There were many times in Sidney’s life when he felt grateful for the opportunities God gave; when he found himself in a situation he could not have been in had he chosen a different profession. Some of them had been difficult and tragic, yet there were other, more consoling and surprising moments of respite. One of them was his unlikely attendance at the Royal Albert Hall to hear Pink Floyd play on 7th February 1970.
Roger Waters, whom Sidney had first met on the Meadows after the theft of Olivia Randall’s necklace, had provided him with a pair of tickets. Sidney had been at the start of so many things for him, he said, and he had been the accidental inspiration for one of their finest songs. The bass player and co-lead vocalist of one of Britain’s most exciting ‘prog-rock’ bands did not specify the exact track but sent an LP care of the cathedral so that Sidney could experience ‘how it all blends together’.
Hildegard was teaching in Ely until seven that evening and Geordie was investigating an arson attack on a Cambridge antique shop, so Sidney invited Amanda to accompany him. He had not seen her for a while and asked his wife if it would be all right, saying that he wanted news of his friend’s job and her life post-divorce. Hildegard said that she would be amused to discover what Amanda thought of such avant-garde music and, even though it might cheer her up, she was pretty sure their friend would complain about the volume.
Sidney was distracted on leaving Ely, missed the train he had intended to catch, and was late. Amanda smoked a cigarette and fretted as she waited, worried about missing the beginning of the concert, only to be told that these events never started on time anyway. A student in a T-shirt and jeans then told her that she looked pretty cool for a woman ‘her age’.
Amanda had not taken kindly to the remark but was, none the less, flattered that the younger generation had paid homage to her elegance. She was wearing a Hannah Troy white silk dress with a black front panel, flared elbow-length sleeves and what appeared to be a clerical collar, half black and half white.
‘I can’t be good all the time and I need to dress up in the evenings otherwise I get too depressed. Besides, I thought this might amuse you, Sidney. Never grey. Just black and white. That’s what you get and, at the moment, because of your tardiness, I’m afraid I’m feeling pretty black. You must never leave me to wait on my own in public again. I haven’t got the cheekbones for it.’
Sidney looked stricken and then caught her eye. He could see that she didn’t really mean what she was saying. ‘I’m glad you’re back to your combative best,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. I think we’ll be all right. We’ve got a box so we can slip in and out. And Roger promised he’d send up some drinks.’
‘You don’t get that at the Proms.’
‘I don’t think they let you take anything in to Glyndebourne either. Things are looking up.’
The concert began with a frenzy of strobe lighting over a wash of deep red, and a chaos of drums, percussion and bass guitar that Amanda mistook for tuning up. After a couple of numbers the band then settled into ‘Careful with That Axe Eugene’, a number that instantly reminded Sidney of Fraser Pascoe’s murder.
‘Do they sing at all?’ Amanda shouted into Sidney’s ear. ‘Or are they just going to wail?’
‘I think the lyrics come later.’
‘Now I know why it’s called “prog-rock”. They play every chord in turn and hold on to each one for as long as possible.’
‘I think this is just the build-up. I’m rather enjoying it. Have you ever heard anything like it?’
‘We’ve had twenty minutes of this and nothing has built up to anything at all.’
Things livened up with ‘Sysyphus’ and ‘Atom Heart Mother’ but Amanda insisted that the music sounded like the space-age soundtrack for a film she had no intention of seeing. The evening was not exactly a success and Sidney wished Hildegard had been able to come. She would have been more broadminded about the soundscape and amused by the seriousness of performers tripping to their own music before a crowd of secular charismatics.
Amanda cheered up by the time they got to dinner. She had persuaded the maître d’ at Mirabelle to let them eat late, and ordered champagne as an early celebration of Sidney’s birthday. There were only a few days left before Lent and she told him that if he was going to stop drinking this year, he might as well stock up now.
‘I don’t think it works quite like that, Amanda.’
‘I don’t know how you do it. Abstinence from anything is such a bore.’
‘Restraint is the road to redemption,’ Sidney replied, quaffing his first glass.
Amanda laughed at the gulf between word and deed and they were almost back to their old routine. She was relieved to be able to speak, saying that she had only agreed to come to the concert as it gave them a chance to talk properly afterwards and resume a bit of normality. She still found social events difficult and she had lost some of her confidence in situations where she didn’t know people well. But she was enjoying her new job at the British Museum. In fact she had already discovered a ‘sleeper’: a previously misattributed work which she thought to be a presentation drawing of a young male nude by Michelangelo for his friend Tommaso dei Cavalieri. The circumstances were still hush-hush.
‘It seems you have “a saucerful of secrets”, to quote from one of the songs of tonight. Is it exciting?’
‘Well, I think it’s a lot more interesting than that farrago of noise, I must say. If you ask me, Pink Floyd’s main secret, if that really is what they call themselves, is how on earth they persuade people to come to their psychedelic howling.’
‘I liked it. All those lyrics about setting the controls for the heart of the sun and the man making the shape of questions to heaven.’
‘I couldn’t understand a word of it. In any case, you’re just saying that to be provocative.’
‘We have to move with the times.’
‘I don’t know, Sidney. It doesn’t seem so long ago that we were jiving to jazz.’
‘You were doing the dancing, Amanda. I was only watching.’
‘I distinctly remember you jiving. Quite badly, in fact.’
‘An aberration of my youth.’
‘It’s depressing to dwell on past mistakes.’ Amanda put down her menu. ‘I think I’ll have the crab and avocado, or maybe the devilled kidneys. That would require some additional red wine. That’s probably just as well, as I’m in need of fortification.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ she continued, after dispatching their order. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Oh, golly, Amanda.’
‘I should warn you, it’s quite awkward.’
‘Is it about the divorce?’
‘No, that’s all done and dusted.’
‘And it’s not Henry?’
‘Not at all. He is no longer any part of my life.’
‘Then perhaps it’s a new admirer?’ Sidney asked, attempting a comical raise of one eyebrow.
‘Don’t be silly. Even if I had one I’m hardly likely to tell you at this stage. No, it’s trickier than mere romance.’ Still Amanda hesitated.
‘What is it then? Spit it out.’
‘Leonard.’
Sidney’s voice jumped an octave. ‘Leonard?’
‘Your former curate.’
‘I know who he is. I didn’t realise you had been seeing him.’
Amanda signalled to the waiter to refill their glasses and told him off. ‘It’s always so annoying when you store the bottle away from the table. Please don’t.’ She then turned back to Sidney. ‘We’re friends too. Leonard’s one of the few men in whose company I’ve never had to worry if there’s any ambiguity of feeling.’
‘Do you mean you worry about most men?’
‘Yes. That’s why I’ve stopped seeing them. I don’t like meeting new people. They either want my “understanding” about their marriage, or they flirt and hope for something more, or they talk about some kind of business initiative or charitable foundation in a roundabout attempt to extort money.’
‘I would have thought that marrying Henry had put a stop to all that.’
‘Well, now I’ve put a stop to him.’
‘And so you were having lunch with Leonard?’
‘Drinks. I took him to Claridge’s. He likes places that are a teensy bit camp, as I am sure you can imagine.’
‘I never really think of Leonard in that way, mainly because I don’t think he sees himself as anything other than a celibate priest.’
‘Which is why our conversation was so troubling, Sidney.’
‘How was that?’
‘He asked me for money.’
‘Leonard?’
‘Quite a lot. Fifty pounds. A loan.’
‘Did you ask him what it was for?’
‘Personal reasons, he said. Perhaps he’s got himself into terrible debt? He did say that he was in a pickle.’
‘And did you agree to lend it to him?’
Amanda hesitated as their starters were delivered to the table. ‘I did. I said I would give it to him in cash next week. As you know, I like Leonard very much and he seemed quite relieved. Then we talked about Michelangelo and the British Museum.’
