A Matter of Time

It was the seventh of May 1954 and Sidney had, at last, perfected the art of boiling an egg. He filled a saucepan with water, lowered a speckled specimen into position and placed it on the stove. As the water began to heat up, Sidney commenced his morning routine. It was vital to complete his shaving at the exact moment the water reached boiling point. Then he would prepare his toast. The time taken to cook, turn and remove the toast from the grill, butter it and then cut it into soldiers, was the exact time needed to boil his egg. If successfully achieved, the toast would still be hot, the butter melted and the egg in perfect condition. It was extraordinary that he was now able to combine the preparation of breakfast with the act of shaving and, every time he did so, Sidney was filled with quiet satisfaction.

On a bright spring morning, as the last of the frost was disappearing from the meadows, Sidney’s attention turned to the news on the wireless. Roger Bannister had broken the four-minute mile on the Iffley Road athletics track in Oxford. How odd, Sidney thought, that a man could run a mile in the same length of time that it took to boil an egg. It was also the time needed for an over of cricket, or for that other Sidney, Bechet, to work his way through ‘Summertime’ on the soprano saxophone. It was extraordinary how much could be achieved in such a short space of time.

He tried to spend a great deal longer walking Dickens as Sidney was, at last, beginning to enjoy the company of his dog. His presence brought new challenges – discipline, training, routine – but also, it had to be said, benefits. Although his desire for attention and reward could be relentless, Sidney found that his Labrador was not only an ice-breaker with new parishioners but also, crucially, a conversation-stopper. In fact Dickens freed Sidney from the time-consuming complaints of the more troublesome members of his congregation. If the dog strained at the leash or made a mad dash after rabbits then his owner would have to break off his conversation and follow Dickens’s mazy runs across the Meadows. The dog’s sudden bursts of speed or changes of direction were, Sidney decided, like an improvised saxophone solo. You never knew what was going to happen next.

It was, perhaps, not surprising that Sidney should think in these terms for he considered himself to be something of a jazz aficionado. While he loved the concentrated serenity of choral music, and the work of Byrd, Tallis and Purcell in particular, there were times when he wanted something earthier. And so, on his rare evenings at home, he liked nothing better than to listen to the latest hot sounds from America coming from the wireless. It was the opposite of stillness, prayer and penitence, he thought; full of life, mood and swing, whether it was ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing’ by the Ralph Sharon Sextet or the ‘Boogie Woogie Stomp’ of Albert Ammons. Jazz was unpredictable. It could take risks, change mood, announce a theme, develop, change and recapitulate. It was all times in one time, Sidney thought, reworking themes from the past, existing in the present, while creating expectations about any future direction it might take. It was a metaphor of life itself, both transient and profound, pursuing its course with intensity and freedom. Everyone, Sidney was sure, felt the vibe differently, although he was careful not to use a word such as ‘vibe’ when he dined at his College high table.

Jazz was Sidney’s treat to himself, and today he was going to share his enjoyment by travelling to London with Inspector Keating to hear the Gloria Dee Quartet in Soho. They were to be Johnny Johnson’s guests as a thank you gesture after the business of the missing ring. Sidney had not felt it necessary to admit that the friend he was bringing was a policeman; nor had he told Keating that Johnny’s father was none other than the reformed burglar Phil ‘the Cat’ Johnson. He did not want to over-excite his friend.

Gloria Dee had come over from New York City and was already being tipped as the new Bessie Smith. She had the same dramatic presence, together with a voice that could range from supreme tenderness to gospel power. All the reviewers on the jazz scene had praised both the clarity of her diction and her incomparable phrasing and timing.

Sidney was glad to be so up to the minute in his appreciation of her talents but was nervous whether Geordie would like it. He had him down as a light opera man. He also worried that the inspector would be wary of Soho’s seediness.

However, as soon as they arrived in London, Keating seemed unusually cheerful. ‘Makes a change from our usual arrangement,’ he told Sidney as they left Leicester Square and crossed into Chinatown. ‘And it’s good to get out of Cambridge. It can feel a bit claustrophobic, don’t you think?’

‘I worry that you may find the club just as confined.’

‘Sometimes you worry too much.’

‘And remember, Geordie, we are off duty. I am not a clergyman and you are not a detective.’

‘We are never off duty, Sidney, you know that.’

‘Do you mean to say there’s no peace for the wicked?’

They climbed the stairs up to the club and handed their coats to Colin on the door. As they walked in, Sidney began to feel self-conscious. The club was crowded with men in sharp suits and thin ties who sat close to women in tight blouses, full skirts and dancing shoes. They were smoking and drinking, and mellow with the mood. Although Sidney was dressed in civvies – a grey flannel double-breasted suit with two-tone brogues – he still felt like a clergyman. He wondered whether he should have opted for a Homburg hat, or forsaken the tie which, he realised, was an episcopal purple, but it was too late to worry about that now.

Johnny Johnson greeted the two men and, after introductions had been made and the beers had been ordered, they sat down to await the evening’s entertainment. A young cocktail waitress with black harlequin glasses approached with a tray of cigarettes. Keating asked for a packet of Players while Sidney declined. As he did so the waitress smiled.

‘Stylish suit,’ she said.

Sidney was cheered. ‘I like your spectacles.’

‘Must make a change from all that clobber you have to wear on Sundays.’

‘How do you know I’m a priest?’

‘My brother pointed you out.’

Sidney guessed. ‘Are you Johnny’s sister?’

‘I’m Claudette.’

‘An unusual name . . .’

‘I think my parents wanted another boy but Claude’s a funny name too, isn’t it? People call me Claudie, Claudie Johnson. Sure you don’t want a cigarette?’

‘No, thanks. There are just the four of you then?’

‘Three. My Mum died when I was six. I’m Daddy’s girl. I’m sure he’ll come and say hello.’

Sidney worried that the inspector might recognise Phil ‘the Cat’, but hoped that a criminal who had done his time should be regarded as an innocent man in the eyes of the law.

He noticed that Claudette was so pale that her eyes appeared very dark. They were like a pair of jet earrings that had fallen in snow. ‘I’d best move on,’ she continued. ‘But you have a good evening, won’t you, gentlemen? Put the troubles of the world behind you. And if there is any trouble just come and find me.’

‘Trouble?’ Inspector Keating asked.

‘We get some funny types in here.’ Claudette leaned in so close that Sidney could smell her chewing gum. ‘Some of Dad’s old friends. Money in dark corners, that kind of thing. But if you stay by the bar and keep in the light you’ll be all right.’ Claudette gave him a little wink. ‘Stay cool, OK?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Inspector Keating looked alarmed. ‘I hope there’s not going to be any nonsense.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Geordie.’

He looked across to see Phil ‘the Cat’ Johnson coming over to greet them. Clearly his daughter had tipped him off. He was a large man with a pockmarked face and a belly like a barrel of beer. He called out to his friends by name as he approached, ordered up drinks and told jokes that he then ruined by laughing through the punch line. ‘Have another beer, Sid. I know what you did for our boy.’

‘It was nothing, Mr Johnson.’

‘You stuck up for him. That’s more than nothing. Who’s your friend?’

‘Geordie Keating,’ the inspector replied.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Geordie. You keeping this clergyman out of trouble?’

‘I’m doing my best. Sometimes trouble finds him.’

‘Well, I’m sure there won’t be any of that malarkey tonight. The singer’s a corker and the band are great. You both relax and, if there’s anything you need, just come and find me, all right? No one messes with me.’

‘I can’t imagine they do,’ Sidney observed.

‘They wouldn’t dare!’

The room began to fill with more people and more smoke, so much so that Sidney worried whether he would actually be able to see Gloria Dee when she came on stage; but, as soon as she emerged from the darkness, his anxiety melted away.

The first chord sounded on the piano, followed by a walking bass and light drum accompaniment. Sidney did not think he had ever been so exhilarated. Gloria smiled at the audience, shook her body to the rhythm, and began to sing ‘All of Me’.

She stood at a microphone, only yards in front of him. Her white satin dress accentuated her dark skin and she wore ribbons in her hair. Her voice was like honey, like molasses, like Guinness, like whisky, like wine. She stretched out the vowels of the lyrics, each one a different piece of elastic, and sang little pieces of scat in between the lines, so that it sounded as if she was singing in a language Sidney had never heard before. She was unpredictable, flirtatious, sensual and sad. She sang ‘That Ole Devil Called Love’, ‘T’Ain’t Nobody’s Business if I Do’, ‘You’re My Thrill’, and the daring number: ‘Judge, Judge, Lordy Mr Judge, Send Me to th’Electric Chair.’

Inspector Keating leaned over. ‘She’s quite a girl.’

Sidney thought that this, truly, was heaven. Gloria then sang a song that she said she had composed when the band was on tour in Paris. It was after the explosions at Bikini Atoll in March and she had been thinking about the atomic bomb.

 

‘Four minutes

Just four minutes to Midnight

Four minutes

I just want four more minutes with you

‘If the world ends

Then the world ends

But all I need

Is those four minutes

With you . . .’

 

Gloria hummed the next verse and then introduced her band as they took it in turns to play a series of riffs: Jay Jay Lion on piano, Tony Sanders on drums and Milo Masters on bass. Even though he was, he knew, in London, Sidney tried to imagine he was in uptown Harlem, hanging around at the bar with a load of musicians until the last song was sung and the last toot was tooted.

‘Hit it, Tiger Tony,’ cried Gloria and there then came the moment that always let the side down: the drum solo. Why were jazz fans so partial to this? Sidney wondered. It was like a sneeze, he decided. You could always tell it was coming but you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Tony Sanders did his best but it was still a drum solo. The only bonus was that Gloria Dee wandered out into the audience, singing scat, standing next to Sidney’s table, nodding her approval at her drummer’s industrial enthusiasm.

Sidney was so excited when he realised that Gloria was close that he dared not look. He only needed to know that she was near. The mingled scent of sweat, gardenia and the heady tuberose of her perfume filled his nostrils. Sidney now knew what the word ‘intoxicated’ meant. He wanted this moment, with whom he now thought to be one of the greatest jazz singers in the world by his side, to last for ever. This was what it meant to be alive, Sidney decided, in this place, at this time and listening to this music.

