by James Runcie
The next day Sidney and Amanda met for an early lunch at Bleu Blanc Rouge. Sidney had not been inside the restaurant before and was unsurprised to discover that it lived up to its name. With its white walls, red gingham tablecloths and blue napkins, everything about it suggested the tricolour. Enlarged photographs and framed copies of old newspapers celebrating the 1945 liberation of Paris covered the walls and the menu offered unremittingly French fare: pâté, onion tart, omelettes and potage parmentier; boeuf bourguignon, coq au vin, rabbit and turbot.
‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’ Michel Morel asked as he took their coats.
‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’ Sidney asked, wondering how his host could afford to make such an extravagant gesture.
The chef ignored him. ‘Where I was trained the cuisinier began each day with champagne. He is the greatest chef in France, Fernand Point.’
‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ Sidney replied. ‘Some friends of mine went to his restaurant after the war. La Pyramide . . .’
‘Exactly so. He shares a bottle with the barber who shaves him each morning.’
Amanda smiled. ‘He must be drunk before he starts work.’
‘Not at all. He is always de bonne humeur. Gardez le sourire, mes amis! he says. Sometimes I think all the meals he has ever eaten are still in his stomach. I will bring you the menus.’
Once they had sat down at their table Amanda told Sidney that she was nervous. ‘I hope we don’t put people off . . .’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘People will think we are discussing the murder.’
‘The whole of Cambridge is discussing the murder.’
Amanda took a sip of champagne and then put her glass down. She was not in the mood for it. ‘I’m worried about Ben, Sidney.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Yesterday he told me something that’s rather haunted me.’
‘What is it?’
‘He was almost talking to himself. I think that he had almost forgotten I was in the room. He was speaking out of grief, as it were, and then he suddenly said something that struck me as incredibly moving.’
‘What was it?’
‘ “Dom gave me the love my father never did.” ’
‘Did he explain what he meant?’
‘Not entirely. But he had rather a brutal upbringing. His mother died when he was away at school and he was not allowed to come home for the funeral. He was bullied for being small and effete and he lost himself in his work. He was the first member of his family to get into Oxford but his father resented him for reading history and wanted him to study engineering and join the family firm. When Ben refused, his father kicked him out and cut him off. Ben’s very frightened of him.’
‘Then why were they both in the play? It does seem very odd.’
‘Perhaps you should go and see Frank Blackwood?’
‘I do have a few questions.’
Amanda continued. ‘Fortunately, Ben made some friends at Oxford and one of them arranged the job with Lord Teversham. Then, just when he was happy and had prospects, this happens.’
‘How well do you think he knew Lord Teversham?’
‘Is that a leading question, Sidney?’
‘Only if you take it to be one.’
‘I don’t think there was anything funny going on, if that’s what you are getting at.’
‘But perhaps other people did? The love that dare not speak its name . . .’
Amanda leaned forward. ‘Do you mean someone like Simon Hackford?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re suggesting that Ben might have been considered some kind of replacement for Simon Hackford in Lord Teversham’s affections?’
‘It is possible.’
‘You think Simon Hackford and Lord Teversham were more than friends?’ Amanda asked.
The waiter came to take their order but they asked him to wait. Sidney continued. ‘You know how deeply such a secret has to be kept.’
‘In the art world, half the people I meet are pansies. People pretend that they are not, their true friends understand that they are and everyone knows not to ask too many questions.’
‘Not everyone, of course. And in a small town, or with a reputation to keep up, you can imagine how frightened they might be of exposure.’
Amanda put down her menu. ‘But why would either of them betray the other? I don’t think blackmail works with homosexuals. If you are an adulterer and you go to the police and complain that you have been threatened then you can put them on to the blackmailer without any fear that you will be punished yourself. All you have to worry about is a scandal. But if you are homosexual and you complain that you are being blackmailed then the police can start with your arrest and you can be put in prison whether they deal with the blackmailer or not.’
‘So you don’t think Simon Hackford was doing any such thing?’
‘If he was, then he would be the one that was killed. I suppose he might have felt murderous after being replaced by Ben. He had a good thing going with Dominic, financially at the very least . . .’
‘He says he is happier now, with his wife.’
‘A lavender marriage, perhaps,’ Amanda replied. ‘He must have found the sight of Ben unbearable. But do you think that’s sufficient motive for murder? It seems a bit desperate.’
‘Perhaps that’s often what murder is,’ Sidney replied. ‘People are desperate.’
Bleu Blanc Rouge was situated in the same street as the Blackwood works, and after Amanda had taken a train back to London Sidney decided to pay Ben’s father a visit.
‘Dom gave me the love my father never did.’
The factory was classified as light rather than heavy industry, making wireless components, valves and transistors. Serious young men in open-necked shirts and sleeveless jumpers stood at workbenches in a large, open-plan space, stripping wire, applying solder or clamping boards in vices. A phalanx of economically groomed women with Amami-waved hair typed out invoices, arranged deliveries and answered the telephone. The layout, the lighting and the method of work all subscribed to the idea that every part of the building, both human and manufactured, was a key component in an overall machine for modernity.
