Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries)

by James Runcie

  Sidney remembered overhearing Mrs Maguire complaining to his wife. ‘There’s another thing I should tell you. Both men leave the toilet seat up and their aim isn’t as good as it should be so there’s always a mess on the lino. They just don’t concentrate, that’s their problem.’

  ‘She works here part-time,’ Simon Opie continued. ‘She’s a lively presence, as I am sure you will remember. I can always count on her for an opinion.’

  ‘I am sure you can, Simon, but it’s not her opinion I’m after. It’s yours.’

  ‘Then proceed.’

  Sidney filled his former tutor in on the facts of the case, concentrating particularly on the idea of animal sacrifice. What were these portents or warnings? The dove was the representation of peace and purity, the blackbird’s dark feathers were a reminder of the darkness of sin, and the canary was self-explanatory, but Sidney was extremely worried by the robin.

  ‘There are several mythologies about his red breast,’ Simon Opie answered. ‘One is that it was scorched after taking water to the condemned in hell; another is that it was pierced and bled when removing the thorns from our Lord’s crown on the cross. You also know the legend of animals talking at the moment of the nativity, the robin being one of them . . .’

  ‘I remember something from Martial. “I magpie, a talker, greet thee, O Lord.”’

  ‘Speaking of talking . . .’ Mrs Maguire entered the room with a tea trolley. She nodded to Sidney, put out a plate of pink Peek Freans biscuits and proceeded to pour out two cups while muttering that there was a man outside waiting to see the Principal.

  ‘Did he say who he was?’

  ‘He speaks a bit too fancy, if you ask me.’

  ‘Never mind about that. What is his name?’

  ‘I think he said his name was Harland.’

  ‘Ah yes. He will have come to discuss his offer of lay-reading.’

  ‘Did he study here?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘For a short while. I am afraid he did not find it congenial. I think he had a bit of a breakdown. Not all that are called are chosen.’

  ‘Would you mind if I spoke to him too?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I have no objection. But why would you want to do that? I am sure that you have parish duties to attend.’

  ‘He assisted at Philip Agnew’s funeral. He didn’t strike me as a man who had suffered a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘Sometimes people emerge from their setbacks all the stronger. With God’s help.’

  ‘They are changed, I know, but not always for the better.’

  ‘That’s rather uncharitable of you, Sidney.’

  ‘I sometimes think there is a reason people don’t find themselves . . .’

  ‘You have always preferred a life in doubt and mystery. I know you of old.’

  ‘Plato, of course . . .’

  Mrs Maguire hovered. ‘Shall I show him in or not?’

  Simon Opie smiled and gave her a little nod. ‘So good to see you, Sidney. I am only sorry about the circumstances.’

  ‘These are very worrying times.’

  Patrick Harland was wearing a three-piece pin-striped suit that was too hot for summer, and there was a light sweat across his forehead. He was surprised to see Sidney. ‘I hope I am not interrupting.’

  Simon Opie decided to forgo the introductions. ‘I believe you two know each other?’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘I thought you lived in London?’ Sidney asked Harland.

  ‘I do. But I’m spending the weekend with my sister. She and her husband run a boarding house off Midsummer Common.’

  ‘I must take a look at it. People are always asking where they might stay. What’s it called?’

  ‘The Willows. I’m sure she’d be glad to be of service.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch then. What did you say her name was?’

  ‘I didn’t, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘Then would you mind telling me?’

  ‘She’s Mrs Jay. Bianca Jay.’

  ‘A bird’s name,’ said Sidney. ‘There’s a coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t see what makes it so.’

  ‘We have just come from the aviary and we were talking about Christian symbolism. Is that a subject which interests you, Mr Harland?’

  Mrs Maguire trudged into the room without knocking, a cup and saucer in her hand. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr Harland? There are some quite nice biscuits there if you fancy them. Peek Freans wafers. Popular with all the vicars I’ve worked for. They can’t get enough of them.’

