Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins

by James Runcie

  It was some time since she had been able to talk so freely, and in such depth, about music. Professor Klein was a Mozart man who had just played a series of the composer’s rare piano works on a concert tour of Europe. The pieces were so underrated, he said, perhaps because they were too easy for children and too difficult for artists.

  Hildegard agreed. ‘The A minor Rondo K511 and the B minor Adagio K540 are the musical equivalent of Hamlet’s soliloquies.’ Professor Klein smiled at her, nodded and said, ‘I wish you had never left Germany. But at least, and perhaps at last, you are happy with your husband.’

  ‘I am almost afraid to say that I am. If it is acknowledged that it is so then perhaps it will be taken away from me.’

  ‘You have lived with enough fear, Hildegard. Do not ruin every day.’

  ‘I try not to.’

  ‘It is a wonder that a woman so committed to the keyboard should be so apprehensive with the rest of her life.’

  ‘We all have insecurities. If we did not, we would be monsters.’

  ‘Pretending to be what we are not.’

  ‘And doing so for so long that we then forget what we are really like. But those days have gone. There is a new Germany now.’

  ‘You could come back home . . .’

  ‘I think the GDR is even worse.’

  ‘But you will be pleased to be leaving Grantchester . . .’

  ‘I am not sure Ely will be very different.’

  ‘There will be no memories . . .’

  ‘I think they will come with us.’

  Sidney returned after taking Anna to the swimming pool. He offered to feed her, bath her and put her to bed.

  ‘You have trained your husband well,’ Leopold smiled.

  ‘I haven’t trained him at all. He is showing off in front of you; making up for all the times he has been absent.’

  The professor turned to Sidney. ‘You must be busy, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘I am easily distracted.’

  ‘Distraction is the enemy. In music, at least. You have to practise; to concentrate. Perhaps you even have to be selfish.’

  ‘Please don’t tell my wife that.’

  ‘I will tell her everything she needs to know in order to be a better musician. Nothing must stand in its way.’

  ‘No,’ Sidney hesitated. ‘I suppose not.’

  He did have too many distractions, he acknowledged. Instead of the single-minded dedication of a musician he was part priest, part detective, part husband and part father. He was hardly a son, as he hadn’t seen his parents, or his brother and sister, for months.

  ‘O Lord,’ he prayed over his sleeping daughter later that night. ‘Make me a better man. Let me think less about myself, and more about others, saving my greatest gratitude for the gift of life that you have given us all. Look after my daughter, protect her from the wiles of the world, and let me always be near when she needs me. Help me to become a more loving husband, a better priest, and a kinder man. Let me understand my failings and rid myself of them as best I can, remembering that my greatest responsibility, and my greatest love, should be reserved for you, acknowledging that this world is temporary, that all things must pass, and my hope remains in the life everlasting.’

  Sidney’s desire to do some good in the world was compromised the following afternoon by an article in the Cambridge Evening News. As well as her detailed account of the accident, Helena Randall had written an opinion piece, aiming to provide a little background colour, in which she made a number of sly insinuations; not least that Orlando Richards was being given, or loaned, a magnificent piano by the college when, at the same time, Corpus Christi was threatening to evict tenants who could not pay their increased rent. Was there one financial rule for the rich and another for the poor? Did the college use the money paid by hard-working people, such as Dennis Gaunt, to subsidise the purchase of extra pianos, fine wine (she had managed to access the college’s buttery bills) and the eccentric hobbies of its fellows? Wasn’t modern Britain supposed to have thrown off the shackles of the Victorian class system and become more egalitarian since the war; building a society on merit and effort rather than privilege and heredity? How many pianos did a college need?

  When this article was brought to his attention, the Master was apoplectic. The first person he telephoned was Sidney. ‘This is intolerable,’ he shouted. ‘That journalist was at the funeral and the wake, was she not? I saw you talking to her. Did you invite the woman?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘But she is a friend of yours?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “friend”.’

  ‘Accomplice, then. How can she write such a thing at a time like this? It is perfectly normal for an employer to provide loans to employees at preferential rates. There is nothing suspicious or illegal about it.’

  ‘I think she considers it an unearned perk at a time when other people can’t pay their rent.’

  ‘I can’t take any responsibility for people who live beyond their means. This whole article is in appalling taste and you know it. She even goes on to say that Gaunts’ Removals had to cut corners and use fewer men because they couldn’t afford any more as a result of our recent rent increases. She also says that the bursar beat them down on the quote so that it was hardly worth them doing the job. Well they didn’t have to do it, did they? If it was economically unsustainable then they could have turned us down.’

  ‘I imagine they didn’t have that luxury.’

  ‘The fact is that they killed Orlando. Now your journalist friend is trying to turn them into victims and blaming us.’

  ‘She doesn’t go as far as that, Master.’

  ‘Anyone can read between the lines. Does she think we’re stupid? She hints that we brought the thing on ourselves and that an accident was bound to happen. It’s unacceptable. I am going to demand an apology and make sure she never reports on a story about the college again.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t have much control over Helena Randall.’