‘Ah, yes. T.S. Eliot. Women come and go talking of Michelangelo.’
‘Actually we talked about the sonnets. Leonard was very helpful. He knows them, of course.
‘Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume,
Che co’ miei ciechi già veder non posso . . .’
‘Italian was never my strong point, Amanda.’
‘But detection is.’
‘What do you mean?’
Amanda leant back in her chair and folded her arms. It was a familiar gesture that always meant trouble. ‘You know perfectly well, Sidney. I’d like you to talk to Leonard as soon as you can. You need to get to the bottom of all this. You’re his friend, aren’t you? Something, or someone, is making him frightened.’
After his return from London, and his abandoning of yet another course of Lenten abstinence on the dubious grounds that ‘tension’ and his ‘volume of work’ required the necessary consolation of alcohol, Sidney picked up the phone to hear that his presence was required in Cambridge. Geordie announced that the arson victim who had prevented his attendance at the Pink Floyd concert needed a pastoral visit.
‘I think you know him. He remembers you from that case we had when we first worked together: Lord Teversham, the man who was killed during a production of Julius Caesar.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Simon Hackford.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Yes. I do remember him.’
‘Hackford is, as you may know, something of a homosexualist.’
‘Not “–ist”, Geordie. He is simply a homosexual.’
‘They say they’re one in twenty these days.’
‘I’m surprised the figure is so low.’
‘You have a way with these kind of people, Sidney. I thought you could be of assistance.’
‘I hope I have “a way” with everyone, Geordie, whoever they are and in whatever situation they find themselves.’
‘The thing is, the man doesn’t want us to investigate. He says the stress will get to his nerves. I hope it’s not an insurance scam like the photographer we had a few years back.’
‘I don’t think Simon Hackford would set fire to his own shop. He loves those antiques too much.’
‘At least there wasn’t much damage. It certainly wasn’t a professional job; they used the kind of Molotov cocktail any amateur could knock up in a shed; although the lock was picked, so it did take some knowhow.’
‘No witnesses?’ Sidney asked.
‘None so far. You don’t get many of them at two in the morning.’
‘A local man?’
‘Possibly, but Hackford’s well liked and it’s hard to find anything against someone whose main love, apart from the obvious, is eighteenth-century English furniture.’
‘Perhaps it was meant as a warning. Something to scare him?’
‘It could be that. I’m not sure, Sidney. I’d like you to have a word with Hackford. He’s Leonard’s friend, isn’t he?’
‘I was waiting for you to tell me; and I have noted that you deliberately didn’t hand over the information, even when I gave you the opportunity. Don’t think you can keep things from me, Sidney. Our friendship comes first.’
‘Priests do have their own code of confidentiality.’
‘That doesn’t seem to have stopped you in the past. Hackford trusts you. Thousands wouldn’t.’
‘I think you’ll find thousands do,’ said Sidney with uncustomary arrogance. He was not going to let Geordie have the last word.
Simon Hackford’s antique shop was situated in Trumpington Street, almost opposite the Fitzwilliam Museum, with four clear windows in which were displayed a tasteful collection of china, landscape paintings, portraiture and traditional English furniture. The front door had been destroyed and there were scorch marks across the floor, but the main area of the blaze had been confined to a walnut chest and gilded mirror. As such, the physical damage was relatively minimal; the emotional trauma of such a deliberate attack, Sidney suspected, was likely to be worse.
The proprietor was a well-preserved man in his early fifties, dressed in a three-piece double-breasted Prince of Wales suit, as if the layers of cloth could give him some form of protection against the modern world. His was a look of quiet decoration; discreet but stylish cufflinks, an understated watch, a pale-blue spotted handkerchief, and a navy silk tie worn over the same Turnbull & Asser shirt his father had owned. Tradition, perhaps, and a belief in the aesthetics of connoisseurship, had meant to keep him safe from contemporary barbarism.
Hackford was known for his ability to spot high-quality silver. He had made money after finding a lost set of apostle spoons but had then let his most lucrative patron down by failing to spot a Gainsborough at a country auction. In the early 1950s he had been part of a lavender marriage, the result of both parties trying to please their parents, but since his divorce some five years previously he had been careful to keep a low profile.
He told Sidney that he could not imagine anyone who would have wanted to burn his shop down.
‘Leonard’s been so on edge,’ he added.
‘That’s unlike him.’
‘About the Bedford thing.’
Sidney was confused. This was new information and had nothing to do with the arson. ‘What Bedford thing?’
‘You must know. You’re an archdeacon.’
‘But not in Leonard’s diocese.’
‘He’s being considered for a bishopric.’
‘Leonard? But he’s only been at St Albans for three years.’
‘They like him there.’
‘A bishop.’ (And before me! Sidney thought before being ashamed of himself.) ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Bedford. It’s vacant.’
‘I’ve just recommended one of our own clergy for the position. But Leonard would be far better.’
‘He’s not so sure. Will you talk to him, Sidney? Not about this, but about his future. I’ve been so worried. He’s been such a supportive friend and I don’t want to add to his anxiety.’ He waved his arm in the direction of the fire damage. ‘I am sure this was just a one-off.’
‘It does seem unfortunate. You haven’t had any unusual visits recently? People watching when you lock up?’
‘The police have asked about all that. I’ve told them I’d rather not make a fuss. It’s probably not even worth claiming on the insurance. I’ll just have to cough up.’
‘But your shop has been attacked. The police can’t stand idly by; otherwise the perpetrators triumph. We have to defend ourselves against those who would do us ill.’
‘But what if I don’t want a confrontation? What if I am happy with my privacy?’
‘Is something else troubling you, Simon? Something that you would rather tell me than the police?’
‘It doesn’t take too much to make me nervous. If you could have a proper chat with Leonard I would be grateful. I don’t want him getting all worked up about my worrying.’
‘He’ll be concerned about you, I’m sure.’
‘Talk to him, Sidney. It’s not been easy recently. He’ll tell you.’
Rather than arranging to meet Leonard directly, Sidney took a more tangential approach, using the opportunity of their joint attendance at a forthcoming conference at Church House to discuss matters informally. He did not want his former curate to think he was barging in, but he was pretty sure they would both have limited patience with the bureaucratic minutiae involved in the formation of a new synodical form of government for the Church of England. The possibility of a mutual escape was almost guaranteed.
It was a bitter afternoon when they emerged into the Westminster gloom. Sidney offered Leonard a toasted teacake and a warming brew at the Army & Navy store. After reviewing the events of the day and exchanging ecclesiastical tittle-tattle, he pressed his friend for a little more information. He had heard rumours . . .
Leonard hesitated, his teacake suspended midair. ‘Rumours?’
‘About a forthcoming appointment.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely. I am sure it will all go away.’ Leonard resumed eating as if the swallowed teacake would also involve the disappearance of the subject-matter.
‘A bishopric?’
‘I have let them know that it is too soon.’
‘You don’t want it?’
‘I don’t feel I’m ready, Sidney.’
‘And is that the only reason?’
‘Pretty much.’
Leonard’s lack of a direct answer convinced Sidney to press further. He asked if everything was all right. Why hadn’t he been told, for example, about the arson attack on Simon Hackford’s shop?
‘I didn’t think it was anything to do with you.’
‘But Keating is the investigating officer. He’s your friend too.’
‘Simon doesn’t want a fuss.’
‘When did you last see him?’
Leonard turned to his tea. ‘Everything’s been a bit difficult recently.’
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ Sidney asked. ‘You haven’t run into financial difficulties or anything like that?’
‘No, nothing, really. But thank you for your concern.’
Sidney felt that he was getting nowhere. He tried a more oblique route to the heart of the matter. ‘I was with Amanda last week . . .’
