by James Runcie
‘For my life being in constant danger as a result of my association with you. Every time I see you I get into some kind of scrape.’
‘It’s not always my fault.’
‘It is. You are a positive health hazard. Perhaps they should put a label on your cassock. “Warning: Deep Water.”’
‘I suppose you could have one too. “Danger: Acid.”’ Sidney wondered why his friend was being so prickly, so he took the bull by the horns: ‘Tell me, Amanda. Is anything the matter?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘So there is something?’
‘It’s hard to talk about, but it is partly why I’ve come. I knew you would guess. This is not just about a service of blessing.’
‘Is it Henry? Are you having doubts?’
‘I don’t want to complain.’
‘No one said you were. And we are friends. We tell each other everything.’
‘Not everything, Sidney. But most things.’
‘The important things.’
Amanda helped herself to wine. ‘It’s other people. In Henry’s past.’
‘His former wife?’
‘She’s dead. You know that. He told you at that dreadful shooting party. But I think there’s someone else.’
‘Currently?’
‘No. But recent.’
‘And how do you know?’
Amanda reached for her purse. “This.’ She handed Sidney a second envelope. ‘Open it.’
Inside was a note, written in capitals in blood-red ink, spelling out four words. I WILL RUIN YOU.
Sidney looked at the letter. ‘The Hon. Amanda Kendall’ had been typed with her address in Hampstead. ‘The writer knows where you live.’
‘There are more.’
‘Do you have them?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I see them?’
Amanda fished out three more notes from her handbag.
He still loves another.
Imposter!
Marry him and die.
‘I don’t know what to do about it, Sidney. You won’t tell Henry, will you?’
Sidney told Amanda not to open any more suspicious envelopes but to keep them for the police should the situation escalate. If there was anything other than a nasty letter she should let him know immediately and she should, perhaps, ask Henry a few more questions about his recent past. He would also raise the matter with Keating. In the meantime, he returned to his duties.
It was taking Sidney longer to get used to a cathedral environment than he had expected and he asked Canon Christopher Clough for a more informal tour round the precincts: the tracery of the cloister walk, the old infirmary, Prior Crauden’s chapel, the meadow and the great barn. It was both an architectural survey and a chance to meet some of the parishioners. It was also a way of doubling up on his workload since, if they came across any women, Sidney could begin his secret mission from the dean and assess whether his colleague’s approach was inappropriately predatory.
The first person they met was a widow whose son had drowned in Whittlesea Mere while fishing for pike. Then, as they emerged into the high street, they bumped into an unsettling man who appeared to be still drunk from the previous night. He told Sidney to ‘watch out for the monks’ that still haunted the old monastery, sometimes popping up in the middle of evensong, and how the ghostly blue hand of the seventh-century St Etheldreda could still be seen gliding up the banister of Priory House. Sometimes people didn’t so much walk round here, he said, they floated.
Emerging from the Sacrist’s Gate was Virginia Newburn, an efficiently dressed woman from London in her mid-forties who told Sidney that she liked to walk on the Fens every day, whatever the weather. She offered to show him some of the wilder stretches of marshland, beyond Prickwillow and along the River Lark. One day, perhaps, she might even take him to hear the Singing Swans of Wash Fen Mere.
After she had moved on, Canon Clough confided that she was one of his ‘vestal virgins’.
‘Are there many?’ Sidney asked.
‘Legion.’
‘That must keep you busy.’
‘It does, I can tell you. They’re like old cars that haven’t been out much. You just need to give them a bit of oil and they soon get going. But it’s quite harmless; most of them are barking. You have to be a little mad to spend much time with a priest, don’t you think? Anyone who falls for the charms of a clergyman must have a screw loose somewhere.’
Two weeks later Amanda arrived with her fiancé for the first of their premarital ‘chats’. Sidney had not seen Henry Richmond since the funeral of Sir Mark Kirby-Grey. He had not quite made up his mind about him, despite there being nothing obviously wrong with the man. In fact he had exercised considerable bravery in facing domestic violence. It might have been a small thing compared to the courage necessary in wartime, but sometimes, Sidney thought, the Englishman was more frightened of emotional than physical confrontation, preferring, for example, to attack an enemy gun position on a distant hillock than have it out with a friend.
Henry was dressed in a speckled mid-brown three-piece tweed suit with a plum windowpane overlay which so complemented his fiancée’s maroon overcoat that Sidney wondered if Amanda might have ordered both of their outfits as a joint ensemble. The couple appeared to have emerged directly from the pages of Country Life, photogenic examples of the ease with which the British aristocracy still held itself, despite the loss of Empire and no clear understanding of what its future role might be.
It was the third time Amanda had been the recipient of one of Sidney’s advisory sessions (previous conversations had concerned ‘the brute’ Guy Hopkins and ‘the bigamist’ Anthony Cartwright) and because her new fiancé had been married before she insisted that her friend did not treat them as children.
Henry told the story of his late wife’s death over a whisky. Connie Richmond had been an Irish seamstress from County Down. ‘I met her through my tailor. She was so very pretty; one of those women who need to be looked after. She had such innocent appeal and I couldn’t resist her. But she was always frail and she had a weak heart.’
