Sidney Chambers and The Persistence of Love

by James Runcie

  ‘You mean you don’t hit people?’

  ‘Geordie was provoked. We’ll find a way of getting him off, don’t you worry. We’ve got too much work on the go to lose a man like that.’

  Dave escorted Sidney to a two-way mirror next to the interview room. It was obvious, after only a few minutes, that he was attempting the soft-cop, all-the-time-in-the-world, lull-you-into-a-false-sense-of-security routine. Downing was a victim. He had been entrapped by a woman who didn’t play fair. Helena was the one who should be on trial, making a false claim like that. He was amazed Downing had been so patient. It was good of him to have put up with the investigation for so long. He hoped it wasn’t damaging his career.

  ‘It might do. But most people know that Helena Mitchell is trouble.’

  ‘Does she put it about a bit, then?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I thought she was married?’

  ‘Only to a clergyman. That doesn’t count for much.’

  Sidney was glad to be in a different room. Now he could understand why Geordie had punched the man.

  ‘Is that common knowledge?’ Dave Hills asked. ‘Could you get other people to come forward and say it?’

  ‘There’s blokes in the newsroom who’ll do it.’

  ‘Even if it’s not strictly true?’

  ‘It’s as good as. There’s not much difference between a snog and what comes after.’

  ‘She’ll say there is.’

  ‘She’ll say anything.’

  Dave Hills leant forward, confidentially. ‘You know we’re thinking of prosecuting?’

  ‘Her rather than me, you mean?’

  ‘False accusation. Wasting police time.’

  ‘I’m glad about that. That woman should be punished for what she’s done.’

  ‘I just need you to go through the events.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Think of it as a fresh start. We need to get your story right so we can sort this out.’

  Sidney was surprised Downing appeared to be falling into the trap. Dave Hills asked about Helena’s previous behaviour, her flirtations with colleagues and her physical appearance. He concentrated on the fact that she had changed for dinner and that her dress had drawn attention to her figure. Downing said that she had touched his arm and patted him on the leg in a way that others might describe as friendly, but she surely knew what she was doing and he understood what she meant. He had been there often enough. He wasn’t stupid.

  ‘So you went upstairs?’ Hills asked.

  ‘She couldn’t wait.’

  ‘And she’d left her door unlocked.’

  ‘I had to fiddle about a bit. But she was already lying there and waiting like a Christmas present.’

  ‘All you had to do was tear off the paper.’

  ‘That’s right. I ripped it right off.’

  ‘And she was grateful?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. She didn’t say much. Women never do.’

  ‘How much longer did you stay?’

  ‘Not much longer. She turned away from me. I think she was whimpering. Must have been the guilt.’

  ‘So you went back to your room?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And did you take her nightie with you?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘She said she couldn’t find it afterwards.’

  ‘I think I chucked it in the laundry basket. I couldn’t imagine her needing it. It was torn and she was out for the count by then.’

  ‘I thought you said she was whimpering?’

  ‘She stopped before I left.’

  ‘You calmed her down?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I suppose I did.’

  ‘And you didn’t talk to her in the morning?’

  ‘I had to leave early.’

  ‘You didn’t want to say goodbye?’

  ‘It was a one-night stand. I did the business and left.’

  ‘So you didn’t think anything more about it? Why should you, I suppose?’

  ‘I never gave it a second thought until she accused me.’

  ‘Bit of a bitch then?’

  ‘You can say that again. I wish I’d smothered her good and proper.’

  ‘What do you mean, “smother”?’

  ‘You know, to calm her down when it started to get a bit frisky.’

  ‘No, I don’t know, Frank. What do you mean, “I wish I’d smothered her good and proper . . .” and by “frisky” do you mean violent?’

  It was as good a confession as they were going to get. The trial was set for early April.

  Helena was warned that she was going to have to be composed in the witness box. Now five months pregnant, she could still feel the suffocation, the need to vomit, the memory made physical.

  ‘It’s hard to trust anyone,’ she said to Sidney. ‘I’m scared to go down the street. I keep thinking people are going to attack me.’

  ‘That’s only to be expected.’

  ‘Especially men. I can’t stand the sight of them any more.’

  ‘I’m sorry. If you’d like me to leave . . .’

  ‘You don’t count, Sidney. It’s the others: the hatred of them looking you up and down; the infantile obsession with breasts and body; the lecherous condescension. Are you all right, love? Do those legs go all the way up? I bet you don’t get many of them for a pound.’

  ‘We’re not all like that.’

  ‘You are, Sidney. Perhaps even you. What about that jazz singer, Gloria Dee . . .’

  ‘That was ages ago.’

  ‘Pamela Morton . . .’

  ‘Before I was married . . .’

  ‘The naked woman you saw in the Fitzwilliam . . .’

  ‘Celine Bellecourt.’

  ‘You were certainly married then . . .’

  ‘But nothing happened . . .’