‘We were talking about her potential discovery of a drawing by Michelangelo. I’m sure she must have mentioned it when she last saw you.’
‘She did.’ Leonard perked up, relieved to be talking about something else. ‘We had a long discussion about Renaissance theories of beauty and the quest for the ideal; how we, as mere mortals, may have to start from people we love and the world around us, but the idea is to transcend our merely sensual experience and reach out for the divine.’
‘A religious approach to art, almost?’
‘Exactly. How successful those artists were at following their prevailing beliefs is another matter. I said that it’s probably easier to grasp the theory when in the presence of a beautifully proportioned young man or woman but it’s a lot harder with people who’ve got their flesh in all the wrong places. Amanda was quite amused.’
‘Oh, I think she likes a balance between scholarship and larky conversation.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been that risqué before. But, with her, you feel you can say anything. She gives you confidence, don’t you think? I suppose that’s why you’ve always got on so well.’
Sidney stuck to his guns. He was not going to be sidetracked into a discussion of his affection for a woman who was not his wife. ‘Why have you asked her for money, Leonard?’
Leonard put down his teacup and their companionable mood was gone. ‘She told you?’
‘Amanda is my oldest friend.’
‘She is a friend of mine too. She promised it would go no further.’
‘I trusted her.’
Sidney thought that Leonard might walk out, but they hadn’t paid and he was not the type to make a scene. ‘She is worried about you; and now I am too. Why do you need the money, Leonard?’
‘I don’t want to tell you. It would put you in a difficult position.’
‘Is it something illegal?’
‘Not according to the laws of the land. Although it is not something that is spoken about very much in the Church.’
‘Does it concern your private life?’
‘Do I need to spell it out?’
Sidney decided that he would have to help his friend get to the point, whether he liked it or not. ‘Is someone blackmailing you, Leonard?’
‘I knew as soon as we started this conversation that you would guess. I wish we hadn’t got into all this.’
‘You know that I am one of your greatest supporters. I will do nothing to harm you. And I am still your priest.’
‘Have you always known?’
‘I have not thought about your life in that way at all. You are just my friend Leonard to me. And your friends love you for your Leonard-ness, whatever that might entail.’
‘People used to be more private about things.’
‘That did not always help matters. Secrecy can bring forth its own terrors.’
Leonard looked for a distraction – a piece of teacake, another cup from the pot, but there was nothing left. ‘I think a man’s private life is his own business.’
‘We talked about this when you first became my curate. Our vocation makes it more complicated.’
‘And sometimes more simple if only God is privy to our thoughts.’
‘That does not make life any the less true.’
Leonard thought for a moment. ‘Do you think the Church will ever accept people like me?’
‘You are here, Leonard, working in the Church.’
‘But you are different, Sidney. You turn a blind eye.’
‘You do not force me to look.’
‘And so a man’s feelings should remain hidden, you think?’
Sidney tried to balance friendship with duty. ‘There is the question of tact: offending others, drawing unnecessary attention. You know the reasons given. The Church doesn’t like these things out in the open. Nowadays people are all too keen to declare their emotions; just because you feel something deeply doesn’t mean that you have to tell everyone about it. There’s a lot to be said for discretion.’
‘Some would call that hypocrisy.’
‘As I say, not everything has to be transparent. It is perhaps less painful to keep these matters to oneself.’
‘But what if one is so in love that you want to declare it to the world?’
‘Then tell me, Leonard.’
‘It’s Simon. Is that a shock?’
‘I know it’s Simon. I saw him yesterday.’
‘Has he told you anything? I mean about . . .’
‘He has not. You tell me.’
‘It’s quite a long story. He came for the Feast of St Alban in June, when we decorate the shrine with roses. It’s in memory of the legend that roses grew from the ground where his blood was shed. You remember, Sidney?’
‘“So among the roses brightly shines St Alban.”’
‘Simon brought a little bouquet he had picked from his mother’s garden. It was odd because they were a creamy yellow, and I told him that I had never liked the colour and he told me that he had gathered them specially because the crest of the city is yellow and blue and he wanted to bring something appropriate. He was amused because one of the varieties he had chosen was called “Rambling Rector”. I hadn’t ever discovered that he knew about roses but then there was so much about him that I didn’t know, and I realised then that I wanted to know.
‘We had lunch in the White Hart and then we went for a walk round the lake and across to the Roman theatre. He’d never seen it. We talked about drama, and that production of Julius Caesar during which his old friend Lord Teversham was killed. He said it all seemed a lifetime ago and that he had felt alone ever since his death. I think we talked a little about the nature of friendship and he came back for tea. I’d made one of Mrs Maguire’s walnut specials. She gave me the recipe when I left Grantchester. It was her little farewell. She told me that she’d never given it to anyone else and it would have to remain “our secret”. Simon and I sat together and I can’t really remember what we talked about because my head was filled with the delightful terror of what might happen next. When the time came for him to leave and get his train I knew that I didn’t want him to go. It was silly really. He got up and went into the hall and I opened the door and a handshake was insufficient and a hug embarrassing, and then he just kissed me and everything changed.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, Leonard.’
‘It’s quite all right. I understand it now. In the past, I didn’t know that I was a homosexual. I didn’t think I was anything. It didn’t bother me very much. But then there was someone. Simon. And I fell in love. It didn’t feel “unnatural” or “abnormal” at the time. It felt right. Do you know the poem by Southey that has the words “Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live”?’
‘I do.’ Sidney had once said those same words to Hildegard, and he thought about her now, as Leonard talked about falling in love and how right it felt.
‘When you and I first met, Sidney, I noticed how tactful you were when I didn’t know who I was. I think we had a conversation about the Archbishop of Canterbury’s position on the matter. Then there was the death of Lord Teversham and Ben Blackwood and the Wolfenden Report. Before then they thought that a love of another man was something that could be cured; that such feelings were temptations that should be resisted. But I don’t believe that a Christian should ever renounce the possibility of true love, even if it is earthly, flawed, and doomed by mortality. We have to acknowledge the possibility of becoming better people, of being made more than we ever could be on our own, of having the capacity to love. Surely to deny that would be to commit the greater sin?’
‘You don’t have to deny it; but in your position you have to be careful. It can damage your chances . . .’
‘Of being a bishop, you mean? I’m not worried about that.’
‘But you are worried about the blackmail, I presume?’
‘It has unsettled me, I have to admit. It’s come just when I’ve found happiness. We’d even bought a double bed.’
‘You shouldn’t tell me that, Leonard.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I know you will be discreet.’
‘I will, but these things can get out. Perhaps the arsonist knew . . .’
‘I don’t know what he knows. That’s the terrible thing. I don’t even know who is doing all this.’
‘The threats are not signed at all?’
‘He is using what I take to be an assumed name: Christian Grace; although his is neither very Christian, nor very gracious. He has told me to leave the money in a pigeonhole in the abbey next Wednesday.’
‘He is a member of the congregation then?’
‘He doesn’t have to be. Anyone can use them. No one checks. I am supposed to leave it under the letter “G”. And there’s no way of knowing when he will pick it up, so there’s no point anyone lying in wait.’
‘A verger could keep an eye.’
‘I doubt that’s possible. I can’t confide in them.’
‘But, Leonard, it must be someone who knows the workings of the abbey?’
‘A fellow priest, you mean? Surely not.’
‘No, but someone who has sufficient familiarity with the building to know that the scheme will work. I say “he” because I doubt it’s a woman.’
‘Perhaps not. Although you have had experience of threatening letters before; with Henry Richmond’s ex-wife, I seem to remember.’
‘This is very different, Leonard.’
‘I suppose it’s always unlike any other time. Whoever it is, they can certainly quote the Bible to their own ends.’
‘Will you show me the letters?’
‘I can recite them for you. They are burned into my mind.’
