First, Do No Harm

One of the clerical undertakings that Sidney least enjoyed was the abstinence of Lent. The rejection of alcohol between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday had always been a tradition amongst the clergy of Cambridge but Sidney noticed that it neither improved their spirituality nor their patience. In fact, it made some of them positively murderous.

It had been a Siberian winter. The roads were blocked with drifted snow, rooks fell silent in the deep woods and arctic geese passed over fields where lambs had frozen to the ground. It was a bad time to be old, and Sidney had already spent too much time at the bedsides of elderly men and women who had fallen victim to influenza, hypothermia, pleurisy and pneumonia, a disease that seldom warranted its nickname as the old man’s friend. Instead, there was anxiety both in the village and in the town, a sense of unease and even unhappiness in the darkness. It was a world where people seldom looked up, but checked their footing on the road ahead, wary of falling, trusting neither weather nor fate.

What Sidney needed, he thought, was either a single malt or a pint of warm ale – perhaps even both – but he knew that he had to resist.

The strictures of this self-imposed restraint amused Inspector George Keating, who stuck to his regulation two pints of bitter on the regular backgammon night he shared with Sidney, each Thursday, in the RAF bar of The Eagle.

‘Still on the tonic water, Sidney? You don’t want me to liven it up with some gin? It’s cold out.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Such a shame. Still, if you catch your death I can always slip you a brandy.’

‘That won’t be necessary. We are encouraged,’ Sidney continued dejectedly, as if he had learned the words by heart and no longer believed in them, ‘to reject such temptations and observe a time of fasting, prayer and silence.’

Inspector Keating tried to cheer things up. ‘You could have just the one. No one would notice. It is only us.’

‘But I would know. It would be on my conscience.’

‘I wish some of the members of the public had your self-awareness. This town would be a lot quieter if they did.’

‘The Anglican Church is supposed to be the conscience of the nation,’ Sidney mused. ‘We encourage people to believe that a moral life is, in fact, a happier life.’

‘People should be good for selfish reasons?’

‘Indeed. Shall we begin?’

Sidney laid out the backgammon on the old oak table in the lounge and the two men began to play their favourite game, gambling moderately for a penny a piece. Sidney found this to be one of the consoling moments of his week, a refuge from the cares of the world and the tribulations of office. He took a sip of his tonic water and tried to concentrate on the game. He threw a five and a four and began to move the checkers away from his home board.

Inspector Keating threw in response and was delighted to open with a double six. ‘I think it’s going to be my night . . .’

Sidney smiled. ‘I like it when you have a strong start. It lulls you into a false sense of security.’

‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. I’m on the top of my game . . .’

Sidney threw a three and a two and tried to think tactically. He moved his pieces and said, quietly, but with a hint of friendly menace, ‘Of course I do feel guilty when I keep winning so often . . .’

The inspector did not rise immediately. He threw a four and a one but noticed that he still had the advantage from his early sixes. ‘Double?’

‘Are you sure?’ Sidney asked. ‘I wouldn’t want another victory on my conscience.’

The inspector smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’

Sidney threw a two and a one and began to realise that he might lose.

‘Talking of conscience,’ Inspector Keating continued, in a tone of voice that Sidney both recognised and dreaded, ‘I think I may be facing what you call “a moral dilemma”.’ He threw a three and a six, moved one of his checkers nine points.

‘Oh really?’ Sidney threw once more; a four and a three. ‘I have warned you to be careful about such things.’

‘The coroner came to see me. Re-double?’

‘Of course. I am not afraid. What has happened?’

‘It seems a certain lady has asked for her mother to be cremated rather too quickly.’

‘A certain lady?’

‘It is meant to be confidential.’

‘You have my confidence.’

‘Isabel Livingstone.’

‘I know her, Geordie.’

‘I am aware that you do.’ The inspector placed the dice back in the cup and threw again: five and a six. He smiled at the resumption of his fortune.

‘I saw her only the other week,’ Sidney remembered. ‘She was with my doctor, Michael Robinson. They are planning to marry. Nice couple, and well suited, I would have thought.’ He took a sip of his disappointing tonic water and tried to remember the conversation. ‘They told me that they had decided to wait for the ceremony until after her mother had died.’

‘Don’t you think that is unusual? Most daughters would want their mother at the wedding.’

‘They were planning on Easter . . .’

The inspector rattled his dice. ‘Well, they can have it now if they like . . .’

‘We don’t normally conduct marriages in Lent. But I seem to remember that Mrs Livingstone was opposed to the whole idea of matrimony. Her husband had left when Isabel was an infant. After that she had taken a violent dislike of all men.’

‘He must have been quite a man to have wrought such havoc.’

‘Such a pity, to let resentment fester.’

‘Well, it won’t be festering any more.’

‘And so she has died? I am surprised I have not been informed.’

Inspector Keating was matter-of-fact. ‘And so am I. But there may be a reason for that . . .’

Sidney could see that too many of his opponent’s pieces were in advantageous positions. He was already anticipating a gammon. ‘You hesitate, Inspector . . .’

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘You hesitate in a manner that alarms me.’

George Keating threw his dice and began bearing off but his heart was no longer in the game. He spoke without looking at his friend. ‘The problem is . . . Sidney . . . that I am not sure that Mrs Livingstone’s death was entirely natural . . .’

‘I was afraid you were going to say that. You mean?’

‘That the lovers might have helped things along? I am afraid I do . . .’

‘But it is the winter, and Mrs Livingstone had been in very poor health for a long time,’ Sidney observed. ‘I would have thought she had a pretty pressing appointment with her Maker.’

‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not what the coroner seems to think. A friend of Mrs Livingstone came to see him. He asked us to take a look and it’s now become a little more complicated.’ The inspector threw a one and a six and began to bear off his checkers. ‘You remember the Dorothea Waddingham case?’

‘The nursing home murderer? You’re not suggesting?’

‘In the Waddingham case they found three grains of morphine in the first body they examined and then a fatal dose in the second. Sometimes, doctors and nurses get carried away and death comes on a bit too easily.’

Sidney threw again even though he knew it was futile. ‘Was Mrs Livingstone wealthy?’

‘Moderately . . . but I would have thought the doctor had a good enough income. It can’t have been for the money.’

‘And why are you telling me this?’ Sidney asked.

The inspector leaned back and put an arm over the back of the chair next to him. ‘When people come to you to be married, you tend to put the couple through their paces beforehand, don’t you?’

‘I give them pastoral advice.’

‘You tell them what marriage is all about; warn them that it’s not all lovey-dovey and that as soon as you have children it’s a different kettle of fish altogether . . . .’

Knowing that Inspector Keating had three children under the age of seven, Sidney recognised that he had to be careful of his reply: ‘Well, I . . .’

‘There’s the money worries, and the job worries and you start to grow old. Then you realise that you’ve married someone with whom you have nothing in common. You have nothing left to say to each other. That’s the kind of thing you tell them, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t put it exactly like that . . .’

‘But that’s the gist?’

‘I do like to make it a bit more optimistic, Geordie. How friendship sometimes matters more than passion. The importance of kindness . . .’

‘Yes, yes, but you know what I’m getting at.’

Sidney could tell that the inspector was impatient for another drink. ‘I think I can guess what you want me to do.’

Keating stood up. ‘I’ll pay even though it’s your round . . .’

‘There’s no need for that . . .’

‘You’re not drinking anyway. All I am asking is that you do a bit of digging. Give them a few tough questions when they come and see you. Ask the girl about her mother. Watch the doctor’s face. I wouldn’t want you marrying a couple of murderers . . .’

‘I don’t think that’s likely . . . they’re a very friendly couple . . .’

Inspector Keating ordered his third pint of the evening. ‘Well, if they’re as nice as you say then we won’t have anything to worry about, will we? Another game?’

 

The winter of 1954 was relentless. Sidney awoke to fierce frosts on his window sills, the days never lightened and rime hung on the trees all day. When Sidney rose the next morning he felt that he had forgotten something. Then the dread returned. ‘Ah yes,’ he thought, ‘Keating. Another distraction. Another death.’

He put on his dressing gown and looked out of the window. In another life, he thought, he might have been a naturalist. He had been reading how it had always been something of a tradition in the church. Gilbert White, the vicar of Selborne, for example, had noticed how, in winter, the rooks in the lane fell from the trees with their wings frozen together. He examined the different techniques with which the squirrel, the field mouse and the nuthatch ate the hazel nuts he had laid out for them, and discovered that the owls in his neighbourhood hooted in the key of B flat. Perhaps, this winter, Sidney thought, he could even emulate Reverend White. So much of life was about noticing things, he thought. It was about observation. He would try to be a man upon whom nothing was lost.

It was too dangerous to bicycle to the Livingstone home, he decided. Even walking required caution. He put on his Wellington boots, draped his clerical cloak across his shoulders, and set off through the snow. Hector Kirby, the butcher and churchwarden, with a ready catchphrase and a depressed wife, was clearing a path to his shop; Veronica Hodge, an elderly spiritualist who had once told Sidney that she had been ‘mercifully spared the attentions of men’, was making her tentative way to the shops, and Gary Bell, the village mechanic, who had somehow managed to avoid National Service, was jump-starting a tractor.

Sidney passed the frozen meadow, where his parents had met before the war, skating at sixpence an evening, and stopped to watch a group of boys in a snowball fight.

As he walked into town he realised that he had never known Cambridge so still. The buildings looked like illustrations to a nineteenth-century fairy tale. The snow had muffled the once audible cries of the world. It was like grace, he decided, or the love of God, coming down silently and unexpectedly in the night.

A slip and a very near fall awoke him from his musing. Perhaps he should daydream less, Sidney thought, as he walked towards a small terraced house in Chedworth Street. Not everything in life could be considered material for a sermon, he told himself, and snow might cover sin just as it could conceal suffering.

He rang the doorbell. As he waited, he remembered Isabel Livingstone as a small, shapely woman with eager brown eyes. Her short hair had begun to grey, perhaps under the pressure of caring for her mother for so long, and she dressed in practical clothes: a white blouse, a green cardigan, a tartan skirt. It was a uniform that never appeared to change and it was hard to tell what age she might be: forty perhaps? Her late-flowering love gave Sidney a quiet hope of his own. After all, if Isabel Livingstone at forty could entrance a doctor might not he have a similar opportunity one day? He remembered the unexpected thrill he had felt when Amanda Kendall had kissed him goodbye at the station and the calm he had felt when he had sat with Hildegard Staunton. How comfortable their silences had been. He really should write to her again, he thought.

Dr Robinson opened the door. He expressed surprise at Sidney’s visit. ‘I thought we were due to see you at the end of the week?’

‘I was passing and thought that I would call in,’ Sidney replied, ‘since it seems that we now have more than a wedding to discuss.’

‘Indeed. Isabel is in the kitchen. I was just leaving . . .’

‘I came to offer my condolences; and also to say that the church is, of course, at your disposal should you wish to hold the funeral there.’

‘Isabel’s mother was not what you might call a churchgoer, Canon Chambers. I am afraid she put herself down for a cremation with the Co-op.’

Isabel Livingstone emerged from the kitchen. She appeared flustered. Sidney apologised for his intrusion.

‘I’m so sorry we hadn’t got round to telling you, Canon Chambers,’ Isabel apologised. ‘But there has been such a lot to do. I thought that some day we would be planning a wedding but I suppose I always knew that we would have a funeral service to sort out first.’

