by James Runcie
Sidney held out his hand in greeting but it was not shaken. He let his arm fall. ‘It was, I am afraid, a necessary evil.’
‘Was this the only way of doing things? And how did you know it would happen here?’
‘You take this train every Tuesday, I think?’
‘Most Tuesdays . . .’
‘Miss Morrison has always been very particular about train times. I also noticed that she liked to read Russian novels . . .’
‘Fascinating. But I fail to see what this has to do with me,’ Pamela Morton replied, icily.
‘The first time I spoke to her I realised that she was reading Anna Karenina. You will be familiar with the work?’
‘I have seen the film. I was not as impressed with Greta Garbo as everyone else seemed to be . . .’
‘A story of adultery that begins and ends on a railway platform. I informed Inspector Keating of my suspicions and although he didn’t quite believe me, he trusted me sufficiently to provide men for your protection . . .’
‘And how did that woman know about me?’
‘That I cannot reveal . . .’
‘You told her, didn’t you?’
‘I told her nothing. I let her make an assumption.’
‘That is as good as telling her. You promised that you would keep my secret. I could have been killed. Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Sometimes it is not always what you know that matters. It is what you withhold. If you had known of the possible danger then your behaviour might have become unpredictable. It was vital that you knew nothing.’
‘A bit dicey if you ask me.’
‘A calculated risk. Taken by someone you could trust.’
‘That’s all very well for you to say . . .’
‘But we finally discovered the truth, did we not? And your suspicions were proved correct.’
Pamela Morton jumped to the necessary conclusion. ‘So that jumped-up little nobody did everything?’
‘It appears so.’
‘Then I was right.’
‘You did not point the finger . . .’
‘That is true. But I certainly raised the alarm. I suppose there’ll be a trial?’
‘Of course.’
Pamela Morton looked uneasy. ‘It will be a scandal, I imagine. How public will the information become? What shall I tell my husband? How can I explain why his secretary tried to kill me?’
Sidney hesitated. ‘You can tell him that Miss Morrison is a fantasist and create your own story, I would have thought. Perhaps you could say that despite it all, Miss Morrison was really in love with your husband and wanted you out of the way. Most men are flattered when they discover that they have a secret admirer. Convince him of that and it should blind him to everything else.’
‘I hope you’re right. Interesting that you of all people should advocate the telling of untruths.’
Sidney offered her his arm and began to escort his unwilling accomplice from the station. ‘The white lie has its purposes.’
‘I suppose it’s easier to tell than the black.’
‘I prefer white,’ Sidney added before adding a barbed question of his own. ‘But in your case isn’t it simply a matter of preserving the status quo?’
‘I am not sure either of us knows what that is.’
‘I’m sure he’ll believe whatever you say, Mrs Morton.’
‘It’s just as well I was once an actress. Do you think he’s going to go along with even more lies?’
‘Trust me . . .’
Pamela Morton shielded her eyes from the low November sun and gave Sidney a stern look. ‘Do you know, Canon Chambers, I’m not sure that I will. I think I’ve trusted you enough for one day.’
That evening Sidney stopped outside Hildegard Staunton’s front door. He was about to ring the bell when he heard the sound of the piano inside. The music was stark, angular, dramatic and mysterious. It seemed to hover on the edge of atonality, using all twelve notes of the chromatic scale as it built to a conclusion that was as natural as it was inevitable. It was Bach’s Fugue in B Minor; the final piece in the first book of The Well-Tempered Clavier.
Hildegard held the final chord for a long time and let the music die away. When Sidney was certain that she was not going to continue, he rang the doorbell.
Inspector Keating had suggested that the news of Annabel Morrison’s arrest would be better coming from a clergyman than a policeman, but Sidney had not decided how much to tell her about all that had happened, or how many details of the case he would leave out.
The light in the porch came on, the door opened, and Hildegard Staunton smiled. ‘Come in,’ she said as he stepped up and stood by her side. ‘I had forgotten how tall you are.’
‘I am often too tall for a room,’ said Sidney. ‘I try to sit down as soon as it is polite to do so.’
‘I hope you don’t develop a stoop,’ Hildegard replied. ‘I always think a man should be proud to be tall.’
‘I try not to be proud,’ said Sidney, sounding more pompous than he had intended.
‘You have come to tell me things?’
‘I have come to return your husband’s diary and, yes, I have come with news.’
‘I can tell already that you are nervous, Canon Chambers.’
‘Sidney . . .’
‘Very well, Sidney.’
‘It is not easy.’
‘I am not frightened of difficult things . . .’
‘It is to do with Miss Morrison . . .’
‘Ah . . . She loved my husband . . . I think . . .’
‘You knew?’
‘Women often know more than men think that they do.’
‘Unfortunately . . .’
‘Oh,’ Hildegard Staunton interrupted. ‘Now I see. But it can’t be?’
‘Yes . . .’ Sidney hesitated. He wondered how much she understood.
‘My husband loved me but wanted another. What did she do?’
‘Your husband did not commit suicide, Mrs Staunton. He was murdered by his secretary. I am sorry to have to tell you this.’