‘And you haven’t told the police?’
‘I have not.’
‘Geordie is already involved with the arson attack on Simon’s shop. The two crimes must be related.’
‘No one knows both Simon and me. We don’t have any friends or acquaintances in common; apart from you, of course.’
‘People might have seen you together; on one of your walks, perhaps.’
‘We have done nothing wrong. You can walk alongside someone in your work.’
‘Has there been anything controversial recently; anything that you might have done to annoy someone?’ Sidney asked.
‘I can’t think. I suppose I want everyone to like me, just as you do. Is that such a sin? I want to be a good priest, kind to my parishioners, faithful in the work of the Lord. I do not know what I have done to make someone hate me.’
‘It is almost certainly nothing personal. It is the idea that seems to provoke people to irrational anger. You must try not to take it to heart.’
‘It certainly feels personal. I hate it, Sidney. It is so vindictive, so filled with the lack of any charity or understanding. How can it be Christian? It makes me lose all my faith in humanity. I’ll have to stop. I can’t go on like this.’
Leonard was on the verge of tears. Sidney reached out his arm in comfort. He couldn’t bear it. ‘Don’t be reckless, Leonard. We can sort this out, I promise. It’s early days. Be patient, that’s all I ask.’
‘But, Sidney, you are aware that a bishop cannot knowingly ordain a homosexual; and much less can a homosexual become a bishop.’
‘You are already ordained.’
‘But in my next job, whatever it is, wherever I am installed, I will have to submit to an examination in the articles of faith.’
‘As you do every day of your life.’
‘And people will be there, judging me, I know it will never end. What if the man goes on tormenting me? What if this never stops?’
Sidney held on to his friend’s arm. ‘Don’t cry, Leonard.’
‘I can’t help it. I’m sorry.’
The waitress came over and asked if she could bring the bill. The manager had sent her. She clearly didn’t want a scene.
‘Remember the prayer?’ Sidney asked:
‘Anoint and cheer our soiled face
With the abundance of Thy grace.
Keep far our foes, give peace at home;
Where Thou art guide, no ill can come.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Leonard replied, letting go of Sidney’s arm and reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. ‘I will either have to give up being the man I have become or resign as a priest. I cannot be both.’
* * *
Geordie Keating was unsurprised when his friend visited him with the inevitable theory that the arson in Cambridge had to be connected to the threats Leonard had been receiving.
‘Hackford may want silence, but I am afraid he’s not going to get it. Blackmail’s always nasty and you can’t hide arson. The Evening News is on to the story and Helena Randall’s found out, so I expect we’ll be getting a visit from London’s finest soon enough.’
‘Small beer for her, I’d have thought.’
‘Actually she was quite interested. Perhaps she’s got something up her sleeve.’
‘She’s always been fond of Leonard, as has Malcolm.’
‘Do you think they are aware that he and Simon are more than friends?’
‘Now, Geordie, you don’t know that for certain.’
‘But you do.’
‘I haven’t told you anything specific.’
‘You don’t need to. I know you well enough. Still, I thought it was supposed to be easier for people like that now the law has changed and we’re expected to tolerate everything they do.’
‘You are referring to the Sexual Offences Act?’
‘The “charter for queers”, we call it. Not that it makes much difference to me. Homosexual acts committed in public conveniences are still illegal, and the act’s provisions do not apply to members of the Armed Forces. It does make them vulnerable to blackmail.’
‘I remember the Christine Keeler case and the Russian spy . . .’
‘Stephen Ward definitely swung it both ways. But what I want to know about the act is why doesn’t it exclude priests? I know it’s legal, but presumably you boys still take a dim view of this kind of thing. It’s a sin, isn’t it? And please don’t tell me “it’s a bit more complicated”.’
‘Do you want the full theological explanation?’
‘Is there a quick version?’
‘There’s my version.’
‘You mean you’re all allowed to think different things?’
‘The Church is governed by Canon and Measure. Canon is the law and Measure is the interpretation of that law. Are you with me?’
‘It doesn’t sound so very different to my world. But I think I’ll need another pint before you go on.’
‘There have been some very good lectures on the subject by Norman Pittenger at King’s. We could have gone together, Geordie. That would have created a bit of a stir. We could have held hands in the back row.’
‘Are you joking? I wouldn’t want people thinking . . .’
‘I am teasing. Although some people probably think . . .’
‘What!’
‘Still teasing, Geordie. You really do have to work on your sense of humour.’
‘It’s not a laughing matter.’
‘Sin,’ Sidney resumed after he had bought the second pints, ‘is generally regarded in Christian thought as a state or condition; it is the separation or alienation from God.’
Geordie took a swig of his beer. ‘Adam and Eve and the tricky business with the serpent.’
‘The opposite of sin is the “state of grace” in which the separation or alienation or deprivation has been overcome by God’s act in the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.’
‘And therefore we are redeemed.’
‘Very good. Pittenger argues that we must distinguish between sin, in the singular, and sins in the plural.’
‘Here we go,’ Geordie replied, lighting up a cigarette. ‘I knew there’d be some hair-splitting.’
‘Human sin is when we seek to live in the denial of our dependence upon God and upon others. It is when we live like animals, turning, and here I think Pittenger is rather apt, “our human existence into something more suited for the barnyard than for the community of men”.’
‘Rutting and such like . . .’
‘Sex, if you would like me to go on, is not, in itself, a sin.’
‘Depends who it is with.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Steady, Geordie. The idea is,’ Sidney continued, determined to get this lesson out of the way, ‘that sex is God-given. It is promiscuity, exploitation and abuse that is sinful.’
‘So where does degeneracy come in?’
‘Do you mean sex between men?’
‘I do.’
‘The irony is, as I am sure you will know, that most of the sexual practices between men also form part of heterosexual intimacy. What makes the same private actions, performed by consenting individuals, “disgusting”? You might as well argue that sexual activity between ugly people is not to be countenanced.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘Would you like me to be specific about the actions involved?’
‘No thank you, Sidney. We’re in a public place and it’s quite disconcerting to hear a clergyman talk like this.’
‘Then let me put you at your ease, Geordie. There are, I think, two things that determine the sinfulness of the act. First there is the inner spirit with which it is performed; and second there is the intentionality, in which both parties to the act understand the nature of what they are doing. The two persons must be committed one to the other, in such a fashion that neither is using the other. They must give and receive in tenderness, so that there is no element of coercion, undue pressure, or imposed constraint.’
‘So you are saying that this is the same as in normal relationships?’
‘Heterosexual relationships, not “normal”.’
‘You think homosexuality is normal?’
‘I think homosexual acts between persons who intend a permanent union in love are not sinful nor should the Church consider them as such.’
‘Blimey, Sidney.’
‘I cannot see what is wrong when two men engage in physical acts which will both express their love and deepen it.’
‘I haven’t really thought about it like that.’
‘Well, perhaps it’s time you did. Would you like another pint, Geordie? Or something stronger, perhaps: a little whisky? I’ll tell the barmaid that you’re feeling a bit delicate, a little faint. It’s your feminine side . . .’
‘Don’t you bloody dare . . .’
‘What was I saying about your sense of humour?’
The next morning, unable to concentrate and just before lunch, Sidney put a new LP on the turntable. It was Ummagumma, the Pink Floyd album. Roger Waters had sent it to him, and two tracks stood out: ‘Astronomy Domine’, which seemed to be some kind of lilting electronic mystic trance, and ‘Grantchester Meadows’, which included natural sounds he had seen the great bass player record on location.
There was something transcendental about it all. Sidney wondered whether he could buy some coloured light bulbs and turn his study into something more meditative. If he closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, then perhaps . . .
‘Daddy?’
Anna shook at his arm, told him the noise was too loud and then announced that she had lost Dizzy, her imaginary friend.