‘I am doubly sorry,’ said Sidney, ‘both for your loss and for the unfortunate proximity of events.’

‘We did expect it though, didn’t we, darling?’ The doctor put his arm around Isabel’s shoulder and she smiled up at him.

Sidney thought that they looked good together. ‘I know you move between birth and sickness as much as I do, Dr Robinson . . .’

Isabel broke free. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘It makes you appreciate the unexpected pleasures of daily life,’ the doctor continued. ‘Every time I wake up I try to be thankful that I have spent the night safely, and I try to look at everything as if I am seeing it for the first time; not that I want to philosophise. Come in, sit down . . .’

‘I’m sure you’ve calls to make. Don’t let me keep you . . .’

‘They can wait. Isabel needs me, I find. And, of course, I need Isabel.’

Sidney tried to make conversation as they moved through to a small sitting room with a two-bar fire. ‘It is surprising how often happiness and sadness bump up against each other. It is why I am so opposed to confetti.’

‘Confetti?’

‘It’s upsetting for those who have to attend a funeral when a wedding has taken place earlier in the day. It reminds the principal mourners of what they have lost.’

‘I don’t think my mother would have minded about that,’ Isabel Livingstone interrupted, coming in with the tea tray. ‘She was violently opposed to marriage, as you know. Whenever she heard church bells she covered her ears. Weddings just set her off, didn’t they, Michael?’

‘It’s why we didn’t discuss our plans with her, Canon Chambers.’

‘Sometimes I think Mother kept on living just to spite us,’ his fiancée continued. Sidney noticed that she was wearing an emerald ring. ‘I had stupidly promised her that I would not marry if she was still alive and so I think she decided to try and outlive me. “Even if I do die first,” she said to me, “I’ll still be watching.” ’

‘Perhaps you did not need to keep your promise?’ Sidney replied.

‘Are you, a clergyman, suggesting that I should have broken it?’ Isabel asked as she poured from a pot of tea. ‘Sugar?’

‘No thank you. If it was forced from you, or if it was a bad promise, why, yes of course.’

‘Well, in the end, it was not such a long time to wait. We’ve only known each other properly for seven months,’ the doctor continued. ‘But you know all this, Canon Chambers. Obviously we are not going to make any public announcement of our engagement until after the cremation.’

‘Even though Miss Livingstone is wearing a ring . . .’

‘Only in the house. I take it off when I go outdoors. It seems silly because everyone must have guessed by now but when you are supposed to be in mourning it doesn’t look right.’

‘Supposed?’

‘I’m sorry, Canon Chambers; my mother was not a kind woman, either at the end of her days, or even before. I can be grateful for the fact that she gave me life and that she looked after me, but recently, apart from Michael, my life has been misery. It’s hard to nurse someone who is so resentful that you are young and she is old.’

Sidney decided to take a risk. ‘I know that sometimes, when those close to you die, it can almost be a relief.’

‘It was. But you are not allowed to say this.’

‘You can say anything to a priest.’

‘Or a doctor . . .’ Michael observed.

‘Not quite anything,’ Isabel Livingstone replied.

There was silence.

‘Talking of the cremation,’ Dr Robinson resumed, ‘we were planning to have it next week but now there seems to be some kind of delay. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?’

‘I did hear,’ Sidney replied. ‘I think it is a delicate matter.’

‘I don’t see what is so delicate about it. What have you heard?’

‘Oh Michael . . .’ Isabel began, but her fiancé cut her off.

‘Mrs Livingstone died a perfectly natural death. It was heart failure. I completed the death certificate myself.’

Sidney thought that Dr Robinson was rather too keen to justify himself. ‘And you, Miss Livingstone, were you present at the time of death?’

‘Of course. I nursed my mother to the end. I gave her sips of water. I mopped her brow. I made sure that she did not become dehydrated as Michael had told me. I did everything my fiancé said.’

‘You applied for a cremation immediately?’ Sidney asked.

‘We were being efficient,’ the doctor continued. ‘I don’t think there is anything unusual in that. It is what Isabel’s mother asked for.’

‘She had a fear of being buried alive,’ Isabel explained. ‘She hated worms. She used to say, “Don’t let the worms have me.” She could be very morbid.’

Dr Robinson was becoming suspicious. ‘Why are you asking us this?’

‘It seems the coroner is not quite ready to release your mother’s body, Miss Livingstone. He may ask for a post-mortem.’

‘And why on earth would he do that, Canon Chambers?’ Isabel asked in a tone that sounded altogether too innocent.

‘I think your fiancé can explain the medical reasons for that request,’ Sidney replied.

Dr Michael Robinson rose from his chair and looked out of the window. ‘That meddling bastard,’ he muttered.

 

The next day Leonard Graham arrived from London to begin his duties as Sidney’s curate. He was looking forward to working both in a parish and in a university town that would allow him to continue his studies into the work of the great Russian writers, most notably Dostoevsky.

Unfortunately, Inspector Keating had sent Sidney off to see the coroner and Leonard’s first Grantchester encounter was therefore with the housekeeper. A small, fiercely opinionated woman, five foot three and thirteen stone, Sylvia Maguire told Leonard Graham that he had no need to worry as Canon Chambers was not a practical man and it would be clearer if she explained the way in which the parish, and most notably the vicarage, was run, herself.

She showed Leonard to his room and offered to make him a cup of tea while he began to unpack his suitcase and his boxes of books. After six or seven minutes she called up and told him that everything was ready. Leonard came downstairs, looked at his tea and sponge cake, and prepared for his induction. He already sensed that, rather than talking about the ecclesiastical status of the priesthood or the nature of the holy fool in Russian fiction with Canon Sidney Chambers, he would, instead, be treated to Mrs Maguire’s life story. This assumption proved correct.

Mrs Maguire set off on her account of how she was born on 21 January 1901, the day that Queen Victoria had died, and yet, despite this historic date, Sidney never remembered her birthday because he was too busy thinking about criminals. She told him how she had lost three of her brothers in the First World War and how her husband Ronnie had disappeared ‘for no good reason’ in the second. She explained at length that her sister Gladys, a spiritualist, had been unable to contact Ronnie so he couldn’t be dead and she was still waiting for his return; and she reassured Leonard Graham that her husband’s departure meant that she was able to ‘do’ for other people but, even so, and saying that, she regarded both indoor toilets and the bathroom off the ground-floor kitchen of the vicarage as ‘unhygienic’. She would be able to offer catering for both the clerics but it would not include too much fish as she was worried about the bones and had never quite recovered from the embarrassment of a choking incident suffered on her honeymoon at Skegness.

Simple meals would be provided, she stated – shepherd’s pie, welsh rarebit, toad in the hole, bubble and squeak, steak and kidney pudding – and it was a lot easier now she was coming to the end of her ration book. But washing and ironing would be extra, especially if Leonard wanted his dog collars starched, and she would also be very grateful if he tidied up before she hoovered and emptied his own ashtrays.

Leonard Graham tried to reassure Mrs Maguire when he thought she had finished, ‘I am sure that everything will work out beautifully, Mrs Maguire.’

He was then alarmed by her retort. ‘Are you indeed? Have you been a curate before?’

‘I have not.’

‘Then everything will be a surprise to you.’

Leonard was desperate for Sidney’s return. ‘I am sure I will be able to manage,’ he answered. ‘My role here will be more spiritual than material.’

‘Everyone has to eat, Mr Graham.’

‘Indeed they do. I think the playwright Bertolt Brecht even suggested that food must come before morals . . .’

Mrs Maguire did not appear to be listening. ‘I don’t understand why Canon Chambers cannot write his sermons, take his services and visit the sick like any other clergyman,’ she complained. ‘He has to go poking his nose into other people’s business and it’s just going to lead to trouble. Before Christmas we had one hell of a time, I don’t mind telling you.’

Leonard Graham defended his colleague. ‘I don’t think he goes out of his way to involve himself in the affairs of other people, Mrs Maguire. They come to him. He is merely responding to their needs.’

‘Well, he’s too soft and he needs to be careful, you mark my words. Crime always attracts more crime, that’s what my Ronnie used to say.’

‘I will remind Canon Chambers of his primary duties,’ Leonard Graham replied.

‘And don’t go getting involved yourself,’ Mrs Maguire counselled. ‘It’s bad enough one clergyman trying to be Sherlock Holmes. We don’t need the two of you doing it.’

‘I will help Canon Chambers whenever I can, Mrs Maguire, but I will not let him distract me,’ Leonard Graham answered. ‘The church and the parish will be my only concern.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Mrs Maguire replied, ‘that may cause you trouble enough. Grantchester may look like a typical English village, Mr Graham, but I am telling you now that, in reality, it is a nest of perfidious vipers.’

‘I will do my best to be careful, Mrs Maguire.’

‘You will need to do more than that, Mr Graham. Let vigilance be your watchword, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t waste my words.’

‘I can already tell that you don’t,’ Leonard Graham replied.

 

The Cambridge coroner had a reputation for efficiency. Never one to linger over idle pleasure, Derek Jarvis was the kind of man who saw every encounter, no matter how pleasurable, as an appointment that had to conform to its allotted time. Tall, slender, and dressed in a single-breasted suit and an old Harrovian tie, he possessed the easy confidence that came with a privileged upbringing. What he lacked in obvious charm he disguised with efficiency.

Sidney had met him once before, after an amateur cricket match in which the coroner had scored a sprightly forty-three runs in a surprise victory against Royston.

‘I don’t want to appear impolite, Canon Chambers, but I am not sure why this matter involves you at all. It is really between myself and the police.’

Sidney could tell that Derek Jarvis saw his presence as a matter that would take up more time than was necessary. Consequently he needed to be both charming and exact. ‘Inspector Keating suggested that I come because Isabel Livingstone and Michael Robinson are my parishioners. They are in mourning and yet, at the same time, they are also about to be married in my church. I am here in confidence, to see how precarious their position might be, and if their wedding might need to be postponed. I am sorry for the trouble my visit may cause . . .’

‘It’s no trouble, of course. In fact, it’s a pleasure to see you, Canon Chambers,’ the coroner replied. ‘Only it’s far more agreeable to meet you on a cricket field than in these less congenial surroundings.’

‘Alas, we are still to see the spring,’ Sidney replied. ‘I look forward to long summer days and lengthening evening shadows; but until then we must set about our daily tasks. I imagine that there must be guidelines in these matters.’

‘There certainly are. Mrs Livingstone appears to have died several months sooner than might have been expected. If her death has been hastened, and in suspicious circumstances, then we have to investigate . . .’

‘It is the middle of winter, and Mrs Livingstone was a very elderly lady . . .’

‘Indeed, Canon Chambers, but, as you will no doubt know, perhaps even better than I do, that we are all God’s creatures, young and old alike . . .’

‘I am not saying . . .’

‘I know you are not. “To every time there is a season.” But where a man might propose, it is God who must dispose.’

‘I understand.’

‘It is a question of intent,’ Derek Jarvis continued. ‘Did the doctor withhold or withdraw treatment? Did he allow Mrs Livingstone to die and, if he did so, was this in the patient’s best interests and in accord with her wishes?’

‘Mrs Livingstone was very weak. I am sure her daughter would have spoken on her behalf . . .’

‘I am afraid that is not the same thing; not the same thing at all . . .’

‘Yes, I can see,’ Sidney replied hesitantly. ‘But if Mrs Livingstone was in great pain . . .’

