Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins

by James Runcie

  ‘He didn’t cover for me.’

  ‘He did. All the time. I think I miss him more than you do.’

  Anna asked once more. ‘Look properly, Daddy.’

  Sidney refused to rise to his wife’s challenge and left to see Canon Clough. He wanted to talk about Virginia Newburn. The letters had to be from her. But what had she got to do with Amanda?

  He began by asking if Christopher had any notes from his admirer.

  ‘Hundreds. Do you want to see them?’

  ‘I am interested in her handwriting . . . and in her past.’

  ‘Are you prepared to take her on then, Sidney? To be honest I could do with some respite. These things tend to get out of hand.’

  ‘Only if you let them.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave it to you.’ Canon Clough opened a desk drawer. ‘How many of them do you want?’

  ‘Four or five will do for now. What do they say?’

  ‘Pretty much the same thing again and again: how lost she is, that I am one of the few people who understand her, how understanding is the key to knowledge and that knowledge is an act of love. I’m sure you’ve come across this kind of thing in Grantchester.’

  ‘No, I haven’t actually.’

  ‘Then you must have led a very sheltered life.’

  ‘I suppose one could say that,’ Sidney answered, careful to keep his sleuthing skills discreet. He was surprised that Canon Clough was unaware of his reputation. Perhaps he was not as well known as he thought he was.

  In the Prince Albert pub that night, Inspector Keating compared the letters written to Christopher Clough with one of the notes sent to Amanda. He said that he would have to show it to the experts, but even an amateur eye could tell that there was little that the two hands had in common. Virginia Newburn’s style was small, delicate and slanting to the right, whereas the poison-pen letters were constructed in a much larger size, with straight, bold strokes, heavy pressure and angled to the left. Miss Newburn’s prose was fluent and grammatically accurate, whereas the threatening documents contained spelling errors and erratic punctuation. Sidney wondered whether this could have been done deliberately, but Keating was fairly sure that it would have taken a good degree of skill to be the author of both hands.

  ‘But if Virginia Newburn is not the author of the letters then who is?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I think it’s high time you had a word with the fiancé.’

  ‘Amanda won’t be pleased.’

  ‘And she’s happy now?’

  ‘It would be taking quite a risk, Geordie.’

  ‘And when have you been known to shirk a little thing like that?’

  Sidney could not just drop everything to talk to Amanda but thought about his tactics as he made his way to visit a sick parishioner who lived near Chettisham Meadow. It was filled with the fineness of early summer, and he wondered whether he should gather some wild flowers for his wife. He thought fondly of Hildegard for a moment, missing her and quite forgetting that one of the reasons he had left was to escape the constant noise of piano lessons. She had been putting Adam Barnes through his paces and Sidney could only be relieved that he wasn’t a pupil himself as he remembered Hildegard’s running commentary through the music.

  ‘Play with your body! Use more muscles – not just in your hands but in your arms, your shoulders, your back, and your stomach – conduct the piano – command it – your playing is too shallow, Adam, get down inside the ivory, play to the bottom of the keys. There’s a whole orchestra inside there and you are the conductor.’

  Lost in his reverie, Sidney looked up to see the same woman in the distance that he had seen before. It wasn’t Amanda, but he wasn’t sure that it was Virginia Newburn either. Byron began barking, something he never did, either with Amanda or with Miss Newburn. Who on earth could it be?

  He made his way home and was stopped by the dean, who expressed surprise that he had not been recognised. ‘I think you are in a world of your own, Sidney.’

  ‘I must be. However, I don’t quite know what that involves. I’m not sure that I’m secure about anything at the moment.’

  ‘I thought you might have a few teething troubles. A priest can find it quite lonely sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, I see . . .’ (Although Sidney couldn’t ‘see’ anything at all and was merely worried what on earth the dean was going to tell him next.)

  ‘As priests we also have to be more careful than most in our selection of friends.’

  ‘Yes, I have always found that to be the case.’

  ‘One must not get too excited too soon. Or overenthusiastic.’

  ‘I quite agree.’

  ‘With women, particularly.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Miss Newburn. She is, I think you will have gathered, a dangerous combination of vulnerability and volatility. It’s no surprise Canon Clough has dropped her.’

  ‘I don’t think he was ever holding her.’

  The dean winced at Sidney’s flippancy. ‘These are serious matters, Canon Chambers. You will tell me if there is anything amiss?’

  ‘I will inform you of anything I think you need to know. Otherwise I shall try not to trouble you.’

  ‘I am not sure that I find that reassuring.’

  Before Sidney could see Henry, Amanda telephoned again. It was almost midnight and there had been a new development. That night the doorbell had rung in her flat. When she had opened the door she had found no one outside, but a bouquet of a dozen dead roses had been left with a simple note:

  As dead as your love will be.

  She told Sidney that she was so upset she had gone to stay with her parents in Chelsea. She planned to take a few days off work and was effectively going into hiding. She did not know what to do about Henry. Could Sidney perhaps see him after all? He was staying at the Lansdowne Club.

