Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries) (5 page)

‘Canon Chambers, for a man of such curiosity you seem very squeamish about things that might matter.’

‘I don’t see how this could possibly be construed as a sexually motivated crime and this is hardly the place to be talking about it.’

‘Then I apologise, Canon Chambers. I was merely making a suggestion.’

‘However, I do not shy away from pursuing questions that may lead to some kind of truth. Did Philip Agnew have any particular friends?’

‘No. I rather think that was the problem. Because there was not one person, there were many.’

‘I’m not sure how you can know that.’

‘Trust me, Canon Chambers. I do.’

The next day, Helena Randall stopped Sidney in the street. She wanted his thoughts, both on the murder and on the missing vagrant. He told her firmly that he was not ready to share them because he was inwardly uncertain if this was a deliberate crime against a possibly homosexual priest, or a consciously misleading suggestion by Patrick Harland who might, or might not, have been a spurned lover himself.

‘And so,’ Sidney replied, ‘I don’t think I can have much to offer Inspector Keating. In any case, I think we are both peripheral figures in his life
.
.
.’

‘You may be, Canon Chambers, but I am not. It’s my job to report. It’s Inspector Keating’s to investigate and solve the case. Perhaps you could remind me of your vocation?’

‘I am helping a friend
.
.
.’

‘And so am I.’

‘I worry that in so doing you may, in fact, be distracting him.’

‘You’re being very solicitous.’

‘I don’t want to intrude
.
.
.’

‘You are intruding. But there’s no need for you to worry about Geordie and me. There’s nothing going on, you know. It’s only a bit of fun.’

Sidney remembered being with a London girl, Janet, during the war before he went off to fight. His friends had told him that he could not die without knowing a woman first. Then Janet had said the same thing. He shouldn’t worry about making love to her. It was ‘only a bit of fun’.

It was so long ago and he had never told anyone about it. He wondered what had happened to her: if she still lived in the East End, if she had survived the Blitz, if she was perhaps married with three children, or if she was alive at all.

Helena looked at him quizzically and he realised he had repeated the words ‘only a bit of fun’ out loud. She shrugged and turned away. Sidney watched her go, and then pushed his bike forward into the road, towards home.

He missed Hildegard, though it wasn’t even lunchtime. He remembered her coming naked to bed the previous night and saying, ‘Don’t look at me. I’m shy.’

‘I can’t help it,’ Sidney had replied. ‘It’s the best bit of the day.’

That afternoon, Jerome Benson was taken to St Andrew’s Street police station and questioned about his brother’s disappearance. Despite the heat he had persisted in wearing his hunting clothes. He would not sit down or accept a glass of water and it was clear that he did not intend to be persecuted on account of his profession or appearance. After a series of ‘No Comments’ he finally snapped, ‘I don’t know why you are asking me all these questions. I am not my brother’s keeper.’

Keating remained unusually patient. ‘We need to know where your brother might have gone
.
.
.’

‘He told the clergyman Birmingham
.
.
.’

‘Do you believe he has got anything against priests?’

‘No more than most people.’

‘You think most people don’t value priests?’ Sidney asked.

‘They are tolerated. I don’t think many people take what you do seriously. Look at how much spare time you have to go meddling in other people’s lives
.
.
.’

‘I don’t see it as meddling.’

‘Well, I do. My brother and I have done nothing wrong. We’re both pretty anti-social
.
.
. a bit misanthropic, I suppose, as you may have noticed; and we are likely to become more so after all this.’

Keating began to pace around the room, leaving Sidney to continue with the questioning. ‘Your brother is a jazz musician?’

‘That is no insurance against misanthropy.’

‘But he gets out and about. He goes on tour. He plays nightclubs. People applaud
.
.
.’

‘And then he has to face himself again when all the clapping stops. We are both prone to depression, if you must know. Jimmy has more ups and downs than I do. But that is probably because he uses chemicals rather differently. I use them for my taxidermy whereas he
.
.
.’

‘Injects straight into his arm?’ Keating cut in.

‘I leave you to fill in the blanks. You don’t need me to tell you about that kind of thing.’

There was a pause that Sidney soon remedied. ‘A long time ago, you told me that birds are your favourite form of taxidermy. “They die so beautifully,” you said. I wondered if you could help us consider the implications of one element of this case. Dead doves have been left on my doorstep. Do you think that this particular choice of birds is significant?’

‘As a portent or warning, you mean? I would have thought a raven might have more significance. Or a bird of prey – a falcon, for example, or even a vulture.’

‘They may not be so easy to come by.’

Inspector Keating stopped his pacing round the room. ‘Have any of your animals gone missing recently?’

‘None at all.’

‘Is your brother homosexual?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I just need to know.’

‘We don’t talk about things like that.’

‘Are you?’

‘That is none of your business.’

‘Neither of you are married.’ Keating continued.

‘That does not make us homosexual
.
.
.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘What am I being accused of?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I would like a lawyer if you are going to question me in this way
.
.
.’

‘We are not accusing you of anything, Mr Benson
.
.
.’

‘But you are asking leading questions. I prefer to live on my own without men or women. It is easier that way: protection from the false hopes and disappointments of love.’

