by James Runcie
Leonard Graham defended his colleague. ‘I don’t think he goes out of his way to involve himself in the affairs of other people, Mrs Maguire. They come to him. He is merely responding to their needs.’
‘Well, he’s too soft and he needs to be careful, you mark my words. Crime always attracts more crime, that’s what my Ronnie used to say.’
‘I will remind Canon Chambers of his primary duties,’ Leonard Graham replied.
‘And don’t go getting involved yourself,’ Mrs Maguire counselled. ‘It’s bad enough one clergyman trying to be Sherlock Holmes. We don’t need the two of you doing it.’
‘I will help Canon Chambers whenever I can, Mrs Maguire, but I will not let him distract me,’ Leonard Graham answered. ‘The church and the parish will be my only concern.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Mrs Maguire replied, ‘that may cause you trouble enough. Grantchester may look like a typical English village, Reverend Graham, but I am telling you now that, in reality, it is a nest of perfidious vipers.’
‘I will do my best to be careful, Mrs Maguire.’
‘You will need to do more than that, Reverend Graham. Let vigilance be your watchword, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t waste my words.’
‘I can already tell that you don’t,’ Leonard Graham replied.
The Cambridge coroner had a reputation for efficiency. Never one to linger over idle pleasure, Derek Jarvis was the kind of man who saw every encounter, no matter how pleasurable, as an appointment that had to conform to its allotted time. Tall, slender, and dressed in a single-breasted suit and an old Harrovian tie, he possessed the easy confidence that came with a privileged upbringing. What he lacked in obvious charm he disguised with efficiency.
Sidney had met him once before, after an amateur cricket match in which the coroner had scored a sprightly forty-three runs in a surprise victory against Royston.
‘I don’t want to appear impolite, Canon Chambers, but I am not sure why this matter involves you at all. It is really between myself and the police.’
Sidney could tell that Derek Jarvis saw his presence as a matter that would take up more time than was necessary. Consequently he needed to be both charming and exact. ‘Inspector Keating suggested that I come because Isabel Livingstone and Michael Robinson are my parishioners. They are in mourning and yet, at the same time, they are also about to be married in my church. I am here in confidence, to see how precarious their position might be, and if their wedding might need to be postponed. I am sorry for the trouble my visit may cause . . .’
‘It’s no trouble, of course. In fact, it’s a pleasure to see you, Canon Chambers,’ the coroner replied. ‘Only it’s far more agreeable to meet you on a cricket field than in these less congenial surroundings.’
‘Alas, we are still to see the spring,’ Sidney replied. ‘I look forward to long summer days and lengthening evening shadows; but until then we must set about our daily tasks. I imagine that there must be guidelines in these matters.’
‘There certainly are. Mrs Livingstone appears to have died several months sooner than might have been expected. If her death has been hastened, and in suspicious circumstances, then we have to investigate . . .’
‘It is the middle of winter, and Mrs Livingstone was a very elderly lady . . .’
‘Indeed, Canon Chambers, but, as you will no doubt know, perhaps even better than I do, that we are all God’s creatures, young and old alike . . .’
‘I am not saying . . .’
‘I know you are not. “To every time there is a season.” But where a man might propose, it is God who must dispose.’
‘I understand.’
‘It is a question of intent,’ Derek Jarvis continued. ‘Did the doctor withhold or withdraw treatment? Did he allow Mrs Livingstone to die and, if he did so, was this in the patient’s best interests and in accord with her wishes?’
‘Mrs Livingstone was very weak. I am sure her daughter would have spoken on her behalf . . .’
‘I am afraid that is not the same thing; not the same thing at all . . .’
‘Yes, I can see,’ Sidney replied hesitantly. ‘But if Mrs Livingstone was in great pain . . .’
‘Then, of course, morphine may be administered. The exact quantity, however, must be examined.’
‘I am sure Dr Robinson knew what he was doing,’ Sidney replied.
‘I do not doubt. But what was he doing, and what did he intend to do? His intentions in this matter are crucial. In addition to preventing pain, as I think you may know, morphine also reduces the depth and frequency of breathing and can therefore shorten a patient’s life.’
‘A side effect of the reduction of pain . . .’
‘Indeed, Canon Chambers. Forgive me if I am stating the obvious, but it is important that the moral principles are clear. I am sure you would agree.’
Sidney admired the coroner’s methodical reasoning but worried that he might lack compassion.
Derek Jarvis continued. ‘A death that occurs after the administration of morphine is a foreseeable effect, and in these cases, a doctor who gives morphine to a terminally ill patient in order to reduce suffering and foreseeing, though not intending, the earlier death of the patient, has not broken the law.’
‘That is good,’ Sidney replied quickly, relieved that there might be grounds for hope.
‘The quantity of morphine, as I say, has to be assessed and, of course we need to be sure that it was simply morphine that was administered rather than something more serious . . .’
‘Such as?’
‘Potassium chloride, for example. That is a very different substance altogether. Then it is no longer a matter of foreseeing the death but intending it. Again the matter of intent is crucial. It is a form of intervention where death, rather than the relief of pain, is intended . . .’
