Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night

by James Runcie

‘And did Mr Ali pay the full whack?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what did he buy?’

  ‘Vegetables when we had the right type for him, a few gherkins and pickled onions. He used to order the less perishable stuff on a monthly basis; you know the kind of thing: tinned salmon, peach slices, Carnation milk. I think he went to London for the more exotic ingredients. We don’t sell spices.’

  ‘But you provided him with the basics? Milk, sugar and tea, and lemonade, of course – as you did on the day of the match.’

  ‘You can’t blame my lemonade for what happened. It was more likely to be your housekeeper’s cake.’

  ‘I very much doubt it. Her baking has never caused any trouble in the past.’

  ‘There’s always a first time.’

  ‘I am sure there is. But about the lemonade . . .’

  ‘I can show you the powder we sell – it’s like crystals – they dissolve in water.’

  ‘And do you also supply Epsom salts?’

  ‘We are not a chemist.’

  ‘Baking powder?’

  ‘Why are you asking? Are you unwell?’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ Sidney panicked. ‘Mrs Maguire asked me to get some baking powder.’

  ‘Mrs Maguire normally does her own shopping.’

  ‘I thought I would help out.’

  ‘You need a wife, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘People keep telling me.’

  ‘Is your German friend coming again?’

  ‘Not imminently.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with an English girl. Have you thought about my niece?’

  ‘Abigail Redmond? She is far too young for me. And anyway, isn’t she spoken for?’

  ‘Not any more. We put a stop to all that Gary Bell nonsense as soon as we found out. She’s a good-looking girl.’

  ‘Really, Mrs Thomas, this is not what I came to discuss.’

  ‘What did you come to talk about?’

  ‘I came for baking powder, I remember that now, and to ask about Mr Ali.’

  ‘Well that’s all over now, God rest his soul; not that he believes in God.’

  ‘His is a Muslim God. Allah.’

  ‘That doesn’t really count, though, does it?’

  ‘We are all children of Abraham, Mrs Thomas.’

  ‘You mean we are all Jews? I don’t think so.’

  ‘It is a figure of speech.’

  A queue was forming in the shop behind him, and now was not the time to talk to Mrs Thomas about the similarities between the great religions. ‘Could I also have some lemonade crystals?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you want them for?’

  ‘For lemonade, of course,’ Sidney answered, knowing that he had every intention of proceeding directly from the grocer’s shop to the Coroner’s Office.

  ‘You are a funny one,’ Mrs Thomas replied. ‘There are times when I just can’t make you out, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘You are not the first person to tell me that.’

  ‘You should spend more time in church rather than poking your nose into other people’s business. It doesn’t do any good, you know.’

  After long conversations with the Ali family, Harold Streat, the undertaker, and the staff at the Mill Road cemetery, Sidney organised a simplified Christian funeral ceremony followed by Muslim prayers in which the imam spoke out the Takbirs. Members of both cricket teams were in attendance, and there was a large turnout from both the Muslim community and patrons of the Curry Garden. It was clear that Zafar was much loved and that his future would have been bright. It made his loss hard to understand and the thought of the crime horrifying.

  Annie Thomas had chosen to read a Christina Rossetti poem for the service. She wore a black dress and had a pale, determined look that commanded attention and refused interruption. She wanted it to be publicly acknowledged that she was unembarrassed by her affiliation with the deceased, and was determined to let everyone know she had loved him:

  He was born in the spring,

  And died before harvesting:

  On the last warm summer day

  He left us; he would not stay

  For autumn twilight cold and grey.

  Sit we by his grave, and sing

  He is gone away.

  After the service, Sidney took pains to tell her how brave she had been and that she should come and see him if she ever felt vulnerable or afraid. He hoped that she would not return to the confines of her bedroom. ‘I know it is hard,’ he began. ‘Eventually, I hope, this grief will lessen. Time will pass.’

  ‘What if I don’t want it to pass? If I forget this pain then I will forget him, and I don’t want to do that.’

