Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins

by James Runcie

  ‘I’ll get some,’ said Sidney.

  Amanda stroked her friend’s hand and touched her face, as gently as she could, saying that she loved her.

  ‘I’m so thirsty. My whole body aches,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘What will happen, do you know? It’s kind of you to come.’

  Sidney came back with the tea, and Elizabeth took a few sips before saying that she wanted to sleep. She was so tired.

  ‘What can we do?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘We’re going to tell Keating,’ Sidney replied. ‘I can’t remember ever being this angry. We have to make sure that Sir Mark is arrested. We don’t want him bolting.’

  When they reached the police station they discovered that Henry Richmond was already there. He was making a statement. Nancy Hayworth had been taken to a separate interview room. She was crying.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Sidney asked the duty sergeant.

  ‘Inspector Keating said you’d be here soon enough. He’s out.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘We’ve just come from the hospital. Is he at Witchford Hall?’

  ‘You’d better let your friend explain.’

  Henry Richmond buttoned up his coat. ‘I’ve given my statement. There’s a tea-room over the road. Perhaps we could go there? I can’t stop shivering.’

  They crossed St Andrew’s Street as a bus full of Christmas shoppers was pulling away into the wet night. Sidney went ahead. Amanda took Henry’s arm. ‘You did it, then?’

  ‘I confronted my friend. Not that it’s done any good.’

  ‘Have you seen Elizabeth? It could hardly be worse. She could have died.’

  ‘She might have wanted to, living with that man. At least it’s over now.’

  ‘You think so?’

  They sat in a steamed-up window, feeling both the warmth of the room and the cold from outside. They could only see passers-by on the pavement when they were close, looking in at the three friends grouped around a table as if they were on display. Henry kept his voice low. ‘I went to see him, Amanda. Please don’t ask me to do anything like that again.’

  ‘Did Mark admit to anything?’

  ‘He told me that his marriage was none of anyone else’s business. He and his wife often had tiffs, just as I had done with my own wife when she was alive and he hadn’t thought to say anything. Furthermore, Elizabeth was perfectly capable of looking after herself. I told him it didn’t look that way and that my marriage was completely different. Connie never appeared in public with burns or bruises. Mark said the injuries were minor and that anyone pointing them out was just making an unnecessary fuss.’

  ‘Some fuss . . .’

  ‘I told him that it wasn’t acceptable to have a frightened wife. Then Mark asked me what I really knew about wives, and suggested that Connie’s illness could have been my fault. I could have made her ill. I said I had never heard anything so revolting in my life. He told me I had asked for it and what was I going to do about it?’

  Sidney poured out the tea. ‘He thought you wouldn’t dare break the code of friendship, however bad the situation had become.’

  ‘I said I was never going to see him again, and that I would be going to the police. They had enough evidence and I would make sure he was finished. He told me that I wouldn’t dare. “Watch me,” I said. Then he mentioned my wife, Connie, again. I am sorry to keep mentioning her name, Amanda . . .’

  ‘It’s all right . . .’

  ‘He said that I’d never known how to handle a woman. I was so angry. I went to the police and told them that I was sure I could get enough evidence together and that Amanda could persuade Elizabeth to give them enough information to make a charge. Hayworth and Muir too. I came here straight away. I knew I should have taken Elizabeth with me. But I was too angry. That man was a complete shit.’

  ‘Was?’ Sidney checked.

  ‘You mean he’s dead?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘Haven’t they told you?’ Henry replied. ‘That’s why I’m in this state. He shot himself: just as he said he would.’

  The funeral was in early January. The new vicar took the ceremony and although Elizabeth was sufficiently recovered to attend there was little that was noble about the day. Mourners silently cursed the deceased, blamed themselves, and inwardly accused each other as Sir Mark was buried next to his son.

  ‘To think that lives can change so radically in so short a time,’ Amanda said to Sidney as they sat on a sofa in the drawing-room afterwards, cradling glasses of mulled wine against the cold. ‘Even though it already seems long ago. I still worry that I haven’t been a good enough friend to Elizabeth; that even by doing the right thing we were wrong. Perhaps, by intervening, we only made things worse. This wasn’t meant to end in death.’

  ‘You acted for what you thought was the best.’

  Sidney imagined Sir Mark leaving his stately home for the last time, taking his shotgun and leaving his dog behind, heading out into the woodland, unable either to forgive himself or face up to reality. He remembered the Russian proverb: ‘We are born in a clear field and die in a dark forest.’

  They were joined by the other members of the shooting party. No matter how much they thought about the sequence of events, only Elizabeth felt any sorrow for the dead man. ‘I can’t help feeling that we might have been able to sort things out between us. Without the help of others.’

  ‘You should have left him the first time he hit you,’ said Serena Stein. ‘That is a line in the sand.’

  Amanda took some more mulled wine. ‘I’d have left as soon as I knew he was being unfaithful.’

  Elizabeth answered two women who had never been in a situation such as hers. ‘You never quite know. That’s the problem. Everyone else may have an opinion. But they never tell you. Perhaps people only intervene when it’s too late.’

