by James Runcie
Serena Stein noticed Sidney observing the maid in action and gave him a nudge. ‘It’s rude to stare.’
‘I didn’t think I was.’
‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘I was unaware I had one.’
Miss Stein’s voice was deep, and she clearly knew that it was one of her most seductive features, with her head held back in a mixture of interest and amusement. ‘Tell me, Canon Chambers,’ she asked confidentially, ‘with all your experience, can you ascertain, perhaps even just by looking, if a couple are happy or not?’
‘Not always.’
‘And when they first come to you and say they want to get married, do you have a good idea whether it’s going to be a lasting union?’
‘I haven’t had a failure yet.’
‘You mean you haven’t had a divorce. That’s not quite the same thing.’
‘Some couples think that the initial stages of being “in love” will see them through any difficulty ahead . . .’
‘And you don’t believe it will?’
‘I think friendship is often as important as love.’
‘That may not be enough.’
‘I am not saying it is. You need both. Love has to be supported by care, patience, tolerance and understanding. Kindness too . . .’
‘But when the passion goes,’ Serena continued, glancing at the maid, ‘then all of those things might not be enough. One or other of the partners could start to look elsewhere.’
‘And that’s when friendship should protect that passion,’ Sidney replied. ‘You have to put each other first.’
‘Is that what you do in your marriage?’
‘I try. It’s different every day.’
‘I thought that love was “an ever-fixed mark”, as Shakespeare has it?’
‘The love should be fixed but its workings are not. Like a watch, perhaps. It is always the same entity but the parts keep moving . . .’
‘Until the watch stops.’
‘Then you have to keep winding it up.’ Sidney reached for his wine. ‘This is not a very good analogy. I’m sorry.’
Serena Stein was conciliatory, leaning in with almost a whisper. ‘I think your wife must be a very fortunate woman.’
‘I rather think I am a very lucky man.’
‘I heard you were going to marry Miss Kendall.’
Sidney put down his wine glass and hoped for a speedy refill even though he didn’t actually like dessert wine. ‘That was never a possibility.’
‘I think it was. She told me.’
Sidney checked that his friend was fully engaged in a conversation elsewhere before continuing to speak about her at the table. ‘Amanda could never have married a vicar. And besides, I am happy . . .’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘As soon as I found Hildegard, I knew.’
‘You did, did you?’
‘Yes,’ Sidney snapped. ‘I did.’
He wished he could sit next to his wife instead. He wanted them both to be on a sofa back in Grantchester with Byron asleep at their feet and their baby daughter beside them. What was he doing at this hopeless dinner party, seeking justification and approval from a ghastly woman who kept asking him impertinent questions? He tried to catch the butler’s eye for another drink.
Serena Stein was still speaking to him when Sidney realised that he had not been listening. He regained his awareness as she repeated a question. ‘Do you not want to answer? Plenty of people have made a go of a second marriage.’
‘You know that Hildegard had a previous husband?’
‘I have done my homework, Canon Chambers. It could be that you benefit from the experience of someone who has been through it all before.’
‘Perhaps I do.’
‘The vicarious experience of failure. Are you here to approve of Amanda’s new man?’
‘I wasn’t sure he was.’
‘He will be by Sunday.’
Sidney tried to deflect the questions back on his interlocutor. She was bloody rude, he decided. ‘You’re not married yourself?’
‘No. I am not.’
Sidney then wondered if Miss Stein was a lesbian. That might, at least, make the conversation more interesting; talking to someone who, in his father’s words, ‘batted for the other side’.
‘I don’t really believe in that kind of thing,’ Serena continued. ‘I don’t think a woman needs a man to be happy.’
‘I am sure she doesn’t. But perhaps we all need someone to help us feel a little less lonely.’
‘Are you lonely, Canon Chambers?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Really?’
He had walked into Serena Stein’s trap. Why had he made himself vulnerable? ‘It’s not always easy,’ he confessed.
‘Being married or being a priest?’
This woman was clearly good at her job. ‘Both . . .’
‘Would you care to explain?’
‘Not really. I think we all have moments when we don’t quite know who we are or if what we are doing is the right thing.’
‘You have doubts?’
‘Not about my marriage. Or my faith. I think.’
‘You sound as if you’re trying to convince yourself.’
Sidney was even more irritated. How dare this woman make assumptions? It didn’t matter how attractive she was. It didn’t give her licence to talk about his marriage. ‘I don’t think this is an appropriate subject for the dinner table,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps we should listen to the general conversation? People will think we are being rude.’
‘Do you find intimacy impolite?’
‘When it is at the expense of others. I am not afraid of intimacy per se.’
Serena Stein smiled. ‘Then I look forward to being better acquainted.’
Henry Richmond was beginning another of his anecdotes, explaining away his volubility by saying that he had an extraordinarily taciturn older brother and had therefore grown up speaking for both of them. ‘The strange thing is that he’s become an ambassador, which means that he is forever in the public eye.’
‘Has he got a good wife?’ Sir Mark asked.
‘Not as fine as yours, of course.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘I went to see him in Paris earlier this month and he told me that the only day he really enjoyed was Remembrance Day because he didn’t have to speak to anyone. All he had to do was lay a few wreaths.’
