Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death

by James Runcie

  ‘And do you think that is what I might have been doing?’

  ‘I don’t wish to insult you, Mrs Morton. . ..’

  ‘You’re doing a pretty good job so far . . .’

  ‘I have to think about every possibility: your husband, for example.’

  ‘Yes, I can see why he might be a suspect but I can assure you he knows nothing. He’s too busy playing golf. He’s obsessed. The hobby is worse than gambling.’

  ‘That’s as may be. But I need you to be both specific and honest.’

  ‘That’s how I’ve always been.’

  ‘Then I must ask you to remember where you were on the evenings of September the first, second, eighth, fifteenth and twenty-second, and the two nights of October the fifth and sixth.’

  ‘You expect me to remember all that?’

  ‘It’s very important . . . Pamela . . .’

  ‘And you want to know now?’

  ‘There is only one thing about these dates that interests me . . .’

  ‘October the sixth is the night before Stephen died. I certainly saw him then. I will always remember it. I told him that we just had to get through the winter. If we could just get through Christmas then everything would be all right.’

  ‘And the other dates?’

  ‘I don’t have to account for all of my movements, do I?’

  ‘You just have to tell me if these were the days on which you saw Stephen Staunton. September the first, second, eighth, fifteenth and twenty-second, and the two nights of October the fifth and sixth.’

  Pamela Morton thought for a moment. ‘I can’t be exact without my own diary but I can tell you that we did see each other two days running because my husband was away and it probably was on the nights that you mention. If the other days were Tuesdays, then yes. I always get the 10.04 to London on Tuesdays. Stephen would follow me later. We went on separate trains. We were very careful, Canon Chambers. I want you to understand that. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘It would make everything clear, Mrs Morton. Everything . . .’

  During many a moment in the course of his investigation Canon Sidney Chambers considered once again how much he had neglected his calling. Prayer, scripture, sacrament and fellowship were supposed to be the sacred centre of the priest’s life and yet he could be found wanting in all of these activities. Instead, he had been distracted. He had attended meetings of the Mothers’ Union, the Women’s Institute and the PCC. He had organised the flower rota, and typed up a timetable for the church wardens, the sidesmen, and the volunteers to clean and polish the brasses. He had edited the monthly issue of the parish magazine, continued with the weekly Bible study group, and run a series of confirmation classes. He had even taken a group of Scouts and Cubs on a hike, supervised the building of the Christmas crib, organised the carol singers and set up a search for a lost cat. At the same time he had continued his teaching at Corpus. Any visiting archdeacon, sent to check up on him, would have no cause for complaint, but Sidney knew that he was not at his best. He had not visited the sick as regularly as he had hoped, he was three weeks behind on his correspondence and he had not even begun to write the big Advent sermon which he was due to preach in King’s College Chapel.

  There were also his parents to consider. His father, a doctor in North London, was still complaining about the demands of the National Health Service. His mother had recently telephoned to say how worried she was about Sidney’s brother and sister. Jennifer was, apparently, seeing a man who was ‘too common by half’ and Matthew had joined a skiffle band that included ‘all kinds of riff raff’. Perhaps their elder brother could go and knock some sense into them, she wondered? Sidney thought that this was not really his business but the plain fact was that even before he had involved himself in this criminal investigation he had had too many things on his plate. His standards were slipping and the daily renewal of his faith had been put on the back burner. He thought of the General Confession: ‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done . . .’

  He started to make a list, and at the top of the list, as he had been advised at theological college, was the thing that he least wanted to do. ‘Always start with what you dread the most,’ he had been told. ‘Then the rest will seem less daunting.’ ‘Easier said than done,’ thought Sidney as he looked at the first item on the list of his duties.

  ‘Tell Inspector Keating everything.’

  It was a Wednesday morning, and he knew that a visit to the St Andrews Street Police Station would not be popular, but Sidney was so convinced by the accuracy of his deductions that he decided the truth was more important than Geordie Keating’s impatience.

  ‘I hope this is not going to become a habit,’ his friend warned, as he pushed an old cup of tea on to a stack of stained papers and began a new one.

  ‘Not at all, Inspector. I do have more information that I think is important.’

  ‘My life is a river of “more information”, Sidney. Sometimes I wish someone would put a dam in it. I presume that you are referring to the solicitor’s suicide.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then you had better sit down.’

  Sidney wondered whether he should have rehearsed what he was going to say, written it down even, but there had been no time for such preparation. Consequently, his thoughts came out in a rush. ‘I have been thinking about the circumstances of the crime, the people involved and the nature of love.’

  ‘Oh God, man . . .’

  ‘And I just cannot believe that Stephen Staunton meant to kill himself. I know that everything suggests that he did so but I do not believe this to be the case. Nor do I believe that he drank any of the whisky that was on his desk . . .’

  ‘Then what was it doing there?’

  ‘A red herring, Inspector. It was even, perhaps, a way of pointing the finger at Clive Morton, a man who does not know as much about whisky as he possibly should . . .’

