Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (46 page)

‘Spare me the Church of England line.’

Keating said nothing but his friend would not be distracted. ‘Sin involves choice. Sin is when you make the wrong choice.’

‘Which is what my son did.’

‘What if he had no choice?’

‘Of course he had a choice. Or rather that man did. He corrupted him.’

‘But what if he could not help being, in your words, “corrupted”? What if he was born with feelings for men rather than women?’

Inspector Keating interrupted at last. ‘Oh Sidney, don’t start on this . . .’

Frank Blackwood pushed his chair back. ‘You mean you’re saying he was born like that? If you go on like that I’m going to punch you in the face.’ He turned to Inspector Keating. ‘What’s this man doing here anyway?’

‘He is helping in the investigation. He is my friend.’

‘Not you as well, Keating? I thought you were married.’

‘I am . . .’

‘Although that doesn’t stop some people. You just have to lift up the carpet to see the vermin underneath. Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it? It’s against the law.’

‘And what do you think we should do?’ Sidney asked.

‘Get rid of them.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Inspector Keating asked.

Frank Blackwood continued. ‘People like you don’t have the guts to do anything about it. Do you know what it’s like to have your own son living like that?’ he asked. ‘You can’t stop thinking about it. I know the way the men in the factory talk about it. Some of them pity me, others think it’s funny; the boss’s son unable to work with heavy machinery because he’s too busy looking at another man’s etchings.’

‘And because you thought your son was one of them you decided to take the law into your own hands?’ Sidney asked.

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘I think you just have,’ Inspector Keating replied. ‘I am suggesting that you killed a man because you thought he had feelings for your son.’

‘And what if I did?’

‘That is murder,’ said Inspector Keating.

‘No, it is not. It is justice.’

Sidney interrupted. ‘Lord Teversham and your son had done nothing wrong.’

‘You think there’s nothing wrong with sodomy? Have you read your Bible recently?’

Inspector Keating interrupted. ‘Frank Blackwood, I am arresting you for the murder of Lord Teversham. You have the right to remain silent but anything you do say may now be used in evidence against you.’

Sidney left the room to fetch the officers who were waiting outside. Frank Blackwood complained as he left, ‘People should be grateful, not threatening to bang me up . . .’

Keating persisted. ‘Do you want to make a statement?’

‘I’ll decide what I want to say in my own good time. In the meantime I’ve had enough of this pantomime. I’m off to do some work.’

Keating persisted. ‘I don’t think you understood what I said.’

Frank Blackwood was at the door. ‘I am the one in the right. I did what no one else was able to do.’

‘What you have done is against the law.’

‘What they were doing was illegal.’

‘We don’t know that, Mr Blackwood. All we do know is that you had a choice. You chose murder. It was the wrong choice.’

Everyone thought it best if it was Sidney who told Ben Blackwood about his father’s guilt. Inspector Keating had volunteered to send a couple of police officers but he made the offer half-heartedly. He knew that his friend would offer to take the responsibility and, indeed, Sidney was accustomed to being the bearer of bad news. During the war, and shortly afterwards, he had often had to ring a doorbell with news of a death. Sometimes a mother would faint; a father would punch the wall; a sister would stare out of the window. The presence of a priest confirmed the worst, and nothing Sidney could say could ever bring people comfort. All he could do, once the news had been given, was to sit with the bereaved in silence and let grief take its insidious course.

And yet, at Locket Hall, it was different. After Sidney had told Ben what had happened, his host looked stoic. It was almost as if he had been expecting the information.

‘My father has always tried to ruin my life,’ he said. ‘And now he has succeeded. He should have murdered me. I was the disappointment, not Dom.’

‘He could not kill his own son.’

‘But Lord Teversham had done nothing wrong.’

‘He had taken a son away from his father.’

‘I had gone a long time ago. I would never have worked in his factory. You can’t want the best for your child, educate him away from the family and then expect him to come back as the same person. We lived in different worlds.’

‘Perhaps your father was not ready for your world.’

‘How did he do it?’ Ben asked.

‘He had a spring-loaded knife strapped to the inside of his arm.’ Sidney mimed the actions. ‘He shook his arm down and the knife projected forward in line with the palm of his hand. He raised his hand high, as in a fascist salute, and the blade retracted with the upward movement. The invention suited the gestures made during the play. It was ingenious.’

‘Dad the inventor. How did you find out?’

‘I saw the spring-loaded mechanisms at the factory. I realised how it could be done, but I could not prove anything.’

‘The blade at Simon Hackford’s?’

‘Planted. We’re not sure how your father did that. We could only ascertain his guilt by extracting a confession.’

‘You provoked my father’s anger?’

‘He wanted to be proud of you. It was a matter of honour.’

‘And I was not honourable?’

‘It became a question of shame.’ Sidney quoted from
Richard II
, ‘Mine honour is my life, both grow in one. Take honour from me, and my life is done.’

‘I like art, Canon Chambers. I like beauty. Is that so very bad?’

‘Of course not. It was your friendship that your father thought was wrong.’

‘And do you?’

‘Think it wrong? I am a great believer in privacy. It is none of my business.’

‘What people don’t understand,’ said Ben, ‘is that you can be intimate with someone, whether it is a man or a woman, without being physical. In fact, to be physical sometimes ruins the whole relationship.’

‘Are you sure you want to tell me this?’

Ben continued. ‘You can hug someone, and kiss someone, and go for walks or a picnic or go swimming but this is not something that is governed by passion. It is ruled by friendship.’

‘I understand.’

