by James Runcie
‘They are not “my” posh people.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Alas, I do. But they are all my people. No one is excluded: the saint and the sinner, the entertainer and the bore. I must spend time with them all and show no favouritism.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be so good at that. Even I can tell when you’re fed up.’
They had chosen the Prince Albert pub in Silver Street. It was conveniently central, served good beer and the landlord promised to make sure they weren’t disturbed. Sidney bought the first round, and settled down to receive his friend’s initial enquiries.
‘I suppose I should ask you how the new job’s going?’
‘You’re not that interested, Geordie, are you?’
‘Not really, but I’ll hear you out if you make it snappy.’
Sidney explained that he was now one of the bishop’s senior officers, with responsibility for the care of the clergy and church communities in his designated area. He was to oversee the induction of churchwardens. He had legal powers to give permission, via the Church’s own planning system, for work on the repair and ordering of church buildings; he had to check parish records and church valuables . . .’
‘Make sure they aren’t stolen, you mean?’
‘That kind of thing. I also have responsibility for the practical and legal issues relating to the appointment of clergy and work with others in pastoral reorganisation, clergy housing and occasionally with disciplinary matters.’
‘Clergy who aren’t up to the mark kind of thing? Those who stray?’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’s why they must have appointed you. I can’t imagine you’re much good at any of the other stuff.’
‘I am grateful for your encouragement, Geordie.’
‘I was expecting to wait a lot longer before seeing you. I thought you might be busy.’
‘I am.’
‘But something must have come up.’
‘It’s all rather sensitive.’
‘Out with it, man.’
Sidney explained Amanda’s predicament and the need for secrecy and discretion. She was a resourceful woman who had been through a lot, but he didn’t want to do anything to undermine her confidence. Her success rate with men was, it had to be said, appalling.
Inspector Keating defended her. ‘We all know why that is . . .’
‘My friendship with her has nothing to do with it.’
‘I’ll let that pass. But she’ll have to make a statement if she’s worried.’
‘She won’t do that, Geordie.’
‘Then how am I supposed to do anything?’
‘You are meant to help her as a friend.’
‘She has to ask.’
‘You know what she’s like.’
Geordie emptied his pint and stood up to get another. ‘I suppose you are suggesting that I do a bit of speculative investigation in a geographical area outside my jurisdiction, with no evidence as yet supplied to me, in the spare time that I don’t have.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Let me get the pints and think about it.’
When he returned, Geordie cut to the chase. ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’
Sidney talked about the letters and the phone call, and added that Amanda had told him that some of the messages were in a different script. Someone was either trying to disguise their hand, pretend there were more letter-writers than there were, or there really were several people all threatening Amanda at the same time.
‘I can understand one man or woman but not several,’ Keating replied. ‘Can you get hold of any of them?’
‘I should think so.’
‘There’s a lot we can do with graphology and forensic linguistics; if the person uses unusual words, that kind of thing. It’s not an exact science but they can tell man or woman, left-handed or right-handed and things like whether the writer is a dog-lover or not . . .’
‘Really?’
‘I’m exaggerating but you get the idea. A friend of mine was on a case in 1958 where a woman got a month in prison for sending out this kind of thing. They are often mad fantasies but it’s hard to tell when people get ideas into their head. That’s what love does, I suppose. I’ve been married so long I can hardly remember.’
‘I am sure you have had your fair share of passion . . .’
Geordie was not listening, but thinking. ‘I also have to ask, Sidney, and I know this is hard, if Amanda could be making all this up?’
‘You can’t mean that, can you?’
‘To get out of the match. Could it be an elaborate plan? Perhaps she doesn’t want to get married.’
‘I think she’s perfectly capable of telling Henry to his face. She’s a plain speaker. We both know that.’
‘Fair point. I wouldn’t suggest such a thing in her presence.’
Sidney thought about the possibility and dismissed it. ‘Can you imagine her doing that? It’s too much effort for a start. It would be ridiculous.’
‘But is it any more absurd than what is happening already? Tell me about this future husband of hers.’
‘I don’t think he’s behind it, if that’s what you mean. He’s a decent enough bloke.’
‘So you think it’s someone else? What about an ex-lover? A former wife?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, I didn’t see the body, Geordie.’
‘And you like this Henry Richmond, you say?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’
‘But you approve?’
‘She is my best friend. I’m not sure I’d approve of anyone.’
‘But who would want to hurt her?’
‘I think it’s about him rather than her. Someone who is so in love with Henry that she wants to kill anyone who stands in her way.’
‘A woman, then. Perhaps she did away with the first wife. How did she die?’
‘Heart failure.’
‘That covers a multitude of sins. Do you want me to take a look?’
‘I think it happened when they were abroad.’
‘That’s no good. We could have used Jarvis. Your man would still have to register the death. At least I can check that.’
‘Henry doesn’t know about the threats.’
‘What?’
