by James Runcie
‘Why not?’
Sidney checked. ‘I thought you were playing in a concert?’
‘We were; and it went perfectly well. It was what happened afterwards . . .’
Keating interrupted. ‘You had an argument.’
Natasha Zhirkov was looking out through the steaming windows to the snow on the grass, the parked cars. It was a day that had already seen the best of the light.
‘What was it about?’ Sidney asked.
‘It’s awkward,’ said Natasha Zhirkov, as the hotel maids entered the room and began to take down the balloons, clear away the plates and empty the ashtrays. One of them turned on the Hoover to clean the carpet.
‘I never imagined it was going to be easy,’ Keating replied. ‘If it was simple we would have finished by now.’
‘You might as well tell him,’ Dmitri Zhirkov cut in. ‘He’ll find out soon enough. This bloody vicar probably knows already.’
‘I have an idea,’ Sidney began, without quite being able to decide if he did or not. It always happened when he was tired. He would begin sentences and then hope that the sense would come to him halfway through what he was saying.
‘Josef thought that we should break up the quartet . . .’ Natasha began, perhaps hoping that the noise of the hoovering would drown out her words.
‘And why was that?’ Sidney asked.
‘He blamed our playing; even when it was Sophie making the mistakes.’
‘And you told him so.’
‘We hinted . . .’ her husband added.
‘But he didn’t understand . . .’
‘So we spelt it out . . .’
‘And then we all started talking at the same time. It wasn’t very edifying.’
‘You can’t unsay things after an argument, can you?’ Dmitri Zhirkov concluded.
Keating aimed for clarity. ‘But you don’t think this dispute could have led to murder?’
‘I don’t know, Inspector. You can’t always predict these things, I imagine. And if Josef did what he said he did . . .’
‘He hasn’t actually confessed,’ said Sidney, surprised that their colleague’s alleged death should have such little effect on the couple.
‘Then what has he said?’ Natasha Zhirkov asked. ‘How much has he told you?’
Sidney offered to go ahead and check that the fugitive was still in the church and that Malcolm was coping. He didn’t want to repeat the hotel experience by leading Inspector Keating to a second venue where someone had vanished; although he did half hope that his sanctuary-seeking guest might have gone back to London. Perhaps the eccentric musical couple had reunited after an unusual tiff, a terrible night and a hopeless fantasy?
No more snow had fallen but, with a further drop in temperature, any slush had frozen. It was too risky to bicycle home. It was safer for Sidney to walk with his head against the wind across the meadows. His hands were cold, his feet were damp, his cheeks red and his ears so frosted that he was not sure he could hear properly. He had forgotten his hat and he remembered his father telling him how much body heat escaped through the head. There was no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes.
‘As soon as you feel the cold, it’s too late,’ he had told his son. Well, it was certainly too late now.
Sidney tried to think of the sermon he had to prepare for the first Sunday in Lent. He wondered if he could utilise the surprise he had felt at seeing the empty hotel room and imagine the shock Mary Magdalene experienced on finding the empty tomb of Jesus.
It must have been astonishing to have expectations so subverted; to be so bereaved, confused, lost and then finally exhilarated to discover the resurrection. How could that shock of faith be re-created today, Sidney thought, in, say, an anonymous hotel room, a home, a school or a factory? What would it mean to tell Josef Madara that the wife he thought had been dead was not lying in their room but alive again, however miraculous that might seem; that hope could remain even in the most desperate of situations?
His momentary optimism was dispelled by the familiar sight of Helena Randall talking to the churchwarden. An ambitious journalist from the Cambridge Evening News, she at least had prepared for the weather and was dressed in a duffel coat, wellington boots, fur mittens, what looked like a Russian fur hat, and a long scarf.
‘Since when did you start locking your church?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was supposed to be open for prayer at all times. Your lovely new curate won’t let me in. He’s very diligent.’
‘How did you hear about this?’ Sidney replied, determined not to let her get the upper hand.
‘I am an investigative journalist. Have you forgotten?’
‘Did Geordie tell you?’ (Helena had been flirtatious with the inspector for years and Keating still had a soft spot for her.)
‘I never reveal my sources.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Access, if you don’t mind.’
‘You are not normally so keen to enter a place of worship.’
‘Well you don’t normally provide anything so intriguing.’
‘I am not sure it is our role to entertain,’ Sidney replied. ‘There are other venues that await your pleasure . . .’
‘We have spoken about this before, Canon Chambers. The public has a limited appetite for religion, particularly when the atmosphere in your church is so drearily Victorian.’
‘Matters of morality, eternal life and the certainty of death are hardly dreary.’ Sidney looked for his keys and began to unlock the door.
‘You can’t take the public’s interest for granted,’ Helena continued. ‘They have so much more to do with their leisure time these days. They’re also less afraid of eternal damnation. The old frighteners don’t work any more. Are you going to let me come in or not?’
The police joined them before Sidney could answer. On seeing Helena, Keating muttered an ‘I might have known’ before announcing that Dmitri and Natasha Zhirkov had asked to talk to their colleague at the station. They wanted time to collect their thoughts. In the meantime he had telephoned Inspector Williams in London, who had agreed to send a couple of men round to the Madara flat to see if there was any sign of the missing wife.
