Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death

by James Runcie

  ‘Do you agree with the archbishop, Leonard?’

  Leonard placed a dish on the rack to dry. ‘It is not my place to make any public pronouncement contrary to my archbishop.’

  ‘And what should be done with such people?’

  ‘There are, a recent report in The Times newspaper informs us, “physical measures to diminish the sexual impulse”. The main difficulty, however – and it is, to those in the medical profession, apparently a “baffling” one – is the frequent unwillingness of the offender to face his problem and co-operate in seeking a solution.’

  ‘The offender feels that his behaviour is not a crime but a natural condition?’

  ‘That is what has been suggested, Sidney. Whereas His Grace firmly believes that such behaviour is a shameful vice that must be punished, ultimately by imprisonment, for the protection and well-being of society as a whole.’

  ‘And do you think His Grace believes that locking such people up for eighteen hours out of twenty-four, in solitary confinement, where a perpetrator of such vice may meditate on his past and contemplate his future, is likely to result in the reform of his character?’

  ‘His Grace has not vouchsafed to comment on the matter.’

  Sidney began to dry the water glasses. ‘I also wonder whether one might possibly consider that personal feelings, expressed in private, should be a matter for legislation? It could, perhaps, be argued that the more of an individual’s private life you bring within the criminal law, the less you leave to be lived on the basis of free moral choice.’

  ‘You ask a valid question, Sidney, but it is one that I do not feel qualified to answer. I would, however, draw your attention to the fact that of the Ten Commandments, only three are embodied in criminal law: theft, perjury and, of course, murder.’

  ‘And it is on murder, rather than any attendant moral deviance, that you feel we should concentrate our thoughts at present?’

  ‘Exactly so, Sidney. I do not think an investigation into any man’s private life can be as important as that.’

  ‘Then we are agreed,’ Sidney concluded, uncertain quite whether he had discovered anything other than his curate’s relentless ability to answer every question with a straight bat.

  However, before Sidney could continue with his investigation into the death of Lord Teversham, and while he was preparing to write the introduction to his parish magazine, Amanda telephoned and insisted that he come to London as soon as possible. She had something to tell him and it was, apparently, urgent.

  Sidney knew that he did not have the time, and that her urgencies existed in a strangely privileged parallel universe, but his affection for Amanda had reached a level where it had become impossible to refuse her requests, and so they met for cocktails at the Savoy. This was the hotel, Sidney remembered grimly, where Oscar Wilde had once stayed with his friend Lord Alfred Douglas.

  Outside, a man was pacing up and down with a placard declaring ‘THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH’.

  ‘There’s no need to rub it in,’ Amanda remarked as they passed him.

  She took off her coat to reveal a black cocktail dress with a low neckline and a string of pearls that made her look like Ava Gardner. Sidney felt positively seedy in her company and wished either that he had the kind of income that would allow him to dress as Frank Sinatra or that they had arranged to meet in the more comfortably raffish surroundings of Soho.

  He looked nonchalantly at a comely blonde singer with The Savoy Hotel Orpheans singing ‘I’m a Fool to Want You’ but loitered too long. Amanda pulled him away to a reserved corner and insisted they drink champagne cocktails. There was something she wanted to say, she told Sidney. She needed cheering up.

  ‘My father thinks that I am being too independent,’ Amanda began.

  ‘I thought you liked being independent?’

  ‘He also thinks, extraordinarily, Sidney, that you are not a good influence upon me. He said that I should stop seeing you. I refused point-blank of course. I told him that what he was saying was rot and that what’s been going on could have happened to anyone but it was hard to argue when he pointed out that, as a result of our friendship, I have been part of two criminal investigations, kidnapped and assaulted; all within the space of a single year.’

  ‘I agree that it does not look good.’

  ‘That is what he said.’

  ‘And what does he want you to do?’

  ‘Marry, of course.’

  ‘I see.’ Sidney knew that he had to be careful. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’ he asked.

  ‘There are always people around, but there is no one specific. It would be so much easier if I could marry you but we’ve agreed that I can’t possibly marry a clergyman.’

  ‘We have?’

  ‘You know that I would be absolutely hopeless as a clergy wife and I don’t want to ruin what we already have. You understand that. Don’t you?’

  ‘I do, Amanda. The only problem is that if you marry someone else things might change. Your husband might not like us seeing each other.’

  ‘I can sort that out. I am certainly not prepared to “obey” if that’s what you mean. And, by the way, if I ever do marry I obviously want you to take the service.’

  ‘Of course. Although I might find it rather difficult.’

  ‘You mean you would be jealous?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  Amanda thought for a moment. ‘And how do you think I will feel when you marry yourself?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s likely.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that. For all I know I could be in Germany next Christmas, sitting in the front row of a cold Lutheran church while you tie the knot with Mrs Staunton.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘From Jennifer, then from Inspector Keating, and even from Leonard Graham. They all think something’s up. You never talk about her at all and that, my dear friend, is a bit of a give-away. I’ve also heard about the prominence of a piece of porcelain on your desk. I presume you correspond?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘And do you have any plans to see her again?’

