Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins (8 page)

Sidney acknowledged that there were perhaps doubts about appearance and reality. Could the disciples be sure that they had seen what they said they had seen? Could it have been a mirage or a delusion, a neurotic fantasy?

Not when so many were witnesses, at different times and in different places; not when they felt the presence of the Living Christ, in the garden, on the road to Emmaus, in an empty room. The disciples saw, they knew, and they trusted. Some things remain in mystery, Sidney concluded. Others are utterly and abundantly clear.

Christ is risen!

As he spoke, he saw Josef Madara sitting quietly in the third row. A shaft of morning sunlight, coloured by stained glass, angled across his face. A tear fell down his cheek. Sidney paused briefly to consider it: and, as he did so, he realised that he would never be able to know if that tear was caused by the sudden brightness of the light, by contemplating everything that had happened, or the power of the story he was telling. For some people, it was true, there could be no redemption.

The following day, Sidney met his two colleagues in the Eagle. Lent had passed and he was allowed to return to his regulation two pints of bitter; although now Helena had joined them there was a question over whether the men were allowed a third drink.

Sophie and Josef Madara were estranged; their marriage unable to recover from the trauma of events. Dmitri Zhirkov had made his confession. His was a crime of passion and he was prepared to take the consequences.

‘There’s no way he can get off’, Keating explained. ‘But he might manage manslaughter.’

‘And Sophie Madara goes scot-free?’ Sidney asked.

‘Despite faking her own death . . .’ Helena added.

‘We can’t even prove that. The room was tidied. We only have Madara’s word. I don’t think that will stand up against his wife in court. She knows how to manipulate a conversation. She will have no trouble convincing the jury that her supposed death was one of her husband’s nightmares.’

‘And what about her persuading Dmitri Zhirkov to kill his wife?’

‘It’s hard to prove.’

‘Isn’t it odd,’ Sidney asked, ‘how so much crime stems from an inability to forgive?’

Inspector Keating reached for his pint. ‘Will Madara ever take her back, do you know?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘So his wife’s plan was in vain?’ Helena asked.

‘Perhaps they should have talked sooner,’ Sidney replied. ‘Then they might have been able to forgive. Perhaps it’s easier when you are honest straight away.’

Geordie was in a ruminative mood. ‘We should take this as a lesson. Cathy can get a bit funny if I see too much of one woman or another . . .’

Sidney was surprised his friend was being so open in front of Helena. Perhaps he was either trying to tell her something or turning over a new leaf? ‘I don’t think either of us are murderers, Geordie.’

‘No, but you never know: our wives might be.’

Helena Randall felt the discomfort and asked the men if they would like another round. She normally drank vermouth but switched to pints when she was with them.

‘I am sure it’s my turn,’ said Sidney. ‘Besides, you’re a lady . . .’

‘I’m glad you think so. But a modern woman can buy her own drinks. I’ve just got a pay rise.’

‘Really?’

‘The
Evening News
are worried they’re going to lose me to one of the nationals.’

‘And are they?’

Helena smiled. ‘I don’t know yet. I think they’re going to see how this story develops. I’m after syndication. There might be quite a few bob in it.’

‘Perhaps we should get a cut?’ Keating asked.

‘That is corruption, Inspector.’

‘I was
joking
.’

‘It might even be a book,’ said Sidney.

‘Or a film.’ Keating brightened. ‘Basil Rathbone could play the priestly detective. Or Richard Attenborough.’

‘Aren’t they a bit old for the part?’

‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Keating replied. ‘Knowing my luck Sid James would probably be me.’

‘No, they’ll ask someone more handsome,’ Helena cut in, quickly enough to sound gallant. ‘Richard Burton would be good. Have you seen
The Longest Day
?’

Geordie was appalled. ‘Since when was I Welsh?’

Helena laughed. ‘And Kenneth More for Sidney. This story could make my name. I’m very grateful to you both. I’ve been so lucky.’

Despite the jocular nature of the conversation, Sidney had a quiet moment of melancholy. ‘Wouldn’t you rather that none of this had happened?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Helena replied, without sounding entirely convincing. There was still something uneasy about the atmosphere. ‘Oh look,’ she said. ‘There’s Malcolm.’

‘What does he want?’ Sidney asked.

Keating became anxious. ‘I hope there’s not another fugitive in your church.’

‘You’ve no need to worry,’ Helena said breezily. ‘He’s taking me out to dinner.’

‘Malcolm?’ Sidney asked.

‘Him?’ spluttered Keating.

‘Is there anything wrong with that?’

The eager curate was all smiles. ‘I must say, Helena, you look absolutely divine.’

‘Why, thank you, Malcolm. You always give me such a warm welcome. Where shall we go?’

‘There’s a rather nice place off Market Square. French. Just opened. I hear very good reports . . .’

‘Then lead on . . .’

‘I can’t wait. This is so exciting. They have a special chocolate soufflé. Once you start it’s almost impossible to stop. Your mouth just
explodes
with the sheer puddingness of it all.’

Helena giggled and put her arm through Malcolm’s. ‘We can feed each other.’

After they had gone, Keating exploded. ‘Him? What on earth . . .’

‘I know, Geordie, I know. Ours not to reason why.’

‘
I must say, Helena, you look absolutely divine
. What’s he got that I haven’t?
I hear very good reports
 . . .’

‘It’s more a case of what you’ve got.’

‘And what is that, Sidney?’

‘A wife, Geordie. Drink up.’

‘The case of the exploding mouth. The soufflé murders. It has a certain ring, I suppose.’