  ‘Then there was Barbara Wilkinson, Mary Sullivan, Amanda, I don’t know, perhaps even me, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘Helena. It’s not true. I like to think that I am uxorious. Not all men are the same.’

  ‘There’re enough of them to make me think they are, Sidney. I can’t even be with my husband any more. How can I ever trust anyone again?’

  The St Matthew Passion was performed in Ely Cathedral on 26 March. Amanda brought her mother and father to the concert. Sidney was surprised to see how frail Cecil Kendall had become. This could be his last Easter.

  The performance began and ended in silence and Sidney thought how much that stillness enclosed human life; before the first cry of a child and after the last breath. It was the white space around a poem, the double bar line that bordered a piece of music, the frame of a painting.

  ‘Aus Liebe’ had a tenderness and a beauty that he did not think he had ever experienced before. Hildegard sang without appearing to draw breath. She had learned to disguise her breathing so that her singing appeared to be continuous and without strain, a well-spring that would never run dry.

  In bed that night he asked his wife if she planned to keep on seeing Rolfe now that the concert was over.

  ‘Would you have any objections if I did?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That means you do. Are you jealous, Sidney?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘There’s no need to be.’

  ‘There’s every need.’

  ‘I’m not concerned about you and Amanda.’

  ‘You are, Hildegard. You choose not to show it.’

  ‘I’m not. You can do what you like, and if I tried to stop you it wouldn’t make any difference. I’ve shown you that for more than ten years now.’

  ‘And you expect me to behave in the same way? Let you do what you’d like?’

  ‘I would rather you did. It seems fair. Unless you’d like me to stop seeing Rolfe altogether?’

  ‘No,’ Sidney replied carefully. ‘I wouldn’t want to force you to do anything against your will. Not that I could.’

  ‘I’m sure you cou
ld, but I love you more if you don’t. Not that love can be measured. But you’d prefer me to decide on my own accord; make a sacrifice?’

  ‘I would. If you think it upsets me, perhaps you should stop?’

  ‘And does it?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Then I’ll stop.’

  ‘And gracefully, willingly, with an open heart?’

  ‘I said I’ll stop, Sidney. You can’t tell me how I do that. It’s up to me. And I’ll do it in my own way. Aren’t you glad I haven’t asked you to do the same?’

  ‘Now I feel bad.’

  ‘I should hope you do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’

  Sidney reached over and started to stroke his wife’s back. She got out of bed and put on her dressing gown.

  ‘I’m going to sleep in the spare room,’ she said.

  The judge began Frank Downing’s trial with a cautionary instruction informing the jury that rape is a charge easily made by the accuser and yet difficult for any defendant to disprove. The law required the jurors to examine the testimony of the female named in the information with caution. This was a volatile situation with no witnesses, and the accusation had been made so long after the alleged assault that there was no admissible evidence. Their judgement depended, therefore, on the credibility of two people.

  Sidney could not quite believe what he was hearing, and was aghast when the barrister for the defence asked what Helena had been wearing on the night of the incident and openly smirked as he was told that she had changed into a halter-necked cocktail dress.

  ‘And is that the kind of thing you usually wear for dinner?’

  ‘If I want to look nice.’

  ‘And did you want to “look nice” for Mr Downing?’

  ‘Not him especially.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘For myself. When you’ve been out all day you sometimes want to change for dinner. You don’t dine in your wig, do you?’

  ‘This isn’t about me, Mrs Mitchell. Do you think you were dressed provocatively?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you like being attractive?’

  ‘I don’t think I am.’

  ‘Come, come, Mrs Mitchell, you are too modest.’

  ‘I like to look my best. Is that a crime?’

  ‘We’re here to establish if your clothing was a material fact in the case.’

  The witness refused to rise to the barrister’s attempt at a pun. ‘As inanimate objects, I don’t think my clothes can be responsible for anything.’

  And yet, as the trial continued, Helena’s personal appearance became inseparable from her credibility as a witness. Her clothes, hairstyle, posture, accent – every mannerism and each physical aspect – was either silently or vocally assessed according to its relative attractiveness. The more poised she appeared the more likely, the prosecution suggested, that she was making a false accusation; that her rapist was not so much a criminal but a victim of her sexual allure.

  ‘What do you wear in bed, Mrs Mitchell?’ the defence resumed.

  The prosecution interrupted. ‘I object. This is not relevant.’

  ‘In a case of rape? I think it’s much to the point.’

  ‘Please answer,’ said the judge.

  ‘A nightie.’

  ‘And were you wearing “a nightie” when Mr Downing came into your room?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Any underwear?’

  ‘I don’t know any women who wear underwear in bed.’

  ‘And so it would have been a simple matter to reveal yourself to him?’ the defence barrister continued. ‘It was a warm night, even for October, the heating was on, you were hot, perhaps a bit thirsty, and, as a result, you could have been said to be what the French call déshabillé?’

  ‘I was in my own room and I was just about to fall asleep.’

  ‘Just about?’

  ‘I woke up when I understood what was going on.’

  ‘And what was “going on”?’