Then everything changed.

A girl screamed, her voice piercing the treble line of the music. A man shouted for help. There was a crush for the doors. The house lights came on. The drum solo stopped.

Phil Johnson barged through the crowds to the back of the club. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

His daughter, Claudette, was lying motionless on the floor outside the Ladies.

‘What happened? Somebody tell me what’s going on?’

A frightened girl backed against the wall. ‘I just found her.’

‘Did you see her fall?’

‘I don’t know what happened.’

Phil knelt down beside his daughter. ‘Fetch Amy,’ he shouted. ‘Bring some water. She’s out cold.’ He put his arm under his daughter’s head and tried to lift her up. Then he noticed the marks on her neck. ‘Bloody hell, what’s this? Claudie, wake up; wake up, I say.’

There was no waking her.

She appeared to have been strangled.

Phil Johnson was talking to his daughter. ‘Who’s done this? What’s happened? My little girl, my poor little girl, what have they done to you, Claudie? Get up . . . come on darling . . . get up. Is there a doctor here?’ Then he shouted out. ‘Is anyone a doctor?’

Keating was already on the case. ‘Get me the telephone,’ he said. ‘Call an ambulance. Then Scotland Yard. No one must leave.’

Most of the customers stood up from the tables and crowded around to see what had happened. The barman and doormen tried to persuade them back to their places while keeping an eye on the exit.

There was nothing for them to go back for: no music, no drink, no conversation. The house lights were on: the late-night atmosphere had evaporated.

‘Oh no,’ said Sidney, ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no.’ He looked down at the girl’s neck and could already see the bruising. There were fingernail marks under the left angle of the jaw, crescent-shaped abrasions on the skin. He wondered who on earth could have done such a thing. ‘Money in dark corners,’ Claudie had said to him. What had she meant by that?

A queue formed for the telephone. People could already tell that they were in for a long night. Gloria Dee was poured another drink. ‘The poor baby. What’d she got mixed up in? It don’t make no sense.’

Sidney wondered whether he would have been more alert if she had not been singing so close to them. Both he and Keating might have seen something, intercepted somebody or been able to avert disaster. But Gloria had been standing next to them. And now Claudette was dead. The murder had probably taken less time than it did to smoke one of her cigarettes.

Half an hour later Inspector Williams arrived with men from Scotland Yard. He was a big, burly man who looked like a rugby player. He made straight for the manager.

‘I hear there’s been trouble, Johnson.’

‘It’s my daughter. Some bastard’s got to her.’

‘Keep everyone inside. Cover the exits.’

Keating was by the body.

‘Who are you?’ Williams asked.

‘Inspector George Keating. Cambridge police. I was in the audience at the time.’

‘On duty?’

‘Incognito.’

‘See anything?’

‘Nothing conclusive.’

‘Everyone still here?’

‘There’s an exit by the bar that we secured. The fire exit is behind the stage. Apart from that there’s a small window in the toilet but no one could get through that. It’s just as well there wasn’t a fire.’

‘They should close this place down. So, as far as you know, the murderer is still in the building?’

‘He is.’

‘He?’

‘Or she.’

‘I can count on your assistance?’

‘Of course. My friend Canon Sidney Chambers may also be of service.’

‘I think this is best left to the professionals, don’t you?’

Sidney took a step back as Williams continued. ‘I can’t imagine a clergyman being good for anything except this poor girl’s funeral.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Keating intervened.

Williams was keen to press on. ‘When do you think the crime took place?’

‘We think it must have been during the drum solo. The noise proved a distraction . . .’

‘In my experience that’s when most people head for the Gents.’

‘This audience clearly wanted to stay.’

‘Apart from the murderer. There are some familiar enough faces in the crowd. I’ve spent half my life locking these people up and out they come like cockroaches.’

Gloria Dee walked up and asked. ‘Have you found the torpedo?’

‘The what?’

‘The hit man.’

‘We’ve only just arrived.’

‘How long are we gonna have to hang around?’

‘All night, madam,’ Inspector Williams replied.

‘I’m used to late, and I’m real sorry for the girl. Sorrier than I can say. But if you’ve got questions can you ask us first? We have to play tomorrow.’

‘I’m not so sure about that, madam. We may have to close this place down for a few days.’

‘Then how am I supposed to live? They don’t pay if we don’t play.’

Williams had no time for the questions of other people. ‘This is a murder investigation. We can start our inquiries with you and let you go home. Clearly you are some kind of performer . . .’

‘Let me straighten your wig right off. I’m not “some kind”. I’m Gloria Dee.’

‘I don’t care who you are. I must follow procedure. We have, at the very least, to get the names and addresses of every person here and establish where they were at the time of the murder. I hear that you were in the audience.’

‘I was hitting all sixes, scattin’ away as the boys were playin’. Everyone was havin’ a good time. Then it all went to hell. No matter how many times this kinda thing happens, it still gets to you.’

‘You mean this has occurred before?’ Sidney asked. He knew that jazz and violence shared a mutual history. He remembered reading about the stabbing of the bandleader James Reese Europe, and of Chano Pozo, the percussionist killed in a bar-room brawl.

‘We’re jazz people. There’s nothin’ I ain’t seen.’

‘Then perhaps you can help?’ Keating asked.

‘I don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’. I’m just sore the baby got herself killed.’

‘Can you think why?’ Inspector Williams continued.

‘Why you askin’ me? You’re the police.’

‘I’m interested in your opinion.’

Gloria sighed. ‘If a broad moves in a world of men and darkness she has to watch out. She can’t trust no cat. Maybe the baby turned a man down and he didn’t take it good, or she saw somethin’ she shouldn’t have. Perhaps her Daddy was up to somethin’. It’s got to be love or money. Those things go together the whole damn time.’

Sidney spoke in the silence. ‘I can’t understand how something so violent could happen to a girl like her . . .’

‘I’m not sayin’ it’s her fault . . .’

The inspector returned to his questions. ‘Whom did you come with tonight?’

‘Just the band. Tony on skins, Milo on bass, Jay Jay on piano.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘There’s Liza, Tony’s girlfriend. She’s around somewhere, and Justin, our driver. He’s a dewdropper.’

Williams was not interested in finding out that a dewdropper was a man who stayed up all night. ‘Are they still here?’

‘I hope so. I need to get back to the hotel.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘I’ve been around. New Orleans. New York City.’

‘When are you going back?’

‘In a few weeks. I hope you’re not wantin’ me to stay. I have dates at Minton’s.’

‘Minton’s?’ Williams asked.

Sidney explained. ‘It’s a jazz club in New York.’

Gloria Dee smiled. ‘You been?’

‘Alas, no.’

The singer looked him up and down. ‘You plain clothes?’

‘No, not at all. I’m a clergyman.’

‘A preacher-man? What you doin’ here?’

‘I’m Canon Sidney Chambers.’

‘As in Cannonball Adderley?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He’s a sax player. Eats like a horse. What you drinkin’?’

‘I don’t think I can. But I’m sure that in your case . . .’

‘If I’m havin’ to wait I’m sure going to drink.’ Gloria turned and walked towards the bar. ‘Give me three shots of bourbon straight,’ she asked.

Sidney could see Phil Johnson in the distance. He had not moved for a long time. He looked like a man who was stuck in a dream of falling from a high building; someone who knew that he would go on falling for the rest of his life, down towards a ground that was rising to meet him but would never arrive: eternal vertigo.

Already Sidney knew that when, in the future, people asked him about his children or talked about their own, Phil would have to decide how much to tell them or to remain silent; for if he spoke and told them his story no one who had not experienced anything similar would know what to say. It would be impossible for them to compare any grief of their own with his.

He heard Inspector Keating’s voice. ‘You can go home, you know.’

‘Are you staying?’

‘I have to, but you don’t. I can vouch for you.’

‘I think the last train has probably gone.’

‘Let’s have a look round.’

They parted the black drapes at the back of the stage and found themselves in the clutter of the green room. It was a mess of instrument cases, scattered music stands and empty bottles of booze. A hat stand held a couple of trilbies and a few raincoats, and one of Gloria Dee’s red satin dresses fell from a hanger that had been attached to a nail in the wall. The place smelled of sweat, cigarettes and alcohol. Billboards of previous concerts, featuring Jimmy Deuchar, Ronnie Scott and Kenny Baker, were peeling from the walls. Justin, Gloria Dee’s driver, was doing a crossword. Liza was pouring herself some rum. ‘I’m just having a teensy weenie pick-me-up.’ She giggled. ‘Now I’m picking up the pick-me-up.’

Sidney could tell that she was intoxicated. ‘I need to ask where you were during the concert.’

‘Here,’ Justin replied.

‘All the time?’

Justin set his crossword aside. ‘Sometimes we stand in the wings. For the main numbers.’

‘You never watch from the front?’ Sidney asked.

Liza answered for them both. ‘They send for things all the time: water, towels, drink. It’s quicker if we’re here.’

‘And you were backstage during the drum solo?’

‘We watched that from the wings. Tony’s my boyfriend. The drumming is the best bit.’

‘Don’t tell Miss Dee that,’ Justin added.

‘You’ll be driving them back to the hotel?’ Sidney asked.

‘That’s what I’ve been told to do.’

Inspector Keating stepped in. ‘So we’ll know where to find you if we have any further questions?’

‘I live in Earls Court,’ Justin replied. ‘You can have my address. But, for the moment, I go where Miss Dee goes and I do what Miss Dee says.’

‘I hope she pays you well . . .’

Liza sniggered and waited for Justin to answer. ‘She pays. It’s not always about the money . . .’

Sidney accompanied the inspector back on to the stage, where Phil ‘the Cat’ was sitting on the piano stool. His body was slumped, as if half the bones in his body had been removed. An abandoned roll-up rested between his fingers.

‘Can you think of anyone who would hold anything against your daughter?’ the inspector asked. ‘Anyone with a grudge?’

‘She’s a beautiful girl. All I’ve got. She’s never done anything wrong. None of the boys would touch her.’

‘Was there anything your daughter could have seen?’ Sidney asked.

‘You mean a witness to something? It’s possible.’

‘Was your daughter sweet on anyone?’ Sidney asked.

