by James Runcie
‘It need only be for a little while, until this all blows over. You’re still holding the ace. You have the picture. Those men can’t make any profit without it. Can you not find a way of holding out?’
‘I’m already on the floor, Sidney. I never imagined how quickly I could lose not only my confidence, but every sense of who I am. I thought divorce was bad enough, but I could cope with that and with my brother dying in the war and my father becoming frail. I mean, I know people get old. Mummy’s hoping that if she pretends nothing is going to go wrong and refuses to acknowledge Daddy’s ill then he’ll somehow get better, but I know he won’t. He’s mortal. We’re all mortal. But when you think you’re going to lose your job you don’t know who you are any more. It defines me more than being the vacuous socialite everyone used to think I was.’
‘No one thought that.’
‘You remember we used to joke about each other, Sidney? I used to say that because you could be amusing it didn’t mean you were not serious.’
‘And I used to say that just because you were rich it didn’t make you stupid.’
‘Well I’ve proved it now. I’m not so rich any more. And perhaps I am even more foolish.’
‘You have made a mistake, that’s all. And you can rectify it.’
‘Perhaps. I could possibly make amends for the mistake but I can’t undo the professional damage. People will abandon me. They will worry that any association with me will sully their reputation. I had forgotten how fickle friendship can be. You’re the only one I can trust, Sidney.’
‘And Hildegard.’
‘Sometimes I am still not sure whether she likes me.’
‘She loves you, Amanda. She doesn’t have to prove it. She’s only amused to think what it would have been like . . .’
‘If we had married each other? Don’t.’
‘Those days are gone.’
‘Everything’s gone. I don’t know how much is left of me. I don’t know anything at all any more. I wish you’d stopped me getting into all this.’
‘I’ve never been able to prevent you doing anything, Amanda.’
‘But you know me best. And now I’m ruined.’
Sidney did not like to point out that Amanda could not be ‘ruined’ if she was still able to fall back on her parents and she had only been suspended from her job at the British Museum; he was sure that her boss liked her enough to restore her position once she had acknowledged both that Charles Beauvoir had ‘led her astray’ and that ‘lessons had been learned’. Amanda still had her beauty, her charm and her connections. She was hardly likely to starve.
He remembered Ted the verger’s point that there was a difference between being broke and being poor, and he had always rather despised people from rich families when they told him they ‘had no money’. Amanda had been chastened by an experience that was fuelled, in part, by greed; just as he, too, had been humbled recently by meetings with Miss Morgan and Mrs Maguire. Still, it didn’t take much to throw a life off balance. We just had to hold on tight to what made the best of us, he decided. Perhaps he would preach about that next Sunday: the illusion, or at least the confining limitations, of the self.
‘Will you be able to keep the painting?’ he asked.
‘As you say, it’s the only card I hold. I know a thousand pounds is still a lot of money, but I’m going to have to find a way of waiting until either the others come back and make me a proper offer or I can make a stronger case. Perhaps Xavier Morata will die and a new Goya expert will emerge from the shadows?’
‘You’re still sure you’re right?’
‘I’m certainly not going to let them defeat me, Sidney.’
‘You’re sounding better already.’
‘It’s a question of money and pride.’
‘And vanity.’
‘That too; and we both know what impostors they all are. You’ve taught me that, and I hope you will go on teaching me even if it takes a lifetime. I’ve still got so much to learn.’
‘And so have I. But don’t worry. I’ve no plans to abandon you, Amanda. We will always learn from each other. In fact, I don’t think our lessons will ever stop.’
Just before catching the train back to Ely, Sidney paused to look in the window of an antiques shop near the British Museum. He had noticed a rather expensive-looking mirror (if he had raided the Sunday collection himself he would have been able to afford it easily) but, after talking to the shopkeeper, he discovered that it was cheaper than he feared because it was actually made from tin. This was perfect. He was only a month late for his wedding anniversary and Hildegard was used to the somewhat erratic timing of family celebrations. He just hoped she didn’t think that he was trying to buy his way back into her good books.
She had just finished teaching and was preparing the supper when he arrived home, kissed her and presented his gift.
‘This is very beautiful, mein Lieber. Will it tarnish?’ As soon as she had spoken, Hildegard held up her hand to prevent interruption. ‘Don’t draw any moral conclusions from the question. Just answer it.’
‘We will need to keep it in good repair. Like . . .’
‘Our marriage? Yes, I know, Sidney, but I fear I am getting too old for mirrors. I do not like to look at myself too much. I do not want to turn into my mother.’
‘There is little chance of that, I promise.’
‘There is every chance. But I like to make an effort.’
She gave her husband a spontaneous hug and they held on to each other in front of the cooker as the potatoes bubbled away. ‘I hope you are still proud of me, Sidney. I know I can be difficult.’
‘We can all be difficult.’
Hildegard stepped back. ‘You are not supposed to agree with me. You have to say that I am the easiest and most tolerant person in the world.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, my darling.’
