Sidney Chambers and The Dangers of Temptation (27 page)

‘Otto is probably in Berlin.’

‘It does not matter, because I think that you were driving his car on the night of the accident.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you decided to split the responsibility for Günter’s death.’

‘I don’t understand why you think any one of us would want to kill a friend.’

‘Let me try and explain,’ Sidney began. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me if it is true or not.’

‘I don’t see why we should listen to you,’ said Maria.

‘Have patience,’ Hildegard cut in. ‘It is probably safer to know what people are saying about you than not.’

‘Rumours never help anyone,’ said Karl.

‘You gave everyone a lift home,’ Sidney continued. ‘That you admit.’

‘I do.’

‘But you didn’t go home yourself.’

‘I didn’t?’

‘No, you did not; at least, not immediately. Instead, at Otto’s house, you switched cars. You got into his dark-green Trabant because everyone had seen you in your pale-blue car all night. Otto either knew exactly what you were doing or was too drunk to notice you take his keys. You knew that if there were green paint marks found at the scene of the crime, no one would think it was you because your car is blue; and if anyone did see a dark-green car then it would be easy to blame the Pietsch family because Otto had a motive for murder.’

‘This is not what happened.’

‘I think it’s close enough. You left well before Günter. Rolf Müller knew of the plan and detained him so that you had enough time to take Otto’s car and lie in wait. You parked just beyond the bend, out of sight, probably with your lights off.’

‘If I did that then I would be the one most likely to be hit.’

‘But you weren’t. I think you had some form of communication with Rolf Müller. He gave you a warning when Günter
was leaving. You waited for him to approach the bend. As soon as you saw him you accelerated, hit him from the side, pushed him into the ditch and drove on, probably back to Rolf Müller’s house. He then reported on “the accident” and made sure that the evidence fitted the explanation. Otto is missing because his car is missing. He has taken it far away, probably with traces from Günter’s motorbike on the front left bumper.’

Karl Fischer was unmoved. ‘You’ve no evidence for any of this.’

‘We have your words. They are on Jürgen’s tape recorder. He liked to keep it running on record; something he probably learned from his father. He played me a little section. I had to ask Hildegard what it meant. Maria is heard asking: “
Hat der Spatz seinen Baum gefunden?
Has the sparrow found its tree?” And you reply: “
Ja, sein Nest ist am Boden
. Yes, his nest is on the ground.” The Sparrow was Günter’s nickname from school. You both knew he was going to die.’

‘That tape could mean anything.’

‘I think it is clear.’

‘Even if it is, who will you tell this fantastical story? Rolf Müller? He will be amused if this is your attempt to make sense of it all. Then, if you persist, he will be annoyed. And that won’t help you.’

‘I hope Rolf Müller will be chastened and pursue a conviction. And if he does, then you may not be so confident in your answers. We think he retouched Günter’s bike to add a little blue paint. Insurance, so that he could blame either you or Otto, whoever paid him least to keep quiet.’

‘You have been so inventive, Mr Chambers,’ Karl Fischer replied. ‘You have worked so hard when you should have been
on holiday. It’s such a shame, and in such a beautiful landscape. You must have missed so much.’

‘I don’t think I’ve missed anything at all.’

Maria Jansen spoke at last. There was no point continuing, she said. It was one man’s word against another’s. Everyone at the Villa Friede would wonder where they were. ‘Anyone will think this story is crazy.’

‘You all worked together,’ Sidney insisted. ‘Otto Pietsch’s family was ruined by the Jansens and they have waited thirteen years for vengeance. Rolf Müller has bad debt, thought he was being outmanoeuvred by Günter’s corruption and made sure that he would profit from any “accident” and loss of property. And you two love each other.’

‘You would know our feelings better than we do ourselves?’ Maria asked. ‘How can you say such things?’

‘I am not judging you.’

‘But you have accused us. And I don’t believe you can prove anything at all.’

‘Günter’s death was an accident,’ Karl Fischer resumed. ‘If you suggest anything different we will make counter-accusations. We will create so many stories and so much paperwork that no one will ever know what truly happened. We might even find a way to make you look responsible yourself, Mr Chambers. You are a stranger and an amateur. No one will believe anything you say unless you would prefer to stay here for five or six years in order to try and prove your theory. Prosecutors and the police will give up. Nothing can be done. It’s too much work over the death of a man nobody liked.’