  ‘Who is she anyway?’

  ‘She was a student at Newnham. Went to Wycombe Abbey before that.’

  ‘So she’s someone who has used the benefits of privilege to become a socialist?’

  Sidney’s response was as dry as he could make it. ‘She does have something of a conscience.’

  ‘I don’t want you extending her any sympathy. It’s Cecilia Richards you need to pacify. She’s incredibly upset.’

  ‘She has seen the article?’

  ‘Of course she’s seen it. About fifteen people have “kindly” pointed it out to her. I said you would pay her a visit immediately.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You are her friend, Sidney. For goodness sake. And a better friend than that bloody journalist will ever be.’

  Before he acted on the Master’s demands, Sidney remembered the photographer, Colin Larkin, and went to his studio in Mill Road. If he could just look at all the images taken during the removal and attempted installation of the piano then he might find clues that had previously gone unnoticed. Helena Randall’s article had tactfully shown only the flattened piano after the body had been removed and the high window from which it had fallen.

  Colin Larkin was aware of Sidney’s reputation. ‘I think I was taught by someone you know.’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’

  ‘Daniel Morden. He said I should look out for you if I ever found myself in this part of the world. In fact “look out” were his exact words. He says you don’t miss a trick.’

  ‘It pays to be vigilant.’

  Daniel Morden had been a handsome man in his late fifties who had once worked in Hollywood during the silent era, taken to drink and become a glamour photographer, gradually working his way down the ladder before dropping out to the south of France. Sidney had met him after he had sabotaged his own studio in order to obtain the insurance money. ‘Are you still in touch with him?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s rather a good painter these days. Mostly abst
ract. Black, white and a hint of pink or grey.’

  ‘Dawn and dusk?’

  ‘He’s obsessed with the first and last sightings of the sun. A metaphor, I think.’

  ‘He was a charming old rogue and a great drinker.’

  ‘Not any more. He’s very monastic these days.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that. But I am grateful to him. He made me look at images in a different way . . .’

  ‘Into the shadows . . .’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here? It’s very strange having two people ask.’

  ‘You mean Helena Randall, for her story?’

  ‘She thinks there’s something fishy too . . .’

  ‘I didn’t say I thought there was anything suspicious, Mr Larkin.’

  ‘You didn’t need to, Canon Chambers. Your very presence gives your feelings away.’

  ‘Then you don’t mind if I have a look?’

  ‘I’d be glad to show you. I imagine you will need a loupe? I should really get on . . .’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you. I’ll ask if I need your help with the details.’

  ‘I’ve only made a few prints; but the contact sheets are here. It’s easy enough to blow up anything you want but it would take me a few hours. I assume you don’t have any money . . .’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Then all I would ask is that if you do see something that might help sell the images to a national newspaper then you tell me first. I could do with a break.’

  Sidney sat on a high stool, picked up at the loupe, and examined the three contact sheets and a few low-angle shots of the piano on its way up. There were several close-ups of the men’s faces (Colin Larkin had clearly been influenced by photographs following the construction of Brooklyn Bridge), a lot of details of piano, rope and crane, and a few general wide shots showing the crowd, the Porters’ Lodge, various comings and goings, a small child with an ice cream, the bursar on his way out for lunch, the head porter, Orlando fussing, Sidney himself looking rather too fat and too hot, and then several wide-angle shots of the piano falling and the final collapse. Sidney sifted through the images of the actual drop and its aftermath, comparing the arrangement of the crowd before and after the event.

  ‘Good heavens,’ Sidney cried. ‘That’s it . . .’

  ‘What’s “it”?’

  ‘A start. An idea. A breakthrough. Thank you, Colin.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m right. It just might be a bit of serendipity. Fate correcting itself. I’ll be back very soon.’

  ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Those five images, eight by ten inches if you please.’

  ‘They’re not very dramatic. This is all before the fall.’

  ‘I know. It was an accident after all,’ Sidney muttered as he left.

  He knew he should head back to Grantchester. His visit had taken far longer than he had anticipated but it had borne greater fruit and Sidney was determined to seize the advantage by calling in at Corpus on his way home. It would hardly take a moment, he tried to convince himself, and if his theory proved plausible then it would also save a lot of time in the long run. He might have a bit of trouble explaining all this to Hildegard but it would surely be worth it if Orlando’s killer (for that is what he now thought) was brought to justice.

  He went straight to the bursary. Could he possibly examine the Gaunt accounts?

  ‘I don’t see why, Sidney. You are hardly an accountant. But then again, I don’t see why not.’ Walter Collins asked his secretary to extract the necessary paperwork from the files. ‘Will you need any help?’

  ‘I assume the debts are obvious.’

  ‘They will stare you in the face; as boldly, perhaps, as the good Lord on Judgement Day.’

  ‘I didn’t think they’d be as drastic as that.’

  ‘I am afraid they are, Sidney.’

  After half an hour at the secretary’s desk (she had been encouraged to take a tea break in town) Sidney was both perplexed and encouraged. ‘I am not sure that you have been entirely truthful with me, Walter.’