‘She’s too young for any of that.’

Sidney noticed that Phil referred to his daughter in the present tense.

Inspector Williams continued. ‘So you can’t think of anyone who would want to do her any harm?’

‘No one. I swear to God, Inspector – and in front of this clergyman. Everyone loves my girl. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.’

Sidney rested his hand on Phil’s shoulder. ‘I will pray for her.’

‘She was an angel,’ Claudette’s father replied.

Sidney timed the journey from the stage to the Ladies and diagonally across the room. Even with the crowded tables it would have taken little more than a minute to cross. He tried to think how a murderer could have struck so quickly and powerfully and without being seen. It seemed impossible, and yet it had happened. He watched as two ambulance men took Claudette’s body away. There was no beauty or stillness in her death, only absence.

He returned to where he had been sitting and waited as the members of the audience gave their details and statements. Then he put his head in his hands.

Where was God now? he asked himself. Where had He been on the battlefields of Normandy, in the Blitz over London and in the bombed cities of Europe? How could a loving God permit such monumental suffering and what purpose did it serve? And, in contrast with such a widespread human catastrophe, how could God also allow something so small in scale and yet so intimately brutal as the murder of this single girl on this particular night? What could anyone have had against her to provoke such violence? How could there be any reason or justification for her death?

 

The two friends took the first morning train back to Cambridge. It was already light when they arrived and Sidney had only a few hours before early morning Communion. He would wash and shave and then try to catch some sleep in the afternoon. There was no time to go to bed.

He took Dickens out for his favourite walk across the Meadows but, despite the stillness of the river and the beauty of the light amidst the willows, Sidney’s mood could not lift. He was haunted by the murder and what he might have done to prevent it.

He walked across the graveyard filled with trees of yew, holm oak and cherry, and stopped before a broken column: the grave of a twenty-six-year-old man whose life had been cut short in 1843. He passed the memorial for the twenty-five soldiers from Grantchester who had died in the two wars:

 

They shall grow not old

As we that are left grow old . . .

 

Inside the church, he began to pray for the soul of Claudie Johnson and for the sorrows of the world. Today, he decided, he would visit the sick of the parish: Beryl Cooper, who had acute arthritis; Harold Streat, the funeral director, whose elderly father was suffering from dementia; Brenda Hardy, the postman’s wife, who had breast cancer. He had to stay with each one for as long as possible, providing unhurried comfort, calm and companionship. It was the least he could do, and every time he did so, he realised that the sick and the dying could teach him more than he could ever learn amidst the hurly burly of the everyday. The elderly and the sick had a different view of the world; they were already more than halfway on their journey towards the invisible realm where, it had been promised, all things shall be made known.

That afternoon, Sidney’s sister Jennifer telephoned to say that the Johnson family were inconsolable. There was nothing she could do or say that might comfort them. All she could do was offer practical help. Could she therefore ask for her brother’s advice regarding Claudette’s funeral arrangements? There was going to be a post-mortem, and then a service in a London crematorium but, as not one of the Johnson family was a churchgoer, perhaps Sidney could say a few words at the service?

‘I’m sure their vicar will be able to do that, Jennifer.’

‘They don’t have a vicar.’

‘Everyone has a vicar. Whether people choose to use him or not is another matter.’

‘But they like you, Sidney.’

‘Do you know what parish they are in?’

‘Somewhere in Brixton, I think. But Johnny has asked for you. They trust you.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Johnny’s father is so upset that he won’t speak.’

‘It will take a long time.’

‘I can’t believe anyone could have done such a thing, Sidney. Claudie was going to be a little sister to me.’

‘So it’s serious with Johnny?’

‘We can’t think about ourselves at the moment.’

Sidney tried to imagine what it might be like to lose a sister. It was almost unthinkable. There was so much that he felt that he still had to share with Jennifer that to lose her so suddenly, as Johnny had lost Claudette, without any farewell, would make him regret all the times in his life that he had taken her for granted or been too preoccupied to see her.

He resolved, then and there, and even as Jennifer was speaking, to spend more time with her, to cherish her presence and to be a better brother.

‘Do not think you have always to say the right thing,’ he began. ‘It does not have to be meaningful. It’s all right to be silent. All you can do is be alongside them.’

‘That’s what I am doing.’

‘Nothing can be hurried. Grief has to take its time.’

For a moment Sidney worried that his sister was still on the line. Then she spoke. ‘There’s something else.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Claudie had a boyfriend.’

‘Did her father know?’

‘It was a secret. I don’t think that anyone knew. She was always her Daddy’s little girl. But the point is that they had broken it off.’

‘And so?’

‘Sam was in the club with some friends on the night of her death. Now he’s terrified of anyone finding out that he was ever her boyfriend.’

‘The police have questioned him?’

‘Of course.’

‘And he gave nothing away?’

‘He doesn’t think so, but it’s not only the police he’s worried about. It’s the Johnson family. I’m sure they wouldn’t do anything but his father does have some nasty friends. They might put two and two together and make five.’

‘You mean they might think that he killed her?’

‘Exactly. And then take the law into their own hands. They don’t trust the police. I know that much. Will you speak to him, Sidney?’

‘Me?’

‘Who else can he talk to? You are used to sharing confidences and you know how the police work.’

Sidney knew that he should help his sister but he did not want to become personally involved any more than he was already. ‘I do have my work to do here.’

‘Sam is frightened. Please will you see him? He’s willing to come to Grantchester. He’ll tell you everything.’

‘It’s not the type of thing I do, Jenny. I’m not sure anything I say will be of any benefit.’

‘But he needs help. That’s what you offer, isn’t it? And he’s a good boy. I know they loved each other but Sam was scared of her family. I think something may have happened that caused it all to end but neither of them would tell me. And now it’s too late. Please will you see him, Sidney, as a favour to me?’

‘Very well,’ Sidney replied. He could hardly refuse his own sister. ‘But I can’t promise anything.’

‘All I ask is that you see him.’

 

A few days later, a shy-looking boy in a dark suit and a college tie was waiting to speak to Sidney after the Sunday morning Communion service. He made a tentative approach, as if his shoes were too tight for him. ‘I’m Sam Morris,’ he said.

A wood pigeon flew out of the trees. Sidney steeled himself for another difficult confrontation. ‘I’ve been expecting you, Sam. I normally take my dog for a walk after the service. Perhaps you would like to join us?’

‘If it’s not any trouble.’

They returned to the vicarage, put Dickens on his lead and set off for the Meadows. On the way Sidney expressed his condolences and established that he had understood the facts his sister had conveyed. He also needed to make clear that anything Sam said was, of course, in confidence, but also that his influence in the current situation was extremely limited. There was only so much he could do; but if Sam wanted someone with whom he could share any anxiety and who would not rush to judge him, then Sidney hoped he could be of assistance.

‘Some friends were going to the club and asked if I wanted to come along. They didn’t know about Claudette and I wasn’t sure she’d be there. She doesn’t work every night and I hadn’t seen her since Christmas.’

‘And did you speak to her at all?’

‘I said “Hello” and she looked a bit embarrassed.’

‘Did any of your friends notice her discomfort?’

‘I don’t think so. My friend Max was quite keen on her. But she couldn’t stop at any table for long. She had her job to do.’

‘And were you hoping to see her alone?’

‘She said if I waited until the end then perhaps we could talk but I knew she didn’t want us to be seen together. Her father is very protective.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

They had reached the Meadows, and Sidney set Dickens free to explore pastures both new and familiar. ‘How long were you together?’ he asked.

‘About six months. We used to walk by the Thames and hold hands. But then a strange thing happened. I was going home one night and a man started walking alongside me. I thought he wanted to get past so I slowed down but then he slowed down too. I picked up the pace and he did the same. He didn’t say anything. He just kept matching my footsteps. Eventually I stopped. I asked what he wanted and he just told me to stay away from Claudie if I knew what was good for me.’

‘Could you describe this man?’

‘I knew him. He was a friend of her father’s. He’s called Tommy Jackson. He runs a garage in Tooting.’

‘And then he just walked away?’

‘He called it a “friendly warning” but I didn’t know what to think. I spoke to Claudette and she told me not to worry. Tommy would never do anything. He was probably just having a laugh but it didn’t feel like that to me. And then, after that, things never quite felt the same. I was worried every time I saw her.’

‘She couldn’t put your mind at rest?’

‘We came from different backgrounds. I was at university. I couldn’t imagine bringing her home to meet my parents. But she was beautiful and she had such life in her. I didn’t know what to think or do, but in the end I told her I just couldn’t see her any more.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She thought I was a coward. How did I know, she asked, if she hadn’t sent Tommy Jackson herself as a test to see how much I loved her? I told her that if she had done that, it was a mean trick. We argued. Then it was over.’

‘And yet you went to the club on the night she died. Why did you do that?’

‘I missed her. And I wanted to see if she had found anyone else.’

‘Have you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘So you wanted her back?’

‘I wanted to see her. That was as far as I had thought. If we spoke then I hoped to take it from there. I didn’t have a proper plan, and it was so crowded I could never get near her. There was no time.’

Sidney realised that Sam Morris was finding it difficult to express himself clearly and decided to ask a few direct questions in order to ascertain exactly what had happened. ‘Did you go to the Gents at all?’ he asked.

‘Of course I did. It was a long night.’

‘When?’

‘I’m not sure. About half an hour before she was discovered. I went at the same time as my friend Max. There were witnesses if that’s what you are worried about.’

‘I understand. When you were being questioned did you admit that you knew Claudette?’

‘No.’

‘You lied?’

‘I was frightened.’

‘I understand, Sam, but if your relationship does come to light then this will not help your cause.’

‘No one will seriously think I was involved, will they?’

‘At some stage the police will need to know all the facts. I don’t want to alarm you unduly but a secret, whatever the context, is always problematic. If you reveal it, then at least you have control over how it is told and you can explain it in your own terms. If it is discovered, however, then you cannot predict when that will happen or how people might interpret it. It’s a matter of timing. If you go to the police, even now, and tell them what happened then you will have control over the information. If you do not . . .’

‘I don’t think I can do that.’

‘If Tommy Jackson knew that you were seeing Claudette then I am afraid that it will come to light. There is no escaping this, Sam.’