  ‘He might have killed you,’ Amanda said.

  ‘It was never that serious.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I could deal with it.’

  ‘You couldn’t.’

  ‘It was my life. We had lost a child. That changes everything.’

  Serena Stein spoke without pity. ‘It can’t be used as an excuse for what follows.’

  ‘Perhaps it was simply that I should have been a better wife . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Sidney at last. ‘Mark should have been a better husband.’

  ‘How can you miss a man that hurt you so badly?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘It was all I knew. And we had Peter.’

  ‘We have to help you lead a new and better life.’

  ‘How will I live?’ Elizabeth thought out loud. ‘There’s no money. It’s all tied up in the house. Mark’s nephew will take over.’

  Serena Stein was horrified. ‘You mean you didn’t keep any of your own money?’

  ‘I gave it all to Mark.’

  ‘What a beast,’ said Amanda.

  ‘Don’t . . .’

  ‘I’m sure we can find a way of managing,’ said Sidney. ‘We don’t have to decide everything today.’

  Elizabeth was not convinced. ‘Perhaps I was the one who was supposed to kill myself.’

  ‘You can’t think like that.’

  ‘I can’t escape my thoughts.’

  ‘We won’t leave you,’ Amanda replied.

  ‘Tell me,’ Elizabeth turned to Sidney, ‘how does a woman of forty-seven with no money, no employable talent, no children and a dead husband begin her life again?’

  What would have happened if they had left everything alone? Sidney thought. How much should a priest or a detective force out the truth, whatever the consequence? Does the fear of an unpredictable outcome excuse inaction; or does the more immediate need for justice overrule any concern about the consequences? Had they, in fact, made the situation worse?

  He was still convinced that, however hard it might be, the pursuit of goodness should never be compromised by fear. He recalled the vows made at his ordination, that there
be no place left in him for error in religion or for viciousness in life. He remembered an elderly clergyman once telling him that ‘a Christian life will always be a failure’ and thought about what the man must have meant; perhaps that one could never live up to the example of Christ; that inevitably a priest must fall short.

  Most lives ended in disappointment of some sort. It was impossible to go on, to finish strongly or defeat death. Acknowledging that we cannot be greater than our own limited humanity was perhaps the first step towards becoming a Christian. He decided to preach on the subject of fragility and failure; although he would have to do something to make it sound a little more enticing. He would have to include the need for compassion, and celebrate our shared humanity. He could even, perhaps, quote from one of the last lines of that great Christmas film It’s a Wonderful Life: ‘No man can count himself a failure if he has friends.’

  Contemplating the idea of friendship, Sidney knew that he still hadn’t had a proper debrief with Inspector Keating, either about the case or his new role as Archdeacon of Ely, and he was looking forward to resuming their regular meetings in the Eagle now that they were well into the New Year. As he walked across the icy meadows, Sidney recognised that they would have to find a new pub and different excuses to meet each other once he had settled into his next job.

  Inspector Keating decided the time had come to dole out some advice. ‘You cannot feel responsible for everything that happens, Sidney. All these people were grown adults. In many ways they brought it on themselves.’

  ‘But I am supposed to help them. It is my duty as a priest.’

  ‘You cannot bear the burden for all of us. I know that’s what Jesus did, but you, Sidney, despite your popularity, will never be Jesus. That’s one thing I do know; and it’s where my theology stops. We are all human beings, and we’re all buggered.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

  ‘It’s a good enough place to start. What are you drinking?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘Good. Keep things clear. Routine is good for you.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. I get bored very easily.’

  ‘I have noticed.’

  When Keating returned with the pints he began to improvise on the benefits of playing it straight. ‘But you wouldn’t think it if you read any detective fiction. That’s what drives me crackers. Every Christmas someone thinks it might be a good idea to give me a story by Agatha Christie or Dorothy L. Sayers or some hard-boiled American thriller, and I lose my temper before I am even halfway through. The police are always slow and stupid and can’t do anything right and then a maverick detective who doesn’t play by the book comes along and sorts it all out . . .’

  ‘It isn’t always like that.’

  ‘It is,’ Keating insisted. ‘“The book” is there for a reason. Most of the time it works.’

  ‘But not all the time. Hence the detective novel . . .’

  ‘The doctor’s always the murderer . . .’

  ‘Not always . . .’

  ‘Or the person you least suspect. Or most suspect.’

  ‘Make up your mind . . .’

  ‘And the copper ends up being grateful. I think it’s a class thing. The gentleman amateur telling the working-class policeman how it’s all done. It’s snobbery, really.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think . . .’

  ‘With you and me? Of course not. Anyway, clergymen are supposed to be classless, aren’t they? Jesus was hardly a toff. And I know how uncomfortable you feel around the aristocracy. You hate going to places like Witchford Hall, don’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as “hate”, but you’re right. I don’t feel comfortable in those environments. And I certainly didn’t enjoy any part of what we’ve just been through.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. That man was a right bastard.’

  ‘He was still a human being.’

  ‘You can’t love everyone, Sidney.’

  ‘I think I am supposed to.’