‘We run a tight ship here,’ Frank Blackwood began, ‘with no time for layabouts. If this new, modern Britain is going to have to compete with Europe and the rest of the world then it needs every engineer it can get. We’re on the go from seven-thirty in the morning until four-thirty in the afternoon with half an hour for lunch. I’m moving away from wireless to television parts. You have to keep up with demand.’
‘That would be a wise decision, I would have thought,’ Sidney replied. ‘Everyone wants a television these days.’
‘Have you got one then, Canon Chambers?’
‘Alas, on my stipend . . .’
‘They’re expensive but the price will come down.’
‘They also seem rather cumbersome. Do you think they will get smaller?’
‘I imagine so. But there are a lot of parts, the cathode rays, the tubing, the switching.’
‘Can I see inside one?’ Sidney asked. ‘I’ve always wanted to know how they work.’
‘Of course.’
‘The on–off switch is spring loaded, I see.’
‘We have a lot of sprung mechanisms in here. I started by making bagatelle machines. We nearly moved into pinball but the Americans have got the market covered so we changed direction and went for technology. But I am sure you haven’t come to talk to me about this, Canon Chambers. Are you any nearer finding the murderer?’
‘We have some ideas, but it is too soon to say.’
‘People who were close to Lord Teversham, for example?’
‘We are not suspecting your son.’
‘That is a relief,’ Frank Blackwood replied. ‘Although I was never keen on Ben working there.’
‘Why not?
‘I didn’t like him being cooped up and out of the wa
y. I can’t believe that it is a proper job either. He doesn’t seem to have any prospects. What kind of a business is looking at paintings or writing a book about a place no one can visit? He should be working for me or down in London. God knows what he will do now.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘They might give him some kind of pay-off. Simon Hackford’s likely to take over. He and Lord Teversham have been friends for years. You should go and talk to him. There was something fishy going on there, but I suspect you know about that.’
‘I have seen nothing to make me think that Simon Hackford is anything other than a decent man.’
‘You’re being too Christian.’
‘I have no choice.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude, Canon Chambers, but you only have to look at that man to know that there’s something not quite right.’
Sidney cut the suggestion short. ‘I am seeing him later today.’
‘Then he is a suspect?’
‘Everyone is a suspect, Mr Blackwood. Even you, and even me.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely.’
‘The police do say that it’s often the unlikeliest people . . .’
‘But you are a priest.’
‘And you run a tight ship,’ Sidney replied. He smiled with as much ambiguity as he could muster. ‘I am not a murderer, Mr. Blackwood, but sometimes priests can be more devious than people think.’
‘Is that so, Canon Chambers?’
‘I wouldn’t like anyone to take me for granted.’
Simon Hackford’s antique shop was situated in Trumpington Street, almost opposite the Fitzwilliam Museum, with four clear windows in which were displayed a tasteful collection of eighteenth-century paintings and traditional English furniture. Whenever Sidney decided to bicycle home via Sheep’s Green and across the Fen Causeway, he liked to slow down, glance into its windows and imagine what he could have afforded had he chosen a different profession. The Elizabethan walnut chest would look handsome in his hallway, he decided, and he had always fancied a pair of Queen Anne candlesticks.
‘Is there anything you are looking for specifically?’ Simon Hackford asked. ‘We have some Apostle spoons that came in a few days ago. As you probably know, Canon Chambers, there are only four sets in the country.’
This was one of the areas in the field of antiques where Sidney had a smidgeon of knowledge. He was keen to impress. ‘Is the bowl marked with a leopard head?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And are the rest of the marks stamped across the back of the handle?’
‘They are.’
Sidney nodded as thoughtfully as he could. ‘And is each apostle recognisable, with his own halo?’
‘The nimbi are intact.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘I am sure you have not come simply to look at my silver, Canon Chambers.’
‘Indeed not, although now that you are about to show me these spoons . . .’
Simon Hackford had seen right through him. ‘Your visit is about Lord Teversham, I presume?’
‘I am afraid so.’
The antique dealer walked back to the counter and produced a small green case. He put it down on an oak dining table. ‘A terrible thing,’ he said, before returning to fetch a pair of white gloves. ‘We were such friends.’
‘Although perhaps less so, recently,’ Sidney said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘At the theatre you told us that you did not like to spend time apart from your wife. Is that because you once did so?’
‘I don’t think that is any business of yours.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking.’
Simon Hackford turned and his tone changed. In fact, he became positively hostile. ‘I do mind you asking, as a matter of fact. We had rather a rough time of it lately and Marion doesn’t like me to talk about it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I can understand why you might be interested. Lord Teversham and I were friends and business partners. I had no reason to dislike him. Our arrangement simply came to an end when Ben Blackwood arrived.’
‘I presume you do not like him.’