‘I have done nothing wrong.’

‘I know it doesn’t sound serious in comparison with murder but, as a matter of fact, you have. You have told a direct lie to the police. They don’t take kindly to that sort of thing. Of course you could just carry on and hope that no one finds out.’

‘Do you think that’s likely?’

‘It’s possible. But then, once again, if you hope to conceal something, you have no control over the release of information, and so you live in a state of anxiety.’

‘Can you help me?’

‘I can have a word with Inspector Keating here in Cambridge if you like. He was there on the night and he’s a good man. But the information would be far better coming from you directly.’

‘I know.’

‘Where are you living at the moment?’

‘In London University halls.’

‘Is it easy to find you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I need you to tell me if anything unusual happens or if you receive any more warnings. It would be easier if you had told the police at the time of Tommy Jackson’s warning.’

‘The Johnson family are not very keen on the police, as you can imagine. To go to them would be the worst thing I could have done. Claudette told me that I just had to wait until she was eighteen and then we could do what we liked. It was only going to be another six months but I didn’t believe her. I thought there would always be pressure from her father and his friends.’

Sidney was thinking about the events of 7 May. ‘I still don’t understand why you went to the club that night. You could have sent her a message and arranged to meet elsewhere. You must have known her father and all his friends would be there.’

‘I didn’t think it through. I was with my friends. I thought it would be all right, and I wanted to see Claudette. But, of course, as soon as I arrived I knew it was a mistake. She asked me what on earth I was doing there.’

‘I thought she just said “Hello”.’

‘No. I bumped into her again a bit later.’

‘And when was that?’

‘When I was on the way back from the Gents.’

Sidney thought it was incredible that this boy could neither tell his story clearly nor realise the potential trouble that he might be in. ‘Did anyone see you talking together?’

‘I don’t know. I was only looking at Claudette. The barman called her over.’

‘So he must have seen you?’

‘I suppose so.’

Sidney was momentarily infuriated. There was no suppose about it. How could this boy be so hapless?

‘I’m sorry, Canon Chambers, I’m scared. I am just a student who wants to become a doctor. I never intended to get mixed up in all this.’

‘I can see that.’

Sidney was exasperated. How could Sam Morris be so aware of the trouble that he might be in but remain so ignorant of the implications of his behaviour? What had he been thinking in going to the club that night, seeing Claudette once more and then lying to the police?

As a priest Sidney’s first instinct was to listen hard and trust what he had been told, but after they had said their goodbyes and Sam had left, a number of anxieties remained. Had the boy given a clear account of everything that had happened or was he still hiding information? Sidney sensed that Sam was trustworthy and hardly likely to be responsible for Claudette’s death, but he had also been extraordinarily naive. He might have charm and intelligence, but he was undoubtedly weak, and he had given up on love too easily. Sidney puzzled over whether he might have done things differently if he had been the same age, and what he could do to help a boy who had got himself into such a mess.

 

When informed of the conversation with Sam at their regular Thursday night session of backgammon in The Eagle, Inspector Keating responded with a burst of anger Sidney had never seen before. ‘Tell that bloody boy to come and see me and make a statement. We can’t have him blabbering away to a clergyman even if it’s you. There’s a procedure to these matters.’

‘I only thought it might be helpful.’

‘Of course it’s not helpful. It’s bloody unhelpful. Tommy Jackson was in the jazz club with all his mates. He was sitting at a table by the front of the stage for the entire bloody drum solo. He couldn’t have done it.’

‘I’m not saying he did.’

‘None of them could, as far as I can tell. For all I know this could be a double-bluff – your boy getting his story in early, shifting the blame elsewhere before we get to him; a pre-emptive strike. Does he have an alibi?’

‘Not really.’

‘What do you mean “not really”. Honestly, Sidney . . .’

‘And he went to the Gents about half an hour before the murder.’

‘So he could have done it?’

‘Half an hour before, Geordie.’

‘He could have murdered the girl then and moved the body later.’

‘But why would he tell me all this?’

‘I’ve said: a double-bluff.’

‘He’s not that kind of boy.’

‘What kind of boy is he, then?’

‘I meant that he doesn’t seem the murdering type.’

‘No one seems the murdering type. That’s the whole point, Sidney. If the murdering type made himself known to us then crimes would be solved a hell of a lot quicker.’

The inspector took another sip of his pint. Their game of backgammon had been abandoned. ‘Have you got any other ideas? Williams doesn’t seem to be getting very far and if I tell him anything about Sam Morris he’ll pull him in.’

Sidney wondered whether to offer his friend another drink. This meeting was not going as well as he had hoped. In fact he was troubled by Inspector Keating’s aggression. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘I’ll have to. I can’t withhold evidence.’

Sidney was alarmed and disappointed. This was surely a breach of trust. ‘I told you about Sam in confidence.’

‘I know that, and I won’t tell Williams right away. But if, in the course of the investigation I am asked, then I cannot tell a lie. I hope you understand that, Sidney.’

‘Not entirely.’

‘You should have anticipated this. You know me well enough.’

‘I am not sure I do.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Would you like another drink?’

‘I am not sure we have time.’

‘I’ll get you a swift half.’ The inspector signalled to the barman. ‘The thing is, that, in future, you should probably think a little bit more about exactly what you want to tell me. Priests and doctors believe in the ethics of confidentiality. I, unfortunately, do not. So I think, at the very least, I will have to suggest your boy is questioned again, if only, perhaps, for his own protection.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If he committed the crime then we will have our man. It probably won’t take much to get him to confess.’

‘But he didn’t do it.’

‘You say so.’ Keating picked up the two half-pints from the bar and then continued. ‘However, if the boy is innocent then whoever killed Claudette may be out to get him as well.’

‘Unless he is trying to implicate Sam.’

‘That is a possibility. But if Sam is in custody then at least he will be safe.’

‘You are suggesting he is arrested?’

‘I am suggesting he is questioned. In my experience a clandestine relationship is never a secret. There are always people who know. We just need more information: about Sam Morris, Claudette, her father and his associates.’

Sidney still could not understand the need to concentrate on a boy who was surely innocent; unless, of course he had misread him completely. ‘If that boy is arrested because of what I have said my sister will be furious.’

‘I think there are more important things than your sister’s anger. Besides, if he is guilty, and he killed the girl out of jealousy, or because she wouldn’t have him back, then the case is closed. Your sister can hardly complain and Williams might even thank you.’

‘Sam Morris can’t have done it.’

‘He can, Sidney. You have to leave your feelings out of this.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Well, if you don’t then we need to discover far more than we know already. That’s where you can help.’ The inspector finished his drink. ‘As long as you don’t mind acknowledging that we sometimes have to trample over people’s feelings. We can’t always behave in a Christian way, Sidney. You may find that this conflicts with your principles.’

‘I will not let it do so. I will try and bring a moral purpose to any investigation.’

Inspector Keating stood up and put on his coat, signalling that their time together was at an end. ‘I don’t mind what you bring, Sidney, as long as it leads to a conviction. That’s all I care about. I’ll let you finish your drink.’

The half-pint the inspector had bought Sidney remained untouched. There was nothing left to say.

 

The following morning Sidney took an assembly at the local primary school and held a meeting to discuss plans for an elderly people’s luncheon club. Although he undertook these tasks with his customary authority and charm, he did not feel that he was giving either of them his full attention. Behind the mask of priestly professionalism was a worried man. He felt that he had betrayed the trust of Sam Morris and that his friend Geordie Keating had ridden roughshod over his careful revelation of the facts.

The feeling of unease now crept into his work as a priest. He had lost confidence in his instinct and he was overwhelmed by the work he had neglected. Sidney had never been very good at differentiating between tasks that were urgent and those which were important, and often those tasks that seemed urgent, but were not important, took precedence over the duties that were important, but not urgent. As a result, the constant, serious business of being a priest was displaced by distraction. He needed time, space and silence in which to reflect on the things that mattered and the things that did not. It also did not help when Mrs Maguire kept interrupting him with news of Dickens’s latest misdemeanours.

The two of them were, Sidney decided, mutually exclusive. In the kitchen Mrs Maguire would move Dickens’s basket to wash the floor and attempt to mop the dog out of the way. Dickens would then dash round her back and give the ankle of his persecutor a playful nip. If successful, Sidney would then hear his housekeeper cry out: ‘Rabies. He’s given me rabies, Canon Chambers.’

‘Dickens is a puppy, Mrs Maguire.’

‘He’s a dog. And a ruddy big one too. What are you feeding him?’

‘Winalot.’

‘I don’t know how you can afford it.’

‘It’s not easy.’

Mrs Maguire gave him one of her looks. ‘I should have a word with the butcher’s if I were you, Canon Chambers. I am sure Hector can give you some scraps. Especially now meat’s off ration.’

‘Miss Kendall says he needs more than scraps.’

‘Then why can’t Miss Kendall pay? After all, she brought him here.’

‘Amanda has other concerns.’

‘Then lucky her.’ Mrs Maguire began to walk up the stairs with a change of linen. ‘I notice she hasn’t paid a visit for a while.’

Sidney tried to defend his friend. ‘She has her work at the National Gallery. She also has quite an active social life.’

His housekeeper was already on to the next task. Even so, Sidney distinctly thought he could hear her mutter, ‘A bit too active if you ask me.’

Sidney sat at his desk and tried to get on with his paperwork but found it even harder to concentrate on his clerical duties than he had done before. He could not get excited either by the annual scouts trip to Scarborough or by the plans for the upcoming summer fête, and they had still not found a suitably famous person to open it. He wondered if he could ask Gloria Dee. That would certainly liven things up a bit.

He turned on the wireless and listened to the Light Programme, hoping that there might at least be some jazz to lighten his mood. He managed to find the Charlie Parker Quartet playing ‘Moose the Mooche’, but it made him feel uneasy. He knew that he was supposed to ‘get with’ this freer form of jazz and appreciate both its speed and artistry, but he could not find it relaxing. In fact, it made him rather tense. To make matters worse, Mrs Maguire was banging about upstairs, and Dickens was pawing at his shins, keen to get outside. Then the telephone rang.

It was Inspector Keating and he was in no mood for chitchat. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began. ‘When are you next going to London?’