‘Then, of course, morphine may be administered. The exact quantity, however, must be examined.’

‘I am sure Dr Robinson knew what he was doing,’ Sidney replied.

‘I do not doubt. But what was he doing, and what did he intend to do? His intentions in this matter are crucial. In addition to preventing pain, as I think you may know, morphine also reduces the depth and frequency of breathing and can therefore shorten a patient’s life.’

‘A side effect of the reduction of pain . . .’

‘Indeed, Canon Chambers. Forgive me if I am stating the obvious, but it is important that the moral principles are clear. I am sure you would agree.’

Sidney admired the coroner’s methodical reasoning but worried that he might lack compassion.

Derek Jarvis continued. ‘A death that occurs after the administration of morphine is a foreseeable effect, and in these cases, a doctor who gives morphine to a terminally ill patient in order to reduce suffering and foreseeing, though not intending, the earlier death of the patient, has not broken the law.’

‘That is good,’ Sidney replied quickly, relieved that there might be grounds for hope.

‘The quantity of morphine, as I say, has to be assessed and, of course we need to be sure that it was simply morphine that was administered rather than something more serious . . .’

‘Such as?’

‘Potassium chloride, for example. That is a very different substance altogether. Then it is no longer a matter of foreseeing the death but intending it. Again the matter of intent is crucial. It is a form of intervention where death, rather than the relief of pain, is intended . . .’

Sidney tried to keep up. ‘It seems, however, that you can only gauge the level of intention by asking the doctor himself.’

‘That may be the case but as soon as potassium chloride has been administered, I am afraid that there is only so much a doctor can do to persuade us of his innocence.’

‘He may still be acting out of pity for his patient.’

‘It would be termed a mercy killing – which, of course, is technically murder,’ the coroner replied, as if Sidney had not thought of this. ‘And if there is any suspicion that this is indeed the case then a post-mortem will be required.’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I am afraid it is; so much so that I have already ordered one. The results will be due on Wednesday. Consequently I wouldn’t do too much about the wedding before then.’

Sidney was disturbed by the coroner’s quiet impartiality. At the same time, he could see that anything more he might say could, potentially, jeopardise the future happiness of the couple who planned to marry in his church. ‘And after the post-mortem?’ he asked.

‘I think I have already outlined the possibilities, Canon Chambers. If morphine is found then we may be able to overlook Mrs Livingstone’s earlier than expected demise. But in the case of potassium chloride . . .’

‘The doctor would then have to stand some kind of trial . . .’

The coroner hesitated. ‘And not just the doctor, of course . . .’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Isabel Livingstone had a duty of care. She was in her mother’s house and could have intervened to prevent such actions, if untoward actions there were. She is, potentially, an accessory to the crime and, in consequence, could face the same sentence.’

Derek Jarvis was speaking as if he was already in the witness box. ‘The same?’

‘In certain circumstances she might get away with manslaughter but in this case, I am afraid they would both, most likely, be charged with murder. And therefore they could both hang.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Sidney. ‘That’s terrible. I am sure that what they were doing was in Mrs Livingstone’s best interests . . .’

‘That may be, Canon Chambers, but it is not the law of the land.’

‘Then the law should be changed . . .’

‘I will not argue about the ethics but, until such a time as the law is actually changed, if there is any suspicion of foul play, then it is my duty to raise matters with the police.’

‘There is nothing to be done?’

‘Are you suggesting that I pervert the course of justice?’ the coroner asked.

‘No, of course not,’ Sidney replied.

‘I am sorry to have to make myself so clear. The course of any investigation must be allowed to proceed unimpeded. Your best course of action, Canon Chambers,’ the coroner suggested, ‘is to pray.’

 

The only event to lighten Sidney’s mood, amidst the death and darkness of Lent, was the arrival of his friend Amanda Kendall. At least she would cheer him up, he thought, as he bicycled carefully through the snow and waited for her at the railway station.

It had taken him a good half-hour to get there and the journey had allowed him plenty of time for contemplation. It was so long since he had been anywhere other than Cambridge or London, he thought. He really should broaden his horizons. He remembered Robert Louis Stevenson: ‘The great affair is to move.’ Yet, since the war, he had hardly travelled at all. Perhaps he could take a holiday in France, he wondered? Or Germany, of course . . .

Hildegard had invited him to stay and he imagined that it would be a considerable comfort to see her again; but Sidney also worried that he had begun to exaggerate the consolation of her company and that absence had, perhaps, made his heart grow too fond.

At least with Amanda he knew where he stood; for despite their affection for each other there was no ambiguity or worry about romantic love or passion. This was a hearty friendship, he told himself, a treat in his life and the dose of liveliness he needed. He only hoped that he could live up to her expectations and that he did not bore her.

‘As elegant as expected,’ Sidney said, as Amanda stepped off the train. She was wearing a tailored camel coat and carried a chestnut-coloured Gladstone bag.

‘I’ve decided to simplify my wardrobe: lilac in town and brown in the country. It makes life so much easier,’ she said.

‘This is hardly the country . . .’

‘Oh Sidney, Cambridge is not London. You may kiss me.’ She stretched out her cheek. ‘Where are we lunching?’ she asked

‘We are going to the Garden House Hotel,’ he announced. ‘I hope it will do.’

‘Then lead on.’

Sidney kept to the outside of the pavement and pushed his bicycle as they walked to the restaurant. As he did so, Amanda told him how extraordinary it was that she had got through the snow at all. She had got talking to a farmer called Harding Redmond who had been complaining on the way up how the turnips in the fields on his farm had rotted, how the ewes had so little milk and the lambs were dying. It was so distressing, she said. His wife bred Labradors and was so worried about a recent litter that she had refused to leave home until she knew that they were safe from the cold.

Sidney asked about the National Gallery and Amanda told him that she was beginning to do the research for a monograph on the paintings of Hans Holbein the Younger. There was, she said, so much more to discover about the cultural life of the court of Henry VIII: the drama, the art and the music, that she felt a whole world was opening up before her. Perhaps they could go to Hampton Court in the summer together?

Sidney told her that would be delightful and replied with parish news, the gossip at Corpus and the arrival of Leonard Graham.

‘Has he shaved off his moustache?’ Amanda asked.

‘Indeed he has. And he is all the better for it.’

‘Such a business at the Thompsons,’ Amanda continued. ‘Poor old Daphne . . .’

‘And poor old you.’

‘I can never forgive myself for that awful mess with Guy Hopkins.’

‘He was a very attractive man.’

‘And an absolute brute.’

They arrived at the hotel, handed in their hats and coats and were shown straight to their table.

‘To think that it took me so long to notice that Guy was appalling,’ Amanda continued. ‘I’ve quite lost my sense of judgement. I was so distracted by a handsome man with prospects that I forgot to think what it might be like to be married to him. Could you tell as soon as you met him?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say.’

‘That means you could . . .’

‘Not necessarily, Amanda. I never spoke to him privately or with the two of you alone.’

‘But that is what you do before a marriage, isn’t it? And that’s partly why I’ve come. I wanted to ask that if it ever happens again, and I do become engaged, that I can come and see you and talk about it?’

‘Of course. Do you have someone in mind?’

‘Not yet. But there are possibilities.’

‘And will I be the first to know?’

‘After Jennifer, of course. I can hardly keep things secret from my flatmate.’

‘How is she?’

‘You mean you want to know about Johnny Johnson? They are just friends, you know.’

‘I rather admire Johnny Johnson.’

‘And so do I, Sidney. Surely in this day and age we can have friendships with the opposite sex without worrying about what it all means. I am sure you have plenty of female friends . . .’

‘Not like you, Amanda.’

‘I should hope not. I wouldn’t want to be a duplicate.’

‘There is no one in the world like you, Amanda, I can promise you that.’

‘Oh, I am sure that in the Russian Revolution, or in the French for that matter, I would have been shot with all the other posh girls. But I have to be careful now. I’m worried that when men make an approach they may have ulterior motives.’

‘Well, you’re quite a catch.’

‘Oh, Sidney, you say the sweetest things. But there are times when I just can’t be sure of the motives of the men I like.’

‘An occupational hazard, I would have thought.’

The waitress arrived with herrings fried in oatmeal but Amanda was in full flow. ‘Don’t priests undertake to counsel people when they are thinking of getting married? What kind of things do you say to them? And can you sometimes tell that the whole thing is going to be a disaster from the start? I bet you can.’

‘That’s quite a lot of questions, Amanda.’

‘I have more. I want to know everything. How in love do you have to be, for example? Can you tell if it is enough and can you marry if you still have doubts? Does it matter if your parents approve or not? Is it important that your husband has money? Do you have to be of the same social standing? What do you do if there is one aspect of your future husband’s personality that you can’t stand? Can people change once they are married? All those kinds of things.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Sidney as he started on his herring. ‘You cannot anticipate everything. But, at the time, I think you have to be unable to imagine the alternative. I think you have to think that it is impossible to live without someone.’

‘But you live without someone.’

‘It is different in my case. I live with my faith. What I mean is that it has to be impossible to imagine living without the person you love.’

‘But what if you can’t find that person? So many people I know seem to settle for second best.’

‘Do you know that, Amanda? They may only seem second best to you. And love can be about more than attraction. I sometimes think it is more a question of sanctuary, a case of unassailable friendship.’

‘Have you known that?’

‘Not quite,’ Sidney replied. ‘Not yet . . .’

The waitress removed their plates from the table and returned with pork chops and apple sauce. Sidney had not anticipated such close questioning and found Amanda’s tone almost confrontational. It was hard to give thoughtful answers to her volley of direct questions.

‘Is it lonely being a priest?’ Amanda continued.

‘Sometimes . . .’

‘When is it at its worst?’

‘Now, I suppose.’

‘You mean at this table?’

‘No, of course not, I don’t mean that at all,’ Sidney blushed, although he did feel out of his depth. ‘I think it is when there is a small congregation on a cold February day in the middle of Lent, for example. I feel these waves of depression coming over me. The numbers of the faithful are dwindling, Amanda, and sometimes there is nothing I can do to encourage them. It’s like Matthew Arnold’s great poem “Dover Beach”. I feel the melancholy roar of the withdrawing tide. . . .’

‘Then I only hope you have not been diving into any more murky waters,’ Amanda replied.

‘Sometimes the murky waters come to me. . . .’

Amanda put down her knife and fork. ‘I’m so sorry. I have been talking about myself so much that it has taken me a little time to realise. Forgive me. It is clear that something is troubling you.’

Sidney sighed. He wondered whether he should speak openly but he was too preoccupied not to do so. ‘I am afraid that it is.’

‘Tell me . . .’

‘This may not be the place to discuss it.’

‘No one is listening.’

‘An elderly lady has died.’

‘Nothing unusual in that, I would have thought.’

‘Indeed not.’

‘Then what are you worried about?’

‘It is extremely confidential, Amanda. I should not be telling you anything at all.’

‘But you are anxious?’

‘I am. My doctor has come under suspicion.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘This is a very delicate matter.’

‘I don’t know him, do I?’

‘No, Amanda, you do not.’

‘Then do not tell me his name. Has he been negligent?’

Sidney stopped. He knew that he should not be confiding in Amanda but he could not help himself. ‘It’s thought that he may have hastened her death.’

‘And why would he do that?’

‘So that he could marry the daughter without her mother’s blessing.’

‘Couldn’t they just wait?’

‘Apparently not. She was a tough old bird.’