  ‘That does not make him a murderer . . .’

  ‘I do not think that he is . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief . . . it only leaves every other inhabitant of Cambridge as a suspect. I don’t suppose the victim could still be responsible for his own death? That the case could in fact be suicide?’

  ‘You remember at the very beginning of our conversation on this subject when I suggested that things could be too clear?’

  ‘I certainly do. It was a bit cheeky of you if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘I don’t. But this was the murderer’s mistake. Knowing that I was on the case she began to panic. In fact she panicked so much that she was forced into producing her trump card: a suicide note.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes . . . “She” . . .’

  ‘You’re suggesting our man got his secretary to write his own suicide note? You’re crackers.’

  ‘I am not, Inspector.’

  ‘Then what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I am proposing that the letter is not a suicide note . . .’

  ‘Oh, Sidney . . .’

  ‘Look again, Geordie.’

  As Inspector Keating examined the piece of paper Sidney recited the text he had memorised.

  A,

  I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it has come to this. I know you will find it upsetting and I wish there was something I could do to make things right. I can’t go on any more. I’m sorry – so sorry. You know how hard it has been and how impossible it is to continue.

  Forgive me

  S

  ‘Seems pretty clear to me,’ Inspector Keating replied.

  ‘Too clear; and then again, not clear enough. For this is not a note written by a man who is about to kill himself. It is the note of a man ending a relationship.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that it could be . . .’

  ‘And you remember the private diary, the one with the entries in pencil that Mr Staunton rubbed out each day?’

  ‘The one
with the days marking the mornings and the afternoons? The one that might suggest a few appointments that he wanted to keep quiet? I can see what you might be saying.’

  ‘But they are more than that. Look again.’ Sidney produced the diary.

  ‘A.M and P.M. What is wrong with that?’

  ‘They are never on the same day. And you will note that the initials A.M. occur less frequently as the initials P.M. increase.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Annabel Morrison and Pamela Morton. Their initials. These are the records of assignations.’

  ‘So you are suggesting that our solicitor friend had not one but two lovers?’

  ‘I am afraid I am.’

  ‘How did he have the energy?’

  ‘That is not our concern, Geordie . . .’

  ‘But two on the go at the same time! And a wife as well. God knows, it’s hard enough when you’ve been married for a bit. What do you think Stephen Staunton’s secret was?’

  ‘Charm.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That and the fact that he listened. He paid attention. According to Pamela Morton, when he spoke he made people feel that they were the only people in the world that mattered.’

  ‘Is that what women want?’

  ‘Apparently so. Although, being a married man, you would know more about it than I do.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that.’

  ‘But to our purpose . . .’

  Inspector Keating was hesitant. ‘I am still trying to understand it all. The man was involved with three women – if we include his wife. No wonder it all got too much. You are suggesting, I take it, that when his relationship with Mrs Morton became more intense he decided to end things with Miss Morrison?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you think that she . . .’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘That’s madness.’

  Sidney continued. ‘You will recall that Mr Staunton took a rest after lunch each day. You will also remember that every Wednesday afternoon Mr Morton plays golf, which leaves only two people in the office on the day of the murder . . .’

  ‘Annabel Morrison and Stephen Staunton.’

  ‘Miss Morrison has received the note from Mr Staunton ending their affair. What is more, she suspects that a new relationship has begun. She cannot be sure, but such is her fury, and such is her rejection, that she determines no one else will enjoy the attentions of the man she loves. We know that Mr Staunton is a strong sleeper. His wife told me he could sleep through anything; perhaps even the sound of the 2.35 train to Norwich. For it is at that moment that Miss Morrison places the gun in his open mouth and pulls the trigger of the revolver she has removed from the desk. The sound is masked by the noise of the train. She then places a half-empty decanter of whisky on the desk, little caring that it is a whisky her employer would never drink because the appearance of suicide is so strong. Only when we begin to doubt does she produce the note which, she realises, can be converted from a “Dear John” letter into an explanation for suicide. It is very clever.’

  Inspector Keating did not give his friend the appreciation that he thought such reasoning deserved. ‘That’s all very well, Sidney, but the evidence is very circumstantial. How on earth are we going to prove all this?’

  ‘You don’t think this is enough?’

  ‘It would be hard to secure a conviction on this alone.’

  ‘Then I think I will pay Miss Morrison a little visit.’

  ‘On what pretext?’

  ‘The return of the note.’

  ‘And then, I suppose, don’t tell me, that you will try and prove your theory by engineering a confession?’

  ‘I am not sure what I will do,’ Sidney replied. ‘But the truth will out.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do all this?’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘And there’s nothing I can do to stop you?’

  ‘Nothing at all, Inspector.’

  Sidney was relieved to discover that Annabel Morrison was alone when he called at the office of Morton Staunton Solicitors, and she was grateful to receive the return of the note.

  ‘I hope the police are satisfied?’ she asked.