  ‘But that’s impossible.’

  ‘Perhaps being a clergyman, Geordie, like being a policeman or a doctor, involves facing up to the impossible. We have to learn to live without favourites. We belong to everyone and therefore no one. We must serve everyone equally . . .’

  Keating was thinking of something else. ‘I do let you off sometimes . . .’

  Sidney abandoned his peroration. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t bother you with the really nasty stuff.’

  ‘You mean you protect me?’

  ‘Of course I do. You lead a very sheltered life, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘Sheltered? But I’ve been exposed to some of the most horrific crimes in Cambridgeshire for nearly ten years . . .’

  ‘Well, all I can say is that you’ve probably got about another twenty-five to go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And those will be the straightforward cases: the ones where we let the amateurs in to make them feel good.’

  ‘Are you teasing me, Geordie?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Sidney downed his drink. ‘I am sure it will all be much calmer by the time I get to Ely. We’ll be living in a cathedral cloister. How much danger can there be in a place like that?’

  Geordie stood up to order another round. ‘Let’s see in a year or two. All I can tell you is that if there’s no peace for the wicked then there’s no rest for the good. Either way, man, you’re doomed.’

  Fugue

  Orlando Richards had never imagined that he would be killed by a piano falling on to his head.

  It was just after midday in late July. The Cambridge students were away on their long vacation, it was early closing, and a summer laziness eased its way across a town whose inhabitants sensed that it was far too hot to do any serious work. They should have been on the river, by the seaside, or enjoying one of the new package holidays abroad.

  Sidney had walked Byron across the meadows and popped into Corpus for a brief meeting with the bursar. He needed to talk about payment for the tutorials he had taken in the academic year that had just passed and discuss his future. Now that he was going to be an archdeacon he didn’t think he was going to be able to continue with his small amount of teaching. He would no longer have the time to listen to essays on metaphysical poetry, the theology of St Augustine and the influence of the Bible on English literature. Walter Collins said he understood. At least the college could make a small, but much-needed, saving.

  Sidney was somewhat surprised. ‘I didn’t know we had any worries about money.’

  ‘That’s because I make provision for the unexpected.’

  The bursar was a man who compensated for any inadequacies in charm with practicality and swiftness. In fact he conducted his business at such speed he managed to convince any gathering that he was the busiest man in the room, that the presence of others was tolerated at best, and that he had far more important things on his mind.

  Byron, too, was getting restless, but Sidney was sufficiently interested to continue with the conversation. ‘I did hear that you’ve put up the rents.’

  ‘Not by much.’

  ‘Sufficient to cause anxiety.’

  He was worried that the poorer members of his congregation who occupied college livings weren’t going to able to afford the increase. Walter Collins assured his colleague that there were discretionary funds for those in need, and that tenants were only evicted as a last resort or when they wilfully refused to pay. It would be better if the archdeacon (elect) concentrated on God and left matters of Mammon to the college.

  The meeting was at an end. Sidney knew he had to get home, not least because Hildegard was preparing for her first concert in Cambridge: a serious, almost austere, idea to play the fourteen contrapuncti and four canons of Bach’s The Art of Fugue. She had been encouraged to perform, even bullied, she almost complained, by the director of music, Orlando Richards. He had told her that it was about time she brought he
r light out from under a bushel.

  Appropriately, given the fact that the piece was apparently left unfinished when the composer died, Anna had interrupted Hildegard’s playing that morning so that she had had to break off in the middle. This had not gone down well as Sidney had, supposedly, been in charge of childcare at the time and his duty was meant to prevent such an interruption. Consequently he had promised to return early from town so that his wife could make up for her lost practice. He also said that he would not play any jazz while Hildegard was preparing for the concert. Even though she liked jazz, he did not want to put her off. This meant that he had to delay his enjoyment of what he knew was a particularly fine recording that Amanda had found for him in London: Chet Baker’s The Most Important Jazz Album of 1964/65.

  He was leaving Front Court when he stopped to take in an unusual sight: the removal of one piano and the delivery of another to Orlando Richards’s rooms on the second floor. An old Bösendorfer upright was being lowered from the window and a glorious new Steinway B was about to be raised and installed in its place.

  Sidney decided to study how it was done because he remembered that they would have to move Hildegard’s piano to Ely soon enough and he needed a reliable firm to take charge of the operation. It was a precarious business, conducted outside, since the internal staircases of the college did not allow sufficient room for turning.

  Orlando was waiting nervously below the high windows. He wore a navy suit that was on the baggy side, and a white shirt with an enlarged collar that gave him a little more neck room than normal. He was a man who hated to be either too hot or too cold, plunging his arms into hot water in the winter and cold in the summer, determined to be at room temperature wherever possible. While the bursar was a man of cool efficiency, Orlando was a living advertisement for the artistic temperament: nervous, flamboyant and prone to hysteria. The movement of a piano was, therefore, a highly charged affair.

  ‘Make sure your dog’s out of the way,’ he shouted before bidding Sidney a tense good morning. ‘Byron must NOT distract the men. I don’t want them tripping on a Labrador.’