Sidney tried to keep up. ‘It seems, however, that you can only gauge the level of intention by asking the doctor himself.’
‘That may be the case but as soon as potassium chloride has been administered, I am afraid that there is only so much a doctor can do to persuade us of his innocence.’
‘He may still be acting out of pity for his patient.’
‘It would be termed a mercy killing – which, of course, is technically murder,’ the coroner replied, as if Sidney had not thought of this. ‘And if there is any suspicion that this is indeed the case then a post-mortem will be required.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I am afraid it is; so much so that I have already ordered one. The results will be due on Wednesday. Consequently I wouldn’t do too much about the wedding before then.’
Sidney was disturbed by the coroner’s quiet impartiality. At the same time, he could see that anything more he might say could, potentially, jeopardise the future happiness of the couple who planned to marry in his church. ‘And after the post-mortem?’ he asked.
‘I think I have already outlined the possibilities, Canon Chambers. If morphine is found then we may be able to overlook Mrs Livingstone’s earlier than expected demise. But in the case of potassium chloride . . .’
‘The doctor would then have to stand some kind of trial . . .’
The coroner hesitated. ‘And not just the doctor, of course . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Isabel Livingstone had a duty of care. She was in her mother’s house and could have intervened to prevent such actions, if untoward actions there were. She is, potentially, an accessory to the crime and, in consequence, could face the same sentence.’
Derek Jarvis was speaking as if he was already in the witness box. ‘The same?’
‘In certain circumstances she might get away with manslaughter but in this case, I am afraid they would both, most likely, be charged with murder. And therefore they could both hang.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Sidney. ‘That’s terrible. I am sure that what they were doing was in Mrs Livingstone’s best interests . . .’
‘That may
be, Canon Chambers, but it is not the law of the land.’
‘Then the law should be changed . . .’
‘I will not argue about the ethics but, until such a time as the law is actually changed, if there is any suspicion of foul play, then it is my duty to raise matters with the police.’
‘There is nothing to be done?’
‘Are you suggesting that I pervert the course of justice?’ the coroner asked.
‘No, of course not,’ Sidney replied.
‘I am sorry to have to make myself so clear. The course of any investigation must be allowed to proceed unimpeded. Your best course of action, Canon Chambers,’ the coroner suggested, ‘is to pray.’
The only event to lighten Sidney’s mood, amidst the death and darkness of Lent, was the arrival of his friend Amanda Kendall. At least she would cheer him up, he thought, as he bicycled carefully through the snow and waited for her at the railway station.
It had taken him a good half-hour to get there and the journey had allowed him plenty of time for contemplation. It was so long since he had been anywhere other than Cambridge or London, he thought. He really should broaden his horizons. He remembered Robert Louis Stevenson: ‘The great affair is to move.’ Yet, since the war, he had hardly travelled at all. Perhaps he could take a holiday in France, he wondered? Or Germany, of course . . .
Hildegard had invited him to stay and he imagined that it would be a considerable comfort to see her again; but Sidney also worried that he had begun to exaggerate the consolation of her company and that absence had, perhaps, made his heart grow too fond.
At least with Amanda he knew where he stood; for despite their affection for each other there was no ambiguity or worry about romantic love or passion. This was a hearty friendship, he told himself, a treat in his life and the dose of liveliness he needed. He only hoped that he could live up to her expectations and that he did not bore her.
‘As elegant as expected,’ Sidney said, as Amanda stepped off the train. She was wearing a tailored camel coat and carried a chestnut-coloured Gladstone bag.
‘I’ve decided to simplify my wardrobe: lilac in town and brown in the country. It makes life so much easier,’ she said.
‘This is hardly the country . . .’
‘Oh Sidney, Cambridge is not London. You may kiss me.’ She stretched out her cheek. ‘Where are we lunching?’ she asked
‘We are going to the Garden House Hotel,’ he announced. ‘I hope it will do.’
‘Then lead on.’
Sidney kept to the outside of the pavement and pushed his bicycle as they walked to the restaurant. As he did so, Amanda told him how extraordinary it was that she had got through the snow at all. She had got talking to a farmer called Harding Redmond who had been complaining on the way up how the turnips in the fields on his farm had rotted, how the ewes had so little milk and the lambs were dying. It was so distressing, she said. His wife bred Labradors and was so worried about a recent litter that she had refused to leave home until she knew that they were safe from the cold.
Sidney asked about the National Gallery and Amanda told him that she was beginning to do the research for a monograph on the paintings of Hans Holbein the Younger. There was, she said, so much more to discover about the cultural life of the court of Henry VIII: the drama, the art and the music, that she felt a whole world was opening up before her. Perhaps they could go to Hampton Court in the summer together?
Sidney told her that would be delightful and replied with parish news, the gossip at Corpus and the arrival of Leonard Graham.
‘Has he shaved off his moustache?’ Amanda asked.
‘Indeed he has. And he is all the better for it.’
‘Such a business at the Thompsons,’ Amanda continued. ‘Poor old Daphne . . .’