‘Passion is such a strong emotion that it dominates everything. It’s like a strong spice in a meal, or a dominant red in a painting. Your senses are drawn to it at the expense of everything else. Dominic and I were not physical friends, so to speak. But I did love him. We can’t help loving the people we do, can we? But that love doesn’t have to be physical. You can be equally intimate. It doesn’t matter. Do you understand what I mean, Canon Chambers?’

Sidney was thinking over what Ben was saying. Out of the window he could see a pair of swans flying low over the river and into the distance. He wondered where they were going.

Amanda had agreed to come down on 5 November for Grantchester’s annual fireworks party. A vast bonfire had been built on the Meadows and a display had been planned for 6.30 p.m. Potatoes wrapped in foil had been placed at the base of the fire and refreshments were on offer in the pavilion. Most members of the village were in attendance and Sidney hoped that the same number might come to his carol concert in a month’s time. Dickens, who was scared of the noise, was hiding under Sidney’s bed.

‘It was good of you to come, Amanda, especially on a weekday.’

‘I’m always keen to see you, Sidney, and, I know you’ve all had a terrible time. Poor Ben; and poor you . . .’

‘I just want the year to end.’

‘It’s been so eventful. But at least we’ve got to know each other. That is one consolation, don’t you think?’ Amanda asked. ‘We can tell each other anything, I hope.’

‘That is true.’

‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s God, crime or my new fur coat, does it?’

‘Of course it doesn’t, Amanda. Sometimes I wished we could talk about the trivial a little more. By the way, where did you get that coat? Did Eddie Harcourt give it to you?’

‘He did not.’

‘Then . . .’

‘I turned him down, by the way.’

‘Good. I’m pleased.’

‘Daddy’s not, although he’s already lined up someone else.’

‘Hence the fur coat.’

‘Indeed. But there’s no need for you to worry about any of that. As soon as I meet anyone serious you will have power of veto and I can’t imagine you approving of any of them.’

‘There’s bound to be someone in the end.’

‘Probably; but we don’t have to think about that now, do we? Is there any beer?’

‘I think there’s a whole barrel from The Green Man,’ Sidney replied, wondering how limitless Amanda’s supply of suitors might be.

‘Do you imagine they’ll give me a whole pint?’ she asked. ‘It’s not very ladylike.’

‘I’ll get one for you. They’ll probably give it to you on the house. You’re becoming rather well known round here.’

‘Well, I do hope people are talking. I like to create a bit of interest.’

The first of the fireworks exploded in the sky. The two friends took their pints out of the pavilion to watch the night rainbows of crimson, silver and gold.

‘What a sight!’ Amanda cried. ‘And what a sound! There’s enough noise to cover all manner of murders, I would have thought.’

Sidney smiled. ‘Don’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You are beginning to sound like me.’

She put her arm through his and the warm light of the bonfire lit up her face. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

‘A very bad thing, I would have thought,’ Sidney replied. ‘Especially if you want to keep up with your friends.’

Amanda gave his arm a tug of reassurance. ‘You remember when I came to lunch last winter? It was when we thought the doctor might be polishing people off . . .’

‘It was the first time we were alone together.’

‘You said something to me then that I have never forgotten. Can you remember what it was?’

Sidney thought for a moment. Children raced in front of them, waving sparklers, shouting with delight. A Catherine wheel fizzed chaotically on the side of an oak tree. Rockets exploded in the sky.

‘You were advising me about marriage. You said that love was “an unassailable friendship”. Now, we’re not married, of course, but do you think we’ve got that now? With each other?’

‘Unassailable friendship?’

Amanda gave a little tug at his arm. ‘What do you think?’

‘I certainly hope so.’

‘So do I,’ said Amanda, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

The following Thursday Sidney was sitting with Geordie Keating in their accustomed positions at The Eagle. Their first pints of bitter were half-empty and a game of backgammon was well under way. The Inspector was convinced that he was on the cusp of victory while Sidney was mulling over the implications of the recent crime.

‘So complicated, the whole business of reputation, isn’t it?’ he mused. ‘So intangible, and so hard to know if you are maintaining it well.’

‘Isn’t it just a matter of keeping a clear conscience?’ the inspector asked.

‘I’m not sure that it is. I think it is worth thinking about the way in which other people see you. A man’s reputation can be more fragile than he thinks.’

‘You just have to be true to yourself, don’t you?’ the inspector asked. He threw a three and a one. ‘That’s what I try to do, even though sometimes, inevitably, the black dog comes; and I don’t mean your Labrador.’

‘Everyone has his moments of depression, Geordie . . .’

The inspector looked down at the board. ‘It’s your turn.’

‘I am sorry.’ Sidney threw his dice. ‘Oh good. A double six.’

Keating continued. ‘And then, when it does come, I sometimes think that everything I do – whether it is in the Force, at home, for the wife, for the children, or out in the streets – anything and everything – is a waste of time. Nothing I do, in the grand scheme of things, can ever make much of a difference.’

‘I can assure you, Geordie, that everything makes a difference. The world would be a poorer place without you.’

Keating threw a two and a four. ‘I don’t know, Sidney. You solve one crime and then, as soon as you’ve done that, a hundred others spring up to take its place. The process is never-ending.’

‘We have to keep faith.’

‘I think that’s rather easier for you to say than me.’

‘I don’t mean religious faith. I mean faith in our own abilities. We have to do the best we can with the talents we have, Geordie. The future is too unpredictable for anxiety.’

‘And yet the anxieties come.’