‘It was a youthful folie with a wayward colleen,’ Amanda explained, as if Henry had not spoken at all. ‘I don’t know if the Irish have a word for it?’
‘When did you lose her?’ Sidney asked. He hadn’t liked to talk of this when they had been at Witchford Hall.
Henry Richmond spoke without emotion. His past life could almost have belonged to someone else. ‘Five years ago. Long enough, I hope, to allow time for mourning and a return to love.’
Sidney did not like to comment on either the propriety or process of grief. As far as he was concerned, there were no rules other than the fact that attention had to be paid. This, in itself, was a form of prayer.
‘So you feel that you are now ready for a second marriage?’ he enquired.
Amanda gave a nervous laugh. ‘Don’t ask Henry in front of me, Sidney.’
‘There’s nothing I can’t mention. There should be no secrets between you.’
‘Really? I am not sure you practise what you preach.’ Amanda leaned over and helped herself to a refill from the teapot.
‘My wife knows everything I’m doing.’
‘Hildegard? I am not so sure.’
‘And do you know everything about her?’ Henry checked.
‘I hope we are honest about everything that matters.’
If Sidney had been a crueller friend he would have used this moment to divert the conversation on to the subject of the anonymous letters. They must surely be connected to Henry’s past. But he did not do so because, as he had learned on many previous occasions, discussions about love require a tact that sometimes makes one less than honest.
‘If you don’t volunteer your secrets,’ Amanda carried on, ‘then you have no control over the moment of their revelation.’
Sidney was surprised by his friend’s bravura. ‘I suppose people hope they are never revealed at all.’
Henry Richmond
joined in as tentatively as he could. ‘Perhaps couples are discreet in order to avoid hurting one another. Not everything needs to be explained.’
‘And women certainly like to keep a bit of mystery about them,’ Amanda continued. ‘We don’t want to give the game away too soon.’
‘Perhaps you have already said too much by admitting that,’ her fiancé replied.
‘I was joking. I was nervous,’ Amanda flustered. ‘I don’t find these conversations easy.’
‘Nobody does,’ said Sidney. ‘But I think one has to make a few ground rules. There must be nothing in either conversation or behaviour which involves anything that might hurt one another. There is a difference between tact and deceit; and, at the same time, between an act of kindness and a lie. Even if the truth is painful, there are times when it must be known.’
Henry cut in. ‘I never want to do anything to upset Amanda. She is too precious.’
‘I am sure that is the case,’ Sidney responded. ‘But when you are married you are no longer alone. It is not about “I” but “we”. You should not have to worry so much about your own feelings. All are joint.’
‘All of them?’ Amanda asked.
Sidney leant forward to make his point. ‘Marriage asks that you renounce your solitary life. It requires you to put the other person first, rather than yourself. It requires latitude, tolerance, understanding and forgiveness. These are difficult matters, not least because it means being less selfish.’
Amanda bristled. ‘I don’t think I’m that . . .’
‘The idea being,’ Sidney continued, ‘that we become better people as a result. We improve each other.’
He was pleased that Hildegard was not on hand to overhear what she might consider the great chasm between what her husband preached and what he actually practised, but just as he was about to move on to the difference between a church blessing and a marriage, his wife entered the room and announced that Amanda was wanted on the telephone.
‘But no one knows I am here. Who could it be?’
‘The woman didn’t say.’
Amanda went into the hall to receive the call while Hildegard reassured Henry that a second marriage could be much more – what was the word? She was about to say ‘mature’ but did not want to judge his previous experience – aware. She was struck by the fact that they had both previously been married to Irish people.
As the conversation in Sidney’s study continued, Amanda heard a woman’s voice on the telephone, low and threatening.
Marry him and your life will be over.
The line went dead. She returned to the room. Even Henry noticed that something was wrong. ‘Are you all right, my darling? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
The following afternoon, whilst walking Byron along Angel Drove, Sidney saw a woman a hundred yards ahead, dressed in the same maroon coat that Amanda had worn the previous day. Was it even her? Had she changed her mind and decided not to go back to London? Did she have other friends in the area of whom Sidney was unaware?
He began to walk after the woman, past Braham Farm and along Grunty Fen Catchwater, but made no ground. Byron barked and Sidney called: ‘Amanda! I thought you’d left!’
The distant figure crossed the railway bridge at Chapel Hill. Sidney shouted out once more, sure he could be heard, but the figure did not turn round. Instead, she disappeared into the mist along the Ouse.
That is very odd, Sidney thought as Byron rejoined him. I must be wrong. But how could I mistake my best friend?
His Labrador began digging at a broad bank of silt by the river, pawing away at a stone, making what appeared to be a shallow grave out of the pebbles, his snout wet-black with gravel and peat.
It started to rain. Shortly after he had arrived back home, Amanda telephoned to tell Sidney more about the mysterious call the previous day. Before she could go into any detail, he asked where she was, if she had delayed her departure in any way or if she had left her coat behind.
‘No, of course not,’ Amanda replied. ‘Why are you asking all these irrelevant questions?’