Sidney bicycled back to Grantchester and took Byron out for his evening constitutional across the meadows and down to the river. The fritillaries would be out soon and, even though it was far too early, he could have sworn he heard the first cuckoo of spring. Should he write to
The Times
and tell them? he asked himself. No. He had better things to do, not least the enjoyment of his Labrador’s comforting companionship.

Was to understand all to forgive all? he wondered. How dependent was mercy on penitence and were some sins so great that, despite any amount of contrition, they were beyond redemption? He would think and preach about this, he decided. Perhaps he could even write a book:
Responsibility and the Moral Imagination
. But when would he ever have the time?

He arrived home, closed the door quietly in case Anna was asleep and saw the sausages resting under tin foil, the mashed potatoes keeping warm, red cabbage by its side.

Then he stopped in the hallway and listened to Hildegard singing a last lullaby to their daughter:

‘Der Mond ist aufgegangen,

Die goldnen Sternlein prangen

Am Himmel hell und klar;

Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,

Und aus den Wiesen steiget

Der weiße Nebel wunderbar
?’

He stayed still, while Byron hovered around his ankles, plaintively but hopelessly, waiting for his dinner.

‘Wie ist die Welt so stille,

Und in der Dämmrung Hülle

So traulich und so hold!’

Sidney translated the words to himself as he walked back into the kitchen. He waited silently beside the sink until his wife had finished singing. He wanted no other sound.

How the world stands still

In twilight’s veil

So sweet and sung . . .

‘
Als eine stille Kammer,

Wo ihr des Tages Jammer

Verschlafen und vergessen sollt.
’

As a still room,

Where the day’s misery

You will sleep off and forget.

He turned on the tap, poured himself a glass of water and thanked God amid the stillness of the night for the gift of his wife and daughter: the sanctuary of home.

Nothing to Worry About

By November 1964, Sidney and Hildegard had reached the stage of parenthood when they could leave their baby daughter overnight, in the care of others, for the first time. Sir Mark Kirby-Grey and his wife Elizabeth had invited them to a shooting party at Witchford Hall. It promised to be a formidable gathering, including Sidney’s oldest friend, Amanda Kendall, together with her new potential paramour, a rich widower on the lookout for a second wife.

Amanda had begged them to come, saying that she was concerned she had lost her touch with men and that she wanted both Sidney and Hildegard to take a good look at Henry Richmond and make sure he was up to scratch. She was all too aware of the irony that she seemed unable to deploy the skills she displayed so effortlessly in her work as a curator at the National Gallery (judgement, taste and the ability to spot a fake) in the world of romance. She was also worried that their hostess, Elizabeth Kirby-Grey, had been behaving strangely of late. She wouldn’t mind if Sidney had one of his ‘annoying intuitions’.

‘What on earth do you mean, Amanda?’

‘I’m not going to say any more. Something’s not right.’

‘With the marriage? Her health? Money?’

‘I’m not sure. But you often notice things before anyone else.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘It’s because you’re so nosy.’

‘I am not nosy, Amanda. I hope people don’t think . . .’

‘They’re too polite to say anything.’

‘I am curious, concerned, and ready for all things.’

‘In other words: nosy. Just come, Sidney. Not for Elizabeth, but for me. I don’t want to make another ghastly mistake. You know how hopeless I am with men.’

‘You’re not hopeless.’

‘Hildegard has to stay too. She’s just as clever as you.’

‘I’m not going to argue with that. It’s only . . .’

‘I’ll see you on the twenty-seventh. Make sure you arrive in time for drinks.’

When the day came, Hildegard worried about leaving Anna for not one but two nights, even though Sidney’s mother had welcomed the chance to spend some time with her only granddaughter. (Sidney’s sister and her husband, the jazz promoter Johnny Johnson, had provided a couple of boys; his brother Matt had not yet settled but was down to what was surely his last wild oat.)

Although Iris Chambers was due to arrive well before supper, Mrs Maguire had kindly offered to baby-sit for the hour or two beforehand. Malcolm Mitchell would also take the service on Advent Sunday morning. They were little more than an hour away and Sidney’s driving was now sufficiently accomplished to ensure a speedy return should there be any emergency.

He did, however, acknowledge that weekending with the aristocracy was not one of his favourite pastimes. Grand houses were seldom heated properly, the beds were uncomfortable and the food predictable: the game from the estate, riddled with shot. Conversation could also be hard-going, filled with solipsistic indifference to those who had not been born to similar advantage (despite occasional bouts of ostentatious charity towards ‘the deserving poor’), and a hovering air of indolent entitlement made the company of the privileged a test of endurance.

Sidney tried to tell himself that this weekend stay would be good for his patience; that Sir Mark was an influential local figure whom it might be good to cultivate for parish funds, and that he might, at least, enjoy a bit of shooting. (It was years since he had last taken part in such a venture and he had borrowed some of the requisite clobber and a couple of Purdeys from a friend in the village.) He also told himself that both he and Hildegard could do with a weekend off before the mania of Christmas.

A manor house that had once been used as a vicarage, Witchford Hall was built in the seventeenth century in brown brick with red sandstone dressings. It had a symmetrical five-bay Jacobean façade, rusticated Doric pilasters, two floors of sash windows and an attic level that contained four blind oval windows. It would be impossible, Sidney imagined, for a Church of England clergyman ranked lower than a bishop to occupy such a residence nowadays.

He refused to be intimidated by the grandeur of the approach and remembered his mother once telling him ‘it’s not all jam at the big house’. A Labrador and two Dalmatians ran out into the drive to meet them. Sidney and Hildegard were shown into a cream entrance hall panelled with fluted columns, and their luggage was carried up an imposing staircase with twisted balusters by a lugubrious butler called Muir. Above hung a series of family portraits most of which, Amanda would almost certainly point out as soon as she arrived, were in need of restoration.