‘Fortunately, you do not have to think about that.’
‘Shall I put the mirror up?’
‘As long as you don’t bang your thumb.’
‘I think I can hammer in a nail.’
Hildegard smiled. ‘What is the eleventh-anniversary material?’
‘Steel. I think.’
‘That is good. I think there is something called “mild steel”. That describes you perfectly: tough when you want to be, but responsive to pressure.’
Sidney hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose I could be stainless.’
‘No, mein Lieber,’ said Hildegard. ‘That is my job.’
Insufficient Evidence
It was Advent. Although Sidney was in residence at Ely Cathedral as priest on duty, presiding over the reassuringly timeless candlelit services, he still found there was an element of desperation during the festive season. His pastoral visits included a call on a woman who could no longer face the daylight and didn’t get up until the middle of the afternoon; a local grocer who was terrified that his business would suffer due to the popularity of frozen food from Bejam (‘If people want raspberries in December, what can I do to stop them?’); and the first wife of a local bigamist who was distressed that her husband had finally left her because he ‘couldn’t afford two Christmases’. One of Sidney’s clerical friends, a man never knowingly filled with the joys of being alive, referred to this particular time of year, after a surfeit of carol concerts, as ‘Death by Little Donkey’.
Hildegard had found last year’s Christmas-card list and was making additions (and the odd subtraction) as Anna wrote her letter to Santa. Sidney knew their daughter was only pretending to continue to believe in his existence because she was afraid the number of presents might reduce if she didn’t. At the same time her parents were content to play along with the idea if it meant preserving the mutual illusion of their daughter’s innocence for a little while longer.
What Sidney did not need, amidst all these extremes of emotion, was a telephone call from Geordie demanding his presence in Cambridge as soon as possible.
He exp
lained that because he was the priest on call he could not leave his post except in the case of an emergency.
‘Well, what do you think this is?’ said Geordie. ‘If you could get the next train . . .’
‘You assume I can drop everything?’
‘It hasn’t stopped you before.’
‘I’m supposed to be spending my time in silence and meditation, reflecting on the birth that transformed history, available to anyone who comes in time of trouble.’
‘Well, I’m the one that’s got the trouble.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t tell you over the telephone. It’s about that Yorkshire trip.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Geordie. Is it Amanda? Why didn’t you tell me about it when we last spoke?’
‘Because, obviously, I didn’t know about it then. It’s taken all this time to come to light.’
‘And you’re not going to give me a clue?’
‘We’ve got a suspect who is refusing to speak.’
‘And why do you think he’ll talk to me?’
‘Haven’t we known each other long enough, Sidney, for you to realise that I already have a good enough reason and that I’m unlikely to be wasting your time?’
‘At least give me something to think about on the train.’
Geordie confided that they were holding Helena Mitchell’s photographer, Frank Downing, for questioning.
‘On what charge?’
‘Rape.’
‘Of whom?’
‘Helena.’
‘What?’
‘Exactly. Downing’s pursuing his right to silence and he’s not saying anything other than “no comment”. However, just before he clammed up on us, he asked for you and a lawyer. We think it’s his mother’s idea. Apparently, you helped her once.’
‘I remember there was a bit of a fracas in a pub when he was a teenager; underage drinking and a fight. Does Mrs Downing know about the charges?’
‘We haven’t made any yet. This is a very difficult area, Sidney. It’s his word against Helena’s and it was weeks ago now, when you were up at that auction.’
‘And why has it taken so long for her to report it?’
‘Fear.’
‘Poor girl,’ said Sidney. ‘Are you sure my involvement with the accused will help?’
‘I don’t think you have much choice. You were in the vicinity.’
‘We didn’t all stay in the same place.’
‘You were close enough, Sidney. It’s hard to tell what’s going on. Downing insists it was consensual.’
‘I think I have to see Helena before I agree to do anything.’
‘It’s a grey area.’
‘I’m not sure it is, Geordie.’
Sidney could not believe that their friend would make a false accusation. Risking her reputation, and possibly her career, with such a charge was not something she would do without a lot of thought (and, as a journalist, she knew the limitations of the criminal justice system). As soon as he had finished speaking to Inspector Keating he dialled Helena’s number and got her husband.
‘She’s with her mother and sister,’ said Malcolm. ‘She does not want to speak to, or be in the company of, men at all.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
‘Because as soon as you get involved with anything, Sidney, the situation escalates . . .’
‘It seems to have “escalated” perfectly well without me. I have been asked to visit the accused.’
‘You’d better not tell Helena that.’
‘If I do visit him, and I only say “if”, then I think she’ll find out anyway. But I’d like to talk to her. You too.’
‘Why don’t you refuse to go to the police station, Sidney? There are plenty of other clergy in Cambridge.’
‘I know the man’s mother. Besides, you know that we are called to respond to every challenge God sends.’
‘Not every challenge, surely? And perhaps God didn’t send this himself: aren’t there times when friendship overrides duty?’