Shouty Meynell turned to Sidney. ‘I imagine in Grantchester you lost a few good men?’
‘Sixteen in the Great War, six in the last. Even in a small village . . .’
‘Did you take part yourself? Or were you a conchie?’
‘No, I fought.’
‘Unusual for a clergyman.’
‘I wasn’t one at the time.’
‘I would have thought it might put you off.’
‘Most people say that, but once you have seen such darkness and despair perhaps you reach out for hope.’
Sidney could hardly contain himself. Why was he being put on his mettle like this?
There then followed a discussion of how war affected faith and Serena Stein asked Hildegard ‘what it felt like’ to be a German, before Amanda changed the subject by asking Henry Richmond about his plans for Christmas. No one dared mention his dead wife.
Just before the women left and the port and cigars were brought in, Sir Mark drew the dinner to a close by looking forward to the shoot on the morrow. He said that the weather was set fair and he hoped that he would outdo his previous record provided there was no poaching of his air space. Did everyone know the rules? ‘The main one being that I have to bag the most.’
‘I am sure no one needs to worry about that,’ Shouty Meynell laughed. ‘You always do.’ Then, perhaps thinking that this was a joke everyone had missed, he repeated the phrase: ‘I say, YOU ALWAYS DO.’
‘Now we have a doctor and a priest with us we should be well catered for should we have any mishaps,�
�� Sir Mark added.
‘We also have a detective,’ Amanda pointed out.
‘Oh I don’t know about that . . .’ said Sidney quickly.
‘Ah yes, I have been hearing about your exploits, Canon Chambers,’ Sir Mark replied. ‘It appears that the clergy are just as capable of murdering each other as everyone else.’
Sidney knew he was referring to a rejected ordinand who had taken revenge on his former tutors. ‘I think that was an exceptional case.’
‘I should hope it was.’
Dr Robinson intervened quickly. ‘Canon Chambers has something of a reputation for his powers of observation. We shall have to be on our toes . . .’
Serena Stein reclaimed her previous intimacy. ‘I’ve just been privy to his acute sensibility.’
Sidney smiled. ‘A clear conscience is the safest way to a happy life.’
‘BUT WHO’S GOT ONE OF THEM, CANON CHAMBERS?’ Shouty Meynell asked. ‘We’re all guilty of some misdeed or other.’
‘That’s why people go to church,’ said Elizabeth quietly, rising from her chair in order to take the ladies out of the room. She made a slight adjustment to her hair as she did so, revealing a large red burn at the back of her neck.
‘Oh, gosh . . .’ said Amanda.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’
‘What?’
‘Your neck.’
Sir Mark cut in swiftly. ‘That’s a very personal remark, Amanda.’
‘I do apologise. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
Lady Elizabeth was flustered. ‘I think I must have sat under a dryer at the hairdresser’s for too long.’ Everyone was staring at her. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Elizabeth’s always having little accidents’, Sir Mark explained. ‘Aren’t you, darling? She has to learn to take better care of herself.’
‘I try my best, but it’s not always easy.’
‘Then perhaps you just have to try a little harder. Port, chaps?’
It was well after eleven before Sidney and Hildegard were alone. They had been given a spacious bedroom that included a sofa and a couple of armchairs on either side of an occasional table stacked with back issues of Country Life and three or four contemporary novels that had never been read. Hildegard had brought a copy of Jane Eyre. She had made it her mission to get to grips with some of the English classics and was already wondering if Witchford Hall was similar to Mr Rochester’s Thornfield. So far, however, there had been no sign of any Grace Poole, no hidden flight of stairs and no dark laughter from the attic.
As they prepared for bed (grateful that the maid had provided them with a hot-water bottle) and worried about Anna (would she really be all right without them?), Hildegard teased her husband about his dining companion. ‘Serena Stein was very attentive. Had you met her before?’
Sidney knew that any questioning on the subject of how much he had enjoyed the company of a woman who had asked so directly about the nature of his marriage would not end well.
‘I heard her tell you that she looked forward to being better acquainted. Were you flirting, Sidney?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I don’t mind if you were.’
‘I was not. And you do.’
‘Would you care if I behaved in a similar way with a man?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Liar.’
Sidney decided to change the subject as quickly as he could and was aided by a knock on the door. It was Amanda.
‘Let me in, darlings. I’ve forgotten my toothpaste.’
‘You could have asked the maid,’ said Sidney, rather ungraciously.
‘It’s an excuse, you stupid man.’
Sidney opened the door. ‘Are you coming for a midnight feast?’
Amanda flopped on to one of the chairs. ‘We could do with one after that dinner. Those pheasant had no meat on them at all. And as for the potatoes . . .’
‘Stone cold.’
‘I liked the pudding,’ Hildegard remarked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘But not what happened afterwards.’
‘Have you come for a debrief on Henry?’ Sidney asked. ‘He seems a very agreeable chap.’
‘He certainly knows how to tell a story. He likes being popular. A bit like you, Sidney . . .’
‘I don’t court popularity.’
