by James Runcie
‘He’s certainly going to change it,’ Sidney mused. ‘I’ll see you to the door, Mrs Redmond.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Canon Chambers. I’ll let myself out.’
Sidney looked down at Archie. He would have to try and pick him up, he decided, but as soon as he made his first attempt the dog proved resistant and gave a small yelp. Indeed, it was a frustrating while before Sidney was able to scoop him up in his arms.
Honestly.
What was he doing?
How could anyone think that such a pet might be suitable?
It was absurd and it quite put him off Amanda. What can he have been thinking when he told her everything? How could she ever have conceived that he might want a dog? What on earth did they have in common? He should leave Grantchester whenever he could, Sidney thought, and find the most remote parish where little happened apart from the need to maintain faith. He thought of Cornwall, West Wales, the Northumbrian border with Scotland: anywhere with a low crime rate and parishioners who were keen to come to church rather than murder each other.
Archie jumped on to his lap. His honey-brown eyes had an expression of helpless trust. This was a creature who was asking to be looked after, whose affection was unconditional, and who would always be pleased to see him. This, surely, would be a more rewarding responsibility, a healing presence amidst the death of the old. Yes, perhaps all might be well after all and Amanda had been right and this would be . . .
Ah.
Perhaps not.
Mrs Maguire was coming through the front door with her shopping bags and Sidney’s shepherd’s pie.
‘It’s only me,’ she called.
At first Mrs Maguire did not notice the new arrival, walking into the kitchen, putting her things on the table, speaking all the while and telling Sidney that he would have to leave so that she could get on with her work. ‘What is the Church Times doing on the floor?’ she demanded. ‘Are you throwing it away? The wastepaper basket is under your desk.’
‘It is there for a reason, Mrs Maguire.’
‘I can’t think what that could be.’ She noticed the basket. ‘And what, in God’s good name, is that?’
‘I think I can . . .’ At that moment Sidney’s new puppy scampered up to Mrs Maguire and gave her right ankle a playful nip.
‘Heavens to Betsy!’ Mrs Maguire cried out. ‘An animal!’
‘He is a present from Miss Kendall.’
‘What the dickens is going on? How long is he staying?’
‘For ever, it seems.’
‘What on earth do you mean, Canon Chambers? I hope you don’t expect me to clean up after that thing?’
‘I certainly don’t, Mrs Maguire. At the moment I am not sure what to do. The puppy is an extremely recent arrival.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘Archie. But I think I’m going to change his name. Now you mention it, Dickens sounds rather a good name for a dog.’
Mrs Maguire was unimpressed. ‘None of us needs a puppy yapping away. They never stop, you know.’
‘I am sure he will grow. I was hoping that he might prove to be something of a companion . . .’
‘He’ll be nothing but trouble, mark my words. And you, Canon Chambers, have enough trouble in your life already.’
The day did not pass well. Dickens, for that was the name Sidney decided upon, wet the kitchen floor immediately Mrs Maguire had cleaned it, the church roof had sprung a leak under the weight of the melting snow and Sidney forgot his shepherd’s pie in the oven. As he ate the burnt remains with his curate, Leonard advised Sidney that he really should see the coroner once more. They needed to know whether Mrs Livingstone’s cremation could take place, if her daughter’s marriage could proceed and if not, what Inspector Keating was going to do about it.
Sidney found all the demands on his time even more irritating than usual. He knew that he didn’t actually like Derek Jarvis. But now he decided he was not too keen on Dr Michael Robinson either. Or Mrs Maguire. Or his curate. Or his dog. Or even Amanda. In fact the monastic life suddenly seemed far more appealing than ever before.
Later that afternoon, Sidney rang the bell of the coroner’s office and was shown through to a small waiting room. Derek Jarvis was efficiently polite. ‘You’re taking quite an interest in this case, I see . . .’
‘Apparently there is some considerable disquiet in the town. People have stopped going to see Dr Robinson.’
‘There are other doctors.’
‘We can’t hound a man out of town because of an unfounded rumour.’
Derek Jarvis sighed. ‘I can assure you, Canon Chambers, that I have been professional throughout this investigation and will continue to be so.’
‘I cannot believe that Dr Robinson is a murderer.’
‘Well,’ Derek Jarvis concluded. ‘So far, despite all the anxiety, it appears that he is not.’
‘Morphine?’
‘A high level but nothing more . . .’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘I am not disappointed. I am wary. As I said, a high level of morphine.’
‘But within acceptable limits.’
‘Just.’
‘Then you will release Mrs Livingstone’s body?’
‘I will. However, as I am sure you are aware, other sudden elderly deaths have occurred.’
‘Anthony Bryant . . .’
‘Indeed.’
Sidney could not let the situation finish like this. He knew that he should act in a more priestly manner. ‘I know it is hard to act in good faith with someone you may not like. As a Christian . . .’
‘Please, Canon Chambers, do not make such assumptions or jump to conclusions.’
‘I was merely suggesting . . .’
‘My work is scientific and objective. My personal feelings are kept in abeyance.’