‘Why would she do such a thing?’ Hildegard spoke slowly as she tried to take in what Sidney was saying.
‘I think because he stopped seeing her.’
‘He wanted to come back to me? He once told me that he could never leave me.’
Sidney considered his answer. There was no need to tell Hildegard about Pamela Morton. What purpose would it serve other than to hurt her? It was true that the facts could well emerge at Annabel Morrison’s trial but it was likely that Hildegard would have returned to Germany by then. Besides, this was not the time for further revelation. The sin of omission was surely kinder than the telling of truths.
‘No,’ Sidney said quietly. ‘And he never did.’
Hildegard stood up and started to walk round the room. She stopped by the window and looked out. It was almost dark. Sidney could hear the wind gathering outside. It began to rain.
‘You are kind to tell me.’
‘The police were going to come; but I thought it better . . .’
‘If you came yourself? I am grateful. It is horrible but you make it less so.’
‘If you would like me to leave you alone, you just have to say.’
‘No,’ Hildegard replied. ‘Don’t go. We do not have to speak. I have to think of death in a different way now. I wish I didn’t have to consider it so often.’
‘I will stay for as long as you need, Mrs Staunton.’
‘Hildegard.’
‘I am sorry. Hildegard.’
‘Please could you sit here beside me? I will try not to cry.’
Sidney moved next to her. He took her hand and held it. Hildegard tightened her grip as she spoke. ‘I do not know what I am saying, perhaps, so you may not believe me, but, to know this, to know even part of this, is relief. That he was not so sad that he killed himself. That I did not drive him to do such a thing.’
She looked at Sidney and the tears came. ‘Is that so very self
ish?’
Sidney felt in his pocket for a handkerchief but he was too slow. Her tears fell on to the hand that held hers. ‘I don’t think anyone thought that.’
‘It does not matter what anyone else thought. I thought it.’ She stood up and moved away.
Sidney heard the pain in her voice. ‘I wish you hadn’t.’
‘We cannot help what we think . . .’
‘But perhaps sometimes we should not dwell too much . . .’
‘No,’ said Hildegard as she tried to pull herself together. ‘You are right. It is why I play the piano. It stops me thinking.’ She sat back down beside him. ‘Do you play?’
‘I am afraid not.’
‘Perhaps I should teach you?’
Sidney smiled. His lessons at school had not been a success. He never could get the hang of his two hands doing different things at the same time. ‘I think Germany is rather a long way to go for lessons.’
‘Yes,’ Hildegard smiled sadly. ‘I suppose it is. Will she hang, this woman, for what she did?’
‘It seems most likely.’
‘I am not in favour of another death.’
‘Neither am I; but it is the law of our land.’
‘You should change it. Rache trägt keine Frucht . . .’
‘It is not in my power; but one day, I hope, in my lifetime.’
They were still sitting beside each other and neither of them wanted to move. Hildegard Staunton gave him a playful pat on the knee. ‘And what about you, Sidney?’ she asked. She seemed amused by the very English nature of his name. ‘What about your lifetime?’
‘It is very simple. I have my job. I have my calling . . .’
Hildegard smiled. ‘You do not have a wife, I think?’
‘I cannot imagine it . . .’ he began.
‘Well, there is time . . .’ Hildegard said gently and then smiled. ‘Why are you called Sidney?’
‘I was named after my grandfather.’
‘Is it an unusual name? I have never heard it before.’
‘There was a Victorian clergyman called Sidney Smith. He was quite a character. He once said that his idea of heaven was eating pâté de foie gras to the sound of trumpets.’
‘I am not so sure about that. In any case I think I prefer the Sidney of this world to any man of the past.’
‘I think we would both have enjoyed meeting him, had we lived in those times.’
Hildegard stood up. ‘I think you do not like sherry but it is all I have. The whiskey has not yet arrived. Stephen’s brother told me a last case was on its way; not that I need it. Would you like some?’
‘Why not?’ Sidney replied.
Hildegard laid out a tray. ‘What do you think I should do?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps I should not go back to Germany after all?’
‘It would be good if you stayed here, of course. From my point of view . . .’
Hildegard handed Sidney his drink. ‘It is a strange feeling to have no responsibility for someone else any more.’
‘You must try not to let this darken the rest of your life.’
‘It is hard to think of that now.’ Hildegard looked up and smiled sadly. ‘I cannot imagine the future.’
‘It may be impossible. You will not forget what has happened. But I hope, if I may say so, that you might think a little bit more about yourself. There is only so much self-sacrifice we can offer . . . .’
Hildegard was amused. ‘I never thought I would hear a priest telling me to be selfish. You think I have made a sacrifice of my life?
‘No. All I hope is that you will find happiness again.’
‘But you know that happiness is an illusion, Canon Chambers?’
‘Sidney . . .’
‘Nothing can last in this world. Zeit gibt und nimmt alles.’
‘Time gives and takes all?
‘Your German is better than you admit. If you come and see me you may even feel at home.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ Sidney replied. ‘Are you going back?’ he asked.
‘In ten days’ time. I will be home for a German Christmas with my mother and sister.’
‘What are they called?’