Sidney lifted the needle from the record player and gave his daughter his full attention. This was going to be a difficult conversation. How could one find an imaginary friend? When had Anna last seen him?
‘I don’t know. I think he’s gone away.’
‘I’m sure he’ll come back.’
‘He didn’t tell me he was going.’
‘Sometimes I don’t tell Mummy when I’m going somewhere.’
‘And she gets cross.’
‘Are you cross now, Anna?’
‘Very. Do you lose your friends, Daddy?’
‘I try not to.’
‘Is God your friend?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Sally at school says I’m making Dizzy up but I’m not. You don’t make God up, do you, Daddy?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But I’ve never seen God. Like you haven’t seen Dizzy.’
Sidney was flummoxed by this epistemological immediacy, but if he could not explain the concept of God to his own daughter, what chance did he have with anyone else? He would have to start with the character of Jesus Christ and work up from there.
Anna lost interest almost as soon as he began. ‘I know all about that,’ she said. ‘I’m going to find another friend.’
As she turned to leave, Sidney realised that he had failed to notice Amanda standing in the doorway. She had come for lunch. ‘It’s just as well you’ve got another friend too,’ she said. ‘Otherwise you would have been quite alone with your thoughts and, Hildegard has been telling me, that dreadful music.’
‘It’s not too bad once you get used to it.’
‘I don’t think that’s really the point, is it?’
‘There’s a rather amazing track called “Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict”. Would you like to hear it?’
‘You are making that up. No, thank you.’
‘How is your Michelangelo investigation coming along?’
‘The drawing has been authenticated, so it’s all gone rather well.’
Amanda explained that the British Museum was to put on a special event to celebrate the discovery of the new drawing. There was going to be some music and a reading of some of the artist’s sonnets and she was planning on asking an up-and-coming actor called Ian McKellen to perform.
‘I think he’s got the necessary flamboyance. I met him at a party and he was wearing a brown corduroy suit and a cravat that was so stylish among all the boring grey flannel. In any case, gay men are so much easier to talk to.’
‘Mr McKellen is homosexual?’
‘He doesn’t advertise it, but I think it’s pretty obvious. I rather wished Leonard could have been there. I am sure they would have got on like a house on fire. Oh. Perhaps I’d better rephrase that . . .’
‘They might well, but Leonard’s too troubled to think clearly at the moment.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘I have, Amanda.’
‘And it is as we feared? His private life?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘If he’d lived in Renaissance times we wouldn’t be having any of this nonsense. To think that civilisation is going backwards.’
‘Not according to the scientists.’
‘But morally, Sidney. Whatever happened to tolerance? You should preach about it.’
‘I do. You should come to church.’
‘I don’t feel confident about that. People stare and jump to conclusions.’
‘No one is judging you, Amanda.’
‘But I feel judged. Just as Leonard does. That’s why we get on so well. We both understand what it’s like. Are you going to help him?’
‘Unfortunately, I think it may take more than money to sort out. Inspector Keating’s involved. Helena Randall too . . .’
‘And you and me. Goodness, Sidney, Leonard’s got the complete set.’
‘I hope we will prove formidable opponents.’
‘The blackmailer hasn’t a chance; but this gives me an idea. Let me give you the fifty pounds instead. You can see the blackmailer in Leonard’s place. That would take the pressure off and you could do a bit of investigation at the same time. I’m so annoyed I didn’t think about all this before.’ She reached down into her handbag. ‘I’ve got it in my purse . . .’
‘Just a minute, Amanda.’
‘These are emergency funds, really. I seem to remember doing something like this before when you went off to France.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Oh come on, Sidney. It will be a true act of friendship; and, for once, you need have no qualms about the validity of your actions. You’re the only man who can do it and we’ll all be proud of you.’
Shortly after Amanda had left, Sidney received a telephone call from Helena with more information. The situation had escalated. The Daily Mirror had received letters from ‘Christian Grace’ asking for money for an exclusive on ‘perverted priests’. She had set a reporter on to it, he had done a bit of digging and found the writer’s real name: Nicholas Trent. He worked for a furnishing store in Watford.
Sidney remembered the double bed.
‘There’s not really enough evidence for a story so far, but the man’s language is vitriolic. I think we have to be careful. This could get very nasty. I don’t like it, Sidney. It might make a great story, but Trent is some kind of moral vigilante. I don’t trust his religious certainty. Perhaps I’ve been listening to you for too long.’
‘Sometimes I think you haven’t listened enough.’
‘I’ll let that pass. I think we should both do something about it. I have some standards and they include loyalty. But we’re going to have to act fast to control the story.’
‘We have to frame it in a different way with Leonard as victim.’
‘Does it have to mention him at all?’
‘Not necessarily but Trent will then go to another newspaper. We have to string him along and get what we can. That gives you time to go in.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m doing you a favour, Sidney, a chance to help Leonard before the whole thing blows up – possibly literally, if the arson is anything to go by.’
‘Oh dear . . .’
‘It’s the same man, as you and Geordie must have realised. He talks about fire often enough. Here’s one: “the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death”. Charming. He lives in Albert Street, St Albans. That should be easy enough to find. I’ll give you the address.’
Despite all this knowledge, Sidney was cautious. He wanted to do what was best for Leonard and he wasn’t quite sure that his friend would want him to go in all guns blazing. He needed to check on his mood and attitude. How easy it was to threaten someone’s happiness and derail a life.
He was unsurprised to find that Simon Hackford was with Leonard. The two friends were having a light lunch: omelettes, bread, cheese, water. It was all very Lenten.
Sidney offered to confront the blackmailer.
‘Do you mean you know who he or she is?’ Leonard asked.
‘What? You mean it’s at the newspapers already?’
‘She’s not going to do anything about it.’
Simon Hackford was aghast. ‘But if she does, we’re ruined.’
‘How is that so? You are the victim of arson, Simon. There is nothing to link Leonard to the case. And you can always deny your relationship.’
‘What if we don’t want to?’
‘I don’t mean that you shouldn’t acknowledge your friendship. You can simply insist on your privacy.’
‘To the newspapers?’
‘I think you can trust Helena.’
‘But not other journalists.’
‘And I will deal with the blackmailer.’
‘Don’t you think we can sort this out for ourselves?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Sidney. ‘Besides, Geordie is involved too.’
‘You haven’t told him about the letters?’
‘I haven’t spelled it out.’
‘But you have hinted.’
‘Please, Leonard. Let me meet the blackmailer for you.’
‘You’ve spoken to Amanda about it all?’
‘We are all your friends, Leonard. Of course we have spoken. We care about you. Now what are your instructions? Will you let me act on your behalf?’
Nicholas Trent’s home in Albert Street was a stone’s throw from St Albans Abbey and Leonard’s house in Sumpter Yard. Sidney scheduled his visit for a weekday afternoon after the shops had closed. His plan was to pretend to be a new member of the abbey clergy, visiting the congregation in order to introduce himself.
Not only was Trent at home, it was his day off. He was a large shambling man, unaccustomed to exercise, and was wearing old clothes: baggy trousers over loosely laced boots, a frayed cream shirt that was not tucked in and a racing-green cardigan that carried the battle scars of breakfast, lunch and, most likely, the dinners of the previous week. He had spent most of the day pottering about and listening to music. It was so hard to imagine him working in a department store, and dressed in a suit and tie, that initially Sidney thought he must have made a mistake, but a further glance around the room convinced him he had not.
The house was filthy. There were newspapers, plastic bags, glue, scissors, unwashed plates and discarded mugs of tea all over the front room, together with empty liquid bottles, sponges, half-burned candles, batteries, pliers and bits of wiring, and a pair of gardening gloves next to a bowl of sugar. LPs were scattered on the floor round an old record player scratching out a bit of Wagner. Aside from the mess, every available seat was occupied by a cat: there must have been eight, nine or even ten of them on the sofa, chairs, in the hall and kitchen or coming in and out of the garden at the back.