‘But you don’t mind it when it comes.’
‘I was just teasing him about that,’ said Hildegard.
‘I think I can make up my own mind about Henry,’ Amanda continued. ‘He’s a bit too eager to please but there are worse faults. Did either of you get another look at Elizabeth’s burn?’
‘I did,’ said Hildegard.
‘And what do you think?’
‘It was not an accident at the hairdresser’s.’
‘Exactly. I think Mark’s responsible. And not for the first time.’
Sidney could see that his friend was about to embark on a theory. ‘But do you have any other evidence?’
‘There was another one a few months ago, on her forearm. She explained it away by saying that women with an Aga often burn themselves. You can also tell from their children’s jumpers. They always have scorch marks when they’ve been left too long to dry. The only thing is . . .’
‘She doesn’t do the cooking,’ Hildegard replied.
‘And they lost their child.’ Amanda turned to Sidney. ‘I don’t know if I ever told you about that.’
‘I would have remembered if you had.’
‘A little boy. Peter. He drowned. I don’t think either of them have ever recovered.’
‘Do they blame each other?’ Hildegard asked.
‘Of course. And themselves. They don’t talk about it. But Elizabeth’s become very withdrawn in the last few years. And you saw how scared she was of her husband? It’s horrible.’
‘Has she said anything about this?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘I can tell she’s hiding something.’
‘But she hasn’t said anything specific?’ Sidney checked.
‘Sometimes women don’t need to tell each other things . . .’ Amanda continued.
Hildegard agreed. ‘We just know.’
‘And she couldn’t be harming herself?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘She doesn’t seem happy at all . . .’ said Hildegard. ‘But perhaps it is grief. That would be enough.’
‘Grief doesn’t make you burn yourself on purpose.’
‘Have you ever seen Sir Mark lose his temper?’ Sidney enquired.
‘No.’
‘Have you asked Henry about this?’
‘I know he’s Mark’s oldest friend but he’s not the type of man to rock the boat. I don’t think I can put a dampener on things at this stage. That’s why I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘What have you actually said to Elizabeth?’
‘I tried to ask but she stopped me. She doesn’t want anyone to think there’s anything wrong.’
‘How long have they been married?’ Hildegard asked.
‘About fifteen years. She was very young when they became engaged; it was just after her twenty-first birthday . . .’
‘Many people think that’s a good time . . .’
‘You can tell she’s terrified of her husband. I am not imagining it.’
‘It’s always hard to know what goes on in a marriage,’ Sidney replied. ‘There’s never a single story. People tell you different things. They leave out what they don’t want you to know; anything that might make you less compassionate.’
‘But what could be more sympathetic than to tell a friend that your husband is hitting you?’
‘Unless you fear that, by doing so, he will find out that other people know and punish you for the revelation.’
Sidney thought for a moment about the nature of intervention in friendship; whether it was advising someone to leave his or he
r job, avoid an affair, give up alcohol or escape an abusive marriage. A friend had to be sure of his or her facts. The timing had to be right.
‘Whatever’s going on’, Amanda continued, ‘Elizabeth is desperately unhappy. It’s more than grief.’
‘She was nervous tonight,’ Hildegard agreed. ‘But if her husband is hitting her why do you think he’s doing it?’
‘Blame, perhaps. Frustration. Lack of success. Failure to keep a son and heir. It could be all these things.’
‘Did you notice the maid?’ Sidney asked.
‘Which one?’
‘The small girl with the bob. Big dark eyes. Looked a bit sullen.’
‘Like the act of service was beneath her?’
‘That’s the one. I think she’s called Nancy.’
‘What about her?’
‘She was avoiding Sir Mark all evening.’
‘What do you think is going on?’ Hildegard asked.
Amanda stood up. ‘I’ll try and get something more out of Elizabeth. For once we could stop something before it starts . . .’
‘I fear it’s already begun.’
Hildegard turned to her husband. ‘Perhaps you could talk with the doctor tomorrow. He may be able to help you. He has done so before.’
‘You would like me to ask some unofficial questions?’
‘I would like you to ask as many questions as you can,’ said Amanda.
There was a light frost in the night and the Saturday morning was dark, threatening snow without ever producing a flurry. The sky looked as if it had been shaded in charcoal, given a light wash of pale blue and left for the day. Sidney stood at the bedroom window and wondered what on earth he was doing in this gloomy country house when he could have been back in Grantchester with his beloved daughter, his parishioners and his enthusiastic Labrador. He had thought of bringing Byron but he had only just reached his first birthday and he would have proved too unreliable a companion, intimidated by the other dogs, possibly to the same degree that Sidney was by the other guests.
He went down for a breakfast of lukewarm hard-boiled eggs and cold toast. At least the tea was hot. Despite an obvious hangover, Sir Mark read out the news he felt might be of interest from that morning’s copy of The Times. Decca had released a twelve-disc recording of Winston Churchill’s speeches in honour of his ninetieth birthday. Someone had complained that the Oxford and Cambridge boat race was a waste of money; and the four-year-old granddaughter of the Canadian prime minister had discovered a hotline to the White House and pretended that war had been declared.