Sidney reached for his pocket diary. ‘Tuesday, I think. There is a meeting of the Church Assembly.’

‘The what?’

‘Think of it as the Annual General Meeting of The Church of England.’

‘Never mind that. I’ve had an idea. Have you got any time?’

‘How long do you need?’

‘I thought you could look into Phil Johnson’s past: old cases, former crimes. We’ve got the details here, and I’m sending them round to you. They are as long as your arm but some of them are too sketchy. I was hoping you could do some digging around. There’s a newspaper library in Colindale. We’ve got the dates of the trials. You just need to see how they were reported at the time and whether any of the victims said anything; who gave interviews to the press, that kind of thing.’

‘You should get that new reporter from the local paper to do it.’

‘Helena Randall? I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her. No, Sidney, it needs to be someone who is discreet, who can read between the lines and who knows about people. In short, Sidney, it needs to be you. Perhaps you could combine it with seeing Miss Kendall?’

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘Don’t be daft. I’ve given you a perfect excuse. And Gloria Dee is still playing. Take Miss Kendall as your cover story. I’ll even pay for the tickets. That lot are worth another look . . .’

‘They certainly are.’

‘Not for the music, Sidney. Because if Sam Morris didn’t do it, as you have suggested, then they, like everyone else, are suspects. We’re going to have to go back to the beginning and start all over again.’

‘So you want me to look for links?’

‘I do.’

‘In that case, I’ll need a list of the names of everyone who was in the room at the time.’

‘I’m sending you that too. But don’t let Williams catch you with it.’

‘I don’t have any intention of seeing him if I can help it.’

‘Make sure everything goes through me, Sidney, because if you want to save that boy you had better start making some connections. Williams is seeing him today.’

‘They’ve arrested him?’

‘No, they are bringing him in for a few questions. It’s routine at the moment but you know how these things can develop. So you should get a move on. Have a sniff around. Look like an ordinary member of the public and see what you can find out. I want your report first thing Wednesday morning. Leads, trails, anyone we should chase up or have followed. You know the kind of thing . . .’

‘But Geordie . . .’

‘No time to argue. See you Wednesday.’

Sidney sighed. He looked at the notes he had made for his sermon and realised that, although he had made a start, he had so much more to do. He had been called out into the wider world.

It was going to be a long way back to God.

 

The police records revealed that most of Phil Johnson’s crimes had taken place in London: a jeweller’s in Hatton Garden, an antique shop in Kensington, a flat in Harley Street, a retired ambassador’s house in Mayfair. Johnson would generally access buildings via roofs, upper windows and skylights and sometimes, in the richer neighbourhoods, he even worked in a dinner suit so that he would not arouse suspicion on his departure. His two accomplices were a safecracker and a getaway driver, but he often acted alone and he had clearly managed to squirrel away thousands of pounds’ worth of goods in the gaps between his prison sentences. He had gone straight either because he had become bored of prison or because he was no longer as agile as he once had been.

What these factual accounts needed was a bit of psychological background, and Sidney recognised that his task was to fill in the gaps with human detail. If Claudie Johnson’s death was an act of revenge then Sidney needed to find out more about the victims of these crimes. He wondered how many of them were still alive, what kind of insurance they had taken out – could some of them have been inside jobs, perhaps? – and whether any of them had criminal records themselves. He was going to have to look for inconsistencies, coincidences, potential patterns and unusual details.

He met Amanda for an early lunch on the second floor of the J. Lyons Corner House on the Strand. Sidney had been looking forward to trying the self-service cafeteria, where he would place his tray on a moving conveyor belt and choose the items from the hot cabinets as they moved past, but Amanda instantly dismissed the idea. They were going to have the table d’hôte waitress service and that was that: farmhouse pie with parsnips in a cream sauce followed by either a sponge Neapolitan or a meringue glace.

Amanda had been appalled by the murder of Claudette Johnson but intrigued by her father’s burglaries. ‘Your man was a bit of a Raffles, I imagine. I wonder if he ever met Daphne Young?’

‘It’s possible. He certainly knew where the rich pickings lay. Some of his crimes were quite close to your parents’ house.’

‘Belgravia? I can imagine. Lots of antiques round there, and that’s just the people.’

‘Were any of your parents’ friends ever burgled?’

‘I should say so. One of them even went mad. A bit like Juliette Thompson, only worse.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was a woman. What was her name? Mrs Templeton, I think. It was after her husband had died. He knew my father, and the burglary took place during his funeral. Can you believe the nerve? Her husband had been an ambassador and so the service was announced in The Times. They might as well have added: “We will not be at home for several hours.” The thieves just went in and took the lot.’

‘Templeton, you say, Amanda? That was one of our man’s jobs. What happened?’

‘As I said, she went mad; she never recovered from the shock of the burglary. They were both gone within the year. Terrible really.’ Amanda finished her sponge Neapolitan. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

‘I’m going to Colindale, to the newspaper library, to look through the old crime reports. Then I have to attend a meeting at the Church Assembly.’

‘Sounds thrilling . . .’

‘After that I’m going to hear Gloria Dee again. Perhaps you’d like to come?’

‘Jazz is not really my thing, Sidney. You do realise that Rubinstein is playing Rachmaninov at the Festival Hall?’

‘I’m sorry, Amanda.’

‘Hang on, though. Wasn’t Gloria Dee the singer who was performing when the poor girl was murdered?’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling you.’

‘I don’t suppose any of the band could have done it?’

‘They were on stage at the time.’

‘The perfect alibi. One of them could have had an accomplice.’

‘Will you come?’ Sidney asked. He was in no mood for further conjecture. ‘It’s in Soho, so not far. We can go to the bar and you can meet Gloria.’

‘It would be interesting to see what she is like.’

‘She is rather fabulous.’

‘And she may even be a murderer. Where are you staying tonight?’

‘A friend at the Abbey has agreed to put me up.’

‘You could have kipped on our sofa.’

‘I’m not much of a kipper, I’m afraid, Amanda.’

‘No Sidney, you have more soul. Shall I pay the bill?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘It’s only seven and six. I know the clergy never have any money.’

Amanda had recently discovered that Sidney’s annual stipend was £550. There had been an article in The Times about clergy salaries and she had asked Sidney if it was true. She was intrigued because her car had cost more than twice his annual income. ‘Perhaps the police should start paying you as well?’ she asked.

‘There’s no need for that.’

‘Or maybe Miss Dee will sweep you off to America?’

‘That is highly unlikely,’ Sidney replied.

‘But still possible?’ Amanda teased. ‘You can be such a dreamer. I think it’s one of the things I like best about you. Anything can happen.’

‘That is not always a good thing, of course.’

‘But it does mean that life with you is never dull.’

 

The next day’s visit to the newspaper library took up far more time than Sidney had anticipated. There were reports of some of the original burglaries that Phil the Cat had committed but little information that was not in the police files. Sidney found himself looking for reviews of jazz concerts instead.

He was too excited about the evening trip to Soho to concentrate on much else. He decided to wear his double-breasted suit and this time his Homburg hat, which even attracted the approval of passers-by.

‘Hey man, nice lid.’

A thin, blonde woman in a short skirt and a low-cut top was standing in a doorway. ‘Need a girl?’ she asked.

‘Not at the moment,’ Sidney replied. ‘But thank you for offering.’

He met Amanda at The Moka in Frith Street and then proceeded down a series of dingy alleys where several couples were taking advantage of the darkness to get to know each other better. Sidney knew that Amanda was unused to these surroundings but decided that it was good for her to experience them. When they arrived at the club he ordered her a Martini and found a table to the side of the stage.

‘What time do they come on?’ Amanda asked.

‘Miss Dee likes it late.’

‘And how is your investigation?’

‘Slow,’ Sidney replied.

‘The police not much help?’

‘They’re doing their best but there were so many people in the club. It could have been almost anyone.’

‘Do you think it was a crime passionnel?’

Sidney felt a presence by his side. ‘You talkin’ about passion?’

It was Gloria Dee. She was wearing a golden sheath dress. It looked as if honey had been poured over her body and left to set.

Sidney had the look of a schoolboy who had never seen a woman in his life before. ‘You remember me?’ he asked.

‘Sure thing, I remember you, sweetheart. Every time you show up someone gets killed. Who’s your baby?’

‘This is my friend, Miss Kendall.’

‘Pleased to meet you, friend.’ Gloria turned back to Sidney. ‘You found the cat who killed that girl?

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Better get a wiggle on. Man could’ve moved miles by now.’

‘Or woman of course,’ Sidney replied.

‘Tell it to Sweeney. I don’t think a woman did that. She’s more likely to use a stiletto. Stranglin’s hard work.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘You never killed a chick?’ She looked at Sidney’s companion. ‘I mean the animal variety . . .’

‘Wouldn’t you leave that sort of thing to your husband?’ Amanda asked.

‘Ain’t got no husband. You don’t keep the carton once you’ve smoked the cigarette. What you preachin’, Sidney?’

‘The usual.’

‘And what you drinkin’?’

‘Whisky.’

‘Are you going to fix me one?’

‘Whatever you like’.

‘I’ll take a triple shot and have it on stage.’ Gloria signalled to the barman. He had clearly been briefed to keep an eye on her. ‘I’ve got to get myself ready. You’re one lucky woman, Miss Kendall. Don’t know if I’ve ever seen an English cat so hip to the jive as your man.’

The lights dimmed, a spotlight moved on to the drums, followed by the bass and then the piano. Sidney realised that Gloria was about to sing one of his favourite songs: ‘Careless Love’. He only hoped Amanda would appreciate it.

Almost all of Gloria’s songs were about love, disaster and recovery. ‘I Ain’t Got Nobody’, ‘I’m Wild about That Thing’, and ‘Gimme a Pigfoot’, but they were brightened by one of the most unexpected moments in Sidney’s life. Gloria dedicated a song to him.

‘When you hear that the preachin’ has begin

Bend down low to drive away your sin

When you get religion

You’ll want to shout and sing

There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight’

Amanda was not amused. ‘How much more of this do we have to put up with?’ she asked.

‘It’s a rare treat,’ Sidney replied. ‘I’m enjoying it.’