Amanda returned to her meal. ‘Almost as tough as these pork chops, I imagine. Has your inspector friend got on to the case?’

‘He has. We both feel rather uncomfortable.’

‘So it is either a medical act of mercy or something altogether more sinister?’

Sidney began to wish he had not raised this subject but it was too late. ‘I am not sure the daughter was involved.’

‘Well, there is one reason that the mother could have disapproved,’ Amanda continued. ‘Although I can’t see why it makes much difference in this day and age . . .’

‘And that is?’

‘Oh Sidney, how could you be so dim? She’s obviously with child.’

‘Of course,’ Sidney thought to himself. How could he have been so slow?

‘If her mother dies before the pregnancy is obvious then they are in the clear; not that they needed to worry that much in the first place. There was nothing else stopping them marrying, I imagine . . .’

‘I think Isabel wanted to do the right thing by her mother . . .’

‘Isabel? You are on first-name terms with a potential murderer?’

‘She is not a murderer, Amanda. She is a woman who has been bullied all her life who has now found late-flowering love.’

‘And so her wishes have come true.’

‘Love is something to celebrate, Amanda.’

‘You never thought of marrying her yourself?’

‘Now you are teasing me . . .’

‘Is she attractive?’

‘She is. But she is not, of course, as attractive as you.’

‘Oh Sidney,’ Amanda leaned forward and placed her hand on his. ‘I can rely on you to say the right thing. You have such perfect manners too. I wish my London admirers would follow suit.’

The waitress returned with a jam roly-poly and Amanda withdrew her hand.

‘I think we should be careful what we wish for,’ Sidney replied as calmly as he could. ‘Sometimes, even when our prayers are answered, there is an ironic twist that we could never have anticipated.’

‘Well, let me pay for lunch, Sidney, there’s a twist to begin with.’

‘I don’t think I can let you do that, Amanda.’

‘What rot. I think I shall always pay. It will make everything easier . . .’

‘Amanda . . .’

‘Don’t be silly, Sidney. Think of it as a down payment against future marriage guidance. There will probably be rather a lot of it.’

 

At the beginning of March the snows began to melt and slide off the roofs, taking both shoppers and cyclists by surprise. Hawks hovered over the Meadows, and further out of town, in the fields around Grantchester, the farmers were able to plough and sow at last.

This was the hope of spring. Students unbuttoned their duffel coats and loosened their college scarves, children played football by the river and the first winter hyacinths began to appear in front windows.

Leonard Graham had settled in to one of the upper rooms of the vicarage. Sidney was happy to delegate duties, instruct him in the responsibilities of the ministry and let him preach sermons on the tensions between Kantian and Utilitarian ethics as often as he liked, providing he was kind to Mrs Maguire and was not impatient with those parishioners who had been spared a university education.

‘Natural wisdom,’ he told Leonard, ‘cannot always be found in books.’

‘I agree,’ his curate replied, ‘but to be naturally wise and then to read books gives you even more of an advantage.’

‘Over what?’ Sidney asked.

‘You think I am going to say “other people”, don’t you, Sidney, but that’s not what I mean at all. Reading gives you an advantage over life and time.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Sidney replied tersely.

‘You can travel through history, converse with the dead and live multiple lives . . .’

Sidney thought it sounded exhausting but his curate was unstoppable.

‘That is how I spend my free time,’ he continued. ‘I look to those who have lived before me in order to learn more about how to live now.’

‘I wish I had the opportunity to do that,’ Sidney replied. ‘But, alas, I do not.’

He knew that he was sounding pompous but he was distracted. He was waiting for the results of the coroner’s inquest. He still had not quite managed to pin down why Derek Jarvis unsettled him so much. He had thought that it was the black and white nature of his morality and the brisk efficiency with which he operated. But it might also be the fact that he was jealous. Sidney allowed his parishioners so much more time and so much more of a say when they were discussing their problems and their fears than the coroner ever did with his corpses. It was not that he resented this time, but sometimes he wished he could cut his meetings shorter and resolve the issues with which people came with more clarity. Perhaps, Sidney considered, he could even learn something from the coroner’s manner?

But no. Like a doctor, a priest had to allow events to run their course.

Sidney hesitated. Was this what Dr Michael Robinson had done? Had he allowed Dorothy Livingstone’s life to ‘run its course’ or had he hastened it towards its end? And if he had done so, were his intentions truly and only honourable and merciful? In short, were his actions those of a Christian?

As both a priest and an Englishman, Sidney liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, but he knew that he would have to find an excuse to see his doctor on his own and ask him a few direct questions.

He decided to make an appointment as a patient even though there was nothing specifically wrong with him. In fact, and in many ways, Sidney had never felt better in his life. He could perhaps go to the doctor’s surgery in Trumpington Road with talk of headaches, migraines even, but he did not want to suggest anything that might lead to an investigation or a hospital visit for tests.

‘Gout?’ he wondered idly. It had done for Milton, Cromwell and Henry VIII but did he really want to be associated with ‘the rheumatism of the rich’? Besides, his current abstinence would surely rule that out.

By the time Dr Robinson had asked, ‘What can I do for you?’ Sidney had still not thought of a convincing complaint.

‘I’d like you to take my blood pressure.’

‘Any reason?’

‘My heart seems to beat at different rates at different times of the day. I am more aware of it than I normally am.’

‘Roll up your sleeve. Any pain?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But sometimes I feel a bit fragile . . .’

‘That’s normal.’ Dr Robinson wrapped a cuff around Sidney’s upper left arm.

‘Is it?’

‘We can all feel a little delicate during difficult times, Canon Chambers.’

‘Yes, I suppose it must be very trying for you at the moment.’

Michael Robinson began to inflate the cuff until Sidney’s artery was occluded. He then listened with a stethoscope to the brachial artery before slowly releasing the pressure on the cuff.

Sidney did not like to speak during the process but wondered whether people’s blood pressure actually rose in a doctor’s surgery; if the very act of being there made them tense and their hearts race.

‘The coroner hardly helps matters . . .’

‘I can imagine . . .’

‘Sometimes these things are best left.’

‘I suppose he is only doing his job.’

The doctor looked at his watch and then at the dial. ‘Well, he won’t find anything. I have done nothing wrong.’

‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

The doctor unwrapped Sidney’s arm. ‘Your blood pressure is completely normal, Canon Chambers. Is there anything else?’

‘Not really. I do have trouble sleeping sometimes . . .’

‘Do you keep regular hours?’

‘It’s not so much the falling asleep as the waking up in the middle of the night . . .’ Sidney replied, thinking how soon he could move the conversation on to sleeping pills, sedatives and painkillers.

‘Do you try milky drinks?’

‘I do . . .’

‘And how long has this been going on?’

‘For the past few months.’

‘I find exercise also helps. And not eating too late. . . .’

‘You don’t prescribe sleeping pills?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘You don’t approve?’

‘Canon Chambers, forgive me for being rude but is there anything that is really the matter?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘I am not sure you came here because you were ill.’

‘I did want a quiet word.’

‘Anything in particular?’

‘It is a delicate matter.’

‘I am a doctor, Canon Chambers. There is no such thing as a delicate matter as far as I am concerned. You can raise any subject you like.’

‘Miss Livingstone . . .’

‘What about her?’

‘Is she well?’ Sidney realised he had lost his nerve. What on earth was he doing going along with all of this?

‘Well, she is sad, and a little nervous, but there is nothing you can’t ask her yourself . . .’

Sidney felt rather ashamed.

‘You don’t suspect her of anything, do you?’

‘No, of course not . . .’

The doctor looked out of the window and his confidence seemed to fall away. He looked exhausted. Perhaps he was tired of keeping up his professional demeanour.

‘I am sure that you have sat with the dying many times, Canon Chambers. You think that one would get used to it but it is different every time. Sometimes people are ready, and sometimes people hold on, refusing to leave, even though their time has come. They are stubborn and it is uncomfortable but they are indomitable. Isabel’s mother was not like that. She wanted to go but death was not ready for her.’

‘You know she wanted to go?’

‘She told me that she had had enough, that she was looking forward to what she called “the long sleep”.’

‘And so . . .’

‘I relieved the pain.’

‘And she was at peace?’

‘There’s an extraordinary thing I have noticed, Canon Chambers. I hope you won’t mind me saying this but in those final moments I don’t think faith makes much difference. People are either scared of death or they are not. People divide quite clearly. Even the faithful can be frightened.’

‘I know. It is a mystery. But perhaps they are not so much frightened of death as of dying.’

‘Yes, they are distinct. Do you ever turn a blind eye, Canon Chambers?’

‘When no harm is done.’

‘Well, that, of course, is my Hippocratic oath. ‘‘First, do no harm.’’ It could work just as well for priests, I suppose.’

‘It’s a good motto,’ said Sidney. ‘We have very clear instructions in the Church of England, guidelines as to how life must be lived. But people can’t always see what they are, of course. They move in all sorts of directions, like moral dodgems, and the lines are never straight at all.’

‘I agree. People don’t live neat lives.’

There was a pause before Sidney returned to his questioning. ‘But you are convinced that you were acting in Mrs Livingstone’s best interests? That you did no harm?’

‘I was, even though to tell you so is none of your business.’

‘Sometimes I am not sure what my business is, Dr Robinson,’ Sidney replied. ‘It is everything and nothing, the whole of life, and yet my involvement is not so much on the pages of people’s lives but in the margins.’

‘You are too modest . . .’

‘No, it is true. But this is, of course, the way of Our Lord. Are you a believer?’

‘You have asked me that before.’

‘That was when you came to see me about your marriage.’

‘You will still marry us? Despite what I say?’

‘The marriage service asks if there are any impediments. It does not require a degree in theology.’

‘I was brought up with an intense faith. I know the liturgy. I admire the language and the music. I still hope for revelation. But I am afraid I have seen too much suffering to believe in divine benevolence. The war, you know. I presume you were a pacifist?’

‘I am afraid you presume wrongly,’ Sidney cut in, a little too aggressively, he thought. ‘I fought for what I believed in.’

‘Even if it meant killing people?’

‘A lesser evil.’

‘Ah yes,’ the doctor replied, his vulnerability signalled by a furrowed brow that hovered over eyebrows that were darker than his hair. ‘A lesser evil. I think we both know about that . . .’

 

When Sidney returned home he found that Leonard Graham had already left to visit the sick on his Communion round and that, in his absence, Mrs Maguire had decided to pick all his books off the floor of his study yet again, stacking them all over his desk, in order to vacuum the whole house. He had repeatedly asked her not to do this but any request he had made in the past had fallen on deaf ears. He had never seen such a small woman act with such gusto. There was an aggression to her hoovering, a violence that was clearly some kind of displacement activity. He had only seen it once before, after she had been given an unconfirmed report that her husband, who had disappeared in 1944 amidst conflicting rumours of pacifism and bigamy, might actually be living in West London. He guessed that this was not the best time to engage her in any kind of conversation but he was mistaken. Mrs Maguire was all too eager to converse.

She turned off the vacuum cleaner and removed her apron. She had clearly been waiting for this moment and Sidney feared the worst. There were rumours in the village, she told him, and they were bad.

‘What do you mean, Mrs Maguire?’

‘I will spare you the conversations regarding yourself . . .’ she began, as if such a silence was of the utmost difficulty.

Sidney was alarmed. He liked people to think well of him. ‘What can you mean?’