  ‘I don’t think he would want to see you like this.’

  ‘Anything less would be a betrayal.’ She looked at Sidney for as long as she had ever done. ‘I want my parents to know it wasn’t just some teenage thing.’

  ‘I am sure they don’t think that. It’s why they were so concerned.’

  ‘Mum said you came round asking weird questions.’

  ‘I just needed to put my mind at rest.’

  ‘You think it was the lemonade?’

  ‘I am not sure.’ Sidney did not want to arouse any suspicion or provoke any blame, and Annie’s conversation forced him to be far more careful than he might normally be. ‘Will you be going home?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Canon Chambers, I am going to stay with Zafar’s family for a few days.’

  ‘Do your parents mind?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I am going.’

  ‘And do they have a room for you?’

  ‘It’s the room Zafar slept in. That’s why I want to go there.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s good for you?’

  ‘I don’t want it to be good for me, Canon Chambers. I want to do what is right.’

  Sidney could tell that it was going to take years for any grief to lessen or for the tensions in the Redmond family to die down, and he needed some guidance from the coroner if he was going to pursue his suspicions.

  ‘There is nothing untoward about the lemonade crystals that you brought me,’ Derek Jarvis told him. ‘We would have anticipated that. You can’t expect the family to have handed over the poison.’

  ‘You think they are responsible?’

  ‘I think they could be as guilty as hell. It’s often the closest family members. But proving that is a job for you and Keating.’

  ‘The supply could have been adulterated without their knowledge, I suppose. At the cricket ground, for example.’

  ‘It could,’ Derek Jarvis agreed.

  ‘Which would mean anyone?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Anyone and everyone. The whole bloody village, if you like.’

  The next morning Amanda telephoned to ask how the funeral had gone. She also wanted to tell Sidney that she had been to hear Claudio Arrau continue his cycle of Beethoven sonatas at the Festival Hall and wished Hildegard could have heard it with her.

  ‘I am still so glad you like her.’

  ‘Of course I like her,’ Amanda replied. ‘And you must be careful not to lose her. If you don’t watch out someone else will snap her up.’

  ‘I don’t think she intends to marry again . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Sidney.’

  ‘I can’t think about all this.’

  ‘Honestly, Sidney, I know a man may have been killed and that you have your duties to attend to, but your future happiness is equally important. You can’t spend your whole life in pursuit of murderers. Are you still involving yourself in the inquiry into the death of that poor Indian boy?’

  ‘I was there, Amanda, just before he became unwell.’

  ‘And is there evidence of foul play?’

  ‘I am afraid there is.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Antimony poisoning.’

  ‘I have heard of that. It’s the same as tartar emetic, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe so. How on earth do you know
?’

  ‘They give it to horses to bring down their temperature.’

  ‘Horses?’

  ‘It’s called “Hind’s Sweating Ball”. It can be quite dangerous if taken in large quantities . . .’

  ‘And is it difficult to get hold of?’

  ‘Not if you are a vet. I could put you in touch with one if you wanted to pursue that particular line of enquiry.’

  ‘The captain of our cricket team is a vet.’

  ‘Oh, good gracious, Sidney.’

  ‘I will have to go and see him.’

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you? I am always fearful when you embark on your investigative escapades.’

  ‘I’ll be perfectly safe, Amanda.’

  ‘That’s what I thought in the past but now I worry about you all the time. I only wish Hildegard was there to look after you . . .’

  Andrew Redmond lived in an end-of-terrace house on the edge of Grantchester which opened out into farmland. The third Redmond child, and something of an afterthought, he was twenty-nine years old and unmarried. This was surprising given his relative good looks, his sporting abilities and his professional assurance. A few cards from a recent birthday stood on the mantelpiece but this was clearly the home of a man who lived on his own, with horse brasses and fire tongs, and framed photographs of cricket teams from both school and university. Andrew was always in the centre of the front row: A.P.D. Redmond (Capt.).