  When he returned to the vicarage Sidney was relieved to find that Hildegard had gone out. She had left a note on the table saying that she was seeing an old friend. Sidney wondered who that friend might be and felt an unexpected pang of jealousy before being thankful that this would buy him time to talk to Leonard. It was such a pity he was leaving. He would miss the company of his curate and only hoped that he could find a suitable replacement, especially one with whom he could discuss his criminal cases.

  He wanted to explore all the issues surrounding Patrick Harland, Bianca Jay and Jimmy Benson. It was clear that they knew each other and that there could have been something going on between Jimmy and Bianca. He made a pot of tea in the kitchen and tried to sum up his thoughts.

  ‘The intriguing factor in all of this is that Bianca Jay is married,’ said Leonard. ‘Are there any biscuits? I was hoping for a flapjack.’

  ‘I had a Peek Freans with Princeps. A married woman can still have a boyfriend, of course.’

  ‘Or a former lover. That would be more likely. Ah, I see we have some Garibaldis.’

  ‘Hildegard doesn’t approve of shop-bought biscuits. I wonder where they could have come from?’

  ‘I think that’s a mystery we can leave aside at the moment. We have to assume, I think, that Jimmy Benson’s love was either unrequited or at an end.’

  ‘And he, being spurned, turns up on the doorstep . . .’

  ‘With a bit of blackmail, perhaps? If he suspected Bianca’s husband was the murderer . . .’ Sidney continued.

  ‘Although he may not have been the blackmailing type. Do you think Hildegard could make some Garibaldis? They are quite ordinary run-of-the-mill biscuits but with lots of raisins.’

  ‘I prefer shortbread. Mrs Maguire, of course, made the most marvellous shortbread. Do you know they’ve employed her at Westcott House?’

  ‘Perhaps we could ask her to keep an eye on developments there.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s already doing that. But I think we should try and speak to Bianca Jay about Jimmy and then find out more about her husband. We have no idea of who he is or what he is like but perhaps he has something against priests?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a long shot and it’s hard to see how we can justify a visit. He’s not in our parish. Surely he will smell a rat?’

  ‘That is true. But he could very well be our man. If only we had more information.’

  ‘Do you not think we are out of our depth, Sidney?’

  ‘The police need all the help they can get.’

  ‘But neither you nor I, nor Miss Randall for that matter, are trained detectives.’

  ‘But we are trained priests, and priests have been the victims. Miss Randall is an investigative journalist.’

  ‘I see your position towards her is softening.’

  ‘She’s very bright.’

  ‘That’s what Keating says. I wouldn’t admit as much to Hildegard.’

  ‘What do you mean? She approves of intelligence in a woman.’

  ‘When a man praises a woman’s intelligence, Sidney, he is normally acknowledging how attractive he finds her.’

  ‘The intelligence being part of the attraction.’

  ‘Yes, but only a part. Be careful.’

  ‘I don’t think you need worry about my having the wrong kind of feelings. But it’s kind of you to be concerned. I know you’re not so interested in women yourself, Leonard.’

  ‘They do interest me. It�
�s simply that I don’t understand them. I think I must be scared of them.’

  ‘They can be distracting, of course.’

  ‘You mean Miss Randall has been distracting?’

  ‘Don’t start on that all over again. I’d rather talk to you about biscuits.’

  ‘I think we have had a tinful of that, Sidney. But what do you think about the religious aspect to all this? Do you think it could be a case of demonic possession of some kind; or that it is being made to look like that? I am remembering the animal sacrifices as well as the murders.’

  ‘Perhaps it could be someone who is theologically aware?’

  ‘You don’t mean a fellow priest?’

  ‘No, Leonard, but someone who might once have been a priest; or someone who thinks he has been treated badly; rejected, perhaps, personally, sexually, or even from the priesthood itself.’

  ‘A former ordinand who turned against us?’

  ‘Having been rejected. And that expulsion from our midst then fuelled his resentment and his fury?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sidney, I am thinking aloud. I need more time to consider.’

  ‘I am not sure Inspector Keating is up for waiting. Can you tell me a little more about Patrick Harland?’

  ‘Why are you asking about him? He is an over-enthusiast for God rather than the devil.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Sidney replied.

