Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins

by James Runcie

  ‘There were plenty of people around; no need for us to chip in and confuse things. Any sign of the painting?’

  ‘Which one?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Battista Sforza, of course. You don’t mean that someone’s filched the other one too?’

  ‘We thought you knew,’ Amanda explained. ‘That’s why Sidney’s a free man. He can’t possibly have stolen the second painting when he was in police custody.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘And I couldn’t possibly have taken the first,’ her friend complained quickly.

  Sir William folded his letter and put it in an envelope. ‘No sign of either painting, then?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And the police don’t have any ideas, Canon Chambers?’

  ‘The police don’t, no.’

  ‘Have they roped you in to help yet?’

  ‘My Italian is not what it might be.’

  ‘Sidney’s had quite enough of the police as it is. He’s got his own man waiting outside even as we speak,’ said Amanda. ‘When are you off?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Sir William replied. ‘It’s a long drive.’

  ‘I thought you flew.’

  ‘We prefer the car. It makes you feel that you are still on the Grand Tour. You can enjoy the Alps and stop off with friends in the south of France.’

  ‘We like to spend a couple of days in Paris too,’ his wife added.

  Amanda began to talk of her discussions with the Uffizi and of the loans she was trying to arrange. Had Sir William had any success in his negotiations for an exchange of paintings for Rushworth Hall?

  ‘Not bad. Although the flood’s put the kibosh on everything. Now all the Italians want is money.’

  ‘Which is the one thing we don’t have!’ Lady Victoria laughed.

  Before they left, Sidney asked the Etheringtons if they could recommend a good place to buy souvenirs. They were rather surprised by his request. Surely Amanda could advise?

  ‘I was just wondering what kind of things you like to take back to England?’

  ‘Nothing of any significance. Sometimes we toddle up to San Gimignano and buy some pottery.’

  ‘I love traditional crafts.’

  Lady Etherington cut in. ‘And, of course, William’s bringing back a few books he found in a junk shop. Sometimes the Italians don’t know what they have and you can pick up all manner of treasures for just a few lire. We don’t spend much. We live quite a modest life, you know.’

  As they drove back into town they could see that the clear-up operation from the flood was still in evidence. An elderly man with a knitted bobble hat picked up a muddied Italian flag that had fallen into the street, put it in the boot of his car, and tried to start the engine. A blonde-haired girl in a pale raincoat smoked a cigarette as her amoroso tried to start up his motorbike. A small boy walked past with a rescued kitten.

  Amanda was dropped off at her hotel, and Giovanni accompanied Sidney to the vicarage. The doctor had not arrived but was on his way. Francesca asked if everyone would like coffee, and Sidney thought that, while he was waiting, he might like a word with her too. Having met her brother he was pretty sure that he could trust the Tardelli family and that they were unlikely to be part of an international art conspiracy. But was he right to be suspicious about the Etheringtons?

  Francesca was studying a newspaper report of the flood in l’Unità. The headline read: Salvare Firenze! Sidney asked if that was her paper of choice.

  ‘It is Communist. For the young. And the workers. It was founded by Antonio Gramsci. Have you heard of him? My father reads it.’

  ‘But not, perhaps, his boss?’

  ‘No. He would take Corriere della Sera or La Stampa. In Florence the people with money and position read La Nazione.’

  ‘Not l’Unità? You wouldn’t, for example, find l’Unità in a hotel for English people?’

  Francesca smiled. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because when I was in the Uffizi, Lady Etherington picked up a copy of l’Unità. Why would she do that if she wouldn’t normally read such a paper?’

  ‘Maybe, in the basement of the gallery, where the guards and security staff work, that is the only paper they have.’ She passed the newspaper across. ‘Do you want to have a look? I could translate?’

  ‘That is kind. I’ll just try to get the idea. I don’t think I need a full translation.’ Sidney thought for a moment. ‘Do you think I could speak to your father again?’

  ‘Perhaps you have seen our family too much, Canon Chambers. What do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s just a thought I have . . .’

