Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries) (27 page)

‘I thought you could be free.’

‘From my husband as well as Mr Balfour? Don’t tell me you intended to kill them both?’

‘I’m not saying anything at all.’

‘What on earth is the matter with you, Mr Delfino? I loved my husband.’

‘It didn’t look like you did.’

‘It doesn’t matter what things look like. It is how they are. You must have been in this business long enough to know not to trust appearances?’

‘I wanted you to be free; to protect you and to look after you.’

‘You don’t even know me,’ Veronica Manners replied.

‘I do. I have watched you for years.’

‘That is not the same thing. You have no idea what I think.’

‘I saw you with Mr Balfour.’

‘And so? Who is to say that I didn’t tell Robert everything? He was my best friend.’

‘He neglected you. Then you sought comfort elsewhere. Your husband was not good enough for you; and neither was Mr Balfour. I could offer a better constancy in their place. I would never leave you or let you down.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘I think you know,’ Delfino answered.

‘What have you done?’

‘My only crime has been to love you.’

‘But we hardly know each other.’

‘We do; and I adore you.’

‘Love and adoration are not the same thing.’

Ray Delfino sat down at last. ‘I think you are wrong.’

Veronica picked up her gloves and prepared to leave. ‘I don’t know whatever gave you the idea that anything could ever be possible between us. If you have always felt this way then you should have come and told me. Why didn’t you do that?’

Delfino leant back in his chair. ‘Because I did not want to lose hope. If I had asked and you had said no, then I would have known it was not to be and I couldn’t have lived with myself. But if you were alive and on your own then I could wait until you loved me. I could have waited for ever but there would always be the possibility that you would come to me eventually.’

‘I don’t understand. You murdered my husband and framed my lover. How is that going to make me love you?’

‘No one knows that is the case. It’s for the police to prove. And I don’t believe they can. I’ll deny everything. There’s no evidence.’

‘Yet you admit it to me?’

‘And only to you.’

‘Or not,’ said Inspector Keating as he entered the room, followed by two police officers and a priest.

Inspector Keating was in a surprisingly mellow mood the next time the two friends met for their regular backgammon game in the RAF bar of the Eagle after the trauma of the case had settled. The sun shone, there were hyacinths and daffodils on village windowsills, and the world had righted itself, if only temporarily, at last.

‘Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother, Sidney. I should leave it all to you. But then if we had to swap roles I know that I would be useless at being a priest.’

‘I’m not so sure. You have the capacity to get to the heart of things, Geordie. And you have the confidence of your convictions.’

‘Even if I am wrong?’

‘People like certainty.’

‘Isn’t that what the Christian faith is supposed to give?’

‘Hope. I think that’s different from certainty. A home for love and a future after death.’

‘In heaven, you mean?’

‘Whatever one chooses to call it.’

Inspector Keating became thoughtful. ‘I see that one of those bishops of yours has been getting into a spot of bother lately.’

Sidney raised a metaphorical eyebrow at the implied criticism. ‘And which one might that be?’

‘I don’t know his name. The Bishop of Arsenal or somewhere. The one that says that God is like Father Christmas and there’s no such thing as heaven.’

‘Ah yes. You mean Woolwich
.
.
.’

‘What’s his game then? Once you start saying you’re not so sure about bits of Christianity you’re in a minefield. You can’t pick’n’mix with faith. You’ve got to stay true to the whole thing like the Catholics do
.
.
.’

‘I am aware of their position.’

‘And what is yours then?’

‘The Anglican tradition is one of tolerance
.
.
.’

‘Come on, man, spit it out!’

‘I try to give people hope in faith and trust in the promises of Christ. That then means I can have uncertainties in other parts of my life.’

‘Even if it leads you into trouble?’

‘Even so.’

The Inspector laid out the board for their game of backgammon. It had been a long time since he had claimed a victory. ‘I’m surprised you pursued this case, Sidney. Many people would have preferred to think it was an accident and kept their mouths shut. It was all done and dusted. Least said, soonest mended.’

‘I know. But when one has doubts
.
.
.’

‘Sometimes I think you substitute your religious doubts for those about other people’s motivations
.
.
.’

‘Be careful, Inspector.’

‘You’re not offended, are you?’

‘On the contrary. I am worried you are too close to the truth.’

‘I am sorry, Sidney. There’s no need to be cagey. I know you’re on edge so I’m going to let you win this game
.
.
.’

‘There’s no need to do that, Geordie. I’ll fight you fair and square. But to be honest, it’s just good to be with you. Life has been a little discombobulating of late.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘The accident that turned out to be murder. The end of an affair and the death of a marriage. Hopeless, misguided infatuations
.
.
.’

‘And don’t forget the make-up artist.’

‘I don’t mean her.’

‘Only teasing, Sidney.’

The Inspector, who knew how to stop Sidney’s philosophical pondering, had already gone to the pub’s jukebox and put on Elvis Presley’s ‘Old Shep’.

‘All these things stop you in your tracks, Geordie. Not to mention the loss of dear old Dickens.’

‘I’m sorry about your Labrador,’ Geordie began as the jukebox played. ‘He was a lovely dog. I think this might be appropriate.’ He joined in with the chorus, vowing that Dickens, just like Old Shep, would have his own place in heaven.