  ‘You don’t think he can have anything to do with this, do you? He trained as a priest.’

  ‘But he didn’t become one. Simon Opie told me he had a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘Something like that. An occupational hazard for evangelicals who run out of certainty.’

  ‘He was a late convert?’

  ‘God has spoken to him, yes. He had a road-to-Damascus moment on the A1, I believe.’

  ‘A near-death experience?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘A blinding light. And a voice telling him to turn back. He was on his way to join his father’s firm in the Potteries but he gave it all up to work with the poor. He wanted to do something more profitable than make plates.’

  ‘You don’t mean “profitable”; you mean socially useful.’

  ‘Yes. He wanted to change the world.’

  ‘How do you know all this, Leonard?’

  ‘Some of his behaviour was cited in our tutorials as an example of how not to be a clergyman.’

  ‘The idea being that just because you think you have been given the gift of revelation, it doesn’t give you carte blanche to become a cleric?’

  ‘Or that it was even revelation in the first place,’ Leonard continued. ‘It could have been a fantasy; or even a migraine. Harland was never named but I knew that it was him. One of the tutors let it slip when we were talking about the difference between revelation, inspiration, creativity and madness. How can we know which is which? It’s a theme that obsessed Dostoevsky, of course . . .’

  ‘Yes, I am sure it did. Who were his tutors; can you remember?’

  ‘Well, of course Philip Agnew was there at the time, and, oh my, of course, Isaiah Shaw came in and gave a series of meditations on suffering in the Easter of 1957. He was on the examining body too. Oh, Sidney, you don’t think . . .? Patrick Harland may have been a bit zealous but he’s not behind all this, is he? Benson’s our man, surely; and if not him, then Mr Jay. I can’t imagine a Christian committing all these crimes.’

  ‘I know. But we may have to. I think I will go and see him.’

  ‘Then I should come with you. After supper, perhaps?’

  Sidney wondered about the nature of inspiration and revenge. Could God be blamed for putting an idea into someone’s head; whether it was the desire to become a priest or its perverse opposite? Could Harland have changed his passion and impetuosity from good to evil? Had there been voices in his head and, if there had, what had they been saying?

  Would a man such as Patrick Harland argue that he was fulfilling some supernatural instruction? Was evil, such as murder, a choice or could it be excused by possession, madness? How responsible are we for our actions? How far can we use reason to understand the irrational? Is to understand all to forgive all?

  By no means, thought Sidney. We cannot excuse our actions, however evil or possessed, if we have free will; and even if God knows what choices might be made from that free will, his knowledge does not impinge upon our actions.

  Leonard left to visit old Mrs Royston who, at the age of ninety-eight, was considering a last minute conversion to Catholicism, and Sidney was just going to telephone Keating and make his suspicions clear when the vicarage doorbell rang. It was Helena Randall. She wanted him to join her immediately. When Sidney asked her why, she pulled a map from her bag and pointed out that the location of each crime scene conformed to a pattern that must have been deliberately designed by the killer.

  ‘There is a straight line down from where Isaiah Shaw was found on Jesus Green to the place where Jimmy Benson was discovered in Christ’s Lane. If you then take another line from the Round Church where Philip Agnew was killed and bisect the previous vertical, as if you were drawing a cross, you will notice that the fourth point of the crucifix is Westcott House. Your friend Simon Opie will be next: unless we can stop it.’

  ‘Have you told Geordie?’

  ‘He’s still at the Benson crime scene. He’s in a panic and won’t listen to anything I say. We have to get to Westcott House immediately. I’ve got my car.’

  ‘But why do you need me?’

  ‘Because you’re the only man who understands what’s going on and, if we’re not too late, you can talk the killer down.’

  ‘You may have too much faith in my abilities.’

  ‘You’re the one with the faith,’ Helena snapped, before leaning over and opening the car door. ‘Get in.’

  Even though they drove with the windows open, the air in Helena’s Morris Minor was uncomfortably oppressive. Sidney didn’t know whether it was the heat of the Cambridge summer or his own fear in the face of evil. Were they about to intercept a murder and, if so, who was the killer: Harland, Jay, Jerome Benson, or somebody they hadn’t yet contemplated? Sidney’s thoughts had become so confused that he had started to suspect everyone.