  ‘How much does he know?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And how much do you want him to know?’

  ‘Tell him everything, Sidney. I only wish I’d listened to you before. Anything to make this stop.’

  Sidney had once toyed with the idea of joining the Lansdowne Club but it was too much of a luxury and it was simpler to enjoy the facilities as one of Henry and Amanda’s guests. He assumed their marriage was still on the cards, but it could hardly be right for Amanda to be bullied into a situation where she was taking refuge at the house of her parents while pretending to her future husband that all was well. Clarification was necessary.

  As they settled down to their gin and tonics, Sidney began to question Henry about his reluctance to get married in church. As a widower, there was nothing stopping him from doing so and Sidney suggested that it might be nice for Amanda to have a bit of a do.

  His companion, however, was adamant. ‘I’d rather not if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I suppose if you’ve had one church wedding already then it might feel strange. Was it a very big occasion?’

  ‘On the contrary it was rather small. Connie didn’t have much of a family and we didn’t want anything too fancy.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘She worked for my tailor. My father had ordered half a dozen suits for me and Connie made the trousers. I don’t think I was supposed to marry her. My parents certainly disapproved, but there you are, these things happen and, when they do, you can’t do much about them.’

  ‘I imagine she was very beautiful.’

  ‘She was more distinctive than an obvious beauty. Dark-red hair, freckles, an elfish look, the kind of smile that turns a man’s heart.’

  ‘You must have been very much in love.’

  ‘We felt we didn’t need to know each other.’

  ‘And you were happy?’

  ‘It was passionate. She was frail. Perhaps it was always doomed. But I think we were happy. Certainly at the beginning . . .’

  Sidney decided that he would return to the subject later but wanted to check on one thing before he forgot. ‘Tell me
, were you friendly with anyone else who worked with her at the time?’

  ‘There was a whole team. Gerald Lowe is a reputable firm.’

  ‘Indeed. Lowe of the Row,’ Sidney continued. ‘Did you ever meet a girl called Virginia Newburn?’

  ‘She and Connie were friends . . .’

  ‘She’s one of my parishioners. She lives just outside Ely.’

  ‘I wondered what happened to her. She was always quite religious. I thought she might even become a nun. But she was Roman Catholic, surely? I can’t imagine her as one of your flock.’

  ‘She is now. You haven’t seen her recently?’

  ‘Not at all. She and Connie fell out, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Over you?’

  Henry Richmond crossed his legs. ‘It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to say.’

  ‘You mean that Virginia Newburn was keen on you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that.’

  Sidney leaned forward. ‘How would you put it?’

  ‘I don’t think it ever got that far. In any case, as soon as I saw Connie there wasn’t any other outcome in my mind.’

  ‘But Virginia Newburn held a candle for you?’

  ‘If she ever did it went out long ago. I don’t think it was that serious. In fact, you would probably have had a better chance than me. I seem to remember that she was always talking about her priest.’

  ‘She seems predisposed towards clergy.’

  ‘And are you on the receiving end?’

  ‘No. I am fairly sure her current desire lies elsewhere.’

  Henry Richmond summoned a waiter for a refill. He was keen to move to surer ground. ‘I don’t know why women become so attached to priests. They must know they are on a losing wicket.’

  ‘Not all the time. Some priests string them along, I’m afraid. I try to play with a straight bat.’

  ‘Unless you’re knocked for six, I suppose?’ Henry asked, exhausting the cricketing metaphor. ‘I think you were once rather keen on Amanda yourself, weren’t you?’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘First love can be very deceptive. I think it’s easier now that we are more mature.’

  ‘And you are happy with everything?’ Sidney asked, keeping his questions as open as possible.

  ‘I think so. Amanda’s nervous, I can tell. She’s had her share of near misses. You can’t get to our age without some history. The trick is to keep it in the background.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Sidney, ‘although sometimes the past has a habit of springing back to life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you know anything about the anonymous letters Amanda has been receiving?’

  ‘Not at all. What on earth are you referring to?’

  Sidney explained.

  Henry Richmond swore that he knew nothing. ‘Why would anyone do such a thing?’

  ‘It could be someone who is still in love with you.’

  ‘Is this a long way round of telling me that you suspect Virginia Newburn of sending these letters?’

  ‘It is. But they could also come from someone who is in love with Amanda. Whatever the case, someone wants to put her off your marriage. Can you think of anyone who would try to do that?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re not sure? Does this mean that there is a possibility?’

  ‘I may have to think a little more.’

  ‘If you do, can I suggest that you discuss this with Amanda?’

  ‘Why has she not told me about all this herself?’

  ‘I think she didn’t want to alarm you. In any case . . .’

  They stopped. The porter was at the table and had been waiting to interrupt for some time. Sidney was wanted on the telephone.

  He was surprised. Only Amanda and Hildegard knew that he was at the Lansdowne Club.

  ‘Indeed, sir. I think it is your wife.’

  Sidney made his way to the office. Now he was frightened. Had something happened to Anna? She was perfectly well when he had left but perhaps there had been a ghastly accident. He thought of all the possibilities and his pace increased as he moved across the carpet. Why had he ever left home? What on earth was he doing when he could have been with his family?