‘Amanda wants to keep him in the dark.’
‘You’ve got to be bold about this kind of thing, Sidney.’
‘Nothing has happened yet. There has been no crime.’
‘Apart from harassment and what might be considered a practical joke. There’s nothing we can do if Miss Kendall won’t show us any evidence. But there is, of course, plenty that you can start to work on, discreetly, as you always do, pretending to be one thing when you are not . . .’
‘Yes,’ Sidney replied glumly, ‘I was afraid you were going to say that.’
‘I’ll get the boys on to it as soon as you ask. You’re not too worried, are you?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t reassure you. These things have a nasty habit of getting out of control. But someone will know the person that’s doing this. We just have to find out who.’
A few days later Amanda summoned Sidney to an early supper at Mon Plaisir in London. She told him that there had been further telephone calls and more notes, including references to various paintings in the National Gallery that featured harlots and adulterers who had met a fatal end. The perpetrator was therefore someone who knew where her victim worked and also her particular field of interest, since most of her references were to the sixteenth-century painters of the Northern Renaissance.
It was frightening, Amanda said when they met. Henry had gone away for a few days. She still hadn’t told him.
‘And it is impossible that he could be the one writing the letters?’ Sidney asked over the pâté.
‘The person who telephoned your home was a woman. If that suggestion had been made by
anyone other than you then I might have slapped their face, but I have known you for so long that I have even started to think like you and so I have to tell you that I have already thought of that. But it can’t be Henry or one of his friends, can it? Why would anyone be so cruel? What do they want? It’s too horrible.’
‘I suppose they’re trying to make you break it off.’
‘It makes me all the more determined to keep going. I think Henry knows that if he wanted to end it he’d just have to tell me. I know him, Sidney. I’ve spent such a lot of time with him because I am terrified of making a mistake. The only thing that’s wrong with him is that he’s a bit weak. So weak, I am sure he couldn’t possibly do this. Oh, God. Now I am crying and we both hate that. I’m embarrassed. The waiter will think there’s a scene. What are we going to do? How did we end up in a situation like this?’
After Sidney had given her his handkerchief and ordered further drinks, Amanda turned the conversation towards her childhood; how she wanted to run away back to the time when she was last happy, holidaying on the island of Skye, on a day with strong winds and dark skies, the barking of dogs, the bleating of sheep, the collapse of telephone wires – with no boat daring to go out to sea, and everyone stuck inside.
‘No one thought we would ever go out again, but then the dark clouds moved and everything blew over the Cuillins and the sun came through the clouds and light fell across the tops. The wind was stilled and we could go out again and I felt such happiness that the darkness had passed. I often think that if I ever go back there then the same thing will happen, that the clouds will clear and the air will still be fresh, and the dogs will stop barking, and the light on the mountains will be sharp even if it’s only for a short time. I will still have seen it. Do you understand, Sidney?’
‘Like Noah after the flood.’
‘We always need something to remember. A time when everything was possible. Do you think this too will pass?’
‘Eventually. The compensation for losing happiness, for discovering that it never lasts, is that our troubles are transient too.’
‘I don’t think that’s of much comfort to those who are in distress.’
‘One cannot be trite about these things. But the ultimate end to suffering is death.’
‘Then perhaps I could find the person behind all this and kill them myself?’
‘I’ll ignore that remark, Amanda. Have you received anything when you have been staying with Henry?’
‘You mean when I have been at his parents’ in the country?’
‘Or visiting him in his flat?’
Amanda put down her knife and fork. ‘He mustn’t know anything about this, Sidney. Underneath it all he’s a great worrier. I don’t want to put him off. You promised.’
‘I can’t remember making any such vow.’
‘Please, Sidney, I’m begging you. I can’t have another disaster . . .’
‘But if he knew all this was happening then he might be able to help you. He will probably have to find out anyway, even if it’s to save your life.’
‘You think it’s as bad as that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you told Keating?’
Sidney wondered whether to lie. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad. What does he say?’
‘He’d like to see the letters.’
‘I’ve brought them for you. I can’t stand having them in the house. I know that if I want it all to stop for good then all I have to do is to throw Henry over.’
‘And do you want to do that?’ Sidney checked.
‘I have thought about it. When you lack confidence about these things . . .’
‘You shouldn’t . . .’
‘You know I do. All this front’s a bluster. I spend most of my life acting.’
‘I think we all do that; we play different parts depending who we are with and the situation we are in.’
‘But don’t you ever want life to just stop, Sidney? Sometimes I want to just run away to somewhere like the Villa Cimbrone in Ravello. That’s where Greta Garbo went. Did you know that? I could just stay there for ever and no one would ever trouble me again. It’s very lovely. You should see it.’
‘We can’t let these threats beat you down, my darling.’
‘Don’t . . .’
‘What . . .’
‘It’s nothing. Sorry. You should only call Hildegard by that name . . .’
