Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries) (7 page)

‘It’s not “people”, Leonard. It’s one particular person. We just have to find out who it is.’

‘And you don’t think it could be Benson?’ Hildegard asked.

‘Which one? It could be either of them.’

‘Or both, perhaps? One could be killing the animals, while the other commits the murders?’

Sidney looked at the shepherd’s pie on his fork and decided to speak instead of eating it. ‘Although they were brought up as atheists they don’t seem particularly hostile to priests, do they? Eccentric loners perhaps, but not murderers.’

‘I presume Jimmy Benson is still on the run?’ Leonard asked.

‘He may not be consciously “on the run” but I’d be surprised if we found him in hiding near here. I just need to think what links the birds to murder.’

‘They are omens, of course,’ said Hildegard. ‘I suppose Inspector Keating will find one next.’

‘A dead bird? Do you think so?’

‘I do,’ said Hildegard. ‘The murderer is taunting you.’

‘It looks like it.’

‘And I think you can assume it’s a man. But is there anything that links the two victims apart from the fact that they were both priests? Were they friends? Did they move in the same social circles? Did they know people in common?’

Leonard answered, ‘We are all friends, of course.’

‘But some more than others.’

‘That is true. The main thing that the two priests shared was that they were known to take in vagrants and they both had an air of holiness about them. They were, and I think Sidney will agree, far more spiritual than we might be; and that may put us out of danger. You, at least, Sidney
.
.
.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You are a man of the world and are married: unlike the victims.’

‘I don’t see how that makes a difference.’

‘Well, I can. If I was naive and a little more devout, I’d be worried that I was next.’

Hildegard gathered up the plates. There was treacle tart to follow. ‘You’re not frightened, are you, Leonard?’

‘I am a priest and a single man. Furthermore people do suspect
.
.
.’

Sidney interrupted. ‘There’s no need to go into that.’

Leonard looked to Hildegard. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think
.
.
.’

‘We are friends here,’ Sidney reassured him. ‘Your feelings are private, Leonard. At the moment I think the aim is to get at priests in general. Perhaps the murderer is someone who has been badly let down in the past.’

‘And these two in particular?’

‘What would inspire a man to hate a priest?’ Hildegard asked.

‘And what would make him so desperate that he would choose evil over good?’ said Leonard.

‘Hate over love.’

‘And death over life,’ Sidney mused.

By the time they had finished the treacle tart they were no nearer an answer.

For the next few days, Sidney tried to concentrate on the quiet rhythms of life but everything he did could be construed as banal in comparison to his investigation. He used his regular walks with Dickens to think through the possibilities of the case. It was just after his return from one such ramble that the telephone rang in the vicarage. A muffled voice that was trying to disguise itself asked if he was Sidney Chambers and if they could meet.

‘Who is this?’

‘I can’t say. But I know the man you’re looking for.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Never mind who I am. There isn’t much time. I’m staying in a boarding house in the centre of town. There’s a café round the corner. Meet me in Christ’s Lane at four o’clock. Don’t bring anyone else.’

‘Why me?’ Sidney asked, but the caller had hung up.

He was not sure how to fill the time before the appointment, but when he made his first move Hildegard asked why he was going out again so soon after he had come in. How many walks did Dickens need and why was her husband being so evasive? She wanted to check that in this troubled time he wasn’t putting himself into any more danger. Sidney assured her that he knew how to avoid getting into a scrape.

‘It only takes one mistake.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘I don’t want you assuming that you are immune to bad luck. We’re happy together. Do you sometimes think that we’re too happy?’

‘So happy that there’s bound to be a massive amount of ill-fortune coming round the corner? I do think that sometimes, I must admit, but then I hope that in the past you’ve had enough for both of us.’

‘You take on my burden.’

‘I take on everything about you, my darling. We are one.’

‘Then don’t leave me half a person by dying.’

‘I have no intention of doing that.’

Sidney kissed his wife softly on the mouth. He wished he could stay. He even wished they could go upstairs in the middle of the afternoon. That was the kind of thing louche people did, and if he was a jazz musician like Jimmy Benson he could probably stay up all night and then spend all day in bed with a glamorous singer or, even more appealingly, his wife. He looked her in the eyes. ‘Until tonight then.’

‘I’ll make a special supper.’

Sidney was worried that he was going to be late and began a reckless bicycle route across the meadows, scattering a group of picnickers who were just leaving the path, ringing his bell, and apologising to parishioners who wanted him to stop for a chat. He was going to be five minutes overdue and he was trying not to think about what else he could be doing as he freewheeled into Christ’s Lane and left his bike against the railings. He was just about to enter the café when he thought he noticed something in the adjoining alley.

He was aware before he knew.

The slumped figure was of a man whose tongue had been cut out. His shirt had been ripped open and the mark of the beast was upon his chest.

It was Jimmy Benson.

A woman screamed in the street.

Sidney asked the café proprietor if he could borrow his telephone and told Keating to come round immediately.

It was impossible to keep the crime scene secret and Helena Randall arrived shortly after the police. Sidney had just finished making his statement when she started on a few direct enquiries of her own. ‘You had the doves. I had the blackbird. Then, and he won’t have told you this, someone left a dead bird at Geordie’s house.’

‘That could still be a coincidence.’

‘No, Sidney. It can’t be, and you know it.’

‘What type of bird was it?’

‘A canary. And it was nailed to his front gate. We are being taunted, Sidney. All three of us.’