‘My sister is refusing to see the doctor,’ Mrs Maguire announced.

‘And why is that?’

Mrs Maguire folded her arms in what Sidney took to be a gesture of defiance. ‘She is frightened he’s going to kill her.’

Sidney could not believe it. Somebody had been talking out of turn. His own conscience was clear, and he assumed that he could trust Inspector Keating. Could it be the coroner, or perhaps a spurned admirer of Dr Robinson? He would have to visit Derek Jarvis once more.

‘That is nonsense.’

‘All tittle-tattle, I imagine,’ Mrs Maguire continued. ‘But you know what they say? There’s no smoke without fire . . .’ She looked at Sidney as if she had used a phrase he had never heard before.

‘I have always found that to be a most unhelpful aphorism,’ Sidney answered.

Mrs Maguire took a step forward. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about it?’

‘I do not,’ Sidney replied, unconvincingly. It really was extraordinary the number of lies he had to tell since becoming embroiled in criminal investigation.

‘But I think you’ll still want to know what they’ve been saying about you?’

‘Not particularly, Mrs Maguire.’ Sidney tried to sound nonchalant. ‘I would rather people told me what they thought directly.’

‘Very well. Then I will tell you. They think you’re going to marry Miss Kendall.’

‘That is most unlikely.’

‘That’s what I said to Mr Graham.’

‘You have discussed the matter with him? What did he reply?’

‘That it wasn’t for him to comment.’

‘Quite right too.’

‘But everyone is talking about it,’ Mrs Maguire continued. ‘You were seen in a restaurant holding hands . . .’

‘Only for a brief moment . . .’

‘Long enough for the waitress to tell the chef, who told his sister, who is a barmaid at The Green Man. The news will be all round Grantchester by now and tomorrow it will be at every high table.’

‘I hardly think that the dining tables of Cambridge colleges are interested in my marital prospects, Mrs Maguire . . .’

‘Clever folk love an opportunity to make fun of their rivals, I’ve noticed.’

‘I don’t have rivals, Mrs Maguire. I have friends.’

‘Call them what you like; but if you hold hands in public there’ll be no stopping the gossip.’

Sidney was annoyed. What business was it of anyone else? His relationship with Amanda was private. He hated the idea of anyone talking about them. Now he would have to explain something that he didn’t want to explain because he liked it all being vague and inexplicable. ‘I marry other people to each other. I have no plans to marry myself. Miss Kendall is a friend.’

‘That’s what I said to them,’ Mrs Maguire continued before stopping to check. ‘So I am right, then?’

Sidney sighed. The quicker this conversation was brought to a conclusion the better. ‘Of course you are, Mrs Maguire,’ he replied. ‘You always are.’

That should do it, he thought.

Unfortunately he was wrong. Encouraged by his response Mrs Maguire put her apron back on and continued, breezily. ‘I know you won’t mind but I’ve been telling everyone. She’s a fashionable woman from London with expensive tastes. You wouldn’t catch the likes of her marrying a clergyman, would you now?’

She turned the hoover back on and resumed her work. After a few vigorous movements back and forth she looked up to see that Sidney had not moved.

‘Did I say the wrong thing?’ she shouted over the noise of her work.

Sidney said nothing but picked up a stack of books and took them through to the kitchen. On the top of his pile lay The Confessions of St Augustine. It was not going to help.

 

The next morning Grantchester was visited by yet another dose of persistent sleet, warning that winter was still not at an end. ‘Where are the songs of spring?’ Sidney wondered, forlornly, ‘Ay, where are they?’ There weren’t even any daffodils in bloom. This was a day, Sidney thought, to hunker down; a day for tea and toast and warm fires, for pastime with good company followed by a hearty stew and a good red wine.

Alas, such pleasures were denied to him. It was the thirty-fourth day of Lent. Would it never end?

It would not.

Inspector Keating telephoned. ‘You had better come to the station, Sidney.’

‘Whatever for? Aren’t we seeing each other tonight?’

‘This can’t wait. Another old person has died . . .’

‘Well, it is the time of year. Pneumonia, I suppose.’

Inspector Keating had no time for such musings. ‘Yes, I am perfectly aware that it is winter and that these things are likely but it’s the same bloody doctor and the second ruddy case. We have to sort this out.’

‘It may be a coincidence.’

‘Yes, of course, it may be a coincidence but if it isn’t we can’t have an epidemic of old codgers being helped out of this world. That’s your job . . .’

‘What is the name of the deceased?’

‘Anthony Bryant. He was seventy-one. A good age, but people are living longer these days. Modern medicine, apparently . . .’

‘Give me half an hour, Inspector. The roads are treacherous for my bicycle.’

‘Don’t worry about the roads, Sidney, I’ve sent a car. It will be with you in the next five minutes.’

‘Your business is as urgent as that?’

‘I will brief you at the station. Then the car will take you where you need to go. People are talking and a journalist from the Evening News is already sniffing around. We’ve got to try and stop all this nonsense.’

Sidney sighed. What was he supposed to do? He could hardly find another false pretext to visit the doctor. Perhaps Inspector Keating had other ideas. It was certainly odd for him to send a car. He would have thought that the police had other, more urgent priorities, but then, if the situation was as grim as it sounded, there was nothing more urgent than murder.

He travelled across slushy roads into town with a driver who had clearly been instructed to say nothing. When they pulled up in St Andrews Street Sidney noticed a girl in a duffle coat and a notebook waiting outside the station. She might well have been a student but there was something determined about her. He wondered what she was doing, waiting in the cold, and when Sidney got out of the car, their eyes met and she introduced herself:

‘Helena Randall. Cambridge Evening News.’

A journalist. Sidney had, of course, been expecting a man. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’

‘Are you Tony Bryant’s priest, by any chance?’

‘Not as far as I am aware,’ Sidney hesitated. How had the press discovered news of the death so quickly?

‘And are you a patient of Dr Michael Robinson?’

Clearly someone had been talking. Sidney was about to answer when the driver of the police car ushered him away. ‘No time for that, Canon Chambers . . .’

‘I’m so sorry. Please excuse me.’

‘My card,’ the girl pressed.

‘Yes of course.’

‘Come on, Canon Chambers.’ Sidney climbed up the stairs into Inspector Keating’s office.

His friend was waiting and went straight to the point. ‘This is a tricky business. It will take time for the coroner to make his report and, in the meantime, there are a lot of frail, elderly people out there. I am tempted to arrest Dr Robinson and get the whole thing over and done with but we don’t have the evidence and I don’t want to cause a stir. I have heard that the talk has already started.’

‘Indeed,’ Sidney replied. ‘My housekeeper has been guilty of it herself.’

‘Now, Sidney, you may not like this but I want you to go and see the doctor.’

‘I have already visited him twice.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘There was nothing to report.’

‘Then you need to go and see him again. Make up whatever excuse you like. Plans for the wedding would do it. I want you to win his trust and find out the truth. Is he getting carried away? If he is, I want you to stop him.’

Sidney resented the way that Inspector Keating was speaking to him as if he was an employee, but this didn’t seem to be the moment to take him up on it. Instead, he checked that they both thought in the same way. ‘And if he is breaking the law then you can arrest him.’

‘Of course. But the situation may be more complicated than that. What if he isn’t breaking the law but bending it? Going so far but stopping just short?’

‘Then he is acting within the law. I would have thought that was perfectly clear.’

‘You know what I mean, Sidney. This man may be putting patients’ lives at risk. I can feel the tension in the community. Something’s not right. People are very worried.’

‘I am sure Dr Robinson has their best interests at heart.’

‘Are you sure, though, Sidney? That’s what I want you to find out. I have a feeling that you also have doubts.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I am a detective . . .’

‘And I am a priest. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Well, I don’t. Perhaps that’s why we are such a good team. One of my men will take you round to Dr Robinson’s surgery. If he’s not there I take it he will be in Chedworth Street with Miss Livingstone. I’d like you to talk to him and report back.’

‘He’ll see through all this, of course. He’ll guess that I have come under your instruction.’

‘There’s nothing to see through. Your visit is perfectly legitimate, unlike the doctor’s methods . . .’

‘We don’t know that, Inspector.’

‘But with your help, Sidney, we soon will.’

 

Sidney decided that the only way to get a straight answer from Dr Robinson was to ask a few direct questions. He arrived at his surgery at midday and was informed by the receptionist that he would have to wait until the doctor had seen the last of his patients. This left Sidney with half an hour to kill, a period of time in which he tried and failed to amuse himself with back numbers of Punch. Consequently, when Dr Robinson was ready to see him, Sidney was feeling rather impatient.

‘How are your mystery ailments?’ the doctor asked. ‘Any better?’

Sidney had almost forgotten that this was how the conversation would have to begin. ‘I’m sorry. Much better, thank you.’

‘Then what can I do for you?’

‘I have come about the death of Anthony Bryant.’

‘Is he one of your parishioners?’

‘I received a telephone call from Inspector Keating.’

‘If he was that concerned why didn’t he telephone me himself? I can’t understand why he’s roped you into some completely spurious line of inquiry that is entirely without foundation. I have done nothing wrong.’

‘No one is saying that you have.’

‘They seem to be implying it. Why can’t they just come out and say it?’

‘Some members of the family felt that his death came rather more quickly than might have been expected.’

‘And are any of them doctors?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Old people can’t be expected to survive rampant infections, Canon Chambers, and when death comes, as you know full well, it comes at an unpredictable speed. You can’t anticipate or measure these things. Nor do I think it at all reasonable for a doctor to come under suspicion every time one of his patients dies. Society has to trust the fact that he knows what is best for his patients.’

‘The fact?’

‘Yes, Canon Chambers, the fact; otherwise what is the point of a medical training? I make informed decisions about medicine. I have relatively uninformed opinions about theology and the current state of Her Majesty’s Police Force. These matters I leave to you and your friend the inspector. I put my trust in you. I do not interfere in your world and I expect you not to interfere in mine.’

‘But when people die our worlds collide.’

Dr Robinson leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh and looked up at the ceiling. Then he spoke once more. ‘I don’t know if you have seen, Canon Chambers, at first hand, how debilitating a long illness can be; how bleak it is for a patient and how exhausting it is for those who have a duty of care?’

‘I have limited experience in this area, I admit; although I do know what it is like when people want nothing more than to die.’

‘In the war, I suppose.’

‘Yes. It was in the war.’

‘So you know how difficult the decision can be? Some pain cannot be eased. Sometimes there is no hope.’

‘Yes, and there are times when a decision has to be made very quickly.’

Dr Robinson paused before replying. ‘I see you understand the dilemma.’

He was waiting for more. Sidney then found himself telling a story. ‘I was in Italy in 1944,’ he began. ‘It was after the advance on Monte Cassino. We were in the Mignano Gap and had been under heavy mortar fire for three days. We went up the hill, sometimes crawling through the mud, and we faced a machine-gun attack that halved our number. I think I remember the noise more than anything else: the rounds of gunfire, the shouted orders, the cries of the wounded and the dying. Soldiers, my friends, so many of my friends, were howling for their mothers and their sweethearts. Howling. Then, even when we had pulled some of them to relative safety, their pain became unbearable. My commanding officer gave me a loaded revolver and said simply, ‘Do what you have to do.’

‘There was a boy of nineteen; red hair and freckles, and he had lost half his face. He would never be able to put his lips together again. There was no hope. His only sensation was unbearable pain. I stopped the pain. And I’ve never forgotten it. I remember it every day and I pray for him. I ask for God’s mercy.’

