quickly, ‘I wish you didn’t have to go.’

  ‘Come with me then.’

  ‘I can’t. You know how he is.’

  ‘You must stand up for yourself, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Come to London as soon as you can. We could go shopping. You could get a few bargains in the New Year sales. Or sooner.’

  ‘I need a new coat.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?’ Sir Mark approached unnoticed.

  Elizabeth clasped her friend’s arm and then kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Don’t try,’ Amanda replied. ‘Just come.’

  As Sidney got into his car there was one more thing he noticed. It was not simply that Sir Mark had joined them. Nancy Hayworth had been dealing with luggage and heard every word. Had she tipped off her employer so that he could interrupt the conversation?

  Although Hildegard was tired and anxious to get home to their daughter, she was keen to talk over what they had witnessed. She reminded Sidney of Sir Mark’s discussion of the case of his relative. How much had he followed Agnes Willoughby’s example in persuading a spouse to make over their fortune on marriage?

  ‘Tell me one thing,’ Hildegard began, asking a question that Sidney had dared not voice aloud himself. ‘Do you think Elizabeth’s life is in danger?’

  They arrived in Grantchester just after four, and were thrown back into the routine of family and parish life. Iris Chambers told them that Anna was in fine fettle and she had enjoyed looking after her granddaughter. The dear little thing was going to be talking soon and she must come and see her cousins in London. Jennifer’s boys were only a year or two older and they could help her advance. Their grandfather would enjoy seeing them all together.

  Sidney was not sure how much patience or enthusiasm his father could extend to three children under the age of four but expressed his gratitude, gave his mother tea and drove her to the train station. He was back just in time to ready himself for the first carol service of the season. Hildegard had asked if she could be excused, wanting a moment on her own with Anna. She had already been to church that day. It was therefore well into the evening when Malcolm Mitchell handed Sidney a letter from the Church Commissioners that had arrived in Saturday’s post.

  Sidney retired to his study and discovered that he had been offered the archdeaconry of Ely. It was a promotion at last, and to somewhere not at all far – less than twenty miles – but it would mean leaving the parish he knew and loved, giving Hildegard and Anna a new start and bei
ng more involved in the running of the Church of England. No conditions were attached but he was pretty sure that he would be expected to steer clear of any criminal investigations in the future.

  Being an archdeacon was like being the area manager of a bank, he decided, responsible for the upkeep of buildings, the filling of vacancies, and the settling of disputes. It was a step on the career ladder, a natural progression towards what many considered to be the ultimate goal: a bishopric. But did Sidney want that? In his current post he was given considerable freedom to do what he liked. How constrained would he be by greater responsbility? He was hardly in a position to turn the invitation down (or, if he did, he would be unlikely to be offered any other promotion in the near future) but he was worried about the upheaval. Archdeacons always got a bad press, he recalled. They were considered schemers and power players, manipulating careers and reputations. His predecessor, Chantry Vine, who had left to become Dean of Bristol, had been prone to fits of fury and frustration when priests refused to obey his orders. Perhaps there were unreasonable levels of stress involved that changed a priest’s personality? Sidney thought of Trollope’s Archdeacon Grantly, and the smoke rising from his head every time he lifted his hat ‘preventing positive explosion and probable apoplexy’. Would he, too, discover new reservoirs of fury of which he had previously been unaware?

  He wanted to discuss the matter with Hildegard but she was singing to their daughter. He stood outside the door to Anna’s room and listened, not wanting to interrupt.

  ‘Weißt du, wieviel Mücklein spielen

  in der heißen Sonnenglut,

  wieviel Fischlein auch sich kühlen

  in der hellen Wasserflut?’

  Do you know how many little gnats

  Play in the sun’s intense heat,

  How many little fish like to cool

  In the clear high tide?

  He had just decided that he couldn’t wait any longer when Amanda telephoned to say that she had arrived back in London. That was not, however, the reason for her call. ‘What on earth are we going to do about Elizabeth?’ she began. ‘I’ve been thinking about her all the way home. She’s my best friend and she’s not telling me the truth. I feel so helpless.’

  Sidney tried to be practical. ‘I think we should ask Michael Robinson to pay her a visit when her husband is out. We probably have to get rid of the maid too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think she’s a spy.’

  ‘You think that she and Mark are having an affair?’

  ‘On the brink.’

  ‘Then we must help Elizabeth before anything dreadful happens. Prevention, if there’s still time, is better than cure. Perhaps you should talk to Keating?’

  ‘There’s not much to tell him.’

  ‘Come on, Sidney . . .’

  ‘I know; but proving it . . .’

  Amanda sounded desperate. ‘Do you think Elizabeth will tell the doctor anything?’

  ‘I doubt it. But it’s a start.’

  ‘It’s not enough.’

  ‘What else are you proposing, Amanda?’

  ‘I have spoken to Henry. I have told him that he has to have it out with Mark.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing men do.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Henry will consider a man’s marriage to be his own business. He will want to respect Sir Mark’s privacy. It’s considered poor form to intrude . . .’

  ‘Well it’s certainly bad manners to hit your wife.’

  ‘We don’t know he’s doing that, Amanda.’

  ‘We have a fairly good idea.’

  ‘There is still the notion of privacy. Henry Richmond won’t want to risk his friendship with Sir Mark by asking impertinent questions or making insinuations . . .’

