Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries) (13 page)

He thought of his parishioners and his friends, and how he could be a better husband to Hildegard. He wanted to tell her how much he loved both her soul and, if he had to be frank, her naked body, and how he only felt secure when he was in her arms.

He had just finished writing his sermon for the twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity and was thinking of making his traditional late-night mug of cocoa when the telephone rang. It was Helena Randall. She told him that her friend Basil thought that he had found the girl.

‘She’s called Celine Bellecourt and, like the woman in the gallery, she’s French.’

‘That sounds promising.’

‘She’s been in London for the past year and is making a name for herself as a performance artist. Apparently she’s also something of a musician although Basil can’t be sure about that. She lives at the bottom of the King’s Road with someone called Quentin Reveille.’

‘Is he French too?’

‘I think not. Apparently, he’s a rather loquacious socialist from Leeds.’

‘Yorkshiremen aren’t generally known for their loquacity, are they?’

‘Perhaps that’s why he’s pretending to be French. The two of them are becoming quite famous for their joint installations and their subversive use of text. Nothing is what it seems, apparently. It’s all about different ways of seeing and a new art of looking.’

‘Then let’s hope they can help us “look” for the painting.’

‘Basil doesn’t reckon they’re thieves. He says they are too involved with their own narcissism; but he thinks that we should go to their show at the ICA. Would you like to join us?’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise. Perhaps I’ve done enough already
.
.
.’

‘Nonsense, Sidney. We know you’ll want to come. It’s called
The Festival of Misfits
so we should all feel at home. It’s next Wednesday. Isn’t that your day off? You could bring your wife if you like.’

‘I don’t think the idea will go down very well.’

‘Tell her it’s fun.’

Helena gave him the details of the exhibition. It was being advertised as a ‘mixed-media Neo-Baroque happening’ with no fixed beginning or end. It was all about flux. ‘Fun’ was the last thing it sounded.

As she spoke, Sidney was already worrying how he was going to explain to Hildegard who had been on the telephone at such an ungodly hour. He asked Helena if she had also called Inspector Keating to brief him on her discoveries.

‘God, no. I can’t call Geordie because I am completely forbidden from ringing him at home. In any case, it might be a wild-goose chase and I don’t want him getting cross with me. You know what he’s like. The tiniest thing sets him off.’

Sidney did not think flirtation, potential adultery, a series of murders and now a major art theft could be construed as ‘the tiniest thing’ but decided not to pursue the matter. ‘I suppose it’s always going to be easier to ring me if you want to speak to anyone out of hours. Vicars never sleep.’

‘Exactly! You are a clergyman, Sidney. That’s what you always tell people. You are “never off duty”. I’ve heard you often enough and now I’m taking you up on your offer.’

Sidney wasn’t aware that he had offered anything at all. ‘You can’t exempt us journalists,’ Helena continued breezily. ‘We are your parishioners too. Besides, you’re good at this kind of thing. And you were in the art gallery at the time. If we’ve got the right girl then you can tell Geordie and get all the glory.’

‘Whereas you
.
.
.’

‘I just get the story. And the first interview with the mystery blonde. I’ll meet you there.’

Sidney tried to think of an excuse for going. He was already keen to talk to Amanda and ask her a few questions about the London art scene. He supposed that it would at least give him the opportunity to see her again and to experience the ‘buzz’ of creativity at first hand. He also thought he could justify his potential attendance at the ‘‘happening’’ by arguing that he didn’t want anyone to think that he had become a fuddy-duddy. It was 1962, for goodness sake. He needed to know what young people were thinking and doing. There was a freshness in their lives. He knew it, he had heard it and he had seen it in their fashions and the way they spoke. Now he wanted to understand all this new energy and be part of a groovy modern age that had had no experience of war.

On the other hand, Sidney didn’t want to be one of those trendy vicars who were always getting their guitars out and going on television. God forbid, he warned himself.

He would have to strike a careful balance and find the right ‘vibe’ – not that he would use the word ‘vibe’ out loud or in company. But before he did any of these things he was going to have to get the idea past Hildegard. He would delay mentioning the word ‘Helena’ for as long as possible, he told himself, and perhaps he might even get away without saying that anyone they knew, apart from Amanda, would be at this
Festival of Misfits
at all.

Hildegard was preparing for bed. Sidney hoped that if he worked for a bit longer and waited until she was asleep then he might be able to avoid any nocturnal inquisition and save their conversation for the relative calm of the following morning. But he had forgotten about the cocoa, and she would be expecting him to bring it.

He went into the kitchen, heated the milk and collected his thoughts. He looked at Dickens. The beloved Labrador had been lethargic of late and although his owner had put it down to ageing and arthritis rather than anything sinister, perhaps it
was
something more? Sidney really should make an appointment at the new surgery in Trumpington, he decided, remembering that it had been founded only recently because Grantchester’s previous vet, Andrew Redmond, was in prison for murder.

‘What are you doing down there?’ Hildegard called down. ‘Who was on the telephone?’

‘I’m just coming,’ her husband replied. He climbed the stairs with both mugs in one hand and opened the door. ‘Do you think modern painting is any good?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just been doing some research into abstract expressionism and kinetic art and I’m not convinced. Figurative work may be old-fashioned but I still think there’s a place for it in the modern world. People are fascinated by the human form. Here’s your cocoa. What do you think, Hildegard? I’m not sure about all those blank white canvases and the “monochrome propositions” of Yves Klein. I rather like Sickert and his nudes.’