Dr Robinson sat quietly and thought about Sidney’s experience in silence. At last, he spoke. ‘I think I can guess why you have been telling me this, Canon Chambers. But I have done nothing wrong. My conscience is clear.’

‘I did not intend to tell you. I only came to meet you, and perhaps to advise you to be careful. Sometimes, I think, we are not always aware of how much we have to live with what we have done in the past. We can’t predict how these things will affect us.’

‘I am always careful, Canon Chambers.’

‘I would be very concerned,’ Sidney continued sternly, ‘if you did anything that might endanger your future, or that of Miss Livingstone, or indeed,’ and here he took a wild gamble, ‘that of your child.’

‘My child? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘I think you know perfectly well, Dr Robinson. I would hate to think that somebody so certain of their actions might leave a wife without a husband and a child without a father. Good day to you.’

 

Sidney was exhausted. He had not undertaken Holy Orders so that he could consort with policemen and threaten doctors. He had been called to be a messenger, watchman and steward of the Lord. He had a bounden duty to exercise care and diligence in bringing those in his charge to the faith and knowledge of God. And he had made a solemn promise at his ordination that there be no place left in him for error in religion or for viciousness in life. Yet, at this particular moment in time, everything was conspiring against him.

One of the problems of being a vicar, Sidney decided, was that you were always available. Just when you had settled down to writing the parish newsletter there would be a knock at the door or a ring of the telephone with news that could be urgent or trivial. It did not seem to matter which. All that mattered was that his attention was immediately required.

The morning after his unsettling visit to the doctor Sidney was at his desk. On it he had placed the figurine of a little girl feeding chickens that Hildegard Staunton had given him: with Mädchen füttert Hühner inscribed below. He found it curiously consoling and would sometimes break from his work to think about what she might be doing or imagine what advice she might give him. He took out the letter she had written, thanking him for all that he had done, telling him that he would always be welcome in Germany. He only had to ask, and he could arrive at any time.

‘You know that whatever happens in the world,’ she had written, ‘I will always remember your kindness and be grateful. You know that I am here.’

Sidney put down Hildegard’s letter and tried to concentrate. He was trying to work without disturbance before the arrival of Mrs Maguire with her dusting, her conversation and his lunch. Monday was always shepherd’s pie and Sidney was almost looking forward to its simple consoling pleasure when another visitor interrupted him.

It was one of his parishioners, Mrs Agatha Redmond, a farmer’s wife, who often helped out with the floral decoration of the church. A smile played across her ruddy cheeks. ‘It’s a fine morning, Canon Chambers, is it not?’ she began. ‘Nice to see sunshine after the snow.’

Sidney noticed that Mrs Redmond was holding a black Labrador puppy. Already he began to suspect that something was up. ‘Is it about the flower rota?’ he asked.

‘Oh no. It’s nothing of the sort.’

‘Then would you like to come in?’

Agatha Redmond hesitated and then looked down at the puppy. ‘Isn’t he lovely?’

‘Yes,’ Sidney answered uncertainly. ‘I am sure he is. A fine specimen.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘I do,’ Sidney continued as surely as he could. He had never been that keen on dogs. ‘Indeed I do.’

‘Then I’m so pleased,’ Mrs Redmond continued. ‘Because Miss Kendall asked me to give him to you. Isn’t he gorgeous? He’s only eight weeks old.’

‘I didn’t know you knew Miss Kendall?’

‘She met my husband on a train. Then she telephoned.’

‘It’s very odd that she didn’t say anything about it.’

‘She wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘Well, it’s certainly that, Mrs Redmond. Perhaps I am to keep him for her until she comes to collect him?’

‘Oh no, Canon Chambers. I don’t think you understand. This dog is for you. He’s a present.’

For a moment Sidney could not quite take in what was being said to him. ‘But why?’

‘Miss Kendall thought you were rather down in the dumps. She said that you needed cheering up. There’s nothing like a Lab for company, and the black are better for conversation I find.’

Sidney was astounded. He could not understand how Amanda could have done such a thing. Why of all things in the world would he have need of a dog? It was hard enough looking after himself.

‘But I’ve no idea how to . . .’

Mrs Redmond interrupted. ‘I’ve brought a booklet with instructions and there’s a basket for him in the car. The important thing is to get him house-trained as soon as possible. When he’s older, of course, you can take him on your visits. He’ll be very popular.’

‘I dare say . . .’

‘Shall we set up a space in the kitchen? By the back door, I think. I’ll need some newspaper.’ Mrs Redmond picked up a copy of the Church Times. She was quite unstoppable. ‘This will do.’

Sidney gave himself one last chance, ‘But I knew nothing about this. I haven’t the foggiest idea how to look after a dog.’

‘You’ll soon get used to him. Try looking at the vicarage from the puppy’s point of view. You’ll get a whole new perspective on things, Canon Chambers, a dog’s eye view of life. I find it so very consoling. After a while, you’ll wonder how you ever did without him.’

Mrs Redmond put the Labrador down on the floor and the puppy made a last-ditch bid for freedom. ‘Steady now, Archie . . .’

‘He’s called Archie?’

‘You can change the name, of course. But you need to decide soon so he can get used to your commands.’

‘I don’t think I’ve given a command since the Army . . .’

‘Well, perhaps it’s time you resumed, Canon Chambers? There are only five to remember: “come”, “sit”, “stay”, “heel” and “lie down”. You need to be clear and consistent. Then you can add words such as “basket”. Talking of which I must go and fetch it before I forget. You will keep the vicarage nice and cosy for him, won’t you? It’s quite cold in this kitchen.’

‘It is winter,’ Sidney observed, ‘and I was not expecting a dog.’

Mrs Redmond failed to detect a tone that hovered between despair and irritation. ‘Of course you’ll have to keep him in a limited space until he’s fully house-trained. He’ll need a blanket too. I’ve brought some food to start you off and I think I have got some old toys as well. They might do when I look in later in the week to see how you are getting on . . .’

Sidney sat down on a kitchen chair as Mrs Redmond busied herself around him and then fetched the dog’s basket from her car. ‘It will be like having a child . . .’ he muttered. ‘And without a wife . . .’

Mrs Redmond re-entered the room. ‘I am sure you won’t have any trouble finding a wife, Canon Chambers . . .’

It now appeared that his visitor had selective hearing. ‘People do keep telling me . . .’

‘A handsome man like you . . .’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course. Everyone says so. You’d be quite a catch.’

Sidney allowed himself a moment of vanity. He knew that on a good day he had a faint air of Kenneth More about him but he didn’t like to dwell on it.

Mrs Redmond put down the dog basket and looked at him. She had sensed his weak spot. ‘I am sure Miss Kendall might consider it.’

‘I don’t think that’s likely . . .’

‘Oh dear. Never mind.’ Mrs Redmond resumed her preparations. ‘Still, once you get to know Archie I am sure you can tell him your problems instead of Miss Kendall. Then no one else need know . . .’

‘I’m not sure my problems are worth discussing.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Canon Chambers. Archie won’t mind. You can tell him anything. Anything at all . . .’

‘I suppose I can.’

Mrs Redmond began rubbing her hands together, a nervous gesture that indicated her duty was done. ‘I’d better be going now. If you have any problems with him or need any advice just pop round, but I am sure that Archie is going to make a vast improvement to your life.’

‘He’s certainly going to change it,’ Sidney mused. ‘I’ll see you to the door, Mrs Redmond.’

‘Don’t you worry about that, Canon Chambers. I’ll let myself out.’

Sidney looked down at Archie. He would have to try and pick him up, he decided, but as soon as he made his first attempt the dog proved resistant and gave a small yelp. Indeed, it was a frustrating while before Sidney was able to scoop him up in his arms.

Honestly.

What was he doing?

How could anyone think that such a pet might be suitable?

It was absurd and it quite put him off Amanda. What can he have been thinking when he told her everything? How could she ever have conceived that he might want a dog? What on earth did they have in common? He should leave Grantchester whenever he could, Sidney thought, and find the most remote parish where little happened apart from the need to maintain faith. He thought of Cornwall, West Wales, the Northumbrian border with Scotland: anywhere with a low crime rate and parishioners who were keen to come to church rather than murder each other.

Archie jumped on to his lap. His honey-brown eyes had an expression of helpless trust. This was a creature who was asking to be looked after, whose affection was unconditional, and who would always be pleased to see him. This, surely, would be a more rewarding responsibility, a healing presence amidst the death of the old. Yes, perhaps all might be well after all and Amanda had been right and this would be . . .

Ah.

Perhaps not.

Mrs Maguire was coming through the front door with her shopping bags and Sidney’s shepherd’s pie.

‘It’s only me,’ she called.

At first Mrs Maguire did not notice the new arrival, walking into the kitchen, putting her things on the table, speaking all the while and telling Sidney that he would have to leave so that she could get on with her work. ‘What is the Church Times doing on the floor?’ she demanded. ‘Are you throwing it away? The wastepaper basket is under your desk.’

‘It is there for a reason, Mrs Maguire.’

‘I can’t think what that could be.’ She noticed the basket. ‘And what, in God’s good name, is that?’

‘I think I can . . .’ At that moment Sidney’s new puppy scampered up to Mrs Maguire and gave her right ankle a playful nip.

‘Heavens to Betsy!’ Mrs Maguire cried out. ‘An animal!’

‘He is a present from Miss Kendall.’

‘What the dickens is going on? How long is he staying?’

‘For ever, it seems.’

‘What on earth do you mean, Canon Chambers? I hope you don’t expect me to clean up after that thing?’

‘I certainly don’t, Mrs Maguire. At the moment I am not sure what to do. The puppy is an extremely recent arrival.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘Archie. But I think I’m going to change his name. Now you mention it, Dickens sounds rather a good name for a dog.’

Mrs Maguire was unimpressed. ‘None of us needs a puppy yapping away. They never stop, you know.’

‘I am sure he will grow. I was hoping that he might prove to be something of a companion . . .’

‘He’ll be nothing but trouble, mark my words. And you, Canon Chambers, have enough trouble in your life already.’

 

The day did not pass well. Dickens, for that was the name Sidney decided upon, wet the kitchen floor immediately Mrs Maguire had cleaned it, the church roof had sprung a leak under the weight of the melting snow and Sidney forgot his shepherd’s pie in the oven. As he ate the burnt remains with his curate, Leonard advised Sidney that he really should see the coroner once more. They needed to know whether Mrs Livingstone’s cremation could take place, if her daughter’s marriage could proceed and if not, what Inspector Keating was going to do about it.

Sidney found all the demands on his time even more irritating than usual. He knew that he didn’t actually like Derek Jarvis. But now he decided he was not too keen on Dr Michael Robinson either. Or Mrs Maguire. Or his curate. Or his dog. Or even Amanda. In fact the monastic life suddenly seemed far more appealing than ever before.

Later that afternoon, Sidney rang the bell of the coroner’s office and was shown through to a small waiting room. Derek Jarvis was efficiently polite. ‘You’re taking quite an interest in this case, I see . . .’

‘Apparently there is some considerable disquiet in the town. People have stopped going to see Dr Robinson.’

‘There are other doctors.’

‘We can’t hound a man out of town because of an unfounded rumour.’

Derek Jarvis sighed. ‘I can assure you, Canon Chambers, that I have been professional throughout this investigation and will continue to be so.’