‘Is our man still inside?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t been able to ascertain,’ Sidney replied.
‘What’s kept you?’
‘I have been speaking to Miss Randall.’
‘I suppose it’s simpler to have her working with us rather than against us.’
‘I’ve always proved my worth in the past,’ Helena smiled. ‘And you both love me really. You’re just reluctant to admit it.’
‘Don’t count on it.’
‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone.’
‘Where are you off to?’ Sidney asked.
‘I can’t stay in this backwater much longer.’
‘Cambridge isn’t a backwater.’
‘It’s hardly London.’
‘You want the big city and the bright lights?’ Sidney asked.
‘One big scoop and I’m there,’ Helena replied. ‘And this could be it.’
‘I wouldn’t be so hasty,’ Keating snapped back. ‘All we’ve got so far is an empty room, a mad fantasist and an unlikely story. You can wait here while we talk to him and then we’ll decide what to do.’ He turned to Sidney and gestured to the open doorway. ‘Shall we?’
They walked into the nave. The soft winter light took away all sense of modernity. It could have been a hundred years ago. Malcolm Mitchell was reading quietly in a pew, pretending that the situation was perfectly normal. He had fetched a blanket and given the fugitive a cup of tea and a slice of cake. Josef Madara was praying.
Sidney wondered if the stranger had heard their approach and deliberately positioned himself in a state of penitence. Tears had fallen over his cheeks and his eyes (viridian) now appeared large and sorrowful. He looked like a cross between an El Greco painting and Alan Bates in Whistle Down the Wind.
‘Did you fin
d her?’ he asked, without looking at his visitors. ‘Is she still there?’
‘She is not,’ Sidney replied.
‘Then God must have taken her.’
Inspector Keating stepped forward to introduce himself. ‘I think we have to find a more plausible explanation.’
‘I left her in the hotel room.’
‘And was her cello still there?’ Keating asked.
‘It was. She never leaves it anywhere.’
‘Well it’s gone now.’
Keating was about to ask the man to describe the crime scene when Sidney jumped ahead of him. He wondered how Madara had met Sophie, how long they had been married and had she loved anyone before him? Did she have fans and admirers? Were there things that she never told him about? Did she have secrets? How much time did they spend apart? Did she ever go missing and did he always know where she was?
Madara kept to his story. His wife was the sweetest woman. She was a Madonna and he was the sinner.
‘In killing her?’
‘No,’ the man corrected himself. ‘Before then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is too much to explain. Many terrible things.’
‘An affair?’
‘You know?’
‘With Natasha Zhirkov?’ Sidney asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And your wife knew?’ Keating checked, impressed by Sidney’s intuition.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Did Dmitri Zhirkov?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Well, whether he does or not, at least three out of four of you knew,’ said Keating. ‘And if your wife really is dead, then every surviving member of the quartet has a motive for killing her. I think you’d better come with me to the station.’
‘But here is sanctuary.’
Keating spared Sidney the trouble of answering. ‘We are no longer in the Middle Ages, Mr Madara. Other people need to come to church too. You can’t have it all to yourself.’
‘There can be no forgiveness. I am a miserable sinner.’
‘Then we can talk about your sin at the station.’
Helena was waiting in the church porch. She was writing in a pair of fingerless gloves that must have been under her mittens and she looked up from a shorthand notebook that was filling up fast. Sidney wondered how much, if anything, she had overheard. ‘Can I come too?’ she asked.
‘Of course not,’ Keating answered, all too testily. ‘We’ll brief you when we can. Don’t get your hopes up.’
‘Charming. Have you anything to go on?’
‘I am sure you can make it up.’
‘I’d rather have the facts.’
‘And so, Miss Randall, would we.’
Once they reached St Andrew’s Street, Keating told Sidney what was on his mind. ‘How much is this wish fulfilment? If Sophie Madara really is dead, then why is your man telling us this? And if he didn’t kill her, then how did one of the others, or anyone else for that matter, get into a locked room? Why didn’t Madara wake up during the attack; and why wasn’t he killed at the same time?’
‘Whatever his story,’ Sidney replied, ‘we have to find the wife. If she is dead then it’s a full-scale murder investigation. And if she’s alive . . .’
‘Perhaps she can tell us what the hell everyone is playing at,’ Keating completed the sentence. ‘Have you ever known the like?’
It was mid-afternoon by the time Sidney returned to the vicarage for a baked potato and some cold ham. His mood was not improved by the fact that they had run out of chutney. What he really wanted was a warming stew and a hot toddy but it was Lent, he was not drinking, and he was in no position to make demands.
Hildegard had abandoned all hope that they might eat together and was settling their daughter for an afternoon nap. Anna was recovering from croup. Neither parent had been getting very much sleep, walking the floor in the night, holding their child close. (She was not yet three months old; a baby who was only just beginning to respond to feelings other than hunger and pain, contentment and sleep.) What was Sidney doing involving himself in this latest incident?