‘Waifs and strays,’ said Trent, turning off the music. ‘I try to give them a good home. No thanks to the RSPCA.’
‘I would have thought they’d be all too happy.’
‘On the contrary. They keep threatening to take my darlings away. Someone must have reported me.’
‘You suspect a neighbour?’
‘I’m afraid so. People don’t know how to leave well alone these days, do they? Can I make you a cup of tea?’
This was a bit rich for a blackmailer, Sidney thought while assessing how much of a health hazard the proffered refreshment might be. ‘That would be kind.’
‘Have a seat then. I’ll just move Edgar.’
‘An unusual name . . .’
‘I call them after English kings and queens. It helps me remember. I hadn’t heard you were coming to the abbey, Mr Archdeacon. It wasn’t in the parish magazine.’
‘I don’t start until July. After the sub-dean has moved on.’
Trent was at the tap and about to fill the kettle when he stopped. ‘I wasn’t aware he was leaving.’
‘He’s going to be a bishop,’ said Sidney boldly, wondering whether it was too soon to get on to all this, ‘although it hasn’t been announced yet.’
‘Leonard Graham?’
‘Yes,’ Sidney replied. ‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘I should think so.’ Trent resumed his tea-making activities. Sidney remained silent, fending away a cat that was about to leap on to his shoulder. Another made for his lap.
‘A bishop? Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Sidney.
‘And does the Church of England think that the man has the right qualities for the episcopate?’
‘I imagine it does,’ Sidney replied. ‘Otherwise it wouldn’t have appointed him.’
‘Unless it wasn’t in full possession of the facts. Here’s your tea.’ It came in a cup and saucer that were not as clean as they might have been. ‘I’m not sure where I’ve put the sugar.’
‘It’s over there,’ said Sidney, noticing that it was next to a bottle of nail polish remover. What would Trent want with that? he wondered, before remembering Amanda informing him how flammable the liquid could be. He wished he were with her now rather than forcing out a confrontation in a filthy room. He took a sip of tea. ‘Is there something you want to tell me, Mr Trent?’
‘Leonard Graham is unmarried.’
‘Perhaps you are too?’
‘That is different, I have been unfortunate in love.’
‘And that may be the case with Mr Graham.’
‘I fear not.’
‘You have evidence to the contrary?’
‘He has a special friend. They came to the shop.’
‘Together?’
‘Not exactly. Mr Graham hovered in the background while his friend bought a double bed.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Men buying beds on their own? It doesn’t happen every day, I’ll tell you that. And it wasn’t for himself. It was for Mr Graham. I had to arrange the delivery to his house in Sumpter Yard.’
‘I do not see what is wrong with that,’ said Sidney, playing with a straight bat. ‘The clergy are not well paid, as you know. Some of us are fortunate to have more wealthy friends.’
‘And do they buy you beds?’
‘They might if I asked them.’
‘So you see nothing wrong.’
‘I don’t,’ said Sidney. ‘What I do think is “wrong” is this, Mr Grace.’
‘Why are you calling me that?’
‘It’s not a very appropriate name.’ He produced a piece of paper. ‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, ALL DESIRES KNOWN AND FROM WHOM NO SECRETS ARE HID . . .’
‘A blackmailer’s letter, addressed to Leonard Graham.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘I presume it is from you.’
‘I don’t know why you would think that. My name is Trent.’
Sidney handed over the letter. ‘Other recent communications contain your real name.’ He pulled a second missive from his inner jacket pocket. ‘This is the second note that you sent to the Daily Mirror: “DEVICES AND DESIRES. HIDDEN SECRETS. THE REVELATION OF THE BEAST.”’
‘How did you get all this?’
‘Let’s just say I know the right people.’
‘Protecting your own.’
‘No, Mr Trent. Working against the malign.’
‘Are you one of them and all?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘A pansy. A queer. A homosexual.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I am or not.’
‘That means you are.’
‘Tell me, Mr Trent, what is it that you find so very threatening about homosexuality?’
‘They’re perverts.’
‘All of them?’
‘I’ve seen them hovering round toilets.’
‘You know that homosexuality is no longer illegal for consenting adults over the age of twenty-one?’
‘I don’t care how old they are. I am a loyal churchman and a communicant member of the Church of England. Your friend,’ Trent continued with contempt, ‘is a priest. Doesn’t he know that only when he publicly acknowledges that he is a sinner can he receive the grace of God?’
‘He does that every time he prays. We all do.’
‘To think that man gives communion to people.’
‘He does.’
‘The grace of God . . .’
‘Theologically, you are wrong, Mr Trent. God’s grace comes first. His love is prevenient to our response; his forgiveness awakens our repentance.’
‘You can say what you like. It’s disgusting what they do.’
‘And do you know what that entails?’
‘I don’t like to think about it. Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.’
Sidney took stock. He was not going to let Trent win his argument on religious grounds. ‘As Christians,’ he replied, as pointedly as possible, ‘and you say you are one, Mr Trent, we believe that sexuality is a God-given thing, a wonderful and beautiful thing.’
‘“Go forth and multiply”? That may be. But how can pansies and lezzers do that, that’s what I want to know.’
‘You are going to cite the Bible, I suppose?’
‘The Book of Leviticus, chapter eighteen: “You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination.” Chapter twenty: “If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death.”’
‘Old Testament teaching . . .’
‘Then there is Romans, chapter one, verses twenty-six to twenty-seven. You can’t deny what it says.’
‘I think we know far more about human sexuality now than people did in the past. Many of those observations are out of date.’
‘It’s biblical truth, not subject to time but eternal.’
‘But you don’t feel the need to obey other laws found in Leviticus? To follow the regulations against wearing different clothing materials and planting varying types of seed in the same ground?’
‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘I’m not sure that it is,’ Sidney replied, realising that they had reached a stalemate. He was determined to stand his ground.
Unfortunately, so was Nicholas Trent. ‘I follow the teachings of St Paul, in the Book of Romans which I cited and you did not answer. I don’t agree with this permissive society. I know I am in the right, as St Paul was when he censured the Galatians.’
‘We could talk about this for a long time, Mr Trent, but ultimately I don’t think that Leonard Graham and Simon Hackford’s friendship has anything to do with us. In many ways it’s none of our business. It’s not harming anyone else.’
‘It’s an offence against the Lord. They cannot refrain from temptation.’
‘They may not be as licentious as you imagine.’
‘You would know, I suppose.’
Sidney refused to rise to the challenge. ‘I think I have yet to meet a homosexual man or woman who does not yearn for a permanent relationship. I don’t think homosexuals are very different from their brothers or sisters, and it doesn’t help to blackmail them.’
‘Who said I was doing that?’
‘Come, come, Mr Trent. We both know that all these letters are from you.’
‘If that is the case, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Do?’ Sidney asked. ‘Why, pay you off, of course.’ He reached into his briefcase. ‘I think the sum mentioned was fifty pounds.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. I should have made it a hundred.’
‘The demand was for fifty and here it is.’ Sidney placed an envelope on the table. ‘I hope you feel better for it and use the money wisely.’
‘I thought I’d give it to charity.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘I don’t need the money. It’s the principle.’
‘And what about the morality of blackmail?’
‘My cause is just.’
‘I am not so sure, Mr Trent. And since we disagree with each other’s moral position so profoundly I thought perhaps I could take back the money I have just put down.’
Sidney’s host was appalled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I would have thought it was obvious. We have your details, I know the police. There is evidence that will put you at the scene of Simon Hackford’s antique shop.’
‘I don’t know who you are talking about.’