‘I cannot believe that Dr Robinson is a murderer.’

‘Well,’ Derek Jarvis concluded. ‘So far, despite all the anxiety, it appears that he is not.’

‘Morphine?’

‘A high level but nothing more . . .’

‘You sound disappointed.’

‘I am not disappointed. I am wary. As I said, a high level of morphine.’

‘But within acceptable limits.’

‘Just.’

‘Then you will release Mrs Livingstone’s body?’

‘I will. However, as I am sure you are aware, other sudden elderly deaths have occurred.’

‘Anthony Bryant . . .’

‘Indeed.’

Sidney could not let the situation finish like this. He knew that he should act in a more priestly manner. ‘I know it is hard to act in good faith with someone you may not like. As a Christian . . .’

‘Please, Canon Chambers, do not make such assumptions or jump to conclusions.’

‘I was merely suggesting . . .’

‘My work is scientific and objective. My personal feelings are kept in abeyance.’

‘Very well,’ Sidney answered. ‘When will you have completed your examination of the second body?’

‘All in good time.’

Sidney looked at the coroner and wondered whether there was ever such a thing as ‘good time’. It was going to be a long wait.

 

As he walked back through the streets of Cambridge, Sidney stopped to admire a pipe-smoking snowman that had been given an air-raid warden’s helmet. He heard a sudden movement behind him, turned to see who it was, but there was no one there. Perhaps he was being followed? But why would anyone want to do such a thing? He tried to put his suspicions down to the fact that he was cold and anxious, but the feelings of unease grew as he resumed his walk. He was also hungry after the debacle of his lunchtime shepherd’s pie. There was nothing for it but to enter Fitzbillies and buy yet another one of their Chelsea buns. He would find a discreet way of eating it on his way home.

Although his purchase was successful, his initial attempt to eat the bun was foiled by the presence of the young female journalist he had seen outside the police station. In the pause in which he tried to remember her name Helena Randall shot out her first question. ‘A successful visit to the coroner, Canon Chambers?’

Sidney paused. ‘I am not sure what you mean?’

‘Are there any positive results?’

Sidney stopped. ‘I would like to help you but what I am doing is rather confidential.’

Helena Randall took out her notebook. ‘And are there degrees of confidentiality?’ she asked.

‘I like to think not.’

‘And will you be going to see Dr Robinson or his fiancée again?’

Sidney had never met someone so pale and so determined. ‘I haven’t seen them today.’

‘But you have seen them recently? When?’

‘In the last few days, but I don’t know whether this is anything that might be of interest to your readers. There is no evidence of any wrongdoing.’

‘There are coincidences.’

‘It is winter, Miss . . .’

‘Randall. Helena Randall. I think you are a police spy, Canon Chambers.’

‘I have never heard anything so absurd. There may be spies in Cambridge but I can assure you that I am not one of them.’

‘So you admit to knowing spies?’

‘Of course I don’t. Now please; I must be going home.’

‘I can walk with you.’

‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’

‘I gave you my card, I believe?’

‘You did.’

‘Well then. You probably need to know that I, too, am never off duty. I think this has the makings of a story.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Not yet, Canon Chambers. But there soon will be. And when the story breaks you will want to tell me your side of it first.’

‘I am not sure that I will.’ Sidney replied tersely. ‘Good day to you, Miss Randall.’

He crossed Granta Place and headed up Eltisley Avenue and glanced up at Hildegard Staunton’s old house. He wished she were still there. He could have stopped off on the way home and listened to her play Bach. Now all he had was his bun from Fitzbillies.

He ate it as he walked across the Meadows. It was almost dark. A group of schoolboys were enjoying a snowball fight as people returned from work, bicycling along the high path with books, bags and shopping. Greeting people as they passed, Sidney had a simultaneous sense of belonging and alienation. These were, in the main, decent respectable people, and yet Sidney felt that he had little to do with them. He was detached, separated from their lives and their employment by his calling, by the university and by his dream-like daily musings. Normal life, simultaneously, had both everything and nothing to do with him.

When he returned home his dog scampered up to meet him. It was clear that he expected his master both to give him his full attention and to go straight back out again but the telephone in the hall was already ringing. Sidney had been hoping that he could heat the place up a bit and sit by the fire with some light reading but it was not to be. Who on earth could this be? he wondered as the telephone rang. What fresh hell is this?

It was Amanda. ‘How is Dickens?’ she asked. Already, Sidney thought, her dog mattered more than he did.

‘How did you know he was called that?’ he replied.

‘I telephoned earlier and got Mrs Maguire. She tried to be polite but was really quite ratty. She thought I should come and get him and take him away.’

‘Dickens is quite a handful, Amanda.’

‘I bought him for that very purpose.’

‘Did you indeed . . .’

‘He’s there to take your mind off all the dreadful things that have been happening. You told me you were lonely.’

‘You asked me if I was lonely. That’s not quite the same thing.’

‘You answered in the affirmative and I have taken steps to address the situation. I thought it was rather thoughtful of me . . .’

‘It was Amanda, and I am grateful.’

‘How is he?’

‘He’s perfectly well.’

‘You sound grumpy. Are you sure you are looking after him properly? When can I see him?’

‘You can come whenever you like.’

‘Good. You haven’t got the flu or anything like that?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Why do I ask?’ Amanda was almost shouting. ‘Because I don’t want you going to see that doctor.’

‘What has Mrs Maguire been saying?’

‘I am sure you can guess. She thinks that your doctor has been taking the law into his own hands.’

‘Nothing has been proved.’

‘But by the time it is, it will be too late. You need to be careful, Sidney. In crime stories the murderer is always the doctor. It’s why I no longer read Miss Christie. It’s always the bloody doctor.’

‘But this is not fiction, Amanda. This is real life.’

‘I don’t want you doing anything silly.’

‘There’s not much chance of that. All my energy is being taken up with looking after your wretched Labrador.’

‘I’m sorry if you think that Dickens is too much for you,’ Amanda snapped. ‘I meant well. I’m sure I can find another home for him if you’d like. I was just trying to do my best and give you a companion. That’s all I was trying to do.’

‘I’m sorry, Amanda. It’s just that sometimes . . .’

His friend interrupted. ‘I’m worried you are so gloomy. Do you think it’s because it’s Lent? Or something else? Have you taken Dickens out for a walk today?’

‘Of course I have,’ Sidney replied defensively.

He wondered how much longer this conversation would continue. He had nothing to say and much to think about. Furthermore, he was standing in the cold hall. The windows had frosted completely, and on the inside. It was probably going to snow yet again. When, oh when, Sidney wondered, would it be spring?

Amanda was still talking. ‘Are you still there?’

Sidney had switched off. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I have to go. Henry is taking me out to dinner.’

‘Henry?’

‘I’ve told you about him.’

‘Have you?’

‘Of course I have. There’s nothing you need to worry about.’

‘But I do . . .’

‘Must dash. Don’t go to the doctor whatever you do. Love you.’

Sidney began to remonstrate but Amanda had already put down the receiver. He listened to the relentless sound of the dialling tone. There was nothing that could have matched his mood more exactly.

 

At last Easter came; the Maundy Thursday washing of feet, the three-hour meditation on Good Friday, the vigil on Saturday evening and then the triumphant alleluia of Easter Sunday. A wave of purple crocuses burst through the grass of the Grantchester Meadows to echo the message of Christian hope.

Sidney was determined that his parishioners should share the joy and redemption of Easter, and took, as the symbol of his sermon, the image of the cloth left in the cave where Jesus had lain. It had been folded rather than thrown away, Sidney told his congregation, a sign, according to the custom of the time, that he would return, to the table, to the meal and to the communion between God and man.

‘We are Easter people,’ he told the parishioners of Grantchester. ‘This is not one day out of three hundred and sixty-five, but the mainspring of our faith. We carry the Easter message each day of our lives, lives in which the pain of the Cross and the suffering of humanity are followed by the uncomprehended magnitude of the Resurrection.’

Sidney spoke with as much passion as he could muster but as he looked down from the pulpit he realised that he was not able to reach every parishioner. The elderly looked benevolent and grateful, but younger widows from the war carried a grief that could not be assuaged. Sidney stressed that God must be one with whom humanity’s pain and loneliness can identify, but he could tell that some of his parishioners could only look back at him and say, ‘Not this pain. Not this loneliness.’

He wished, once more, that he could be a better priest. He hoped he could bring comfort but there were times when he just had to understand that he could not be all things to all men. Sometimes he had to accept his limitations and take a few hours away from his duties and let life take its course. At least he now had the excuse of walking his Labrador.

This was not always an easy task. Sidney was no disciplinarian when it came to training and Dickens had to be frequently retrieved from hedges, ditches and, on one occasion, the river itself. His presence did, however, make social engagement with other dog owners more agreeable and Sidney had no choice but to leave his desk and get out into the surrounding countryside with a companion who was always loyal and never bored. No matter what Sidney did Dickens was keen to follow.

Sidney only wished that Amanda, the provider of such an unexpected gift to his life, could share some of her caring canine’s qualities.

On his return from an enjoyable, if rather breathless walk that Easter afternoon, Sidney was surprised to find the coroner at his front door. He was leaving some wine by the empty milk bottles.

‘I’m glad I’ve caught you,’ he exclaimed.

Dickens jumped up against the coroner’s knee.

‘Playful little fellow you’ve got there, I see . . .’

‘Somewhat too playful,’ Sidney apologised. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘That would be very kind.’

Sidney opened his front door and Dickens scampered in. ‘Do come in. May I take your coat?’

The coroner put down his bottle of wine on the hall table. ‘I brought you a small present for Easter, Canon Chambers.’

‘That’s very kind of you. It’s not an egg, I see.’

‘It most certainly isn’t. It’s a Bordeaux. Château-Latour 1937. Rather good, I think you’ll find.’

‘Oh my,’ said Sidney.

‘You are aware of the vintage?’

‘I’m not sure I am.’ Sidney filled his kettle with water and lit the gas ring. ‘I’m afraid I’m more of a beer man.’

‘You surprise me. I would have thought with all your college feasts you would be quite an oenophilist.’

‘I’m really more at home in the pub with my friends. I’m not all that fond of dining at high table.’

‘Why ever not?’

Sidney waited for the kettle to boil. ‘I think it’s because I don’t quite belong. A clergyman is always rather an odd one out. Perhaps it goes back to the last century when if a man had several sons then the eldest joined the army, the second ran the estate and the youngest and dimmest went into the church. I fear some of the Fellows still think that this is the case.’

‘They do make a great show of finding you intellectually inferior whoever you are. Which is all very well but while they may have brains they certainly don’t always have manners.’

‘Is that what you find?’

‘They are in a world of their own. Sometimes I think they can scarcely talk to each other, never mind their guests.’

Sidney warmed his teapot, added a sprinkle of leaves and then poured in the boiling water. ‘It has always surprised me that some Fellows don’t actually like their students.’

‘I think it’s because they want to be students themselves. They are envious of their youth and contemptuous of their intelligence.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite as strongly as that.’

‘I would, I am afraid. Do you know that line of Kierkegaard’s, Canon Chambers? “There are many people who reach their conclusions about life like schoolboys: they cheat their master by copying the answer out of a book without having worked the sum out for themselves.” ’

‘I certainly think that many of them prefer books to people. Do you take milk with your tea?’ Sidney asked.

‘Of course. But never in first . . .’

Sidney smiled. ‘I am not the kind of vicar who would do such a thing.’