  The house smelled faintly of antiseptic. On being asked if he would like a cup of tea, Sidney noticed that, unlike in many a bachelor’s house, everything had been tidied from the kitchen, the surfaces had been newly wiped and the floor had been mopped so recently that it still carried a faint, wet gleam.

  Sidney had used Dickens as the excuse for his visit. It was time for a regular check-up and he wanted his Labrador to get the once-over just to ensure that all was well. ‘He has had the odd poorly moment after the cricket, and I just thought that I should make sure there is nothing more sinister,’ he explained.

  ‘That is wise,’ Redmond replied, as he settled Dickens on his examination table and ran a firm professional hand over the dog’s head and ears. ‘These have been strange times.’

  ‘I gather,’ Sidney began as tentatively as he could, ‘that since the match you have not been well yourself.’

  ‘I think it was the beer. There was a new barrel in and I suppose it must have been more potent.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as being much of a drinker,’ Sidney pressed.

  ‘I’m not. It’s only after the cricket. And when I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Did you have any of the lemonade?’

  ‘No, I didn’t touch any of that. I hear that you think that’s what might have done it for poor old Zafar.’

  ‘You hear?’

  ‘From my sister. Rosie said you’d been in at the shop. I thought your housekeeper did that kind of thing.’

  ‘No, I like to do the odd bit of shopping myself. Mrs Maguire’s cooking has, alas, come under a bit of suspicion, but you can see that I, for one, am still standing.’

  ‘I’m glad to see it. I suppose some of us react differently to others.’

  ‘Presumably, as a vet, you know how to deal with an upset stomach.’

  ‘Animals and humans are very different, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘And you cater for every animal?’

  ‘I do my best. Of course it’s mainly cattle round here.’ He finished his examination of the Labrador. ‘Dickens seems in good shape.’

  ‘I am glad that he managed to restore himself so quickly.’

  ‘I could have given him something to settle him down.’

  ‘It’s an emetic that’s normally required, is it not?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And do you have different emetics for different animals? I imagine that a treatment for a dog would be very different to that for a horse, for example?’

  ‘Of course, Canon Chambers. Horses require a particular treatment of their own.’

  ‘Hind’s Sweating Ball, I believe.’

  ‘You are well informed.’

  ‘With antimony as the core ingredient.’

  ‘Why are you asking about this, Canon Chambers? You are a dog man. And your Labrador is perfectly fine. There’s plenty of life left in him yet.’

  On Friday 19 June Sidney joined his father and twenty-two thousand other spectators to watch the second Test match between England and India at Lord’s. India had batted first and were all out for 168, five of them falling victim to Tommy Greenhough’s leg-break googlies. Clearly this was a wicket that would take spin; the kind of bowling that Sidney was sure Zafar Ali would have loved.

  England resumed the second day on 50 for 3 with Colin Cowdrey and Ken Barrington at the crease. Sidney’s father had been very keen to get to the ground early in order to see the two men bat: Barrington for his powerful drives, pulls and square cuts; Cowdrey for his elegance and timing. Sidney had first seen him when he scored a century for Oxford in the 1953 game against Cambridge. His father, Ernest, had been a tea planter in Bangalore and it was remarked, even then, that he had clearly foretold his son’s destiny by giving him the initials MCC.

  Before the teams emerged from the pavilion, Sidney’s father asked for news of the parish and said he assumed it would be something of a relief for his son to absent himself from felicity awhile.

  ‘I am, although I am sure Felicity will be missing me.’

  It was a joke they shared together almost every time they met, and they never tired of it. Sidney loved the easy companionship with his father; a friendship that had probably begun at the age of six when he had been given his first bat and been shown how to prepare it with linseed oil and knock it in, how to hold it (the left hand above the right), what guard to take at the crease (‘middle and leg, please, umpire’), and how to survey the imaginary field that was set before him, searching for gaps that would yield the most runs. Their shared interest in the game had developed over thirty years and deepened their friendship, allowing ruminative conversation that could be adjourned and resumed at leisure whether at Lord’s, the Oval, Fenners or the Parks. Sidney sometimes felt that while they were watching the cricket he could tell his father anything, although he liked to keep matters of the heart close to his chest.