‘And poor old you.’
‘I can never forgive myself for that awful mess with Guy Hopkins.’
‘He was a very attractive man.’
‘And an absolute brute.’
They arrived at the hotel, handed in their hats and coats and were shown straight to their table.
‘To think that it took me so long to notice that Guy was appalling,’ Amanda continued. ‘I’ve quite lost my sense of judgement. I was so distracted by a handsome man with prospects that I forgot to think what it might be like to be married to him. Could you tell as soon as you met him?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘That means you could . . .’
‘Not necessarily, Amanda. I never spoke to him privately or with the two of you alone.’
‘But that is what you do before a marriage, isn’t it? And that’s partly why I’ve come. I wanted to ask that if it ever happens again, and I do become engaged, that I can come and see you and talk about it?’
‘Of course. Do you have someone in mind?’
‘Not yet. But there are possibilities.’
‘And will I be the first to know?’
‘After Jennifer, of course. I can hardly keep things secret from my flatmate.’
‘How is she?’
‘You mean you want to know about Johnny Johnson? They are just friends, you know.’
‘I rather admire Johnny Johnson.’
‘And so do I, Sidney. Surely in this day and age we can have friendships with the opposite sex without worrying about what it all means. I am sure you have plenty of female friends . . .’
‘Not like you, Amanda.’
‘I should hope not. I wouldn’t want to be a duplicate.’
‘There is no one in the world like you, Amanda, I can promise you that.’
‘Oh, I am sure that in the Russian Revolution, or in the French for that matter, I would have been shot with all the other posh girls. But I have to be careful now. I’m worried that when men make an approach they may have ulterior motives.’
‘Well, you’re quite a catch.’
‘Oh, Sidney, you say the sweetest things. But there are times when I just can’t be sure of the motives of the men I like.’
‘An occupational hazard, I would have thought.’
The waitress arrived with herrings fried in oatmeal but Amanda was in full flow. ‘Don’t priests undertake to counsel people when they are thinking of getting married? What kind of things do you say to them? And can you sometimes tell that the whole thing is going to be a disaster from the start? I bet you can.’
‘That’s quite a lot of questions, Amanda.’
‘I have more. I want to know everything. How in love do you have to be, for example? Can you tell if it is enough and can you marry if you still have doubts? Does it matter if your parents approve or not? Is it important that your husband has money? Do you have to be of the same social standing? What do you do if there is one aspect of your future husband’s personality that you can’t stand? Can people change once they are married? All those kinds of things.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sidney as he started on his herring. ‘You cannot anticipate everything. But, at the time, I think you have to be unable to imagine the alternative. I think you have to think that it is impossible to live without someone.’
‘But you live without someone.’
‘It is different in my case. I live with my faith. What I mean is that it has to be impossible to imagine living without the person you love.’
‘But what if you can’t find that person? So many people I know seem to settle for second best.’
‘Do you know that, Amanda? They may only seem second best to you. And love can be about more than attraction. I sometimes think it is more a question of sanctuary, a case of unassailable friendship.’
‘Have you known that?’
‘Not quite,’ Sidney replied. ‘Not yet . . .’
The waitress removed their plates from the table and returned with pork chops and apple sauce. Sidney had not anticipated such close questioning and found Amanda’s tone almost confrontational. It was hard to give thoughtful answers to her volley of direct questions.
‘Is it
lonely being a priest?’ Amanda continued.
‘Sometimes . . .’
‘When is it at its worst?’
‘Now, I suppose.’
‘You mean at this table?’
‘No, of course not, I don’t mean that at all,’ Sidney blushed, although he did feel out of his depth. ‘I think it is when there is a small congregation on a cold February day in the middle of Lent, for example. I feel these waves of depression coming over me. The numbers of the faithful are dwindling, Amanda, and sometimes there is nothing I can do to encourage them. It’s like Matthew Arnold’s great poem “Dover Beach”. I feel the melancholy roar of the withdrawing tide. . . .’
‘Then I only hope you have not been diving into any more murky waters,’ Amanda replied.
‘Sometimes the murky waters come to me. . . .’
Amanda put down her knife and fork. ‘I’m so sorry. I have been talking about myself so much that it has taken me a little time to realise. Forgive me. It is clear that something is troubling you.’
Sidney sighed. He wondered whether he should speak openly but he was too preoccupied not to do so. ‘I am afraid that it is.’
‘Tell me . . .’
‘This may not be the place to discuss it.’
‘No one is listening.’
‘An elderly lady has died.’
‘Nothing unusual in that, I would have thought.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Then what are you worried about?’
‘It is extremely confidential, Amanda. I should not be telling you anything at all.’
‘But you are anxious?’
‘I am. My doctor has come under suspicion.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘This is a very delicate matter.’
‘I don’t know him, do I?’
‘No, Amanda, you do not.’
‘Then do not tell me his name. Has he been negligent?’
Sidney stopped. He knew that he should not be confiding in Amanda but he could not help himself. ‘It’s thought that he may have hastened her death.’