‘I find that very difficult to believe. You have Simon Hackford’s name from the cheque he wrote for the bed. It was for a large amount and he requested a different delivery address and so you almost certainly asked where he banked. The answer was already there on his cheque book: Cambridge. Any idle enquiry would also reveal that he dealt in antiques. The business carries his name. You don’t need to be Einstein to find it.’
‘I don’t see why I would burn his shop.’
‘Didn’t your threat mention “the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone”? There’s circumstantial evidence and there are also fingerprints. I note too that you are a keen gardener and that you have, over in that corner, what appears to be a plentiful supply of weedkiller, a substance which, as you almost certainly know, contains sodium chlorate, a highly flammable material.’
‘Why would I leave that lying around?’
‘You appear to leave everything lying around, Mr Trent, including some equally flammable nail polish remover. I don’t imagine that you were expecting a visitor.’
‘You’re lucky I let you in.’
‘An example of your Christian charity, no doubt.’
‘I lead a good life, Mr Archdeacon. I am a decent man. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.’
‘Fortunately, there is. This could all become awkward for you if and when the police step up their investigation. Even though there was not much damage at the antique shop, these letters don’t help your case. Certainly it might be difficult to explain any absence from work to your employer if the authorities come calling.’
‘I have holiday owed.’
‘Or your picture in the Daily Mirror; the paper you wrote to.’
‘They have promised anonymity. They’ll keep their word.’
‘I think they’d like to spin the story out for as long as possible. And you know the current thinking, that people who are most hostile to homosexuals harbour homosexual feelings themselves? As I have already established, you are not married.’
Sidney almost stopped himself at this point, realising his anger had turned to cruelty, but he was determined to extract as much information as possible so that he only had to come to this house once and never again.
‘I am a bachelor.’
‘Newspapers can make a lot of mischief with the word “bachelor”. You know the obituaries that state “he never married”. We all know what that means.’
‘I may not have met the right girl, yet. There was someone once but she lives in Cardiff. She’ll vouch for me.’
‘None of this needs to happen, Mr Trent. It can all go away.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘I am just thinking through what might happen if all this became public. You might destroy Leonard Graham’s career but you need to be careful that you don’t sabotage your own in the process. Neither the law, nor your employer, will take kindly to your behaviour.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘There is nothing to stop my going both to the police and to the Daily Mirror and accusing you of arson.’
‘How dare you?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Trent. I must have been extremely provoked.’
‘You are blackmailing me. You are just as guilty.’
‘Have a think about it, Mr Trent. Shall I take the money back or not?’
Sidney certainly felt guilty when he returned to Ely. He had lied and he had been menacing. His threats had bordered on illegality, he knew this, and he wondered how far his behaviour could be excused. Did the potential end justify the means?
He would have liked to talk to Leonard about it but it was too soon. He first needed to relay his news to Geordie, give him the information required and see to his Easter duties.
Not that these were few. As he prepared for the service on Maundy Thursday, the eve of the Last Supper and the washing of the congregation’s feet, Sidney thought about the importance of loyalty in the face of betrayal.
Jesus had been loyal to his disciples and faithful to God but did he need Judas to betray him? Had he, in fact, used Judas, as a means to an end, just as Sidney had deceived Nicholas Trent?
He went into the cathedral, knelt down and prayed amidst the gracefully decorated stone of Bishop Alcock’s Chapel. He asked for the forgiveness of his sins. Had he done the right things? Had he behaved in a way that befitted the dignity of the priesthood?
He questioned whether he was guilty of treachery in other areas of his life. Were his feelings for Amanda, for example, entirely honest? Was he betraying his love for Hildegard by being so close to his old friend?
He thought of the last time he had seen her and how she had been talking about Michelangelo and his friendship with Tommaso dei Cavalieri; did anyone worry whether it was sexual or not?
‘One can be intimate without being physical,’ she had said. ‘Like us, Sidney.’
‘I wouldn’t put our friendship on the Renaissance level.’
‘No,’ Hildegard had cut in. They hadn’t realised that she was in the room. ‘It’s more baroque.’
Sidney prayed again and tried to meditate on the complications of love. Surely it should be kept at its simplest. He loved God spiritually, he loved his wife physically and spiritually, and he loved everyone else differently but intensely: Amanda, Leonard, Geordie, Helena and Malcolm, Mrs Maguire, the dean and the fellow clergy. There was no dilution in the intensity of that love, no boundary. He just needed to be better; as a priest, as a friend and as a man.
As he made his way to the vestry, he remembered washing Hildegard’s feet before they were married. It was thirteen years ago. Perhaps that was the first time he had realised how much he loved her. If that was how much Leonard felt for Simon, then he had to do all he could to protect that love.
He recalled the words of St Augustine:
‘Love, and do what you will. If you keep silence, do it out of love. If you cry out, do it out of love. If you refrain from punishing, do it out of love.’
Later that night, a wooden hut that was home to St Albans Abbey Scouts, Guides, Cubs and Brownies was burned to the ground. Since the easily destroyed structure was located off Orchard House Lane, the opposite side of Holywell Hill from nearby Albert Street, it did not take long to realise who the culprit might be; not least because Nicholas Trent had lost his patience and warned Helena Randall that such an attack might happen if Leonard Graham (who provided instruction and encouragement for those working towards their Book-reader and Faith badges) remained in his post as a priest.
And so, on Good Friday, just after Sidney had returned exhausted from the three-hour service, Helena telephoned to say that she was going to break her story. She couldn’t make any direct accusation as there had not yet been an arrest but she had spoken to Keating and was going to start up her own fire.
‘What will all this do for Leonard?’
‘I’ve spoken to him and he’s had enough. He does not need to be named initially; but Hackford does. People might draw the odd conclusion, but I am afraid I can’t stop that.’
‘And what did he actually say?’
‘He wants it all to end, Sidney. We’ve got our man. Geordie’s on to it. It’s all over.’
‘Not for Leonard.’
‘He’s going to talk to you. He has a plan.’
‘I hope he knows what he’s doing. The Church of England is at its best when everyone behaves charitably and no one makes a fuss. Most things are best left behind closed doors rather than out in the newspapers. I don’t like it when we draw attention to ourselves.’
‘You’re one to talk, Sidney.’
‘This isn’t about me.’
‘No, it’s about Leonard; and he’s thought it all through. He’s made his own decision and I’m sure he’ll tell you what it is. I know he’s grateful. Just don’t expect him to do everything you say.’
‘But, Helena, it’s always so much easier when people obey me.’
‘For you, perhaps. But not necessarily for them.’
On Easter Day, Sidney preached about the supreme love of God; how the central truth of humanity is that we were created to love and be loved; that this was the genuinely integrating factor in human experience. As human beings, he argued, we are flawed and prone to make mistakes, to misinterpret love, misjudge it and fall prey to temptation, distortion and disaster. But what Christianity did, through reconciliation, atonement and redemption, was to release us to love as we are meant to love. After the broken humanity of the Crucifixion, the Resurrection was nothing less than the re-creation of love itself.
Sidney had no qualms about giving it straight. People might think that he was some kind of clerical lightweight, easily bored, prone to distraction, and overexcited by the possibility of a chance to prove his skills as an amateur sleuth, but when he was asked to step into the pulpit and proclaim his faith and acknowledge the divine mystery – one that was far greater than any human mystery he had ever attempted to solve – his purpose was clear. This was his Easter message: that God is love, release is given, freedom is granted and alienation overcome through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
The dean congratulated him afterwards. It was, he said, about time Sidney showed the congregation what he was made of, and he was glad to see that it wasn’t cotton wool. ‘There’s muscle in you, Sidney, and there’s nothing better than a bit of muscular Christianity on Easter Day.’