Halfway through the song Sidney realised that Gloria was teasing him.

‘Please, oh please, oh, do not let me fall,

You’re all mine and I love you best of all,

And you must be my man, or I’ll have no man at all,

There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight!’

The song came to an end, Gloria smiled, gave a little bow and blew him a kiss.

‘That was hardly necessary,’ Amanda said.

‘She doesn’t mean it.’

Gloria Dee thanked the audience for coming. ‘Before we take a break, I’d like to introduce the band . . .’ she began, and then paused to take a large glass of water and a shot of bourbon.

Sidney whispered to Amanda. ‘I need to see what happens in the drum solo; if people leave. It may give me a clue. I think this is the end of the first set.’

‘The first set. You mean there’s more?’

The band struck up a version of ‘Embraceable You’ and the introductions were made at the end of each solo. As soon as Tony Sanders’s moment on the drums came some of the more experienced punters used his improvisation as an early opportunity to order a sharpener at the bar or get to the toilets.

Sidney realised how easy it would be for a criminal to take advantage of the situation but also how risky. There would only be a very short time, and there was the constant danger of being discovered.

When the first half came to an end a waitress approached the table to ask if they wanted to order food. Amanda said that if they weren’t leaving she would like fried chicken with some white wine. As Sidney looked up, a boy and a girl pushed past to go to the bar. He ordered another beer and asked for a steak. When the couple returned he remembered that they were Liza Richardson and Justin the driver. But what were they doing out front? They had told him that they always remained backstage.

‘Hello again,’ he called out.

‘Oh,’ said Liza. ‘It’s you. We were just fetching drinks.’

‘I didn’t expect to see you amongst the audience.’

‘Sometimes we need emergency supplies.’

Sidney looked at the drinks and was surprised to see a key on the tray. He wondered what it could be for. ‘This is my friend Amanda . . .’ he told them.

Amanda looked at Justin. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Was it at the Blakeleys?’

Justin seemed keen to get backstage as the number was about to finish. Perhaps he was scared of his employer. ‘I don’t know any Blakeleys, I’m afraid.’

‘What’s your surname?’

‘Wild.’

Amanda didn’t give up. ‘I’m sure we’ve met. I never forget a face.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Justin replied. ‘I would definitely have remembered you. But if you’ll excuse me I have Miss Dee to attend to.’

After he had gone Amanda was puzzled. ‘That was very odd. As soon as he saw me he looked frightened.’

‘You do have that effect on some people.’

‘No, Sidney, this was different. It was as if he thought I was some kind of ghost . . .’

‘Well, I’m sure he’ll get over it.’

‘And quicker than you’ll get over Miss Dee. That singer has quite turned your head.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘She has.’

‘She has not.’

‘Then you won’t mind if we leave?’

‘So soon?’

‘It’s late, Sidney. I have to be at work at nine in the morning. We can’t all live the life of a clergyman.’

‘It has its pressures.’

‘Only because you create most of them. The next concert we go to will have to be at the Festival Hall. The Düsseldorf Symphony Orchestra are coming next month.’

Sidney sighed. As midnight chimed over Soho he realised that it was going to take a long time to convert Amanda to the wonders of jazz.

 

The day of Claudette’s funeral was one of heat and impending storm. Sidney had been informed that there would be a procession from the Johnson household to the crematorium and was surprised to see not only the mourners waiting outside, but also a brass band and half the jazz community of London. As the white coffin emerged from the house, held by pallbearers who had taken off their hats, the band struck up the old spiritual ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee.’

Three men led from the front with snare drums followed by trombones, saxophone and tuba; then the clarinets, and trumpets, and a bass drummer bringing up the rear.

Sidney’s brother Matt came over and spoke directly into Sidney’s ear over the volume of the music. ‘It’s a jazz funeral, New Orleans style. We’re all here. Three-line whip.’

‘Whose idea was this?’ Sidney asked.

‘It was mine. We’ve even persuaded Gloria Dee to sing at the service.’

‘That must have taken some doing.’

‘I used charm. Apparently it runs in the family.’

Sidney felt suddenly nervous about his ability to say a few appropriate words at the ceremony. He was used to speaking at country funerals and in churches where the congregation were expecting the traditions of the Anglican Communion. A jazz funeral was altogether different.

He wondered what Martha Headley would make of all this. She was the Grantchester blacksmith’s wife who sometimes helped out on the organ at funerals but was only confident of her ability to play two tunes, seeing the coffin into the church with Mendelssohn’s ‘Song without Words’, and out with ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring’.

Phil Johnson, Johnny and Jennifer led the mourners. Behind them, three women were holding a large floral tribute that spelled out the name CLAUDETTE. As the procession made its way through the south London streets, passers-by took off their hats as a sign of respect to the dead, remembering those they had lost themselves.

Gloria Dee had been waiting in the crematorium. She stood next to a baby grand piano and sang ‘Amazing Grace’ as the coffin was brought in. She sang unaccompanied, with such poise and intensity that at one point Sidney thought he could hear the timbers in the roof vibrate in response to the force of her voice.

Once the congregation had settled, he read the opening prayer.

‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’

Jennifer sat between Johnny and his father, with Matt Chambers just behind her. Sidney found it disorientating to see his brother and sister as members of a different family. A few rows behind them he noticed the rest of Gloria Dee’s Quartet: Jay Jay Lion, Milo Masters and Tony Sanders with his girlfriend Liza. Justin the driver sat behind them at the end of a row on his own.

After the prayers, the congregation gave a full rendition of ‘Take My Hand, Precious Lord’. It felt a long way from the hymn singing of Grantchester.

Sidney climbed the three steps into the pulpit to give his address. He preached about the sin and darkness of the world and the need for light in that darkness. Claudie Johnson had been one such light.

‘Amen,’ a man called out.

Sidney told them how Claudette was a girl who carried her goodness into the lives of others; and that this was the task of all us, no matter how weak or strong our faith. We needed to try and leave a better world than the one into which we were born.

This was a moment for reflection, he said; for patience and silence and time. We must be ready not only to offer words of comfort but also to listen to words of grief. Not even the firmest faith was enough to insulate us from the pain of loss, or from the sense that, with the death of someone dear to us, our own life had lost its meaning. Time had to take its course, and in that time we should recognise that where there is sorrow there is holy ground.

Claudette was too soon returned to earth, he continued, but she would live on both as a memory and as an example to all who had known her. There is always a future for our deepest loves.

He ended by quoting Byron’s poem ‘To Thyrza’:

 

‘I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade;

The night that followed such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath past,

And thou wert lovely to the last –

Extinguished, not decayed,

As stars that shoot along the sky

Shine brightest as they fall from high.’

 

There was a silence and then, after the final prayers, Gloria moved to stand by the piano. Jay Jay Lion accompanied her as the coffin disappeared behind the curtains.

She began to sing.

 

‘Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen

Nobody knows but Jesus’

 

Sidney had never heard the song sung so slowly or with such intensity. There was a terrible truth in Gloria’s singing that seemed to stretch back over a life. Every phrase was considered; each word could be taken out and understood on its own as well as within the unfolding story of the song. The pauses between the phrases were held longer than Sidney had ever imagined possible. The song defied time and place. It was a blazingly honest performance: a lament for a life and an emphatic statement of readiness for death.

When Gloria had finished, there was silence, shock, applause and then, finally, a loud whistle. The brass band was back and it struck up a boisterous rendition of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’. The sadness was over. The congregation was expected to clap and dance its way out of the building, to thank God for the joy of a life rather than the fact of a death.

Phil did not join in. There was going to be a wake, he told Sidney, in a nearby boozer, and then they were going to have a memorial concert in the club in a few weeks’ time. All the jazz musicians in London were coming. ‘Just as long as we find the bastard who did this.’

Johnny Johnson shook Sidney’s hand and thanked him for the service. His sister kissed him. His brother offered to accompany him to the reception. ‘You may feel a bit out of your depth,’ he explained.

‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘That was quite a change from the usual Church of England service.’

‘Everything about today has been disorientating, Matt. I sometimes feel that I am living in a different world.’

‘I don’t think that’s unusual,’ his brother replied. ‘Isn’t that your job?’

‘It’s not what I was expecting.’

‘You did well. It was a fitting tribute. Everyone loved Claudie.’

‘The whole thing is a mystery, Matt. Who do you think could have done such a thing?’

‘Jenny told you about Sam?’

‘You knew?’

‘I saw them together once. I didn’t like to say anything. But it all looked pretty innocent. And I can’t believe he was capable of violence.’

‘Neither can I. But we have to find someone who was.’

‘I hope you’re not going to get dragged into the whole investigation.’

‘I’ve done a bit of digging around but I haven’t really found anything. And I’m worried about Jennifer.’

‘You don’t think she’s in any danger?’

‘No, it’s not that. I rather like Johnny. I just don’t want her to expect too much. I’m not sure how well she knows him.’

‘It’s early days. You can’t expect everything to happen at once. But they’re a decent family once you get over the fact of her father’s past.’

‘He’s done his time.’

‘Unless, of course . . .’ Matt stopped in the street. ‘Someone thinks he hasn’t.’

‘I am afraid we have thought of that.’

‘A vendetta?’

‘If you think Claudette was not murdered by a lover or because she was a witness to a crime then it’s one of the few explanations left.’ Sidney replied. ‘But it seems such a warped way of thinking.’

‘But that is how anyone investigating the crime has to think if they want to find out who did it.’

‘I realise that it’s necessary to get inside the mind of a murderer. However, it’s not something I ever considered doing when I decided to become a priest.’

‘You don’t have to get involved, you know. The police are dealing with the case.’

‘But they don’t appear to be making much progress.’

‘You think you can make a difference?’

‘I have to offer to do what I can, Matt.’

‘Even if it’s not your job?’

‘When I was ordained, I studied the ordinal. It told me what priests are called to do. “They are to resist evil, support the weak, defend the poor, and intercede for all in need.” My job is to do the right thing.’

‘Even it overturns your life?’

‘Even so.’

 

On the train home Sidney thought over all that had happened. Perhaps his brother was right. There was only so much a priest could do. And he had begun to become embarrassed about his love of jazz. He had to admit that it was a bit of an affectation. He was an English parish priest who had been brought up in North London rather than the hot streets of Harlem. He was never going to be a hipster or a hepcat.