‘That is why I need to speak to your wife. I want to make it clear that she can trust me.’
‘Well, Sidney, you haven’t made a very good start. You shouldn’t have any doubt where your loyalties lie.’
Impatient to be of assistance, and in the absence of any phone call from Helena, Sidney decided to accept Geordie’s request to come to Cambridge. At least he would be doing something.
One of the Daily Mirror’s top photographers, Frank Downing had covered everything from war to fashion and behaved as if he was capable of going into any situation with both arms free and a Leica round his neck. He was used to sweet-talking his way out of trouble, but this was not going well.
‘I haven’t said much,’ he announced when Sidney arrived in the interview room. ‘And I’m not sure I can speak to you.’
‘You are, of course, entitled to answer “no comment” to any question, but I don’t believe that it ever helps your cause.’
‘The police can twist anything they like.’
‘But if they only ever have the partial truth then they are bound to be partial with it.’
‘I don’t know why that bloody girl is causing trouble. She was keen enough at the time.’
‘You are not denying the event took place?’
‘It depends what you mean by “event”. If you mean sex, then no, I don’t deny it; not that it lasted that long.’
‘Keating tells me that she asked you to stop.’
‘I don’t remember anything like that.’
‘It’s a serious accusation.’
‘And easy to defend. Helena Mitchell’s too embarrassed to confess to her husband, that’s all. I don’t know why she’s told anyone anything in the first place. She knows the rules.’
‘Which are?’
‘What happens on location stays on location. Never apologise, never explain. Deny, deny, deny.’
‘Even if you’re caught?’
‘We weren’t caught. She’s confessed. Now she’s making all these accusations when she was the one who left her door unlocked.’
‘Does she say that?’
‘She insists she can’t remember doing it. But how could I get into her room if I didn’t have a key?’
‘Perhaps she forgot to lock the door?’
‘Do you think she’s doing this to ruin my career?’
‘Had you had an argument?’
‘We have now. I could bloody kill her. My wife’s found out.’
‘How?’
‘When the police came. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘What happened that night?’
‘We were in the hotel bar. We’d been there for ages. We can both handle our drink. We’re journalists, for God’s sake. She kissed me goodnight and said “see you later”.’
‘That might have meant “in the morning”.’
‘She kissed me on the lips.’
‘Any more than that?’
‘It was enough to know what she meant.’
‘And you’re confident of that?’
‘I know women.’
‘That’s not always easy.’
‘Harder for a clergyman. You’re not supposed to indulge in flirtation.’
‘Even a clergyman can be tempted.’
The photographer leant back in his chair, the passive-aggressive attitude of a man about to go on the attack. ‘I’ve been thinking. It must be difficult being married to a priest. There’s so much you have to live up to as a vicar’s wife. You have to be good all the time and set standards. When you go away from the parish it must be inviting to let it all go, behave badly. How do you lot keep it up all the time? Helena told me that her husband was the cheerful sort that never really knows what’s going on. I don’t know how much of the world he’s seen. They live in their own little bubble. She needed a bit of excitement, and I was happy to oblige. I was probably doing her a favour when you think about it.’
Sidney did not want to t
hink about it at all. When he got home his wife told him she was not sure that the involvement of yet another man in the case was going to improve matters.
‘Don’t they have any female officers, lawyers or people Helena could talk to?’
‘I’m sure they do.’
‘Then why don’t they offer?’
‘I don’t know, Hildegard.’
‘Perhaps they don’t take them so seriously. If we had women priests that would be a bonus too.’
‘Don’t start on that.’
‘I imagine Vanessa Morgan could do a good job.’
‘But they haven’t asked for her. They’ve asked for me.’
‘Although Helena hasn’t. You’ve volunteered and yet the victim hasn’t responded at all.’
‘Perhaps she is embarrassed.’
‘I am sure she is. She’s probably fed up talking to men about the whole thing.’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much of an alternative.’
‘Can you imagine what Helena must be feeling?’
‘I can try. But empathy is not the only way of helping someone.’
‘I wonder, Sidney, what would you do if this had happened to me?’
‘I can’t think about that.’
‘What do you mean? You don’t want to confront the possibility, or you don’t think it’s likely?’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Do you think I am too old or not attractive enough to be raped?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘We can’t always confront our deepest fears, Hildegard, otherwise we go mad. You have to live your life optimistically. If you don’t then you are always at the mercy of your own anxieties.’
‘But it could happen to me, Sidney, or eventually to Anna.’
‘She’s nine years old. She is far too young.’
‘She won’t be soon.’
‘Well, if it did happen then I’d kill the bastard.’
‘Now you’re beginning to understand. This will be volatile. If you are going to help then you are going to have to behave in a way that you have never known before.’
Sidney decided to risk an unannounced visit to see Malcolm, assuming that Helena might have returned home, but she was still staying with her parents in London. Apparently, her husband had said the wrong thing when he had first been told about the attack and now risked never being forgiven.