  ‘Are you planning any more of your German sorties this summer?’ Alec Chambers asked, with an intentionally light curiosity, as if his son was only going to the shops.

  ‘No, I think that may have to wait. I’ve rather a lot on.’

  ‘And have you seen much of Amanda recently?’ Alec Chambers probed as Cowdrey cut through the covers. ‘Shot!’

  ‘She came to the church fête.’

  ‘And did that prove a success?’

  ‘I think so. Unfortunately I was called away.’

  ‘A pressing parish matter, no doubt. I suppose Amanda must be used to it.’

  Foolishly, but in order to avoid further questions about the women in his life, Sidney confessed that there had, in all likelihood, been another murder in the village.

  ‘Good God, man, it’s like the Battle of the Somme out there.’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that.’

  ‘At least the cricket takes your mind off things.’

  ‘Although I have been thinking,’ Sidney replied at the end of the over, ‘how some of the greatest criminologists have been cricketers. Do you know, for example, that Arthur Conan Doyle once bowled out W.G. Grace? Extraordinary to think that the creator of Sherlock Holmes was a dab hand at bat and ball. In his first game at Lord’s he scored a hundred . . .’

  ‘I don’t know how much that would have helped to solve a crime . . .’

  ‘Lord Peter Wimsey once made centuries in two consecutive innings. A.J. Raffles was considered a dangerous bat, a brilliant field and the finest slow bowler of his decade . . .’

  ‘These are fictional characters, Sidney. You are getting carried away. Let’s concentrate on the game . .
.’

  Colin Cowdrey continued with a snick for four but was then caught behind off the fast medium-paced bowling of ‘Tiny’ Desai for 34. England were now in a spot of trouble at 69 for 4. The Indian fast bowlers were able to move the ball off the seam at a lively pace, with short balls lifting unexpectedly, making conditions difficult for the England batsmen.

  Although Barrington proved steady in defence, Desai bowled Horton for two, and Godfrey Evans followed with a duck. England had slumped to 80 for 6. Alec Chambers was worried that Barrington would soon run out of partners.

  ‘Those players look a bit timid. You can’t play if you’re scared of the ball. It’s hardly going to kill you.’

  ‘Didn’t the English experiment with cricket-ball grenades in the Great War?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘The number fifteen?’ his father remembered. ‘You could throw it by hand or catapult. It was used at the Battle of Loos, and also, I think, in the Gallipoli campaign. But it didn’t like wet conditions . . .’

  ‘Rather like a real cricket ball.’

  ‘The match-head fuses failed to light and so it was withdrawn the following year. A pity. It would have been rather good to beat the Germans with a symbol of our national game.’

  Barrington reached his fifty and the Indians opted for a change of tactics. The sky had begun to cloud over and Subash Gupte, known as ‘Fergie’ to his friends, came on to twirl a few leg-break googlies, changing the pace and flight, offering up a good, kicking top-spinner, as well as the standard leg-break with dip and bounce. He kept varying his trajectory so that the batsmen had considerable difficulty reading his wrist. Within minutes he had Fred Trueman LBW and England were 100 for 7.

  ‘Done him up like a Christmas turkey,’ Alec Chambers mused. ‘Although I don’t know why he keeps licking the ball.’

  ‘I think it gives him extra grip.’

  ‘I would have thought that might make it more slippery.’

  ‘Not if you apply it to the seam.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem very healthy to me. Think of the germs he could pick up . . .’

  Sidney hesitated and a memory came to him with sudden dread. It was of Andrew Redmond rubbing the ball into his cricket whites between each delivery, and of Zafar Ali applying his fingers first to the ball and then to his tongue.