‘Very well,’ Sidney answered. ‘When will you have completed your examination of the second body?’
‘All in good time.’
Sidney looked at the coroner and wondered whether there was ever such a thing as ‘good time’. It was going to be a long wait.
As he walked back through the streets of Cambridge, Sidney stopped to admire a pipe-smoking snowman that had been given an air-raid warden’s helmet. He heard a sudden movement behind him, turned to see who it was, but there was no one there. Perhaps he was being followed? But why would anyone want to do such a thing? He tried to put his suspicions down to the fact that he was cold and anxious, but the feelings of unease grew as he resumed his walk. He was also hungry after the debacle of his lunchtime shepherd’s pie. There was nothing for it but to enter Fitzbillies and buy yet another one of their Chelsea buns. He would find a discreet way of eating it on his way home.
Although his purchase was successful, his initial attempt to eat the bun was foiled by the presence of the young female journalist he had seen outside the police station. In the pause in which he tried to remember her name Helena Randall shot out her first question. ‘A successful visit to the coroner, Canon Chambers?’
Sidney paused. ‘I am not sure what you mean?’
‘Are there any positive results?’
Sidney stopped. ‘I would like to help you but what I am doing is rather confidential.’
Helena Randall took out her notebook. ‘And are there degrees of confidentiality?’ she asked.
‘I like to think not.’
‘And will you be going to see Dr Robinson or his fiancée again?’
Sidney had never met someone so pale and so determined. ‘I haven’t seen them today.’
‘But you have seen them recently? When?’
‘In the last few days, but I don’t know whether this is anything that might be of interest to your readers. There is no evidence of any wrongdoing.’
‘There are coincidences.’
‘It is winter, Miss . . .’
‘Randall. Helena Randall. I think you are a police spy, Canon Chambers.’
‘I have
never heard anything so absurd. There may be spies in Cambridge but I can assure you that I am not one of them.’
‘So you admit to knowing spies?’
‘Of course I don’t. Now please; I must be going home.’
‘I can walk with you.’
‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’
‘I gave you my card, I believe?’
‘You did.’
‘Well then. You probably need to know that I, too, am never off duty. I think this has the makings of a story.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Not yet, Canon Chambers. But there soon will be. And when the story breaks you will want to tell me your side of it first.’
‘I am not sure that I will.’ Sidney replied tersely. ‘Good day to you, Miss Randall.’
He crossed Granta Place and headed up Eltisley Avenue and glanced up at Hildegard Staunton’s old house. He wished she were still there. He could have stopped off on the way home and listened to her play Bach. Now all he had was his bun from Fitzbillies.
He ate it as he walked across the Meadows. It was almost dark. A group of schoolboys were enjoying a snowball fight as people returned from work, bicycling along the high path with books, bags and shopping. Greeting people as they passed, Sidney had a simultaneous sense of belonging and alienation. These were, in the main, decent respectable people, and yet Sidney felt that he had little to do with them. He was detached, separated from their lives and their employment by his calling, by the university and by his dream-like daily musings. Normal life, simultaneously, had both everything and nothing to do with him.
When he returned home his dog scampered up to meet him. It was clear that he expected his master both to give him his full attention and to go straight back out again but the telephone in the hall was already ringing. Sidney had been hoping that he could heat the place up a bit and sit by the fire with some light reading but it was not to be. Who on earth could this be? he wondered as the telephone rang. What fresh hell is this?
It was Amanda. ‘How is Dickens?’ she asked. Already, Sidney thought, her dog mattered more than he did.
‘How did you know he was called that?’ he replied.
‘I telephoned earlier and got Mrs Maguire. She tried to be polite but was really quite ratty. She thought I should come and get him and take him away.’
‘Dickens is quite a handful, Amanda.’
‘I bought him for that very purpose.’
‘Did you indeed . . .’
‘He’s there to take your mind off all the dreadful things that have been happening. You told me you were lonely.’
‘You asked me if I was lonely. That’s not quite the same thing.’
‘You answered in the affirmative and I have taken steps to address the situation. I thought it was rather thoughtful of me . . .’
‘It was Amanda, and I am grateful.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s perfectly well.’
‘You sound grumpy. Are you sure you are looking after him properly? When can I see him?’
‘You can come whenever you like.’
‘Good. You haven’t got the flu or anything like that?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Why do I ask?’ Amanda was almost shouting. ‘Because I don’t want you going to see that doctor.’
‘What has Mrs Maguire been saying?’
‘I am sure you can guess. She thinks that your doctor has been taking the law into his own hands.’
‘Nothing has been proved.’
‘But by the time it is, it will be too late. You need to be careful, Sidney. In crime stories the murderer is always the doctor. It’s why I no longer read Miss Christie. It’s always the bloody doctor.’
‘In 4.50 from Paddington, yes,’ Sidney replied.
‘And there’s Dr Sheppard, of course, in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.’
‘But this is not fiction, Amanda. This is real life.’
‘I don’t want you doing anything silly.’
‘There’s not much chance of that. All my energy is being taken up with looking after your wretched Labrador.’