The next morning, Geordie provided Sidney with a lift to St Albans. He had spoken to his colleagues in the Hertfordshire Constabulary and they were due to secure the arrest of Nicholas Trent on two counts of arson and one of ‘making an unwarranted demand with menaces’ under the 1968 Theft Act. Helena had provided written evidence and Simon Hackford had testified on Leonard’s behalf.
When confronted in his Albert Street home amidst cats, papers and insurmountable evidence, Trent complained that he had been ‘betrayed by that damned priest and his gang of friends’.
‘I have done nothing,’ said Sidney.
‘Like Pontius Pilate.’
‘It wasn’t Sidney that shopped you,’ Keating told him. ‘It was Helena Randall.’
‘The journalist?’
‘She got your story. You even confessed the recent arson to spruce it up a bit.’
‘I didn’t admit to the Scout hut.’
‘You implied that you had done it.’
‘I don’t think I did.’
‘At the very least you didn’t prevent her from drawing conclusions, shall we put it that way? And she taped your conversation; a recording she has given to me.’
‘This is not how things are meant to be.’
‘But that’s how they are, man. You sent threatening letters. You nearly burned down an antique shop. That was all bad enough; but then a Scout hut? What has that got to do with anything?’
‘Leonard Graham was going to talk to them about the Easter Monday pilgrimage. People come from all over the diocese. I read it on the abbey noticeboard.’
‘There could have been children in there.’
‘It was the night before. I made sure the place was empty. I just wanted to send a message to the sodomite.’
‘There are other ways of expressing an opinion.’
‘None that have made a difference. He continues in his pursuit of evil.’
Geordie sighed. ‘He is not “evil”. He is different.’
‘He should practise what he preaches.’
‘I have not heard him preach about anything other than love,’ Keating continued, assuming instant familiarity with Leonard’s doctrinal repertoire. ‘He loves one man, and one man only, and his private relationship has nothing to do with any of us.’
He turned to Sidney. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Sidney smiled. His friend was getting the message at last.
The following Tuesday, Amanda held her event at the British Museum. It involved the revelation of the Michelangelo drawing with some other contextual displays, the singing of the Britten sonnets and a reading by Ian McKellen.
She began with a quick speech about Michelangelo and the Renaissance theory of beauty. As Leonard and Simon Hackford sat closely together in the third row, and with Sidney behind them, she talked about the artist’s interest in Neoplatonism and how, despite his stunning rendering of the naked male form revealed in the recently discovered drawing, the essence of beauty did not consist of anything pertaining to the human form at all. According to Neoplatonists, such as Marsilio Ficino, it could reside in bodies, and shine forth from them, but in itself beauty was bodiless.
By taking the argument away from physical representation and the human form, Sidney wondered whether Amanda was making a directly personal point, diverting the attention of her audience from any thoughts about Michelangelo’s homosexuality and the physical manifestation of his feelings towards a younger man. She talked about a descending hierarchy of beauties; from the absolute beauty of God, through the beauty of the angels, to the delights of the soul and finally ending with the fairness of the human form. The more we ascend, she explained, the more beauty is without form; the closer to earth the more defined in shape beauty becomes. The ultimate aim of art, like that of love, is to reach for the shapeless origin of all shapes, the essence of beauty.
‘Doesn’t sound much fun,’ Simon Hackford whispered to his companion.
Not long after, Leonard asked Sidney if they could talk. As well as going over the recent case, it was clear that he had something else to say. He paced up and down the room, as if sitting down would weaken his resolve. ‘I’ve decided to leave the Church,’ he said.
Sidney had not expected such certainty. ‘Please, Leonard. There’s no need to do this.’
‘I’ve given it a good deal of thought.’
‘I’m sure you have. That’s what makes you such a good priest.’
Leonard stopped at the window, unable to meet Sidney’s eye. ‘Please don’t try and talk me out of it. I want to live my life in the open, without hypocrisy. It’s what Dostoevsky called “a freer freedom”.’
‘You could take some more time to think this through, Leonard.’
‘You will remember in The Brothers Karamazov, Father Zosima spoke of hell as “the incapacity to love”?’
‘I can’t recall the passage exactly,’ Sidney replied.
‘I don’t want to live a life apart; one of pretence in which Simon and I are only able to see each other in secret, unable to express any affection in public, deceiving both friends and faithful. I cannot hide a love which contains such intimacy that it is almost telepathic; and I only want to share my life with those who will accept us as we are. That is the nature of friendship, isn’t it, to walk alongside, as Christ did? Otherwise we are hypocrites.’
‘Have you lost your faith, Leonard?’
‘Not at all. I am still a believer. I just cannot be a priest.’
‘There are many clergy like yourself.’
‘Yes – and many of them hide their true feelings, as well you know. Don’t ask; don’t tell. I’m not sure I want to live like that.’
Sidney sat down. Leonard was not asking for his advice. He had made up his mind. Now it was a question of practicalities. ‘What will you do with your life?’
‘So many things; I will help Simon in his business. I think I’ll study for the PhD that I always meant to do.’
‘On Dostoevsky, I imagine?’
‘I’ll have to get my Russian back up to scratch. And I’ll take up a hobby. I think I’d like to learn more about roses, if that doesn’t sound too fanciful. Simon’s been teaching me; how to graft and so on. I find their beauty so consoling.’
Sidney smiled. He may not have been able to keep up with Leonard’s Dostoevsky but he knew his Shakespeare:
‘ . . . earthlier happy is the rose distill’d
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.’
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I think. You always did know what to say, Sidney.’
‘You will be such a loss to the Church.’
‘But not, I hope, to my friends.’
‘Never that.’
‘I will still try to lead a good life. I don’t intend to go to the dark side. But I can also pray and I can help others; people who are afraid, victims of prejudice. Perhaps I can do more outside the Church than I ever could as a priest.’
‘And you will do well, Leonard.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I think you know, just as I do, that human loving, however odd it may seem to some, and however differently it might appear from socially accepted norms, is always a pale, imperfect and sometimes distorted reflection of the love of God.’
‘I will still walk in His light.’
‘You will. Because whenever we see love or find love – love that seeks faithfulness, acts tenderly, is patient and good and kind and true – then we are glimpsing, and reaching out for nothing less than the eternal love that is at the heart of our faith.’
‘Thank you, Sidney, for all that you have done.’
Sidney rose from his chair. It was time to go home. ‘I should thank you for all that you have taught me. I am humbled by you, Leonard.’
‘Don’t. You will make me cry again.’
‘I will try to be a better priest in your absence; and I will try to make the Church a more caring and a more tolerant place.’
Leonard reached out and the two men grasped each other by both hands. ‘St John of the Cross once wrote: “In the evening of our life, we shall be judged by our loving.”’
‘Goodbye, Leonard. But not for long.’
Sidney was back in Ely by the middle of the afternoon. It had rained while he had been away but the clouds had cleared and there was enough blue in the sky to patch a sailor’s shirt. On the Dean’s Meadow, above the host of white and golden daffodils, the trees were coming into leaf. This was the greening of the year, the beginnings of buttercups, clover, docks and nettles. He could see the first buds on the roses in the gardens and wondered if one of them, climbing across a ruined medieval wall, was a ‘Rambling Rector’. It was a pity to be sad on such a beautiful day. It made him feel ungrateful.
These had been strange times for his friends; with Ronnie Maguire’s return and death, Amanda’s divorce, and Leonard leaving the Church. Sidney needed to get back to his wife and child but, before he did so, he could not help but stop to take in the spring, and worry about all those he loved; their hopes and doubts, their faults and frailties.
He knew that, whatever happened, he had to keep caring for them as truthfully and as loyally as he could. They held him together and they were one fellowship. He would never abandon them and he was nothing without them.
In the evening of our life, he remembered, we shall be judged by our loving.