‘My sister is Trudi. My mother is Sibilla. They are very German names.’
‘Like Hildegard.’
‘I was named after Hildegard of Bingen. The visionary. Fortunately I don’t have any visions. But she wrote music and without music I do not know how I could live.’
‘I am sorry that you won’t be at our carol service.’
‘I will be with my sister in Berlin. I will hear Stille Nacht in German once more. When they sing, I shall remember your kindness to me.’
‘I am also sorry that not everyone has been good to you.’
‘But you have been good, Canon Chambers, and it is your kindness which I shall remember . . . .’
Hildegard stood up and took a porcelain figure off the mantelpiece. It was of the little girl feeding chickens. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘On account of your kindness.’
Sidney was caught off guard. ‘Oh, I don’t think I could.’
‘Stephen bought it for me when he thought we were going to have a child. He always wanted a girl. Perhaps you will be luckier in your life than we have been. I’d like to give it to you.’
‘Your life is not over.’
‘Please,’ said Hildegard. ‘Take it to remember me by.’
Sidney could hardly bear the days that followed. He could not concentrate on his work, not least the Advent sermon that he was due to preach at King’s, and even the idea of another evening in The Eagle with Inspector Keating had lost its appeal. Their meetings had become a matter of work rather than pleasure. It was his own fault, Sidney thought, but then how could he have behaved otherwise? An injustice had been uncovered and his conscience had given him no choice.
Now he had to resume the priestly life. He remembered his Principal telling him at theological college: ‘the clergyman’s identity is defined not by what he does but what he is’. He was required to live an exemplary live. It would not do to sniff out murderers and sit on a widow’s sofa drinking sherry.
This, however, was easier said than done. Sidney had to admit that he was distracted. Hildegard had sent him a letter to remind him of the date of her leaving, but he had been so uncertain as to what he would say, and how he might ask for her forwarding address, that he almost missed her departure completely.
A removal van was parked outside the house and Hildegard was waiting for a taxi to take her to the station. She was dressed in a dark blue coat and she held her gloves loosely over a matching handbag.
‘I’m glad I arrived in time,’ said Sidney.
‘I would have asked the taxi to stop at your church. It is not so far.’
‘I might not have been there.’
‘But you are here now.’ She smiled. ‘And I am glad. I hope you will come and see me in Germany . . .’
‘Yes, I . . .’
Hildegard saw his embarrassment. ‘I do not believe in farewells . . .’
‘No. Well . . . it’s only that it might be difficult to arrange . . .’
‘Nonsense. I will help you.’
Sidney could not understand why his words would not come. ‘I’ve never been to Berlin. Or Leipzig . . .’ he said.
The taxi pulled up and Hildegard paused, as if she was wondering whether to get in it after all. ‘I will write to you. I will send you my address.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Sidney.
She held out her hand. ‘Thank you. You are a good man.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
As he took her hand, Hildegard leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I will not forget you . . .’ she said.
‘Nor I you . . . .’
Sidney watched the taxi recede into the distance. He touched his own cheek. Then he bicycled back to the vicarage. Outside the front door was a large brown case. Hildegard had instructed the removal men to leave the case of Bushmil
ls that she had been sent from County Antrim for Christmas. A card was attached.
‘For my friend Sidney, who I know will appreciate what lies within. With love and gratitude. Your Hildegard.’
Sidney walked into his study and sat in silence.
He tried to write his sermon. It would be about hope, he decided, and grace. He remembered the flimsy pages of Stephen Staunton’s diary. We cannot erase the past, he thought, no matter what we do; instead we have to let it carry us into the future.
As he wrote, he stopped to think about each stage of Hildegard’s journey home. He imagined her boarding a train and leaning out of the window to wave him goodbye. He could picture her, even now, blonde and pale, dressed in her dark blue coat, standing on the stern of a ferry with seagulls cawing in its wake as the light fell. He saw her walking through wintry German streets and passing through Christmas markets where people drank Glühwein amidst the swaying lanterns. He wondered what Hildegard would say to her family when she first saw them, her sister Trudi and her mother Sibilla, and if she would speak about all that had happened; or if it would be like the war, which had rendered so many people so silent. Would she mention him at all, he asked himself; and how, come to think of it, would he ever talk about her?
The next evening he made his way to King’s College Chapel. As the candlelight flickered over the carved wooden choir stalls, Sidney thought once more about the hope and the fragility of Christmas, the uncertain morning and evening of our lives caught amidst the unfurling of time and season, day and year.
The service made his sadness at Hildegard’s parting all the more resonant. It was the end of another day, a further chance to contemplate mortality and glimpse eternity as the precentor continued the responses:
‘O God make speed to save us.’
The choirboys replied:
‘O Lord make haste to help us.’
‘Singing is the sound of the soul,’ he thought to himself. For centuries people had been singing these words. Such continuity gave Sidney hope. He was part of something greater than himself – not only history but beauty, continuity and, he hoped, truth.
He prayed for the soul of Stephen Staunton. We will live as we have never lived. Those had been his last words to Pamela Morton and yet, perhaps, they also spoke of a world beyond our own.