Sidney listened to the song and thought, fervently, what a dreadful dirge it was but, despite his misgivings, it proved the resilience of the human heart and a steady belief in its future; and, as he swallowed down his second pint of the evening, he avowed that it was certainly going to take a lot more than a book by that upstart suffragan Bishop of Woolwich, the so-called John A.T. Robinson, to demolish the idea of an optimistic future in heaven for our greatest loves.

The première of the film was, to everyone’s surprise, a Royal Gala Performance in the presence of Princess Margaret at the Odeon Leicester Square. Nigel Binns sent a car for Sidney and Hildegard bought a new black cocktail dress with some of the fee they had received. She told her husband that she had put on a little weight recently and wanted something with a bit of ‘give’ in it that, at the same time, would not make her seem dowdy among the starry throng. Amanda lent her a string of pearls to complete the look.

The film had gained enormous pre-publicity from the recent trial for murder of Ray Delfino and Leicester Square was packed when they arrived. Daisy Playfair bounced up to Sidney and gave him ‘a proper smooch’. Roger de la Tour and Nigel Binns signed autographs, while Veronica Manners posed for the photographers, remarking bitterly that nothing sold a film better than a dead husband.

Once inside the cinema they took their seats in the grand circle, and then stood up for the National Anthem and the arrival of Princess Margaret. (‘She’s
tiny
,’ Hildegard remarked, ‘but what a tiara!’)

At last the film began with opening credits, an establishing shot of Grantchester at dusk, the street sign of Fenchurch St Paul, and Lord Peter Wimsey’s car coming off the road. He then sought shelter at the Wheatsheaf pub and the audience had its first sight of Sidney.

People tittered at his driving which was made to look even more uncertain than it had been, and laughed out loud; first when he ate a muffin with too much eager relish and then when his hat blew off in the wind. It was worse than Sidney had ever imagined it might be. He had portrayed a comedy clergyman after all, and the situation was not improved by the editor’s choice of reversals and reaction shots that made him seem distinctly eccentric. The idea that the glamorous Veronica Manners could realistically be his wife was absurd, and the gloom of watching the film was only relieved by a first sign of Dickens looking elderly but endearingly loyal, the embodiment of patience and good temper.

‘Dear old Dickens,’ Hildegard whispered. ‘You can tell he’s fading a bit even there.’

‘So lovely to see the old boy again. Look, he’s trying so hard to keep up.’

‘He was old and ill. Oh look, it’s you again
.
.
.’

‘I cannot bear to watch.’

‘You look like your father.’

‘I think this film is terrible,’ her husband replied.

‘No, it’s good.’

‘It’s awful.’

‘Think of the money.’

‘Reputation matters more than money.’

‘I don’t think people are here to see you,
meine Liebe
,’ Hildegard whispered before being shushed by film fans behind them.

She was proved right when, in the royal line-up after the screening, Princess Margaret failed to recognise Sidney from the film but, having noticed his clerical garb, asked if he was there because he had allowed them to use his church.

Sidney was somewhat mortified by this oversight but his wife reminded him that he could not have it both ways. If people did not know it
was
him in the film then he could go about his business anonymously. However, if he
was
recognised, then he might be expected to chase after his hat every time the wind blew or perform comedy pratfalls on a daily basis. ‘We don’t want people thinking you are Norman Wisdom.’

Sidney was aghast. ‘No one thinks I look like him, do they?’

‘You must learn to be teased, my darling,’ Hildegard smiled. ‘You may like to do so yourself but you are not so good when you are on the receiving end.’

The reception party was as dauntingly glamorous as they had feared, and they felt so like country bumpkins in the presence of the Duchess of Devonshire, Viscount Astor, Diana Dors, Hattie Jacques and Max Bygraves that it was a relief to get back into their chauffeur-driven Daimler and return to Grantchester. After murmuring that it might be nice to travel like this all the time, Hildegard fell asleep on her husband’s lap and Sidney mused on the events of a long day and how out of place he had felt. Amanda would have known how to waft through the entire première with her airy beauty but he was not married to Amanda and this was not his world. Instead, he really would have to get better at being a priest. There had been enough frivolity and distraction already this year and he knew that he would be in further trouble with the Archdeacon when the film secured its general release. He sighed, and stroked his wife’s golden hair as she slept.

It was almost midnight when they arrived home. Sidney offered to make the cocoa before bed.

Hildegard took off her coat wearily and left it on the sofa rather than hanging it up. ‘That would be nice.’

‘You don’t seem to be yourself.’

‘I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘You had a good sleep in the car.’

‘I know, but
.
.
.’

‘Was it the film? The terrible drowning? The sight of dear old Dickens again? What?’

‘That
was
sad, but
.
.
.’

‘Then what is it, my darling?’

Hildegard turned to face her husband. ‘Hold me.’

Sidney was suddenly frightened. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s all right,
meine Liebe
. Just hold me. I have something to say.’

‘Of course.’

Sidney wondered if he had done anything wrong. She couldn’t be harbouring a grievance about his slightly over-enthusiastic reunion with Daisy Playfair, could she?

‘It’s important but I haven’t told you. I think I was worried. I’m sorry. I should have confessed. And now it’s late at night and I don’t want to alarm you.’

‘Tell me, my darling. I am here.’

‘I’m pregnant,’ Hildegard replied.

Sidney kept hold of his wife. Then he took his head from her shoulder and looked into her eyes. He started to cry. His heart was full. He had never known anything so wonderful and he had never felt so responsible or been so scared. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ he asked.