‘I’m sorry if you think that Dickens is too much for you,’ Amanda snapped. ‘I meant well. I’m sure I can find another home for him if you’d like. I was just trying to do my best and give you a companion. That’s all I was trying to do.’
‘I’m sorry, Amanda. It’s just that sometimes . . .’
His friend interrupted. ‘I’m worried you are so gloomy. Do you think it’s because it’s Lent? Or something else? Have you taken Dickens out for a walk today?’
‘Of course I have,’ Sidney replied defensively.
He wondered how much longer this conversation would continue. He had nothing to say and much to think about. Furthermore, he was standing in the cold hall. The windows had frosted completely, and on the inside. It was probably going to snow yet again. When, oh when, Sidney wondered, would it be spring?
Amanda was still talking. ‘Are you still there?’
Sidney had switched off. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I have to go. Henry is taking me out to dinner.’
‘Henry?’
‘I’ve told you about him.’
‘Have you?’
‘Of course I have. There’s nothing you need to worry about.’
‘But I do . . .’
‘Must dash. Don’t go to the doctor whatever you do. Love you.’
Sidney began to remonstrate but Amanda had already put down the receiver. He listened to the relentless sound of the dialling tone. There was nothing that could have matched his mood more exactly.
At last Easter came; the Maundy Thursday washing of feet, the three-hour meditation on Good Friday, the vigil on Saturday evening and then the triumphant alleluia of Easter Sunday. A wave of purple crocuses burst through the grass of the Grantchester Meadows to echo the message of Christian hope.
Sidney was determined that his parishioners should share the joy and redemption of Easter, and took, as the symbol of his sermon, the image of the cloth left in the cave where Jesus had lain. It had been folded rather than thrown away, Sidney told his congregation, a sign, according to the custom of the time, that he would return, to the table, to the meal and to the communion between God and man.
‘We are Easter people,’ he told the parishioners of Grantchester. ‘This is not one day out of three hundred and sixty-five, but the mainspring of our faith. We carry the Easter message each day of our lives, lives in which the pain of the Cross and the suffering of humanity are followed by the uncomprehended magnitude of the Resurrection.’
Sidney spoke with as much passion as he could muster but as he looked down from the pulpit he realised that he was not able to reach every parishioner. The elderly looked benevolent and grateful, but younger widows from the war carried a grief that could not be assuaged. Sidney stressed that God must be one with whom humanity’s pain and loneliness can identify, but he could tell that some of his parishioners could only look back at him and say, ‘Not this pain. Not this loneliness.’
He wished, once more, that he could be a better priest. He hoped he could bring comfort but there were times when he just had to understand that he could not be all things to all men. Sometimes he had to accept his limitations and take a few hours away from his duties and let life take its course. At least he now had the excuse of walking his Labrador.
This was not always an easy task. Sidney was no disciplinarian when it came to training and Dickens had to be frequently retrieved from hedges, ditches and, on one occasion, the river itself. His presence did, however, make social engagement with other dog owners more agreeable and Sidney had no choice but to leave his desk and get out into the surrounding countryside with a companion who was always loyal and never bored. No matter what Sidney did Dickens was keen to follow.
Sidney only wished that Amanda, the provider of such an unexpected gift to his life, could share some of her caring canine’s qualities.
‘I’m glad I’ve caught you,’ he exclaimed.
Dickens jumped up against the coroner’s knee.
‘Playful little fellow you’ve got there, I see . . .’
‘Somewhat too playful,’ Sidney apologised. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘That would be very kind.’
Sidney opened his front door and Dickens scampered in. ‘Do come in. May I take your coat?’
The coroner put down his bottle of wine on the hall table. ‘I brought you a small present for Easter, Canon Chambers.’
‘That’s very kind of you. It’s not an egg, I see.’
‘It most certainly isn’t. It’s a Bordeaux. Château-Latour 1937. Rather good, I think you’ll find.’
‘Oh my,’ said Sidney.
‘You are aware of the vintage?’
‘I’m not sure I am.’ Sidney filled his kettle with water and lit the gas ring. ‘I’m afraid I’m more of a beer man.’
‘You surprise me. I would have thought with all your college feasts you would be quite an oenophilist.’
‘I’m really more at home in the pub with my friends. I’m not all that fond of dining at high table.’
‘Why ever not?’
Sidney waited for the kettle to boil. ‘I think it’s because I don’t quite belong. A clergyman is always rather an odd one out. Perhaps it goes back to the last century when if a man had several sons then the eldest joined the army, the second ran the estate and the youngest and dimmest went into the church. I fear some of the Fellows still think that this is the case.’
‘They do make a great show of finding you intellectually inferior whoever you are. Which is all very well but while they may have brains they certainly don’t always have manners.’
‘Is that what you find?’
‘They are in a world of their own. Sometimes I think they can scarcely talk to each other, never mind their guests.’
Sidney warmed his teapot, added a sprinkle of leaves and then poured in the boiling water. ‘It has always surprised me that some Fellows don’t actually like their students.’