  ‘He won’t be as direct as that.’

  ‘If he wants Sir Mark to listen to anything he says then he may have to be.’

  ‘Henry’s already told me that he doesn’t like confrontation.’

  ‘Then goodness knows what he is doing with you.’

  Amanda did not always appreciate Sidney’s wry asides and was humourless in her response. ‘He’s not “doing” anything with me. Besides, a man can always be trained up.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Hildegard thinks that men are remarkably resilient to change.’

  ‘Your wife lets you get away with murder . . .’

  ‘I think she’d stop at that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Amanda was contrite. ‘That wasn’t necessary. I’m sorry. I’m upset. I am trying my best.’

  ‘I think our friendship can forgive any inappropriate remarks.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve told Henry about Mark. He has to risk their friendship. Truth is more important than misplaced loyalty.’

  ‘Then it will be up to him to decide. I am sure he won’t find it easy.’

  ‘Perhaps you could give him a few tips?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Sidney, you do know how to get information out of people.’

  ‘Sometimes people just tell me things.’

  ‘And that never interests you? You can’t fool me, Chambers. You love knowing stuff that no one else does.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s a heavy burden.’

  ‘You can always lighten your load by talking to Hildegard. That’s one of the points of marriage, is it not?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘And that’s why I’m testing out Henry. Do you see what I’m doing, Sidney? Two birds, one very large stone. Goodbye, my darling.’

  Amanda rang off. Sidney had no intention of giving his friend’s potential partner a few ‘tips’. In fact he was not sure that the relationship was a good idea at all but at least Amanda was not rushing as she had done before.

  He returned to matters in hand. He had to tell Hildegard both about the phone call and the letter from the Church Commissioners. He could hear that she was still singing to their daughter and he would start with the good news. He hoped that she would be pleased.

  ‘Gott der Herr rief sie mit Namen,

  daß sie all ins Leben kamen,

  daß sie nun so fröhlich sind,

  daß sie nun so fröhlich sind.’

  The Lord God called them by name,

  So that they all came to life,

  And now they are all so happy,

  And now they are all so happy.

  * * *

  Hildegard was first up with Anna the following morning and brought Sidney a cup of tea and a copy of The Times while he was still in bed. ‘Perhaps one day we will have a butler as they have at Witchford Hall. When you are a bishop . . .’

  ‘I don’t think I want to be a bishop.’

  ‘And a maid. You could have your own little Rita Hayworth. Would you like that?’

  ‘Of course not, Hildegard. All I want is to be with you.’

  ‘That is good because it is all you have got. I will get Anna dressed now and buy a map of Ely.’

  ‘It’s not a very big place.’

  ‘It will be an adventure.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘Sometimes I thought we would never leave.’

  ‘We can always come back.’

  ‘It is time, my darling. I will let Byron out but you must walk him. You remember it is Malcolm’s day off?’

  ‘Have we got any food in the house?’

  ‘I will go to the shops.’

  Sidney took his Labrador out on to the meadows. Byron was a more unpredictable dog than his predecessor, Dickens, and Sidney had yet to get the measure of him. Although he lived in the moment, without any anxiety about the future, he appeared to anticipate what human beings around him were going to do, even if he wasn’t actually able to act on that intuition. So what would Byron do if he was a human being at Witchford Hall? Would he, like Musket, be steady, ‘free from chase’, and unwaveringly loyal to his master? Could you teach a dog loyalty or was it instinctive? Were there parallels between the loyalty of a dog and the
friendship between human beings and, if so, was Henry Richmond’s reluctance to intervene a proof of his fidelity to friendship?

  A few days later, on a similar outing, Sidney bumped into Michael Robinson. After a shaky start to their relationship, in which both he and Keating had suspected the medical practitioner of helping his elderly patients book an earlier passage to the next world than they had, perhaps, anticipated, Sidney had grown to like and trust the doctor’s ability to bend the rules, not least in the previous year when he had dropped very strong hints as to which one of his patients might have been responsible for the theft of a baby.

  Dr Robinson revealed that he had paid a call on Lady Elizabeth Kirby-Grey while her husband was staying at his club in London. She had scalded a foot while getting into a bath that was too hot for her, and was prepared to show the doctor her injury only to reveal that her back hurt too. On a cursory inspection this too was red, and her subsequent excuse (that she must have lain back without appreciating the high temperature of the water) had been unconvincing.

  ‘You think she has been scalded deliberately?’

  ‘Do I think, Sidney, that someone, the husband or even the maid, threw boiling water at her? Yes, I do. But until she tells me or anyone else exactly what has happened it’s going to be hard to intervene. The burns are not that bad, and if this is a case of domestic violence then those responsible are being careful to make sure that any marks are on parts of the body that are regularly hidden from view: behind the hairline, on the foot, and now the back. In winter you wouldn’t know that anything was amiss . . .’

  ‘Apart from her leg . . .’

  ‘Which may, ironically, have been caused by the incident she described. If there’s a plausible explanation for that then she might be persuaded there’s a reason for everything.’

  ‘You think the maid and husband are in it together?’

  ‘I think you do, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘I am afraid so. Amanda detailed Henry Richmond to ferret out the truth but I don’t hold out much hope.’