‘I don’t have any choice, my darling. Josef Madara just walked into church.’
‘Can’t Inspector Keating deal with it?’
‘He needs my help.’
‘I need it too. I am tired.’
‘Is something the matter?’
‘I don’t think so. I was worried. It’s nothing; only the lack of sleep perhaps.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Sidney . . . do you think we will ever leave this place?’
‘We can’t stay for ever.’
‘And where will we go?’
‘Wherever the Lord takes us.’
‘He moves in a mysterious way?’ Hildegard asked.
‘Although not as mysteriously as some of his subjects. I wish there wasn’t so much to do. It all gets in the way of being with you.’
‘I should say I am used to it. But I don’t want to get to a stage where I don’t mind.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘I don’t mean to worry you,’ Hildegard continued. ‘And I’m sorry. I don’t like complaining. At least we are tolerant of each other’s faults.’
‘We are.’
She smiled. ‘Even if one of us does have more than the other.’
‘Life, God willing, is long, Hildegard. These things even up over time. I hope you’re not keeping score?’
‘I am. One day there will be a great reckoning. One that will be even more frightening for you than the Last Judgement.’
‘I look forward to it, then.’
‘Why, Sidney?’
‘Because when it is all over the subsequent peace will be wonderful.’
He kissed his wife and made for the study. He was behind on his Easter preparation and this new case had only made the situation worse. He thought of Harold Macmillan’s explanation of the precariousness of political life and the unpredictable nature of events that could destabilise the most organised routine. No matter how diligent he was as a vicar there was no end to the amount of time he could spend on the spiritual care of his congregation. Unlike a builder or a decorator who could stop in the hours of darkness or when a project was over, the labour of being a priest was never complete.
He cleared out the grate and began to lay a fire. As he did so, he could hear Hildegard singing Anna a lullaby.
‘Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht
Mit Rosen bedacht
Mit Näglein besteckt
Schlüpf unter die Deck.’
His wife had such a beautiful voice. What was he doing, sitting at his desk worrying about a case in which he had already become involved when he could have been enjoying the company of his wife and daughter? What had happened to his priorities?
At teatime the following afternoon, as they were keeping warm by the kitchen stove, Sidney realised that his workload could be lightened if he asked his curate to preach that Sunday. Malcolm was covered in cake crumbs and had been hoping that his life at that moment consisted of little more than the acquisition of a second slice of Victoria sponge. Discombobulated by the lurch back into work, he tried to find an excuse.
‘I’ve only just arrived.’
‘We need to let the congregation have a good look at you,’ Sidney encouraged.
‘It’s rather soon, don’t you think?’
‘All the more reason to get on with it. You can make an impact . . .’
The telephone rang.
‘I’m not making much headway with the lunatic,’ Keating began. ‘Technically we have to release him but the man doesn’t want to go. He keeps saying he is a sinner. If we can just find the wife. I’ve asked Dr Robinson to come over and have a look. We might need a psychiatrist. Everything about this case is the exact opposite of how things normally are. Most people shut up. This man’s telling us everything. But nothing makes sense. What the devil do you think is going on? Has he done in his wife and hidden her, or has she r
un away?’
‘The London boys are sure she’s not at home?’
‘Of course she’s not. A neighbour told Williams’s men there’s been no sign of her since last Wednesday.’
‘The day of the concert. But when were they last seen in the hotel together?’
‘Around ten at night. A barmaid did notice the row, but they went outside. She didn’t know much about it because the party was a bit of a riot. The birthday boy was a rugby player.’
‘So what about Sophie Madara? Did anyone see her on the first morning trains?’ Sidney asked. ‘And where is her cello? If she was murdered then why is the instrument not in the hotel room?’
On the Sunday morning Malcolm Mitchell gave his first sermon. Appropriately for Lent, it was a meditation on Christ’s words ‘Father forgive them for they know not what they do’: an investigation of the tension between sin and conscience.
‘Was Jesus correct?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Perhaps he was being overgenerous? Are we to take his words at face value?’
Steady, Sidney thought.
‘We do know what we do,’ Malcolm assured his listeners. ‘We must be responsible for our actions. A baby is not born in sin; people are not murderers from birth. We have all been given a conscience. We know that it is wrong to torture a cat . . .’
It was old-fashioned good-and-evil preaching. Men and women should instinctively know, the new curate argued, right from wrong, and if they did not, then they could be taught.
Malcolm’s predecessor Leonard Graham, who was now vicar of St Luke’s, Holloway, had come to pay a visit. At the parish breakfast he congratulated the new man while Sidney stayed on to discuss a few pressing issues with the churchwarden. (There was a problem with the church guttering, complaints had been made about the Sunday School teacher, and they were behind on the Easter garden because of the snow.)
‘It appeared to go down quite well,’ Malcolm answered before taking a large bite out of a buttered roll. ‘Your former housekeeper said she enjoyed it very much.’
‘Mrs Maguire? She’s never been that keen on sermons.’
‘I told her that I had heard reports of her baking skills.’
‘Ah . . .’