‘I never suspected that you were; but it’s sometimes necessary to say so to avoid disaster.’

Sidney put the teacups on a tray that he had been given to commemorate the Coronation. ‘Shall we go through to the sitting room? It’s kind of you to bring the wine . . .’

The coroner looked at the bottle as if he was sad to say goodbye to it. ‘It’s meant as an apology, and as a thank you.’

‘I don’t think I need either of those. Do sit down.’

‘Actually you do, Canon Chambers. I was very brusque with you. I did not like you intruding.’

Sidney poured out the tea. ‘You made that very clear.’

‘But now I am grateful.’

‘I am not sure what I did to deserve this.’

‘You averted disaster, something rather more serious than putting milk in your tea first.’

Sidney handed his companion his cup and saucer. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Dr Robinson and his future wife . . .’

‘Oh, I don’t think I did anything there.’

‘I rather think that you did, Canon Chambers. I know you went to see Dr Robinson. I thought at the time that all of this was none of your business and I’m afraid I may have said so rather too strongly.’

‘I am used to people being frank with me, Mr Jarvis. Sugar?’

‘No thank you.’

‘There’s even some of Mrs Maguire’s shortbread.’

‘I feel you are distracting me.’

‘Please. Continue.’

‘It’s often hard to predict what people might do, don’t you find? I can see that Dr Robinson was acting within the boundaries of the law but I could also see that he was in danger of taking that same law into his own hands.’

‘The Anthony Bryant inquiry?’

‘Again, the quantity of morphine was just within acceptable limits. He was, as we suspected, bending the law rather than breaking it. But sometimes, and I have seen this before, people get into the habit. If Dr Robinson felt that he was performing a useful and compassionate service, and if he imagined that he was acting for a higher moral purpose, then perhaps he believed that he could carry on, take things further and justify what he was doing. I think that by intervening you stopped him doing anything more.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘I think I do, Canon Chambers. It could have got out of control.’

‘Sidney, please . . .’

‘I think not. It doesn’t pay for a man to be too familiar with his priest. What you did, Canon Chambers, was to cut off any possibility that he could justify his actions. Your presence reminded him that there were God’s laws as well as man’s, and that even if he could explain his behaviour with a clear conscience on this earth then he might still be answerable to a stricter ethical power in the afterlife.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Inspector Keating told me that Dr Robinson found you rather disconcerting. It was why he sent you. He knew that moral authority would carry more weight than the force of the law. He’s cleverer than you think, that man.’

‘I do not doubt it.’

‘And there were things that you said. They made the doctor pause.’

‘I do not think I said very much.’

‘It was enough. Of course, I am guessing what passed between you but I know enough to realise that I need to thank you. You did not have to do what you did but you did and I appreciate it. I am sorry not to have been as welcoming as I should have been when you came to see me. I will not make that mistake in future.’

‘And I will try not to be disconcerting.’

‘To a man with a guilty conscience everything is troubling.’

‘I imagine so.’

‘And a clear conscience is the only way to live, Canon Chambers, and, of course, a clear head. Now, shall we open the wine? It must be six o’clock and we have an excuse. The Lenten days have passed.’

‘I would be delighted,’ Sidney replied.

 

On Easter Thursday the traditional social meeting with Inspector Keating in the RAF bar of The Eagle returned to form.

‘It’s good to see you back to your old self, Sidney,’ his friend began as they settled down to their first pint of the evening. ‘Although I wasn’t expecting you to come with Dickens. It’s a wife you need, not a dog.’

‘A dog is all that I was offered, unfortunately.’

‘There are women other than Miss Kendall. I thought you were rather partial to that German widow?’

‘Too soon, Geordie, and, in a way, too late.’

‘People always find excuses. Sometimes it’s best just to get on with it.’

‘Indeed,’ mused Sidney, thinking of Keating’s wife and three children.

The inspector took a long draft of beer. ‘At least your man seems to have got away with it.’

Sidney gave his friend a stern look. ‘He’s not “my man”, Geordie. And he acted within the boundaries of the law.’

‘The coroner’s turned a blind eye, if you ask me. He’s softer than I thought . . .’

‘That he may be,’ mused Sidney. ‘You still suspect malpractice?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘The doctor knew what he was doing.’

‘Only too well, it seems.’

‘And I think his motives were genuine. It was winter: the season of pneumonia, friend of the aged. A moral decision can sometimes take more courage than we think.’

Inspector Keating did not appear to be listening. He was still brooding over the case and finished his drink at a canter. ‘Nonetheless, you have to admit that it’s been a difficult business.’ He looked into his empty pint glass. ‘Sherlock Holmes may have had his two-pipe problem but I’m rather hoping ours are more like two-pint problems . . .’

‘Very droll . . .’ Sidney replied. ‘Another?’

‘That would be kind.’

‘We will never really know, will we? What goes on in the minds of men.’

‘Or women . . .’ his friend replied before catching the barman’s attention.

The inspector laid out the board of backgammon as Sidney collected the drinks. ‘It’s a funny thing, the whole business of love, is it not?’ He was speaking almost to himself. ‘I suppose I take it for granted, I have everything at home, Cathy and the children, and it just felt natural to us but I suppose for other people it’s a different story.’

Sidney put the pints down on the table. ‘I am sure that most people like to feel their own story is unique.’

‘But you, my friend, have a series of different possibilities: books with blank pages about to be filled.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’ Sidney could tell that the inspector was trying to turn this into a conversation about Amanda but he wasn’t having it. ‘I am only relieved that the marriage between Isabel and the doctor can go ahead.’

‘When is the great day?’

‘A week on Saturday.’

The inspector lit up a cigarette. ‘It’s a curious thing the way the mind works, Sidney. The doctor probably thought he was acting out of love by bumping off his fiancée’s mother.’

‘He didn’t “bump her off”.’

‘We both know he did. But he’s got away with it by disguising it as compassion.’ The inspector threw a double six. ‘Do you think the coroner was in on it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’m still not so sure. It would be an easy thing to sort out amongst themselves. They could have been in it together and the coroner was only drawing attention to the incident as a double bluff. He was getting in first and making sure he was the one doing the investigating rather than any other coroner.’

‘That sounds a bit far-fetched.’

‘Nothing in crime is ever far-fetched, Sidney. You should know that by now. Anything is possible; and the most unlikely and unbelievable stories are often the truest. I wouldn’t mind looking at the wills of the old people who’ve died. If the doctor’s been left anything . . .’

‘You can always check, but I think you’ll find the coroner is a good man.’

‘I’ve not doubted it in the past, Sidney. You were the one who had reservations.’

‘I’ve rather warmed to him.’

‘Have you now?’

‘He came to the vicarage with a bottle of wine.’

‘Wine? You’re easily bought. I thought you were a beer man?’

‘It was a Château-Latour 1937. Smooth on the palate and long on the finish.’

‘I’ll wager he said it was. But wine’s a very expensive hobby for a clergyman. I’m not sure you should be developing a taste for something you cannot afford.’

‘Corpus does have a very fine cellar . . .’

‘It sends out the wrong signals too. You know for a fact that nothing beats a good pub. That’s where real people go: not your dons or your rich fancy types. Besides, I thought you didn’t like going to your old college?’

‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’

‘I don’t know, man. You seem to have changed character. First you get a dog, and then you develop a taste for wine. God knows what might happen next.’

‘I am sure God does know, Inspector. It’s just as well we don’t.’

‘And I’m right glad we don’t.’

‘Another round?’

‘A third pint?’ Inspector Keating asked with affectionate surprise. ‘Are you sure you can take it, man?’

‘Lent is no more,’ Sidney reaffirmed. ‘You, my good friend, are here. We are talking about wine and crime and love. Sometimes I think there is nothing we cannot say to each other.’

‘I suppose that’s right.’

‘The fire is lit. A dog is by my side. The mood, if I may say so, is jovial. And furthermore,’ Sidney continued, ‘I am looking forward to some very unsteady bicycling on the way home.’

 

The following week the air softened and spring came at last. Primroses, violets and coltsfoot bloomed; woodlarks hung suspended in the air all day and sang all night. Lapwings haunted the downs, the stone-curlew returned from the uplands down to the meadows and banks, blackbirds and thrushes laid their eggs.

So late the spring, and yet so welcome. It had come to fruition in perfect time for Isabel’s wedding. Sidney was delighted to see the new fashions amongst the female guests: the full skirts, soft shoulders and pinched waists, the figure-hugging dresses and glorious hats with their floral blooms and swirls of organza. The women of Grantchester had cast off their winter darkness and were showing summer colour at last.

Sidney greeted the doctor as he arrived with his best man. ‘A happy day,’ he said. ‘I do hope you enjoy it.’

‘I intend to. And I should thank you, of course.’

‘I don’t think I did anything.’

‘You did what you had to do and said what you had to say.’

‘That was my duty.’

‘It would take a brave man to disagree with you.’

‘Alas, Dr Robinson, many do.’

‘That’s as may be. But you were fair-minded and you said the right things. You made me think differently about the world and its ways. We are both very grateful.’

‘I suppose that is a clergyman’s duty.’

‘Ah, yes. The poet George Crabbe wrote about that, didn’t he? The priest as an example to his flock:

 

Sober, chaste devout and just

One whom his neighbours could believe and trust.

 

It must be hard to set such an example.’

‘It is almost impossible,’ Sidney replied.

‘Sometimes, it is not the achievement but the intention that matters.’ The doctor smiled.

The organist struck up the wedding march and they were off.

Sidney tried to cheer himself up by reminding himself that he enjoyed a good wedding. He was not so keen on the receptions that followed: the nervous bonhomie, the lengthy speeches and the warm white wine, but he had learned to walk through them with a semi-detached benevolence that many people, he was relieved to notice, mistook for holiness.

Isabel Livingstone, soon to be Robinson, was dressed in white taffeta, and Sidney noticed she had chosen an empire line dress rather than the currently fashionable fitted waist and full skirt. She appeared younger than when Sidney had last seen her as if it was only now, at this moment, that she had become herself. The anxiety and grief of the previous months had fallen away, and her walk up the aisle had the air of a triumphal march.

She was followed by two bridesmaids dressed in frocks of buttercup yellow. Both girls were under the age of eight and they walked with a grace and a solemnity of purpose that Sidney hoped might provide an example to the rest of the congregation.

He smiled as he gave the opening welcome but something held him back. He was not going to let the couple off lightly. He spoke slowly, clearly and with authority. He emphasised the fact that marriage had to be entered into reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God. He would explain each of these phrases in his sermon and he would expect everyone to pay attention. This was not just a social event. It was a sombre religious ceremony in which the promises made had eternal consequences.

He would preach, as he often did, on Christ’s first miracle, at a wedding feast at Cana of Galilee. The water was changed into wine, as Michael and Isabel would be changed, the two becoming one; but, rather than losing themselves in self-indulgence, the challenge would be to bring out the best in one another. They would have to become different people, better, stronger, more tolerant and more generous.

Even though he told the congregation that the best wedding present they could give the happy couple would be to love, support and be watchful of this marriage, both Michael and Isabel Robinson knew that Canon Sidney Chambers was speaking directly to them. He was telling them to be careful. He was telling them to watch out. There was steel, both in his compassion, and in his Christianity. This was not so much a sermon as a moral warning.

God was watching them.

Sidney was watching them.

Six months later Isabel Robinson gave birth to a baby boy.