  Sidney looked through the copy of l’Unità. He could hardly understand a word but could tell from the headlines and the photographs that this was a far cry from The Times. The authorities were being blamed for the flood and the prime minister, Aldo Moro, was accused of irresponsibility. America’s President Johnson was ‘escalating’ the war in Vietnam and Mao Tse-tung had presided over a rally of the Red Guard in Peking.

  At last, Doctor Cannavaro arrived. He was a kindly, well-dressed man who, it turned out, had fought at Monte Cassino in the war. He and Sidney had been on opposite sides.

  ‘So,’ he smiled, ‘we might have killed each other. Such a tragedy. So many lives lost. Stupid. Now we must forgive the past and become friends.’ On discovering that Hildegard was German he told her how keen he was to make amends. ‘We must all lead better lives.’

  He climbed the stairs and sat quietly by Anna as she slept. He let the back of his hand rest on her forehead and felt her pulse. Then he stepped away to allow Hildegard to wake her. He did not want the little girl to be frightened by the face of a stranger. He asked for Francesca and issued instructions.

  After his patient had been given some juice and told not to worry (this was a doctor), Luigi Cannavaro brought a carved golden angel out of his suit pocket. He told Anna that it would protect her, and that she would soon be well. He showed her his torch and asked her to open her mouth wide; then he let her look in his mouth too. He said that he had brought a special medicine, but it was one that could only be used by English girls. Was Anna English? Was she a girl? The medicine was special because it was pink. It didn’t taste very nice so it needed to be mixed with something else. Something cold and delicious that would stop her feeling so hot. Could Anna think what that might be? She couldn’t. The doctor felt her forehead once more and asked for a damp towel. Francesca returned to the room with medicine, a bowl and a spoon.

  ‘Aha!’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘Gelato alla fragola. You see, Anna, this medicine is so special it can only be used with strawberry ice cream. It does not work if you do not have the ice cream. Do you think you can eat a little? I know it may be hard . . .’

  Anna nodded. Then she took her medicine.

  It was fifteen minutes before the doctor rejoined Sidney downstairs. ‘It is a fever and a sore throat. It will pass.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ said Sidney. ‘I know there must be so many calls on your time.’

  ‘It is the same for you.’

  ‘But I am on holiday.’

  ‘I do not think a priest ever has a holiday.’

  ‘It is easier in Italy.’

  ‘When the English come here they are always excited. The beauty is too much.’ The doctor opened the door. ‘Lady Etherington, she faints . . .’

  ‘When was this?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘After shopping. She carried many, many bags. After she helped at the Uffizi. It was too much. She fell like a child.’

  ‘Was she all right?’

  ‘It was nothing. She needed water. People helped her a lot.’

  ‘What happened to her shopping?’ Sidney asked.

  The doctor looked surprised that this should be considered more important than the health of an acquaintance, ‘Her husband took it. Everything wrapped up. No problem. It is normal. Italia. The English. Too much. But Lady Etherington, she was better in five minutes.’
r />   I bet she was, thought Sidney.

  He was going to have to act fast. He persuaded Giovanni Tardelli that they had to return to the Villa Tolomei immediately. He also assured the surprised policeman that this time he could drive as dangerously as he liked provided they got there, Francesca explained, il più rapidamente possibile.

  He asked the housekeeper to make up a little story for Hildegard. He had gone with Giovanni to the police station. It was a bureaucratic matter. He also told her to get on to her father, her boyfriend, and Amanda Kendall. In fact she could tell whoever she liked.

  ‘And what if you are wrong?’ Francesca asked.

  Sidney was about to say that he was hardly ever wrong when he realised that there was no actual evidence for this; certainly not in Italy. ‘Trust me,’ he said as he climbed into the front seat of Giovanni’s car.

  They arrived at the Villa Tolomei just as the Etheringtons’ Rover P5, with British number plates, was disappearing down the drive. He and Giovanni stopped outside the hotel gates and looked at each other without saying anything. Sidney nodded. Giovanni smiled and put his foot down.