It was also becoming increasingly hard to convince himself that any of the work that he was doing for the police was of any benefit. He had found out about Phil ‘the Cat’ Johnson’s previous crimes, but there was nothing concrete to link any of them to the death of his daughter. When he got back to Grantchester he would have to stop these activities and concentrate on his duties in the parish: chairing a meeting about the church maintenance fund – the winter heating bills had been enormous –  discussing the forthcoming music for the choir, as well as organising the teams of volunteers to clean the church and do the flowers. He sometimes thought that being a vicar was a bit like being the managing director of a business in which no one was paid.

He also had to write his next sermon. Although he was tired after his funeral address he was pleased that it had gone well. Perhaps he could use that success to drive his thoughts forward to next Sunday. He would talk about love and time, he decided; human time and God’s time; earthly love and divine love; the gulf between the transient and the constant.

The writing would require a great deal of concentration and Sidney was relieved to find a vacant compartment. The freedom from interruption was such an unexpected luxury that he imagined he was travelling in first class. That was what bishops did, he thought to himself, together with successful City types, Amanda Kendall and probably, Gloria Dee. They were not only seeking extra comfort by travelling in such seclusion, they were also desperate for a life without interruption. The main attraction in first class, he realised, was the avoidance of other people.

He began to make notes for his sermon but his thoughts on love and time were interrupted at Finsbury Park when Mike Standing boarded the train. A small, balding man with a prodigious appetite and a heart condition, Mike was the treasurer of Grantchester’s parochial church council. No one quite knew what he did for a living but he had a sufficient number of ‘business interests’ to give him a public confidence with financial matters that he lacked in other forms of social interaction. His wife, Angela, had left him after three years of marriage. No one had quite known why, but Sidney suspected that it was because he did not have as much money as she had first thought.

After an exchange of pleasantries, during which Mike Standing struggled both to regain his breath and find a comfortable position in the otherwise empty carriage, both men settled down into what Sidney hoped would become a companionable silence. Mike Standing took out his copy of The Times. Within its pages a party of Italians were climbing Mount Everest, Pakistan were playing Northamptonshire at cricket, and Donald MacGill, the publisher of saucy seaside postcards, had been found guilty of breaching the Obscene Publications Act. It was all rather tame in comparison with Sidney’s exploits.

Mike Standing began the crossword while Sidney continued to marshal his ideas. His thoughts, however, kept returning either to jazz or to crime. Furthermore, Mike had begun to mutter. In fact, he could not seem to complete his crossword without providing a running commentary of his progress:

‘A blank T blank blank O . . . yes, I see, that must be ANTELOPE . . . but what about three across . . . if that is antelope then this must be RELIQUARY . . . gosh, oh no . . . eight down . . . help . . .’

He turned his attention to his companion. ‘You’re an educated man, Canon Chambers. Perhaps you could help me with this clue? ‘‘No tame Judge for Bacon’’: two words. The first word has four letters, the second has seven. The first letter of the first word is probably “W”.’

Sidney paused for a moment as the train pulled in to Stevenage. Such an unpromising town, he thought. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

‘ “No tame Judge for Bacon”. Two words.’

Sidney stopped.  A chill ran through his body. ‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘That’s it.’

‘What’s it?’

‘I have to get off the train . . .’

‘Why? I thought you were going home to Cambridge?’

Sidney gathered his papers and his suitcase. ‘I must telephone the police at once and return to London.’

‘But you’ve only just left.’

‘Amanda may be in danger. How could I have been so dim? I knew there was something wrong . . .’

‘My clue!’ Mike Standing called, but Sidney had already alighted and was making his way purposefully towards the stationmaster’s office.

He was convinced that the murderer had been working under an assumed name. He telephoned Amanda to test his theory and matched it with a newspaper report from Colindale that he’d made a note of, checking that the dates tallied. Then he telephoned Inspector Keating and persuaded him that an arrest needed to be made. The easiest place to do so, he informed Keating, would be at Phil Johnson’s jazz club in Soho that evening.

Inspector Williams was far from impressed that a clergyman had come up with a theory that might threaten the conviction of Sam Morris, but he was sufficiently fair-minded to agree to bring the suspect in for questioning. As a result, the forces of the law gathered together at 9 p.m. Officers in civvies mingled amongst the punters, uniformed police took up positions both at the front and in the back alley, while Keating and Sidney enjoyed a ginger ale at the bar.

Gloria Dee was in the middle of her first half. Sidney had persuaded the men to wait until she had finished as there would be less disruption and the arrest, provided there was no kerfuffle, could be made discreetly in the interval. She ended the session with ‘Ain’t No Grave’, accompanied by one of the finest jazz piano accompaniments Sidney had ever heard.

 

‘When I hear that trumpet sound

I’m gonna rise right out of the ground

Cause there ain’t no grave

Gonna hold my body down’

 

In the gaps between the verses, Jay Jay Lion let rip on the piano, with Gloria shouting out the odd ‘Hey’, as he went into free improvisation. As soon as they had finished, and before the band could get off the stage, four men moved to the green room while two others covered the back stairs. Liza had one hand on a bottle of beer and another on a towel ready for Gloria Dee’s exit. Justin Wild was reading a copy of Melody Maker and smoking a roll-up. He looked unsurprised at the arrival of the police and made no attempt to escape.

Chief Inspector Williams made the announcement. ‘Justin Templeton, I am arresting you for the murder of Claudette Johnson on the seventh of May 1954. You do not have to say anything now, but anything you do say . . .’

‘Justin Templeton?’ Liza asked. ‘I thought your name was Wild . . .’

Gloria Dee burst into the room, gathered her towel from Liza and was about to down her beer but stopped when she realised something was going on. ‘What the hell are you doin’?’

Inspector Williams explained. ‘I am arresting your driver on suspicion of murder.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘Never saner.’

Gloria turned to Justin. ‘I thought you just met her? What the hell were you playin’ at?’

‘I wasn’t playing,’ Justin replied.

‘What you talkin’ about? You killin’ people random style?’

‘It wasn’t random,’ Sidney interrupted.

Gloria Dee turned to confront him. ‘Jeepers, it’s you. What you doin’ now?’

‘I have been helping the police.’

‘You fingered my driver? How did you figure that one?’

‘I looked to the past, what might have been a motive.’

‘How far back do you go?’

‘Nearly ten years.’

‘You mean this has been planned for a decade? Holy moly.’

‘I had to look for an underlying reason for the crime.’

Gloria Dee thought for a moment. ‘I see. Goin’ for the chords rather than the melody.’

‘I think that’s what Charlie Parker does, doesn’t he?’ Sidney replied, unsure whether he should expose his scanty knowledge of bebop. ‘The improvisation on the chords of “Cherokee”?’

‘You’re on the trolley, man.’

Chief Inspector Williams interrupted. ‘If I could just make this arrest?’

Gloria Dee turned to Justin Wild. ‘I never had you down as an ice-man. She was just a baby. Shame on you.’

Justin Wild said nothing. The police led him away.

Sidney held back to apologise to Gloria. ‘I am sorry we had to step in. He had been recognised. He could have struck again.’

‘You mean he could have killed me?’

‘No, another woman.’

‘That broad you were with?’

‘Indeed.’

‘You sure attract trouble.’

‘I don’t mean to, Miss Dee.’

‘You may be a preacher-man but I can’t see how any girl can be safe with you around. What got you into jazz in the first place?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Gloria looked at him straight. ‘I’ve got all night.’

‘I’m not sure I . . .’

‘Why don’t you buy me a beer, Sidney?’

‘You remember my name?’

‘Sure do. Let’s ball a little.’

 

It was nearly eleven o’clock before Sidney was able to extricate himself from the club and he wondered whether he would be able to take the last train home or if he would have to wait for the first in the morning yet again. Mrs Redmond had been prevailed upon to take Dickens in his absence but he couldn’t expect her to look after the dog much longer.

However, Sidney also wanted to ascertain that the case that he had presented was watertight. He therefore asked if he could visit Justin Wild in his police cell. Chief Inspector Williams thought it curious that Sidney should want to do this but recognised the work he had done and could see no harm in such a visit from a clergyman while they were waiting for a lawyer.

‘What do you want?’ Justin Wild asked. ‘You can’t have come to give me the last rites. I haven’t been sentenced.’

‘But you will plead guilty?’

‘I will, Canon Chambers. I am proud of what I have done.’

‘All I want to know is why? Not “how”, because I know that: but “why”? I imagine it is a form of revenge.’

‘It is. But you know this. The girl’s father . . .’

‘Robbed your mother.’

‘The burglary took place during my father’s funeral. It was 1944. Crime doesn’t stop, even in wartime. The usual things were stolen: the silver, an antique clock, a few items of value that had been inherited and that no one really liked; but as you will know, Canon Chambers, Johnson was a jewel thief and he took my mother’s most prized possessions . . .’

‘I understand.’

‘No.’ The word came out of Justin Wild’s mouth like a gunshot. ‘You don’t “understand”. Those jewels may have been valuable, but they were far more than that. They told the story of my mother’s life. The police asked if she had insurance or if there were any photographs of the jewellery but of course there were not. Whoever heard of anyone photographing their own jewellery? But do you know what my mother did?’

Justin Wild did not wait for an answer.

‘She drew them and she painted them: the sapphire brooch, the pearl necklace, the diamond earrings; everything she had owned. Then, when she had finished, she handed them to the police and started drawing them all over again. She couldn’t stop drawing them. After she died I found hundreds of drawings of the same piece of jewellery. The theft made her mad.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Sidney quietly.

‘My father had died months before and she was still grieving; not that grief ever stops. They say that love can last beyond the grave but so of course can grief. They had been married for forty-three years.’

‘And you were their only child?’

‘I was.’

‘And you had no one to talk to?’

‘I had my mother. Then, because of that man, she was gone.’

‘You blame Mr Johnson for your mother’s death?’

‘I do.’

‘Not directly, surely?’