  Helena’s driving was aggressive and she used her horn at every corner, overtaking a tractor on a bend and narrowly missing a cyclist outside Queens’. ‘We’ve been several steps behind all along. I don’t know what Geordie’s been up to.’

  ‘We pursued Jimmy Benson for too long.’

  ‘You know who’s behind this, don’t you?’ Helena asked.

  ‘I have an idea but it’s so perverse I can’t be sure.’

  Helena hooted her horn, cut in front of a delivery van, and turned into Market Square, swerving to avoid a pedestrian before accelerating down Sidney Street and into Jesus Lane. Sidney was now too terrified to speak.

  At last they pulled up outside Westcott House, and Helena slammed the car door behind her. ‘Where now?’ she asked.

  Sidney pointed in the direction of the refectory.

  Inside, the crucifix had been taken down from the wall and lay on the floor. The figure of Christ had been removed and replaced by the unconscious body of Simon Opie, who had been tied to it by his arms and legs. A liquid circle surrounded him. Patrick Harland was straddling his chest with a knife in his hand and had made the first incision of the mark of the beast. He stopped when he saw Helena and Sidney.

  ‘You are not just in time but just too late. I couldn’t wait. I wonder what took you so long. I gave you enough clues.’

  ‘You left a robin . . .’

  ‘With a breast as red as this man’s chest is about to be. I hope you appreciate the symbolism.’

  ‘In the past, the omens have not been left in the homes of the victims.’

  ‘That would be too obvious, wouldn’t it? Besides, I wanted to test you as a little trio. I know that you two both fancy yourselves as detectives.’

  ‘We did not set out to investigate th
ese things,’ Sidney replied. ‘But when a good priest is killed . . .’

  ‘As opposed to a bad priest. Are you sure he was good?’

  ‘These are dedicated holy men.’

  ‘We are all flawed, Canon Chambers.’

  Helena interrupted. ‘Why did you kill Jimmy Benson?’

  ‘Because he blabbed to my sister. He said he was worried about me. He thought I was going to do something stupid. Well, there’s a surprise.’

  ‘Bianca,’ said Sidney.

  ‘You were very slow, Canon Chambers. I told you her name and even where she lived. Yet you didn’t find the time to see her. I imagine many of your parishioners must feel the same way: neglected.’

  ‘Jimmy Benson was in love with your sister.’

  ‘All his life. But he wasn’t suitable. Not good enough, you understand. We like a bit of propriety. That’s why, when we don’t get it, it upsets us. Then we have to force people to give us the respect we deserve: like Mr Opie here.’

  ‘Don’t touch him,’ Helena shouted.

  ‘Oh but I already have. Do you think I should stop?’ Harland began carving again. Simon Opie’s body twitched. ‘Don’t worry. He’s still alive.’

  ‘What have these priests ever done to you?’ Helena asked.

  ‘What have they not done? That is the question you should be asking.’

  ‘There’s no need for this.’

  ‘But there is, Canon Chambers. Mr Opie, here, would not let me become a priest. None of them would. I am the most despised and rejected of men.’

  ‘But that is no cause to kill. You can still do God’s work. As a lay-reader and as a Christian.’

  ‘It was not enough. And these men themselves are not good enough to serve.’

  ‘That is for God to judge.’

  ‘I cannot wait that long. I have to take the law into my own hands. And what fine strong hands they are, don’t you think? Such clean lines. My father was a butcher. Don’t you think he’d be proud if he could see me now? Perhaps he can gaze in wonder through the flames of hell. That’s how Mr Opie is going to see me. This liquid, as you can see, is petrol. I have a match. The devil has taken possession of a body where Christ should be. Serpents writhe inside me. I must burn them out, kill the devils that you will be purged. You may believe in prayer and fasting and medicine, but you do not know evil as I do. You have failed to heed it and I have shown you what it is like. Now I will show you more; your Church, your life with mine, must burn.’