  ‘Frank was kissing my breasts. I told him to stop. He said it was too late for that. I said: “Please stop.” “Don’t you like it?” he said. I was frightened. I thought if I answered back he would hurt me.’

  ‘So you didn’t say you didn’t like it?’

  ‘I told him to stop.’

  ‘How hard did you try to tell him?’

  ‘I didn’t want him to be angry. I was afraid he would hurt me.’

  ‘So you asked him nicely. Perhaps you didn’t mean it?’

  ‘I did mean it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell him in a way that he understood?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Something about us both wanting it; that it was inevitable. I should just relax and enjoy the ride.’

  ‘Enjoy the ride?’

  ‘That’s what he said. I tried to move out from under him and asked him again . . .’

  ‘To stop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More than once?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many more times than once?’

  ‘I can’t remember. A lot.’

  ‘You can remember saying no, but you can’t remember how many times?’

  ‘I know I said it.’

  ‘But you can’t remember much else?’

  ‘I don’t WANT to remember it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you scream?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t recall.’

  ‘If you bring these charges, Mrs Mitchell, I am afraid you are going to have to recall every detail. Were you a virgin when you married your husband?’

  ‘That is none of your business.’

  ‘Everything is my business, Mrs Mitchell.’ (He kept repeating her name as if this, too, was a fault.) ‘A woman that dresses deliberately and provocatively . . .’

  ‘OBJECTION,’ the prosecution shouted.

  ‘. . . away from home, in a hotel with a very close friend, as she has done before if the evidence provided by her colleagues is anything to go by . . .’

  ‘OBJECTION.’

  ‘. . . shouldn’t be surprised if, after drinking far too much, that close friend draws his own conclusions. How can you explain saying to my client “see you later”?’

  ‘I meant “in the morning”.’

  ‘But you didn’t say that, did you? You said “see you later”, meaning that night.’

  ‘It’s an expression.’

  ‘Then I suggest you should be more careful using it.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was going to lead to this.’

  ‘What did you think it was going to lead to?’

  ‘I didn’t think anything at all. It was meant in all innocence.’

  ‘I am not sure the jury is going to believe that.’

  ‘It’s the truth. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Mitchell, I think you’re going to have to be saying a lot more.’

  ‘I was tired. Nothing more. I didn’t mean sex.’

  ‘I think you were tired, drunk and flirtatious. That is a very different matter. You led Mr Downing on.

  ‘OBJECTION.’

  ‘I expected my colleague to behave well. That was my only mistake.’

  ‘You kissed him on the lips.’

  ‘I was being affectionate.’

  ‘And you weren’t surprised when he expected more?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I could trust him.’

  ‘Have you been in similar situations before?’

  ‘OBJECTION.’

  ‘I don’t think so . . .’

  ‘A situation when you are in the company of a man, dressed provocatively, kiss them, tell them to “see you later” and NOTHING HAPPENED?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘But you accept, Mrs Mitchell, that such a remark could be open to misinterpretation, or rather to only one interpretation?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more. I just want it to
stop. Just like I wanted that night to end. I started crying.’

  ‘Out of shame?’

  ‘Then he put a pillow over my face. I thought he was going to suffocate me.’

  ‘I don’t see how a man can put a pillow over your face and rape you at the same time.’

  ‘It wasn’t at the same time. It was after . . .’

  ‘I thought you said it was before.’

  ‘You’re confusing me . . .’

  There was nothing Helena could do to mitigate the defence barrister’s inquisition.

  Geordie was called as a character witness and asked if he had ever been intimate with Helena.

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘But did she ever lead you on?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You are sure about that, Inspector Keating?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you ever keen on her yourself?’

  ‘I have always liked her, but that doesn’t mean . . .’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Nothing more than what I have said. I am a married man.’

  ‘That hasn’t stopped men in the past.’

  ‘It stopped me.’

  ‘Even when Mrs Mitchell encouraged your attentions?’

  ‘I’m not sure she did. There is a difference between flirtation and action.’

  ‘And do you know what that difference is?’

  ‘Everything blurs after a few drinks.’

  ‘But if you had been asked to put her to bed, what would you have done?’

  ‘That is a hypothetical question.’

  ‘Would you mind answering it?’

  ‘I would have done as the lady asked.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You would have been able to resist the temptation of a half-naked woman . . .’

  ‘OBJECTION.’

  ‘. . . almost certainly drunk, available and in the privacy of a hotel room?’

  ‘I hope I would have behaved as a gentleman, laid her on her side, and left.’

  ‘And did you behave “as a gentleman” when interviewing the accused?’

  ‘I was angry with him.’

  ‘You admit that you hit him.’

  ‘There was an altercation.’

  ‘You were defending your girlfriend’s honour.’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend. She is a married woman.’

  ‘Sorry; your former girlfriend.’

  ‘Mrs Mitchell was never my girlfriend. We have always behaved well in each other’s company and I have never taken her to be the kind of woman you are implying that she is.’