‘People don’t think enough about the victims, Canon Chambers. At the end of my mother’s life her doctor told me that it was possible to go mad with grief. It was a condition. That was the phrase he used. “Mad with grief.” The loss of her husband followed by the theft of her jewellery meant that she could not go on. She did not know who she was any more. It may seem a small thing, a luxury even, to have jewellery and then to have it taken away, but it wasn’t the objects or their value that mattered.’

‘It was what they represented,’ said Sidney.

‘They were her past. Each ring, every brooch and necklace carried a memory: her mother’s wedding ring, the confirmation cross from her father, earrings from her sister. When they disappeared, her memories went with them. By the end she hardly recognised me. As I sat at the end of the bed I thought: I will kill the person that has done this. I will devote my life to finding the man responsible.

‘How did you do it?’ Sidney asked.

‘I started with second-hand jewellery shops and antique dealers. I watched people come and go. I sat in cafés for hours. I read the papers for news of burglaries involving jewellery. I attended court cases. I harassed the police to see if any crimes might be connected to the case involving my mother. And then, in 1949, I found him. Philip Johnson a.k.a. ‘the Cat’. He was sent to prison for five years, even though I knew that he would be out in three. It wasn’t long enough. My mother could have lived for another twenty years.

‘When that thought came to me I realised that I could do much more damage if I didn’t kill him. I would make him suffer in the way that my mother had suffered. If he died it would all be over too quickly. I wanted his pain to last. So I thought about his family and then, when I saw the way he looked at his daughter, I knew that she was the one who had to die. If I killed her then he would never forget it. It would ruin his life; and he would live with the grief my mother had known.’

‘But Claudie was an innocent child . . .’

‘She was his daughter. That was all I had to know. It was then just a question of timing.’

‘So you found out that he had booked Gloria Dee. You knew the drummer in her band . . .’

‘I know plenty of drummers.’

‘And you managed to get a job as their driver. That was something that gave you away. You told me that you were not so interested in the money. I thought at first that you might have meant you were receiving something else in return . . .’

‘Drugs or favours. I don’t think so . . .’

‘And neither did I. What she gave you was not money but an opportunity.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And a club full of criminals, any one of whom might be blamed? How did you do it? It was very risky. You could have been seen at any moment.’

‘If you do not care whether you are caught in the end or not, and if you have no fear of retribution, it gives you more courage. You don’t have to worry about covering your tracks. We’d already done several nights at the club and so I had established a routine. Miss Dee likes a little junk between sessions and we hid a supply in the store cupboard by the Ladies.’

‘You mean drugs?’

‘You don’t think I’m just a driver, do you? I got hold of the drugs and we kept them in the first aid-kit. Claudette Johnson had the key to the cupboard.’

‘Did she know what was in there?’

‘She knew not to ask. I don’t think there was anything she hadn’t seen before. Of course I told Claudette it was all medication on prescription and it had to be kept away from Miss Dee in case she took an accidental overdose. We’d go in the big number before the interval, when everyone was concentrating on the music. After three or four days it became a routine. Claudette knew exactly when to expect me and what to do.’

‘And so she was at ease with you.’

‘One of a murderer’s best weapons is charm. The girl didn’t expect anything at all. Why should she? By the time we were used to each other it was easy. All I needed was opportunity and surprise.’

‘You strangled her in the store cupboard.’

‘It didn’t take long; consciousness goes after ten seconds, the brain after three or four minutes.’

‘Why didn’t you leave her there?’

‘Because I wanted to see the look on her father’s face when they found her. I wanted to watch his public despair. That’s why I went to the funeral. The sadder it became and the more people grieved, the more I enjoyed it. I had to witness that suffering. I needed to know what that man was feeling, even if it was only a fraction of what my mother went through.’

‘Phil Johnson did not kill your mother.’

‘I believe he did.’

Sidney could see that there was no persuading him.

‘How did you discover it was me?’ Justin asked. ‘I suppose it was Amanda Kendall.’

‘You recognised her straight away?’

‘We were children, and it was a long time ago, but she’s hard to forget. She’s cleverer than people think.’

‘You also took on an assumed name. That was another, minor mistake.’

‘I didn’t think anyone would notice.’

Sidney looked at the man opposite. He seemed both determined and careless, unconcerned about anything that might happen next. ‘ “Revenge is a kind of wild justice.” ’

‘That’s Francis Bacon: from The Essays.’

‘Just- in- wild,’ said Sidney. ‘Wild justice. Revenge.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘A combination of luck and memory. But it did seem an unusual name.’

‘It’s not that unusual. There are plenty of “Justins” about. It will be the death penalty, won’t it?’

‘Most likely,’ said Sidney. ‘Unless you plead insanity or show a considerable degree of remorse.’

‘I have no remorse. I am glad that I did what I did.’

‘Then I’m sorry,’ said Sidney.

‘On the contrary. I suppose it is I who should apologise. I feel no guilt. If I did it would make it easier for you.’

‘There are very few things about my job that are easy,’ Sidney replied. ‘I’m only sad that someone of your intelligence should have such a distorted sense of justice.’

‘I’m sad too. I’ve been sad for quite a few years now.’

‘There is a different way of thinking.’

‘A Christian way? I don’t think so.’

Sidney stood up. He had thought that he should stay and try to find some repentance in Justin but he knew that it would take longer than a single evening to seek out the remains of his conscience. ‘I’m afraid I must go,’ he said. ‘It’s already late.’

‘Not too late for a night hawk like you . . .’

‘There is my job.’

‘I wonder how you find the time.’

‘I will pray for you,’ said Sidney.

‘I don’t think your prayers will make much difference, Canon Chambers.’ Justin Wild appeared to hesitate. ‘But thank you all the same.’ He gave a nervous smile.

Sidney gave a little bow. It had become a custom, a signal that the conversation was at an end.

He walked through Fitzrovia to King’s Cross. There was a clear sky of midnight blue with a three-quarter moon. Sidney wanted to enjoy the stillness of the night. For some moments in a life, he thought, perhaps no recovery was possible. A life could be stained, as simply as surely as that, and no amount of peace or prayer could provide lasting comfort. He remembered the words of George Herbert: ‘Living well is the best revenge.’ That may have been wise advice, but for Justin Wild it had proved impossible. Forgiveness was, Sidney knew, far harder to reconcile than vengeance.

 

As soon as he returned to Grantchester, he poured himself a large whisky and lay down on his none too comfortable sofa. His Labrador snuggled up beside him. As he did so, Sidney patted him on the back and began to talk to him. Dickens yawned, stretched and laid his head on Sidney’s knee. He told him how it had been a testing few weeks and now, surely, he could return to his vocation. He ought to give jazz and crime a rest. It was hard enough doing one job in which he was never off duty; but to combine it with investigations on behalf of Inspector Keating was another matter entirely.

He decided to unwind by reading some poetry and picked out a volume of George Herbert from his bookshelf. He began to read from ‘The Temple’, a poem in which Father Time pays the narrator a visit.

In the poem, the old man’s scythe is dull and his role in human life has changed. Since the coming of Christ, and the promise of eternal life, he is no longer an executioner but a gardener:

 

An usher to convey our souls

Beyond the utmost starres and poles

 

Sidney remembered how strikingly original the poem was. For George Herbert, the time we spend on earth is not all too brief and transient but too long: because it detains human beings from a life outside time and with God.

Sidney decided to preach on the subject. He would outline the differences between our time and God’s time. Human beings live in the threefold present: the memory of the past, the expectation of the future and a perpetual ‘now’ that passes as soon as it is thought. God, however, is not bound by time. He is outside it. And so our bounded life moves from the world of time to the eternal world of the timeless.

Sidney cast the book of poetry aside and lifted Dickens’s head from his lap. He would have to make a note of these thoughts because they would be forgotten by the morning. He moved towards his desk. Almost immediately the telephone rang.

It was two o’clock in the morning. Sidney only hoped that it was not another death.

‘It’s me . . .’

Amanda.

‘Is anything the matter?’ Sidney asked.

‘Nothing at all. I’m only telephoning to tell you the most ridiculous thing . . .’

‘It’s nothing serious?’

‘Nothing serious whatsoever. I’m sorry it’s so late. I did try before but there was no answer. Where were you?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Amanda . . .’

‘I’m only telephoning because we couldn’t wait to tell you. Jenny and I have been to the most absurd concert. I can’t think why we went but I just wanted to let you know what happened. We’ve calmed down a bit now but we were spitting with rage.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘The concert turned out to be all that modern plink-plonk music you know I can’t stand. We had to have a whole bottle of red wine afterwards . . .’

‘The plonk to cope with the plink?’

‘Exactly. I’d rather have gone to one of your jazz concerts . . .’

‘As bad as that, Amanda?’

‘It was atrocious. In the second half a man just sat at the piano and didn’t do anything at all. It was most odd. No one knew what to do or say.’

‘Nothing? He must have played something?’

‘No! That’s precisely my point. He didn’t play anything. He just sat there.’

‘You mean he didn’t tickle the ivories at all?’

‘Not a tusk. The piece consisted of the audience coughing and muttering and being embarrassed. We were, apparently, the music. The audience. Can you imagine? And to think we paid five bob to get in.’

‘Who was it by?’

‘Oh I don’t know, some American: John Cage, I think he was called. He even had the nerve to give it a title. ‘Four minutes, thirty-three seconds.’ Can you imagine? It certainly didn’t feel like four minutes and thirty-three seconds. It felt like an eternity. I never knew four minutes could last so long. It was ridiculous. Four minutes! I kept thinking of all the other things I, or anyone else for that matter, could have done in the same time. Can you believe it, Sidney? It was appalling.’

Sidney looked out into the dark night and thought of Gloria Dee’s voice, Claudette’s simple vulnerability and the terrible murder. He could not begin to explain to Amanda all that had happened or what he thought and felt.

‘Are you still there?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone all silent. Is there something the matter, Sidney, or are you trying to pretend you’re John Cage? Speak up!’

‘I’m still here,’ Sidney replied. ‘I’m always here, Amanda . . .’

He remembered Gloria Dee’s voice in the darkness:

 

‘Four minutes

Just four minutes to Midnight

Four minutes

I just want four more minutes with you

If the world ends

Then the world ends

But all I need

Is those four minutes

With you . . .’