  The Etheringtons were heading north, and after leaving the Via di Santa Maria a Marignolle they swerved on to the Via Romana, and drove in heavy traffic past the Boboli Gardens, hooting the horn repeatedly, before turning left along Lungarno Guicciardini and making their way over the Arno at the Ponte alla Carraia. They knew they were being followed. Once they had crossed the river they accelerated through narrow side streets, empty of people, but still wet and muddied by the flood. Here their speeding attracted the attention of the carabinieri, a squad car soon joining in the chase up the Via del Moro, the Via Panzani, and past the church of Santa Maria Novella with Alberti’s famous façade.

  As they raced by the railway station, another car full of carabinieri joined the chase. The Etheringtons turned on to the Via Bolognese Nuova and drove through the university. They were making for the motorway but, just before they reached it, and having noticed the cars in pursuit, they changed their minds, swerving off to the right and backtracking down towards Fiesole.

  Sidney remembered them talking about ‘a divine little farmstead’ when he had first met the couple, and presumed that it was empty: a possible hideaway if they could get rid of the police.

  Giovanni was gesturing to the carabinieri. It was unclear whether he was asking them to overtake or to back off, but lights were blaring and sirens flashing. The Etheringtons turned off their headlights, swerved up a track and vanished.

  Sidney asked Giovanni to pull over. The squad cars braked just in time and there followed a confusion of shouting and gesticulation, blame and explanation.

  Sidney ran back and found the turning they had missed. He shouted at everyone to return to their cars and follow the new road. They found the surface increasingly uneven, until the track ran out in front of a remote villa encircled by a few olive trees.

  Sir William and his wife were still inside their car when Giovanni and Sidney approached. The English aristocrat was complaining that they should have left earlier. His wife was telling him to shut up. ‘Don’t tell them anything.’

  ‘What’s the point? They are going to search the car anyway.’

  The carabinieri asked them to get out. Giovanni told the couple that Sidney would explain everything.

  ‘He doesn’t need to,’ Lady Victoria replied.

  Her husband made one last attempt at friendship. ‘I thought we English were supposed to stick together.’

  ‘Not in a case like this.’

  ‘If you hadn’t interfered . . .’

  ‘You would have been discovered anyway. What were you going to do with the paintings?’

  ‘What makes you think we have them?’

  ‘We’ll find them soon enough. But I don’t understand why you’ve done this. You could hardly put them on display, and they’re too famous to sell.’

  ‘They were going to be for our own use: in our bedroom, if you must know. We’ve given so much to this country we thought we deserved a reward.’

  ‘A reward? That’s something many of us only look for in heaven.’

  ‘I suppose you would know all about that.’

  ‘Not yet, Sir William.’

  The carabinieri unwrapped a Florentine tray and a box of books to reveal the two paintings and a series of volumes that had been quietly removed from the National Library. They showed them to Sidney and Giovanni, transferred them to their cars and made the necessary arrests.

  The Etheringtons were surprisingly unconcerned.

  ‘We’ll just say it’s been a misunderstanding,’ Victoria explained. ‘No one wants anything as dreary as a court case. The director of the Uffizi is a friend of ours. I’m sure he’ll find a way to forgive us.’

  Sidney was aghast. ‘You mean you think you can get away with it?’

  ‘As we have with everything in this country. Some people are born lucky; some people aren’t. You know the saying: E meglio nascere fortunati che ricchi? Well, we are both fortunate and rich. And what does it matter? These paintings weren’t on display. Who would miss them? We’re not bad people. We give enough money to charity. It’s only fair we’re treated properly in exchange.’

  Sidney was horrified. ‘Treated properly?’

  He turned to Giovanni, who affirmed this was the truth. Often people did tend to get away with things. The paintings would be returned and, as long as they were safe, everything else would be considered a nuisance. Why waste time on justice when everything was back to what it was? Non svegliare il can che dorme.