‘No one likes to be replaced, Canon Chambers. You do not think that anyone can do the job as well as you or that arrangements might change. Fortunately, I have a good eye and other clients. I do not need the support of anyone other than my wife.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘You can talk to her if you like . . .’
‘I may need to do that. But in the meantime, please show me the spoons.’
Simon Hackford put on his white gloves. His hands had a slight shake to them. Sidney wondered if he was a secret drinker.
‘I think they may need a bit of a polish.’ Simon Hackford undid the gold metal clasp and opened the box. Then he stopped. ‘Oh my God.’ He stepped back in horror. ‘How did that get there?’
All the spoons had been removed. Instead, resting on a crumpled piece of white satin, lay a short bloodied dagger.
‘That’s our man,’ said Inspector Keating.
‘I think he is innocent,’ Sidney replied.
Inspector Keating sighed. ‘You never trust a simple solution, do you, Sidney? I suppose you think the weapon was planted deliberately in order to implicate Simon Hackford?’
‘I do.’
‘The man is a former business partner of Lord Teversham. God knows how close they were. He ceases to be a business partner. He stops being a friend. His own business has its difficulties. He plays the part of a murderer in the play. He is the last man to stab Lord Teversham. It could hardly be more obvious.’
‘Too obvious, Inspector.’
‘I’m sorry that you think that. But until you can come up with something better Simon Hackford is under arrest.’
Sidney knew that he was probably the only man in Cambridge who could help the accused. ‘I believe that you are innocent,’ he told Simon Hackford. ‘But I must have more information if I am to find out who did it. I need to know the names of all the key-holders and everyone who has come into your shop since the arrival of the Apostle spoons.’
Simon Hackford was so distressed that he found it difficult to speak. ‘Some of them were strangers; customers. But my wife knows most of the regulars who have been in to see us. Is there a way in which you can ask them questions without making it clear what has happened?’
‘We can be discreet,’ said Sidney. ‘It is a matter of making connections. It would be helpful if you could have some idea about who might have committed the murder other than you.’
‘I need to be sure that what I say will go no further.’
‘You have my assurance.’
Simon Hackford stopped for a moment. He looked more frightened of what he was about to say than any confession of murder. ‘I am not sure if I can trust you. You are in cahoots with the police.’
‘I am, but my first duty is as a priest. It outweighs all other concerns.’
‘What if I were to tell you that I was guilty of something else?’
‘I would urge you to be discreet if what I think you may be about to tell me is correct.’
‘Then you have guessed what it might be?’
Sidney paused. ‘I imagine that you had a close relationship with Lord Teversham?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Then that is all you need to tell me. You will let me read between the lines?’
‘I will.’
‘However, you had a falling out?’
‘We did.’
‘When Ben Blackwood arrived?’
‘I am not saying they are as intimate as we were, or that Blackwood is a murderer. But I do not think he is entirely innocent. He wheedled his way into Dominic’s affection and he’s probably after the paintings. But if I say all that . . .’
‘Then he could retaliate . . .’
‘Exactly. You know what it is like.’
‘I don’t know what it is like but I can i
magine it.’
‘Even though the law may change, we cannot talk about such things for fear of exposure. This makes us vulnerable.’
‘You think the murderer may have been Ben Blackwood or perhaps even another, equally intimate, friend of Lord Teversham?’
‘It is not impossible.’
‘But who?’
‘That, Canon Chambers, is what you need to discover.’
Sidney felt out of his depth and he decided to ask his curate for advice. There was a world of secrecy, suggestion and innuendo around this case that he could not fathom. He suspected that Leonard had opinions on the matter even if he did not voice them explicitly.
The time came when the two men were sitting at the kitchen table and eating a frugal lunch of sardines on toast. Sidney had conveyed the news of Simon Hackford’s arrest and suggested that he considered this to be a mistake. He also noted that the mutterings about homosexuality in general had increased of late, both in Cambridge and within the pages of The Times, and he wondered if his curate had an opinion on the matter.
‘The Archbishop of Canterbury has, of course, made the position of the Church on this subject perfectly clear,’ Leonard explained carefully. ‘He has publicly stated that homosexual indulgence is a shameful vice and a grievous sin from which deliverance is to be sought by every means . . .’
‘Do you think this applies as much to consenting adults over the age of twenty-one, and acting in private, as it does to what the archbishop might call “other deviants”?’ Sidney asked.
‘The archbishop makes no distinction. Every act is equally sinful.’
‘And do you think it applies just as much to gestures of affection, holding hands, kissing and so forth, as it does to what Lord Samuel recently referred to in the House of Lords as “the vices of Sodom and Gomorrah of the cities of the plain”?’
Leonard began to start on the washing up. ‘Again, the archbishop makes no distinction.’
Sidney picked up a tea towel and continued. ‘Yet many of those who are homosexually inclined have begun to suggest that their inclinations are a misfortune, or even a fortune that they cannot control and which, with a clear conscience they can indulge . . .’
‘The archbishop has directed us to think that they are mistaken and that they should see their doctors.’