  His wife’s tone was eerily calm. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, my darling. Everything is good at home. No, there is nothing wrong with Anna. We are both well. No, not exactly. It is not all right. There is something I have to tell you. A woman has been found dead in the river. I think you know her.’

  ‘Is it Virginia Newburn?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Inspector Keating is here. He thought you were meeting tonight.’

  ‘I forgot to tell him. Will you explain? Can you ask him what the woman was wearing?’

  ‘That’s what he wanted to tell you. She had a maroon-coloured coat, just like Amanda’s. The one you mentioned. And he doesn’t think it was an accident.’

  Sidney did not tell Henry Richmond but made his excuses and left, pretending that he was returning to Cambridge. Then he went straight to Tite Street in Chelsea. On approaching the house of Amanda’s parents he was amazed to see an undertaker’s van waiting outside. He rang the bell in panic and was so relieved when Amanda answered the door that he kissed her full on the lips and held her tightly and for too long.

  They were still holding each other when Amanda spoke. ‘Oh Sidney, the most dreadful thing has happened.’

  ‘Is it one of your parents?’

  ‘No, it’s the cruellest thing: a hoax. Someone telephoned the undertaker’s and said that I was dead. The men just turned up. Who could have done such a thing? I can’t trust anyone any more. I don’t even know if I can rely on you.’

  ‘Believe me, you can, Amanda.’

  ‘But what if it is Henry?’

  ‘He knows about the letters. Now we must tell him everything else that has happened, preferably in front of Inspector Keating. I want to see his face.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can do that. I have to see him alone.’

  ‘I’m worried that’s not safe.’

  ‘It’s as bad as that?’

  ‘You are too precious to lose.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ said Amanda.

  I’m not so sure, Sidney thought, immediately planning to ask for police protection.

  Gerald Lowe was practically dressed for a tailor, wearing two out of the three pieces of a grey flannel pinstriped suit, having abandoned his jacket in order to keep his arms as free as possible. These were used to make extravagant gestures as he explained the way in which he had built up his business in Savile Row, why his clients were extraordinarily important even though he could not possibly name them, and how he tried to be like a father to his staff. He could remember every one of them, and of course he could tell Sidney all about Virginia Newburn.

  ‘She was with us just after the war. She had good little fingers; a fast worker but she was worried about losing her eyesight. They all do. You have to work so close you’re never quite sure what you’re going to see when you look up.’

  He had heard about her death. ‘Did she get lost, do you think? Perhaps she couldn’t see where she was going. They have a lot of accidents on the Fens, don’t they? Is that where you’re from?’

  Sidney explained the purpose of his visit. Although he did long to have a bespoke suit of his own one day, such a luxury was beyond his present means. However, he did have a friend who had offered to come with him after he had done some initial research into cut and fabric, and so perhaps they could look through a few ideas? His friend was called Amanda Kendall and she was about to marry a man whose first wife, Connie, had worked for Gerald. Could the tailor remember her at all?

  ‘Everyone loved Connie. She was from County Clare. We used to joke about it because it sounded like she had two Christian names or that her mother was called Clare. Connie from Clare. Beautiful hair and a little upturned nose. Wild green eyes. She was quite a dreamy girl but she had a temper
on her, I’ll say that. I didn’t see her much after she got married. Have they got divorced then? I wouldn’t be too surprised. She was always a wayward girl.’

  ‘No.’ Sidney stopped. ‘She died.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She had a weak heart.’

  ‘Connie from Clare? That doesn’t sound right. She was a strong girl.’

  ‘And there were no other people called Connie that you employed?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘And so are you saying that you think she might still be alive?’

  ‘I think I’d have heard if she was dead.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘A few years ago.’

  ‘Less than five years ago?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure of it. She told me she was off to East Anglia. It must have been to see Virginia, I suppose.’

  ‘Did she mention her husband at all?’

  ‘She was always private about her admirers. She had a faraway look. I worried sometimes that she was a bit mad. But there was nothing wrong with her heart . . .’

  ‘Might I use your telephone?’ Sidney asked. ‘I need to make a rather urgent call.’

  After Inspector Keating had made the necessary checks with the public record office, Sidney was ready to proceed. It wasn’t going to be easy and he hadn’t quite planned how to deal with the situation but the important thing was to confront Amanda and Henry together. What made matters more complicated, however, was the fact that, shortly before Sidney arrived, Amanda had lashed out and accused Henry of killing Virginia Newburn.

  ‘How could I?’ her fiancé had responded. ‘I hardly know her.’

  ‘But you admit that you do know her?’

  ‘She was a friend of my wife’s.’

  ‘You don’t have a wife.’

  Henry now began his confession. ‘Amanda. There’s something I haven’t told you.’

  ‘You’ve been lying to me?’

  ‘Not lying exactly.’

  ‘Withholding the truth would be more accurate,’ Sidney explained. ‘I am sure it has been with the best of intentions.’