‘You’re not thinking of the art theft, are you?’

‘I was just doodling and making some notes but I don’t feel we know enough. I was thinking we could go to London on my day off and take in a few exhibitions. There’s so much going on and I feel rather out of touch. There’s a new Francis Bacon show, a Bridget Riley, and something called
The Festival of Misfits
at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in Dover Street. What do you think? Shall we go? It’s just an idea.’

‘Will that girl be there?’

It had to be said that Hildegard did not miss a trick.

‘Which girl?’

‘The naked one; from the museum.’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’

‘I think that means yes.’

‘Well she may be part of the happening and if she were then I could probably find out a bit more about her. Perhaps I could ask a few informal questions that might lead us to the thief.’

‘You want to go all the way to London to identify a naked woman you saw very briefly three weeks ago?’

Sidney tried to make a joke about it. ‘Apparently she was not naked but nude.’

‘And what is the difference?’

‘A naked person is someone like you or me in the bathroom. A nude is a work of art.’

‘Are you saying I am not a work of art and that this woman is?’

‘I am not saying that at all, my darling.’

‘You always call me “darling” when you know that you are in trouble. Why do you want to see this girl again?’

‘That’s not true.’

‘And you speak more firmly too. I remember your father saying
.
.
.’

‘Yes. I know. He is not always right about these things. I don’t
want
to see this girl, Hildegard. I’m trying to help Geordie solve the case.’

‘And will he be coming with you?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘Then how do you know about her?’

Sidney hesitated. If he said the words ‘Helena Randall’ at this point in the conversation then his cause would be compromised; perhaps fatally. ‘We’ve had a tip-off.’

‘From who?’

‘Someone in the art world: a man called Basil Bonney.’

‘And do you know this bonny Basil?’

‘It’s Basil Bonney. Not Bonney Basil.’

‘I was trying to make a joke
.
.
.’

‘Oh, I see, very good.’ Sidney readjusted his approach. ‘I’m sorry, Hildegard, this is just an idea. I thought it might be fun if we both went to London. We don’t have to go at all if you don’t want to but I can’t help feeling that we’ll be missing out if we just stay in Grantchester. The girl is only a small part of the show. There’s contemporary music, nuclear painting and a German outfit called Group Zero. I think there’s also a man called Gustav Metzger who paints with acid.’

For the first time in their conversation, Hildegard had the beginnings of a smile. ‘Rather than swallowing it, you mean?’

‘Apparently. He throws coloured hydrochloric acid at nylon and metal which then corrodes and forms the image. It’s called auto-destructive art. We should see it, Hildegard. It will be an adventure.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

‘But this will be fun; something to tell our friends about. We can be “with it” at last.’

‘I don’t know what that means. Are we “without it” now?’

‘Of course not. You are everything to me. And I don’t want to go “without” you.’

‘Then I’ll come. Yes, of course, why not?’ Hildegard answered. ‘We can go out for dinner afterwards. I have been told that there are many nice restaurants in Dover Street. Then I won’t have to cook.’

‘Thank you, my darling. I will make it happy for you, I promise. We will have a wonderful time.’

‘Then I look forward to it.’

‘Marvellous.’ Sidney leant over and kissed his wife on the lips.

He had got away with it.

The following morning he preached his sermon on a text taken from the first epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians, Chapter 5 Verse 2: ‘For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night.’ He was pleased with this as it was a special service for Scouts and Girl Guides (motto: ‘Be prepared’) and he could also double up on his thinking about death, opportunism and the end of days. He wondered if he should go and see Omari Baptiste again and check that he had not been blamed or made a scapegoat for the theft of the Sickert.

After an agreeable lunch of roast lamb and sherry trifle, spent in the company of Leonard Graham and his good friend Neville Meldrum from Corpus, Sidney thought he really should call in on Keating. He was not at all sure that it was a good idea to keep his visit to London a secret. If the girl turned out to have no connection with the events in the Fitzwilliam then he would not have wasted any police time; but if she did then he knew that his friend would accuse him of going behind his back and, worse, of betraying him by being in cahoots with Helena Randall. There really was no way in which he could please everybody all of the time, or be what people wanted him to be.

He decided to say nothing, hoping that it was the safer option, but he became more nervous as the day of the trip approached. It was hard to contain his anxiety, not least in the moments leading up to their departure. One of the parishioners had kindly offered the couple a lift to the railway station but Hildegard was still in her dressing gown when they should have been leaving. ‘I need to get ready,’ she said. ‘I will be ten minutes.’

Sidney could tell that they were going to miss their train but he could not risk anything that might antagonise his wife or delay their departure.

‘We are going to be late,’ he could not resist saying.

‘Don’t worry.’

Hildegard’s preparation time each morning, from the sounding of the alarm clock to departure by the front door, was an absolute minimum of one hour. Despite allowing for the morning cup of tea, a trip to the lavatory, and the transition from night-time drowsiness to daytime reality, it was physically impossible for his wife to move from dressing gown to departure in ten minutes. Even in a state of acknowledged urgency such as this, there would be the running of a bath, the checking of its temperature and the swearing about the failings of their heating system (a minimum of eight minutes). Then there would be the taking to the waters, the stepping out, the towelling dry, the application of talcum powder, and the cleaning of teeth (seven minutes). There could often be a further, unaccountable, two minutes after the bath and before the drying of hair. These first stages alone, therefore, constituted at least seventeen minutes, and they didn’t include any further delay that might be caused by his wife’s dreamy singing as she performed her ablutions.