‘Günter always thought he was popular.’

‘He was deluded,’ said Maria. ‘He made everyone around him miserable.’

‘Not his son.’

‘Jürgen was afraid of him, just as I was. Neither of us ever loved him.’ She turned to Hildegard. ‘You know what it is like to be married to the wrong man.’

‘You don’t mean Sidney?’

‘No. Your first husband. The one who killed himself.’

‘He was murdered,’ said Sidney.

‘That was not the story we were told.’

‘Let’s not talk about this,’ said Hildegard.

Maria would not let her go. ‘You have found happiness. Why can’t I?’

‘I think you know the answer to that. You will find happiness only when you confront the truth.’

Karl cut in to prevent any admission of guilt. ‘The Jansen family started the treachery a long time ago. They used us all.’

‘And so what was,’ Sidney asked, ‘in one generation a tight group of friends becomes, in the next, a closed circle of deceit?’

‘You could say that. In fact you can say what you like. No one will listen to you.’

‘I wonder if you will be able to live easily knowing that this crime is on your conscience?’

‘I have conscience enough,’ said Maria at last. ‘Although I don’t feel any better; only that the pain cannot be as bad as it once was.’

‘People think that death will help matters,’ said Sidney. ‘That it brings on an ending. But it seldom does. The things that trouble us are the hardest to forget. If we do something rash, hoping a violent act will overcome a past horror, then we double the agony.’

‘Perhaps if I’d known you before,’ said Maria, ‘you would have told me. You preach the selfless life. And I know Jesus said we had to love our neighbour as ourselves. But so many people hate themselves; how can someone like me love their neighbour, or even their husband, if they cannot love themselves?’

‘By understanding that the greatest happiness often comes from outside.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘No,’ Sidney answered firmly, ‘it’s not at all easy to say, much less to practise. But that is what faith involves. It’s not only a question of belief in God. That may even be the easy bit. It’s faith in other people that counts.’

‘Even when they let you down?’

‘Especially when they let you down.’

‘And if they keep doing so?’

‘Sometimes you do have to walk away,’ said Sidney. ‘I know that. It’s not always a sin to give up on people – but it is to kill them.’

The ‘holiday’, such as it was, had come to an end. The Chambers family made their farewells and Sibilla Leber said that she hoped they might visit her in Leipzig for Christmas.

‘You know how you always loved it as a child, Hildegard. You were so excited when your Advent Calendar came and I remember how you used to fill your shoes with grass so early for the Feast of St Nicholas. One year you even filled them twice, hoping that he would come back and put sweets in them all over again!’

‘I know, Mother, you say this every time I come home; but Trudi did that. Not me.’

‘I wouldn’t be guilty of such a mistake. We could make
Stollen
and gingerbread houses and dress the tree with the family decorations. Anna would learn about our traditions and sing carols as they are supposed to be sung – in German.’

‘Christmas is difficult for us, Mother, as you know. It is a busy time of year for Sidney.’

‘He can’t be in church all the time. Indeed, from what you tell me, he is not there very much at all. I am surprised . . .’

‘You could always come and stay with us,’ Sidney interrupted gallantly.

‘I prefer my own home. But it is kind of you to offer,’ Sibilla Leber replied. ‘I know you don’t really like coming here.’

‘That’s not true, Mother.’

‘I am sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. Forgive me.’ Sibilla was suddenly tearful. ‘I don’t always remember that I have two daughters. You are so far away. And I do like seeing my little Anna. She is growing so fast. She reminds me of you, Hildegard. She has the same imagination. I hope you are proud of her.’

‘We are.’

‘Don’t spoil her. She needs discipline. When will she start the piano?’

‘Next year, I hope.’

‘That’s good. One family tradition will continue at least. Please don’t make it such a long time before you come back, my beloved. If it’s for my funeral I shall be very angry.’