‘Where did you buy your coat?’ Sidney insisted. ‘Is it common?’
‘Of course it isn’t. What do you take me for? I got it at Derry and Toms. I was thinking of fur but had a momentary economy drive.’
‘Would it be easy to get another one like it?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘And have you worn it a lot?’
‘Of course I have. It’s new. Why are you asking? You’ve never taken much interest in my wardrobe before.’
‘I always appreciate what you wear.’
‘Never mind all that, Sidney. I have something more worrying to tell you.’
‘More than the recent phone call?’
‘I’m afraid so. It’s getting worse.’
‘You’ve had another letter?’
‘I have.’
‘And what does it say?’
‘You’re not the victim, you’re the crime!!!’
‘I told you not to open them.’
‘There’s another thing, Sidney. It is in a different handwriting from the other letters.’
‘So you think there’s more than one person sending the threats?’
‘There has to be. What have I ever done to deserve this?’
Or what has Henry done? thought Sidney.
He went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Hildegard was teaching. She was nearing the end of a lesson because the music had stopped. Teacher and pupil were probably discussing plans for the following week. He would bring his wife a cup between pupils and possibly a slice of cake, although their supply had been considerably depleted now that Malcolm was no longer with them.
The music resumed. ‘Stronger in the left hand,’ he heard Hildegard saying, ‘now dance. Dance with the right. Let the music ripple. It’s like a stream. Let it flow over the listener. Imagine it never ends.’
Sidney opened the cake tin. There was half a loaf of fruitcake left (not one of his favourites). He went in search of digestive biscuits. They would do perfectly well, but it was not the same as when Malcolm had returned from one of his forays round the parish.
He poured out the tea and heard Hildegard issuing her final instructions. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be her pupil. Frightening but rewarding, he thought. One would not want to let her down.
She was touched by the tea and began to talk about Adam Barnes, the pupil who had just left. ‘He’s the first student I’ve had who understands Bach. I think I’m going to put him in for Grade Eight.’
‘Whatever you think best . . .’
‘I don’t want to push him. He’s quite a shy boy; but he understands how to be elegant and light without being . . . what is the word?’
‘Superficial?’
‘I think that’s it. It’s what you have, mein Lieber. You are much more serious than people think.’
‘I hope so.’
‘You know there are home-made chocolate biscuits?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve hidden them.’
‘Why? Malcolm doesn’t live with us any more.’
‘We need to finish the fruitcake first. If I produce the biscuits then the fruitcake will be abandoned.’
‘So why are you telling me?’
‘I don’t know. I’m tired.’
‘Perhaps Anna would like a chocolate biscuit. Where is she?’
‘Playing with her farm. I thought you were keeping an eye on her.’
‘I saw her a few minutes ago.’
‘Minutes?’
‘Half an hour.’
‘Honestly, Sidney, you know that you are supposed to look after her when I’m teaching. Anna!’
‘I’m sure she’s all right.’
‘I’ll go and see.’
He took the tea upstairs with some juice for Anna and a chocolate biscuit. His daughter responded first with suspicion, then curiosity. After a first lick, a look of amazement and then hurt came across her
features as she wondered how something so delicious had been denied her so long. Why had she not been introduced to this nectar before?
‘You know she will never recover from this?’ Hildegard warned from the doorway. ‘She will ask for it all the time?’
‘Chocklick,’ said Anna. ‘More.’
Sidney produced an extra biscuit. It disappeared immediately. ‘Gone,’ said Anna. ‘More.’
Because there was no more, Hildegard sang her daughter a distracting song:
‘Ringel, Ringel, Rosen,
schöne Aprikosen,
Veilchen und Vergissmeinnicht,
alle Kinder setzen sich.’
The three of them then began to play with the toy farm. Sidney crouched down and made animal noises, and together they made up a musical nonsense song about all the creatures waking up in the morning and how they greeted each other through the day.
It was a rare respite, broken only by the sound of the telephone. By the time they had heard, it was too late to answer.
Hildegard worried that it might have been Amanda.
Sidney tried to return to their game but the mood had been dispelled. He gathered up the tea things. ‘I hope you are not going to get anxious about all this.’
‘But who has taught me to be so?’ his wife asked. ‘This happens all the time. At least you can stop it before it gets worse.’
‘We have to worry, I suppose, about precisely what is starting up.’
‘Threats, secrecy, lies.’
‘I don’t think there have been lies, Hildegard, at least not as far as I can see . . .’
‘And potential murder. Is that not enough? She should go to the police. You must tell Inspector Keating what is going on.’
The most important thing Sidney had to do, Geordie told him, was to find a decent pub in Ely; somewhere they could be discreet. People were beginning to cotton on to the fact that their meetings were no longer social. It had to be a place with proper beer, a warm ambience and not too many riff-raff. He didn’t want to have to start breaking up fights or making arrests.
‘I don’t think you’ll find too much of that in Ely,’ Sidney replied.
‘You find it everywhere if you know where to look. But at least the poor are honest about their crime. They slug it out. Not like your posh people.’