‘And you have been let down in the past?’

‘My mother left my father. It broke his heart. Ever since then I swore that such a thing would never happen to me. Solitude makes life safer.’

‘You don’t feel that you are missing out?’

‘Never.’

‘And your brother is the same?’

‘I cannot speak for him. I’ve told you.’

Sidney was wondering where all this was leading but before they had finished what was intended to be a full interrogation Inspector Keating glanced at the clock and announced that he had to leave. He had an important meeting to attend. Sidney had assumed they would discuss matters informally in the pub and was therefore surprised by his friend’s imminent departure. As soon as they had left the room he asked Keating the obvious question. ‘Who are you going to see?’

‘Never you mind. In any case, it won’t take long.’ Keating smiled unconvincingly. ‘I’ll see you in the Eagle later on.’

‘But we haven’t finished the Benson interview
.
.
.’

‘You get the pints in. I’ll worry about the investigation.’

Sidney walked out of the police station and made his way towards Corpus to call in on some friends, but found himself waylaid by a chance encounter with the Inspector’s wife outside the butcher’s shop. Cathy Keating was a dark, handsome woman with a natural authority, taller than her husband, a fact only accentuated by her beehive hairdo, and cheekbones that were almost as high as her heels. Every time Sidney met her he was reminded both why his friend had so many children and, at the same time, why he spent so much time away from home. The woman was simultaneously attractive and terrifying.

‘I’m surprised that you’re so out and about after the recent murder, Canon Chambers. I would have thought you might want to stay indoors until the culprit is brought to justice.’

‘We cannot live in fear.’

‘And a low profile doesn’t really suit you, does it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You like to be at the centre of things. Are you going my way?’

‘I’m not sure. I thought I’d look in at Corpus.’

‘Then I’ll walk with you to the end of Pembroke Street. Have you been seeing my husband again?’

‘I hope you don’t disapprove of our friendship?’

‘Of course not. He enjoys your company. It keeps him out of the house. Although I didn’t know you were now meeting him twice a week. Tuesdays as well as Thursdays.’

Sidney was about to say, ‘I’m not’, when he realised what was going on. Geordie was expecting him to cover his meetings with Miss Randall. ‘Is that what he said?’

‘You mean you are not?’

‘I don’t think we had quite settled on making it a regular thing.’

‘Are you hiding something from me? What plans are you two cooking up?’

‘Nothing more than the usual.’

‘That’s often too much. I know about the journalist, if that’s what you’re worried about. I can tell she’s trouble and I’ve warned Geordie that I’ll change the locks and boot him out if there’s any nonsense.’

‘I don’t think it’ll ever come to that.’

‘He wouldn’t be so daft but I don’t like people
talking
.’

‘I understand, Mrs Keating.’

‘He says she’s helpful. I know he just likes being with a pretty girl. It’s hard when you’ve got three children and you feel yourself getting older. Sometimes I think I can’t keep up. Men assume they get more attractive as they get older. Perhaps it’s just a question of confidence. Some people find certainty alluring, don’t they?’

‘I suppose they do.’

‘But you’re not that confident, are you, Mr Chambers?’

‘I try to be so about my faith.’

‘But you are reluctant to judge. You like to give people the benefit of the doubt.’

‘I hope I do.’

‘And do you think the best of that girl? Tell me truly.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘You don’t like her either?’

‘I’d rather not answer that question, if you don’t mind.’

‘That means you don’t. Will you tell him?’

‘I think it would be better if he found out for himself.’

‘I don’t want him making a fool of himself,’ Cathy continued.

‘Perhaps if we allow events to take their course, common sense will prevail. You see, this is a tricky situation.’

‘I’m sure you’ve seen it all before.’

‘I mean the case. The murders. There is evil involved. I don’t think either Miss Randall nor your husband know exactly what we are up against and there’s certainly no time for distractions. We’ll be too busy to go to the pub or worry about gossip. They’re underestimating everything.’

‘But if the devil makes work for idle hands
.
.
.’

‘Then the way to combat him is to make those hands less idle and fight evil with all the strength that we can muster.’

They had arrived at the turn into Trumpington Street where their paths diverged. ‘You’re a good man,’ said Cathy Keating before leaning forward and giving her confidant an unexpected peck on the cheek.

Sidney collected his post from the Porters’ Lodge, looked it through and then proceeded to the Eagle, where he intended to question his friend. Inspector Keating was, however, properly preoccupied. A decapitated blackbird had been left outside Helena Randall’s front door.

‘She’s frightened, Sidney. She needs a bit of comfort.’

‘That is bad. But you’ll have to work out how much comfort you are prepared to provide.’

‘For God’s sake, man, she’s a worried woman.’

‘We mustn’t be distracted.’

‘I’ve already told you. Miss Randall is a help and not a hindrance. She is a vulnerable young girl and a material witness. How many people do you know who have had dead blackbirds left on their doorstep? And dead doves too, for that matter? Look what happened after you found them.’

‘We don’t know the birds are connected with murder.’

‘I don’t know how much more evidence we need to draw that conclusion.’

‘Nothing more has happened since the blackbird was found. And I still think it’s a mistake to see too much of Miss Randall.’

‘What do you mean?’