‘She won’t mind.’
‘She will, Sidney. Don’t do it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I like it. But don’t.’
‘I said I’m sorry. Do you love Henry?’
‘He’s kind but he’s not strong enough to stand up to me like you do. And I think he likes the fact that I am rich. Rather too much. If part of his love for me is a love of my money, I don’t mind. People often love each other for the wrong reasons. Physical beauty might be one of them too. We all know how that fades and disappears. At least if we go into all of this with our eyes open then we might end up with something a little more authentic.’
‘Do you think you know everything that you need to know about him?’
‘Don’t tell me any more, Sidney.’
‘But can you trust him?’
‘I trust him enough to live with him. I like him – and perhaps what we have is enough. It may not be passion, or the height of romance, but it is an understanding. If we go into this with our eyes open then we won’t let each other down.’
‘It sounds like a compromise.’
‘If you and I had married then things would have been different.’
‘But we didn’t, and it’s too late.’
‘I was stupid.’
‘Perhaps we both were, Amanda, but we can’t do anything about it now.’
‘Maybe one day. When we’re very, very old indeed and all our friends are dead.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps, one day. But I love my wife and you love Henry.’
‘Of course. I love Henry and you love your wife.’
Outside it was almost dark. Soft rain fell on hard pavements, forming shallow surface streams of water that gleamed under the streetlights and against the darkness. People moved at speed to be anywhere other than where they were, making for buses, taxis and the underground, seeking shelter from the wind that was against them, the rain and the world.
It was well after ten o’clock at night when Sidney caught the King’s Lynn train back from Liverpool Street. He read the letters:
I watch your every step.
You have no hope. You are hope less.
Say goodbye to your frends.
Just as Sidney was wondering what to do next, Canon Christopher Clough joined his carriage. For one moment he thought that his colleague must have been following him. Perhaps he was being stalked as well?
His companion said that he had been spending the evening with one of his most intimate friends. They had been to see Marlene Dietrich at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Perhaps Hildegard would have enjoyed it?
Sidney had not known anything about the performance but was sure that the tickets would have been too expensive. He tried not to feel resentful. Clough chattered on, saying how he was also planning to see Mary Martin in Hello, Dolly! and Brian Rix in Chase Me, Comrade! Theatre was his lifeblood, he said, and he was fortunate to know so many members of the theatrical profession.
‘And how are your admirers?’ Sidney asked. ‘I saw Virginia Newburn in the cathedral on Sunday. She was asking after you.’
‘I can’t think why. She always knows where to find me. That’s the problem with being a priest, Sidney. There is no possibility of secrecy. You have to live your life out in the open.’
‘I thought that was the point. We are always on duty.’
‘It’s hard, though, isn’t it? We all need to let our hair down at one time or another. Those of us who still have hair, of course.’
Sidney smiled but refused to join in. His wife had already warned him not to
be too smug about his possession of a full head of hair while his colleagues had begun to lose theirs. Was Canon Clough vain enough to use a hairdryer?
‘I imagine you have to be careful, Christopher. You wouldn’t want any of your parishioners getting the wrong idea.’
‘I think they enjoy a bit of flirtation.’
‘You wouldn’t want to lead them on.’
‘There is no danger of that, Sidney. I tell them I am celibate.’
‘And they believe you?’
‘Sometimes they accept it at face value. At other times they take it as a challenge. I also tell them that I’m afraid of being touched.’
Sidney had never met a man so calculating. ‘And what about Miss Newburn?’
‘Oh, I don’t think she’s capable of much.’
‘Tell me,’ Sidney asked. ‘Does she have a maroon coat?’
‘Probably. She’s always making things. She told me she could rustle anything up in a matter of days. She’s said that if I ever become a bishop she’ll make me a cope.’
‘And do you think that’s likely?’
‘I very much doubt it. But there’s no harm in humouring the woman, is there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sidney replied. ‘You don’t want things to get out of hand. How many more women are you stringing along?’
‘That’s not quite how I’d put it.’
‘Are any of them married?’
‘Of course not. Although I do see some, come to think of it. They all seem relatively happy; a little bored perhaps, lacking attention. Their husbands take them for granted. And I cannot always account for my effect on the fairer sex. Sometimes I don’t even know I am doing it.’
There was strategy in this. All the women Canon Clough saw were vulnerable. If one of them ever complained then he could either say that the victim was making things up or that she was of unsound mind.
He had managed to cover his tracks in a way that Henry Richmond, perhaps, had not. Was Richmond a philanderer too? Sidney sighed as Canon Clough chattered on. He resolved to have it out with Henry.
In the pub the following night, Inspector Keating decided to have some fun by encouraging the landlord to tell a few stories: the witches who turn into hares; the lucky charms made from the severed heads of executed criminals; and the legend of Tom Hickathrift who killed a giant whose ghost could still be seen hurling cartwheels at unseen foes on stormy nights.