  ‘I don’t think she will return to Grantchester.’

  ‘But you might go to Germany?’

  ‘I would like to see her; that is true.’

  ‘Well, there you are then. I don’t know why you are worried about the possibility of my marrying when you might be doing so yourself.’

  ‘That is a very distant possibility.’

  ‘Then you admit it is a possibility?’

  ‘I still don’t think it’s likely. It’s certainly not as probable as you marrying one of your suitors. Who does your father have in mind?’

  ‘Eddie Harcourt.’

  ‘And who is he?’

  ‘An old Etonian. His father owns half of Somerset, and they have a large home in the centre of Bath. I think it may even be in the Royal Crescent. So the family have money and Eddie’s a decent enough sort but he’s awfully dull. I don’t think I could last more than ten minutes with him before running off with the nearest blacksmith.’

  ‘Do they have blacksmiths in Bath?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘And did you tell your father this?’

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact, and do you know, he was quite cross with me? “After all I’ve done for you,” he said, before going on and on for so long that I had to stop listening. The gist was that he didn’t want me to be a disappointment like my brother.’

  ‘He doesn’t approve of David?’

  ‘He’s furious with him. As you may remember, David ran off with a divorcee and now Daddy thinks he’s lost control of us both. He still believes that I should have married Guy Hopkins. He said that we were in danger of ruining his reputation; and that if neither of his children did what he said then he would cut us out of his will and then either emigrate or kill us. Obviously he was exaggerating and it was quite a ramble because it was the three gins that were doing the talking but it’s quite ups
etting when your father threatens to kill you, don’t you think?’

  Amanda stopped talking. ‘Are you listening, Sidney?’

  ‘Sorry, I . . .’

  ‘Why have you got that strange look on your face? I’ve seen you drifting off like this before. You’re meant to hang on my every word.’

  ‘I do, Amanda. I do. It’s just that I was thinking.’

  ‘What about? What could possibly be more important than what I am saying to you now?’

  ‘Murder,’ said Sidney.

  ‘But how? I was talking about Eddie Harcourt, my brother, the divorcee and my father’s drinking. What has any of that got to do with events in Cambridge?’

  ‘I must get back there as soon as possible, Amanda.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Come with me, if you like.’

  ‘I am supposed to be having dinner with Eddie.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes, tonight. What shall I do?’

  ‘Turn him down, Amanda.’

  ‘Very well. If he asks for my hand in marriage, I will. And if Daddy kicks up a fuss I’ll tell him that I did it on your advice.’

  ‘No, don’t say that,’ Sidney answered distractedly.

  ‘It’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t need to tell him that.’

  Sidney was already thinking about the Teversham murder. He knew that he had not been listening properly to his friend. ‘It has to be your decision, Amanda. But you can tell your father that you are not prepared to marry without love. That is, I am afraid, the minimum requirement.’

  ‘Can you grow to love someone?’

  ‘There has to be something there in the first place, I would have thought.’

  ‘As we have, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, Amanda,’ Sidney sighed once more. ‘As we have.’

  Before taking the train home, Sidney telephoned Inspector Keating and alerted him to his suspicions. He was informed that due to the unexpected nature of the revelation the suspect was hardly going to anticipate that they were on to him. Any further interview could wait until the next day. It therefore wasn’t until well after nine o’clock the following morning that the two men walked in to a small engineering works off Mill Road and asked for a few words, in private, with Frank Blackwood. Two uniformed officers waited outside.

  Ben’s father was unwelcoming. ‘I’ve already told you everything I know. What more do you require?’

  ‘We wanted to ask if you had ever acted in any amateur drama before the current production of Julius Caesar?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem your type of thing.’

  ‘We’ve been through all this. I had taken a shine to the woman playing Calpurnia. I told you before. Not that it’s done me much good.’

  Inspector Keating chipped in. ‘Did it make any difference that your son was taking part? I would have thought that it might have put you off.’

  ‘I didn’t mind.’

  ‘And you also didn’t mind that your son failed to follow in your footsteps?’

  ‘I’ve already told Canon Chambers that I did. But what can you do if your son swans off to Oxford? He was always a mummy’s boy. He would have been better off doing an apprenticeship and a bit of National Service.’

  ‘And what did you think about him working for Lord Teversham?’ Inspector Keating continued.

  ‘I wasn’t keen on the idea. But what’s all this got to do with him? You don’t think he killed the old bugger, do you?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Ben killing as much as a fly.’

  ‘That may, of course, be a good thing,’ Sidney observed.

  ‘Wouldn’t have done us much good in the war, though, would it?’

  ‘Fortunately he didn’t have to fight.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you did, Padre.’

  Inspector Keating was, on his friend’s behalf, getting tired of this assumption. ‘As a matter of fact, Canon Chambers did fight. He won the Military Cross. Can I ask you where you were standing on the night of the murder?’

  ‘We’ve been through all this.’