  Lady Etherington translated: ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘I am not sure I am prepared to accept that,’ said Sidney.

  ‘It is the way of the world,’ Sir William answered.

  ‘Yes, but the world extends beyond the Alps in the north and Sicily in the south.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There is always the International Criminal Police Organisation at Saint-Cloud in Paris,’ Sidney explained. ‘The head of Interpol happens to be a friend of Amanda’s father.’

  ‘How do they know we are here?’

  ‘They don’t. Yet. But Rushworth Hall is very well known, is it not? I presume you were planning to return home. If not, and this is your hideaway, then we know where that is too. Giovanni has disabled your car. We have time. Everything else is in the lap of the gods. Fortunae cetera mando, as the saying goes. I prefer Latin to Italian, don’t you?’

  Sidney and Giovanni returned to the vicarage in the Via Maggio at a more stately pace. They arrived to discover that Doctor Cannavaro had come back to check on his juvenile patient. He was pleased to report that the flush had left Anna’s cheeks and that she would soon be as pale as an English rose once more.

  Sidney thanked him. The doctor said he had done very little. ‘Like you. I try to take away worry. I give reassurance.’

  ‘And ice cream. Anna has learned to say “gelato alla fragola”.’

  ‘I hope she will return many times. One day perhaps she will see Italy as another home.’

  ‘That would be delightful. I am also grateful for something else.’

  ‘Lady Etherington?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘You knew something was wrong.’

  ‘I thought she was pretending when she fainted. But to accuse her would not be gallant. I knew that you would understand if I said enough.’

  Timothy Jeffers had gone to bed. Francesca had left a saucepan of minestrone on the hob, and there was bread, butter and cheese on the kitchen table with half a bottle of Chianti.

  Hildegard lit a candle, served up the soup, and told her husband that he had a lot of explaining to do. He should not expect to get off lightly. At least there was only one day left in Florence and Anna was better. She couldn’t wait to get home.

  Sidney was still exhilarated by his adventure and unable to relax as he told his story, standing up and walking about as he ate. He had been shocked by the attitude of the Ether
ingtons. What made them think they were entitled to take whatever they wanted? He wondered if they thought their experience in Italy gave them an excuse. Perhaps, Sidney began to extemporise, the origins of selfishness and unbridled capitalism lay in the Renaissance? Should the Medicis be blamed for their banking system as much as they were praised for their artistic patronage? Didn’t Dante convey usurers to a deeper place in hell than blasphemers, murderers and violent suicides unable to ward off the whipping winds and flaming fire?

  ‘You think the Etheringtons should go to hell?’ Hildegard asked.

  ‘I know that’s not very Christian.’

  ‘Some people might say that it was exactly Christian.’

  ‘I am not so sure about hell.’

  ‘Are you equally uncertain about heaven?’

  ‘I don’t know. I am concentrating on earth alone at the moment. I can’t stomach the fact that the rich have a different morality. They think they can buy immunity from justice by donating to charity.’

  ‘At least they are doing something.’

  ‘But not at any cost or sacrifice. Their lifestyle remains intact.’

  ‘You expect the wealthy to make themselves poor?’

  Sidney thought out loud. ‘What would it be like if everyone was paid the same? How would it work and how much would everyone have to live on? What kind of houses would people live in and how much geographical space could be shared?’

  ‘Have you been reading that Communist newspaper?’ Hildegard asked.

  ‘No. I think I’ve always felt like this. But there is something about being away from home. It makes you re-evaluate your thoughts. I don’t think the wealthy do enough.’

  ‘Be careful what you say, Sidney. Amanda has been kind to us; she has helped pay for this holiday.’

  ‘Amanda is different.’

  ‘She is still rich. It does not cost her very much to be a good person.’

  ‘You mean that we can only be good when we have made a sacrifice of some kind?’

  ‘Perhaps. A poor person, looking at us now, would think that we too are rich. Look at the cathedral you work in, Sidney. Do you think Jesus would be happy seeing you there?’