  ‘They are indeed, Miss Morrison. You have been most helpful. I am sorry it has all been such a terrible business. You must be very upset.’

  ‘I am, Canon Chambers, I don’t mind admitting it.’

  ‘You were clearly very fond of Mr Staunton.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘You must have spent a great deal of time together, more time perhaps than he even spent with his wife?’

  ‘We did. I don’t want to speak out of turn, Canon Chambers, but I am not sure that he was happy with his wife. She’s German as you probably know.’ Annabel Morrison gave Sidney a conspiratorial look, one that assumed the atmosphere was now safe for prejudice. ‘I think he needed a bit more looking after than she was able to do.’

  ‘It must have been a full-time job, and out of the office as well on some occasions.’

  ‘It was. But I am not sure what you are suggesting?’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything at all, Miss Morrison. I am merely remarking that you must have accompanied Mr Staunton on many occasions, on business, of course. I am not implying that there was anything improper.’

  ‘We did sometimes travel together, but those times were quite rare.’

  ‘But then Mr Staunton also travelled with other women.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sidney looked at Annabel Morrison and decided to take an extraordinary gamble. ‘With Mrs Morton, for example.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘I believe Mrs Morton travels down to London on Tuesday mornings.’ Sidney decided to add a lie to his risk. ‘I believe that sometimes they went together?’

  Annabel Morrison was clearly discomfited by the question. ‘This was never in the diary that I kept.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Staunton didn’t like to tell you?’

  ‘But if he was travelling with Mrs Morton I would have known.’

  ‘I gather they were rather fond of each other.’

  ‘What on earth are you suggesting?’

  ‘I am sure there was nothing compromising or untoward,’ Sidney replied, in as unconvincing a manner as he could.

  He had told a second lie.

  He was astonished to discover how easy it was.

  The railway station at Cambridge had been built in the 1840s, in a symmetrical style in warm local stone, and was the heart of a regular service between London and Kings Lynn. When it was at its busiest the platforms were crowded with people, and this Tuesday morning was no different. A stooping elderly don kept dropping a selection of books which he had tied up with string; three girls were preparing to put their bicycles into the guard’s van; and Pamela Morton was waiting for the 10.04 express train to London. She was wearing a dark burgundy coat and a matching beret, and she carried a small portmanteau. A thickset man in a double-breasted navy pinstriped suit stood to her right. He looked, to all intents and purposes, to be a man about to do business in the City but he held neither briefcase, papers nor an umbrella.

  As the express train approached, a petite but determined woman with silver hair pinned in a bun, and dressed entirely in black, made her way through the crowds. She wore dark glasses, although it was November, and leather gloves. She appeared to know exactly where she needed to be on the platform and stood directly behind Pamela Morton.

  The train whistled. The woman in black stepped and stretched both arms, palms facing forward. As she leaned back to gain the necessary momentum to push Pamela Morton off the edge of the platform on to the rails and under the train, one man blocked her path, a second pulled her back from behind, while the businessman next to Pamela Morton threw his arm around her waist.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she shouted, struggling to break free. ‘Let go of me!’

  The train braked, slowed and stopped. The businessman let go, and jus
t as Pamela Morton was about to complain to the stationmaster she saw that the two men behind her were holding Annabel Morrison. Her face was filled with fury. ‘You tart. Isn’t one man enough for you?’

  ‘What do you mean? What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s all your fault.’

  ‘My fault?’

  ‘He was happy with me. You never knew that, did you? He never told you.’

  Pamela Morton looked at her lover’s secretary. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You.’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’ Annabel Morrison continued. ‘You never knew him at all; what he felt, what he went through, how he suffered. He told me everything.’

  ‘You tried to kill me.’

  ‘I could kill you all.’

  The doors to the train opened, and the people of Cambridge alighted and boarded. Inspector Keating came forward to make his arrest. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Morton?’

  ‘I don’t understand. What is this woman doing?’

  Keating gestured to his men. ‘Take Miss Morrison away.’

  ‘You’ll never have him now,’ she spat. ‘No one will.’

  Keating turned to Pamela Morton. ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes desperate crimes require desperate measures . . .’

  Pamela Morton looked hard at the Inspector. ‘You risked my life.’

  ‘We had two men following Miss Morrison and one man guarding you since you entered the station. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘And how did you know someone would try to kill me?’

  ‘We didn’t. It was Canon Chambers who suggested that an attempted murder might take place and that we should be ready for this. I believe you know the man.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘Then you can have a word with him yourself. He has been summoned.’

  ‘I will need more than a word.’

  ‘Go easy on him, Mrs Morton.’

  ‘I most certainly won’t,’ Pamela replied, before looking at the receding figure of Miss Morrison. ‘That jealous, murdering bitch.’

  When Sidney finally arrived to greet Pamela Morton he could tell that he was in for a roasting. ‘What on earth do you think you were doing having me followed?’ she shouted.