  ‘How well did you know Lord Teversham?’ Keating asked.

  ‘Not well at all. He’s an aristocrat so we didn’t have anything in common.’

  ‘Your son worked for him.’

  Frank Blackwood was annoyed to be interrupted. ‘How much do you want me to go on?’

  ‘As long as you like. We’d like to know what you thought of Lord Teversham.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t really one of the lads, was he? You were in the play, Canon Chambers. You saw what he was like. He’s not what you’d call one for the ladies.’

  ‘You suspect his inclinations lay elsewhere?’

  ‘I don’t suspect. I know. What do you think he was doing with my son?’

  ‘Employing him.’

  ‘It was more than that. They went swimming together.’

  ‘Swimming is not illegal.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have behaved the way they did.’

  ‘They were friends.’

  ‘They were more than that.’

  ‘And what evidence do you have?’

  ‘I saw the way they looked at each other.’

  Sidney tried to interject. ‘I don’t know what they did or did not do together. It is none of my business. I think adults should be given their privacy.’

  ‘Do you indeed? It shouldn’t be allowed. The things they do.’

  ‘Why do we need to know what people do in private, Mr Blackwood?

  ‘It’s a sin, whether it’s in public or in private. You know it is. And the police turn a blind eye.’

  Sidney answered calmly and sternly. ‘Sin is a very emotional word.’

  ‘Spare me the Church of England line.’

  Keating said nothing but his friend would not be distracted. ‘Sin involves choice. Sin is when you make the wrong choice.’

  ‘Which is what my son did.’

  ‘What if he had no choice?’

  ‘Of course he had a choice. Or rather that man did. He corrupted him.’

  ‘But what if he could not help being, in your words, “corrupted”? What if he was born with feelings for men rather than women?’

  Inspector Keating interrupted at last. ‘Oh Sidney, don’t start on this . . .’

  Frank Blackwood pushed his chair back. ‘You mean you’re saying he was born like that? If you go on like that I’m going to punch you in the face.’ He turned to Inspector Keating. ‘What’s this man doing here anyway?’

  ‘He is helping in the investigation. He is my friend.’

  ‘Not you as well, Keating? I thought you were married.’

  ‘I am . . .’

  ‘Although that doesn’t stop some people. You just have to lift up the carpet to see the vermin underneath. Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it? It’s against the law.’

  ‘And what do you think we should do?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Get rid of them.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Inspector Keating asked.

  Frank Blackwood continued. ‘People like you don’t have the guts to do anything about it. Do you know what it’s like to have your own son living like that?’ he asked. ‘You can’t stop thinking about it. I know the way the men in the factory talk about it. Some of them pity me, others think it’s funny; the boss’s son unable to work with heavy machinery because he’s too busy looking at another man’s etchings.’

  ‘And because you thought your son was one of them you decided to take the law into your own hands?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘I think you just have,’ Inspector Keating replied. ‘I am suggesting that you killed a man because you thought he had feelings for your son.’

  ‘And what if I did?’

  ‘That is murder,’ said Inspector Keating.

  ‘No, it is not. It is justice.’


  Sidney interrupted. ‘Lord Teversham and your son had done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You think there’s nothing wrong with sodomy? Have you read your Bible recently?’

  Inspector Keating interrupted. ‘Frank Blackwood, I am arresting you for the murder of Lord Teversham. You have the right to remain silent but anything you do say may now be used in evidence against you.’

  Sidney left the room to fetch the officers who were waiting outside. Frank Blackwood complained as he left, ‘People should be grateful, not threatening to bang me up . . .’

  Keating persisted. ‘Do you want to make a statement?’

  ‘I’ll decide what I want to say in my own good time. In the meantime I’ve had enough of this pantomime. I’m off to do some work.’

  Keating persisted. ‘I don’t think you understood what I said.’

  Frank Blackwood was at the door. ‘I am the one in the right. I did what no one else was able to do.’

  ‘What you have done is against the law.’

  ‘What they were doing was illegal.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Mr Blackwood. All we do know is that you had a choice. You chose murder. It was the wrong choice.’

  Everyone thought it best if it was Sidney who told Ben Blackwood about his father’s guilt. Inspector Keating had volunteered to send a couple of police officers but he made the offer half-heartedly. He knew that his friend would offer to take the responsibility and, indeed, Sidney was accustomed to being the bearer of bad news. During the war, and shortly afterwards, he had often had to ring a doorbell with news of a death. Sometimes a mother would faint; a father would punch the wall; a sister would stare out of the window. The presence of a priest confirmed the worst, and nothing Sidney could say could ever bring people comfort. All he could do, once the news had been given, was to sit with the bereaved in silence and let grief take its insidious course.

  And yet, at Locket Hall, it was different. After Sidney had told Ben what had happened, his host looked stoic. It was almost as if he had been expecting the information.

  ‘My father has always tried to ruin my life,’ he said. ‘And now he has succeeded. He should have murdered me. I was the disappointment, not Dom.’