  ‘I haven’t lied.’

  ‘The Gaunts were about to lose their home and probably their business.’

  ‘Losing their business is nothing to do with me; as for their home, it appears Dennis Gaunt does have another place to live. I asked for their company accounts and the figures are presented in a deliberately bleak light. They hardly earn any income at all.’

  ‘Poor souls.’

  ‘Not at all. The figures are so absurd that they must be hiding cash away. Undeclared income. Did they ask if you could pay for your removal in cash?’

  ‘I think they did.’

  ‘I don’t imagine the Exchequer would ever know of such a thing.’

  ‘They don’t strike me as rich.’

  ‘They won’t starve.’

  ‘Did you challenge them on this at all?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘And did you threaten them in any way?’

  ‘I did not. Although I did say that their accounts might make interesting reading for the tax man.’

  ‘But they don’t seem to be those type of people; or, if they are, they aren’t very good at it. Dennis Gaunt is clearly going round the bend with worry.’

  ‘Perhaps he should be more cautious; or honest.’

  ‘Do you have no sympathy for him, Walter?’

  ‘You can’t expect people to live in college property for free.’

  ‘And was there no means of reducing their repayments?’

  ‘One of the women came to see me: Susan Gaunt. She’s his sister-in-law, I think.’

  ‘Lennie’s mum?’

  ‘Does the accounts. Tried on the charm. But it didn’t work.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’d rather not go into details, Sidney. You can picture the kind of thing . . .’

  ‘Unless you were mistaken.’

  ‘I can assure you I was not. They seem to think that the college doesn’t need the money. We can write off their debts and start again. I explained that this was not how it worked. Then they implied that this was a form of class persecution; that we did offer credit to students who didn’t pay their buttery bills, or for fellows who were, shall we say, absent-minded about their finances.’

  ‘Which is true . . .’

  ‘Up to a point. However, this is not a matter of credit. It is, arguably, deliberate non-payment.’

  ‘Arguably.’

  ‘Sidney, I don’t know why you are defending them. They have no respect. They think we wouldn’t dare ask them to leave.’

  ‘So what did you say to Dennis Gaunt?’

  ‘I told him that we were considering legal action if they didn’t pay three hundred pounds by the end of the month and that they would be evicted if no monies were forthcoming.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very charitable.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that we are a charity.’

  ‘I thought we were.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Sidney asked. ‘I would be interested to know how seriously you threatened them.’

  ‘Why, Sidney, really, this is none of your business.’

  ‘It may appear not to be so, but I think that it is.’

  ‘And why do you think that?’

  Sidney realised that the only way of shutting up his colleague or making him change tack was to tell him the truth. ‘Because I believe the piano that fell on Orlando Richards wasn’t meant to fall on him at all.’

  ‘Of course not. The whole thing was an accident.’

  ‘It was . . . and also it wasn’t.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘It was meant to kill you.’

  After he had returned home, walked the dog, played with Anna, pacified his wife, and checked that there were no urgent messages, Sidney decided to enlist su
pport. Since Malcolm Mitchell knew the family, Sidney asked his curate to call in at Vic Gaunt’s house and ask when their son Lennie was coming home from hospital; as he did so, his curate might also like to ask how the young man first broke his leg (was it really during a football match?) and find out, as tactfully as he could, whether there was any ambiguity in Susan Gaunt’s relations with the bursar.

  ‘I can hardly ask that in front of her husband.’

  ‘I am sure you will find a way of waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘I don’t know her that well,’ Malcolm replied. ‘Maureen is my friend really. But Susan does bake an exceptional cake. You are always guaranteed a good slice of sponge when you’re with her.’

  Helena Randall was by his side. ‘Perhaps that was what the bursar was after. A nice bit of sponge?’ She managed to make the idea sound almost obscene.

  ‘I don’t think this case has anything to do with cakes.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Malcolm attempted a bit of banter. ‘Perhaps you could make an arrest for “crimes against baking”. The murder of a meringue, the lacing of a lemon meringue pie, the d . . . d . . . d . . . drowning of a drizzle cake . . .’

  ‘Don’t get him started,’ Helena warned. ‘What do you want from me, Sidney?’

  Sidney looked to Malcolm. He had not noticed him stutter in excitement before. He turned to Helena. ‘I don’t know if this is up your street at all and it does involve a little chat with Geordie.’

  ‘That depends what mood he’s in.’

  ‘We all know he’s got a soft spot for you,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘I only flirt with him to make you jealous.’

  ‘I don’t believe that at all.’

  ‘It works, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Every time, unfortunately.’

  Sidney tried to stick to the point. ‘I was wondering, Helena, if you could find out if Lennie Gaunt has a criminal record?’

  ‘Can’t you ask Geordie yourself?’

  ‘I promised Hildegard I would be on domestic duties while she prepares for her concert. Also, I need to make things up with Cecilia Richards.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ Helena answered. ‘I was the one that wrote the article.’