‘But it’s curious, isn’t it? We are not the victims.’

‘Jimmy Benson was killed because he was about to talk. That would make the canary significant. Had he been in touch with you?’

Sidney paused, uncertain whether he could lie. Helena read his hesitation. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You were on your way to see him, weren’t you?’

‘I was.’

‘Then people might even think that you could be the killer yourself.’

‘I don’t think that’s likely.’

‘Two priests and a vagrant. You knew them all. You have to be careful.’

‘I think I can look after myself.’

‘That could be what the previous victims thought. We don’t want anything happening to you.’

‘I’m grateful for your concern, Miss Randall.’

‘I care about you more than you think.’

After being told of the death of his brother, Jerome Benson was questioned in his workshop for several hours. The small cramped room smelled like a post-mortem laboratory and its working light was illuminated despite the sunshine outside. Keating sought out the information he needed about Benson’s movements that day while Sidney asked about the birds. Was any special knowledge of taxidermy required to prepare them in the way in which they had been left, and how easy would it be to capture and kill specific types? Was there a connection, he wondered, between the type of bird chosen and the manner of death of the victim? The doves before Philip Agnew’s suffocation, the decapitated blackbird before the hanging of Isaiah Shaw, a canary nailed to a gatepost before the stabbing of a man who was about to talk?

‘How much do you think your brother knew about the previous murders? Did he discuss them with you?’

Benson did not stop to offer Sidney a cup of tea, or even to concentrate on the questions he was being asked, but continued cleaning an otter skin. ‘He was a very clever man; far more than me – until he got into difficulties.’

‘When was that?’

‘Five or six years ago now. I think love had something to do with it. That and the late nights. I didn’t see him that much.’

‘But what did he tell you?’

‘We’re not close, Canon Chambers.’

‘But he came to you for help.’

‘He came to me for money.’

‘Who else did he go to?’ Keating continued.

‘You’d have to ask him that.’

‘I can hardly do so now.’

‘If you’d reached him sooner
.
.
.’

Sidney knew that it would not do to respond to such a provocative remark. Grief could make people vindictive, and he didn’t want Jerome Benson taking the law into his own hands. Keating, however, had no such qualms. ‘If your brother had come in for questioning then he might still be alive.’

‘You mean it’s his own fault? He was scared.’

‘Did he tell you that he was?’

‘He didn’t need to tell me. He ran off.’

‘Do you know where he went?’

‘No I don’t. How much longer is this going to take?’

Sidney sat down on a low bench. ‘Quite a few priests like jazz. I am sure that if he’d spoken to one or two of them, and asked them for help, he would have been given charity; either food or a bed for the night.’

‘He didn’t go round killing them, I’ll tell you that much.’

‘But perhaps he knew who did?’

‘You won’t get that from me.’

‘Is that because you are the very man we are looking for?’ Keating asked.

‘Don’t be daft. Why would I want to kill my own brother?’

‘I don’t think you did. But I think Jimmy knew his killer. He recognised the danger that he was in,’ Sidney continued. ‘There’s something we’re not being told.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because if he did not have a secret then he would have had nothing to fear. Do you think he met both Philip Agnew and Isaiah Shaw?’

‘It’s unlikely he knew one priest; let alone two.’

‘You mentioned love.’ Sidney said quietly.

‘There was a girl.’

‘Who was she?’

‘She’s called Bianca. Jimmy was always cagey about her. I don’t know where she lives. Somewhere round here.’

‘So your brother is not a homosexual after all?’ Keating pressed.

‘No. Although I don’t see how that can have anything to do with it.’

‘We think it can, Mr Benson. We think this could be a hate crime.’

‘My brother didn’t hate anyone; not homosexuals nor vicars. He just didn’t fit in. Neither of us did. But we don’t do harm. The world is full of hypocrisy, don’t you find, Canon Chambers? Sometimes those that look as if they’ve slept in a hedge do so because they really have slept in a hedge. They’ve got no money. They’re down on their luck. What you see is what you get. But then that’s not the case with so-called respectable people at all, is it? You can’t ever tell what they think or what they’re doing. They’ve got so much on the surface you can’t even begin to know what’s going on underneath.’

‘And what do you think is “going on underneath”, Mr Benson?’

‘The power of all evil, Canon Chambers. That covers it, by my reckoning. The power of all evil.’

The theological college of Westcott House was an unassuming nineteenth-century building in Jesus Lane, with an old Tudor brick courtyard and a refectory that contained a life-size image of the Crucifixion. Simon Opie, or
Princeps
, ran the college as erratically and eccentrically as he drove his car, never appearing to concentrate on the job in hand. He divided his time between his study, the chapel and the aviary he had built in the college gardens.

Opie had written one great classic work of theology in his youth,
An Enquiry into Suffering and Omnipotence
, and despite his inability to settle down to anything for any great length of time, he had a deep knowledge of human deviance and the nature of evil. If anyone would know how to deal wisely with the problems that they were facing and form some kind of psychological profile of the killer then it was surely Sidney’s former tutor.

Many of his students regarded the man as a latter-day St Francis, who preached to the birds in the valley of Spoleto, praising God for making them the most noble of creatures, quietening them when they were noisy, invoking them as evidence for the glory of God’s creation; and indeed Sidney could hardly stop his friend talking about his fine collection of cockatiels, kakarikies and rosellas.