The Chambers family took an evening train to Lübeck, crossed the border, and travelled back into West Germany as night fell. Sidney was glad to be on his way home at last but fretted that things had been left unfinished. Justice had
not been done. Hildegard tried to console him by saying that he couldn’t be expected to win every battle, especially in a foreign land.

‘And remember, those students in Cambridge avoided punishment when that necklace was stolen. You turned a blind eye there.’

‘That was theft rather than murder and they were young.’

‘Is morality relative?’

‘I think punishment should fit the crime. But in this country there are so many laws it’s hard to keep track. Everyone is so watchful, so suspicious. Even when people are supposed to be enjoying themselves they aren’t able to relax.’

Anna slept on her mother’s lap and the train sped on towards Hamburg. Hildegard asked why her husband thought himself so responsible for the happiness of others. Some people were never going to be content. It was a delusion. Why expect them to be something that they could never be?’

‘Because I am a priest. I have to believe that we can all be redeemed.’

‘I am not sure Maria will ever be convinced of that, despite her faith. Some people cannot escape themselves.’

‘Have you ever felt like that?’ Sidney asked.

‘During my first marriage, yes, towards the end; and sometimes in the past, during the war. But let’s not talk about that now.’

‘Coming to Germany has made me remember all over again how different our lives were before we met. I think it was listening to Bach last Sunday, sung in German in a German church as it would have been two hundred and fifty years ago. I try to keep in mind the fact that you haven’t had an easy life – not since you were a child.’

‘After my father died. That’s when so many children grow up; when the first parent goes, no matter how old they are. It happened much earlier to me. I am not alone in that.’

‘No, but then there was the war.’

‘And after it, I took some risks,’ Hildegard admitted. ‘I left my homeland to form another life. I do not like to complain. I always have music, just as you have faith. That is my consolation. And everything has been better since I met you . . .’

‘As it has been for me.’

‘And as it could be for Maria if they all escape justice.’

‘Do you understand what it must have been like for her?’

‘I don’t know, Sidney. I don’t think I have ever had such desperation. But that does not mean I do not have moments of loneliness. Sometimes I have to submit to the sadness and let it pass. They are not because of anything you have done. They just come.’

‘There are times when I don’t quite know how to help,’ Sidney replied, ‘and I leave you to your piano or your thoughts. But I am sure I should do better. Priests are like doctors. They often neglect those closest to them.’

‘When you are exiled from your own country and then come back, as I have done, you feel that you are a stranger in both places: too German for England and now too English for Germany, or whatever country my homeland has become. And I am not a proper communist, like my father, in spite of what everyone thinks. I look at the GDR and I see what is happening and I do not feel his successors are doing such a great job. I don’t think that this is what he imagined when he fought and died for the cause thirty-five years ago. And so I cannot help but feel separated from all that hope and history. My mother is the same. She won’t admit it . . .’

‘She has to keep the flame alive.’

‘It’s hard for her, Sidney. You think she does not like you but you should not worry about that. If I had married Günter it would have been the same. She has never liked anyone who is not my father. And he was not a saint, never mind what she says.’

‘I wish I had met him.’

‘I wish you had too; and I sometimes wish I had known you earlier. But then we were different people and we may not have loved each other. So perhaps it is just as well. You can be a different kind of hero to our family, Sidney . . .’

‘I think heroism is dangerous.’

‘Don’t worry. You are far from being one in the traditional sense.’

‘What about the untraditional?’

‘There is still hope. Look at Anna sleeping. We must be her anchor.’

‘And we will be,’ Sidney promised. ‘Both of us.’

They looked out of the train window to see a firework display over Hamburg. It was as if people were sending their own miniature rockets to the moon, bursting with light and transient colour. ‘Do you think we will ever have a normal life?’ Hildegard asked.

‘Not a chance,’ her husband replied. ‘Do you want one?’

‘Not in a million years.’

Hildegard smiled, took her husband’s hand and studied it. ‘If only I could tell our future.’

Love and Duty

There were many times in Sidney’s life when he felt grateful for the opportunities God gave; when he found himself in a situation he could not have been in had he chosen a different profession. Some of them had been difficult and tragic, yet there were other, more consoling and surprising moments of respite. One of them was his unlikely attendance at the Royal Albert Hall to hear Pink Floyd play on 7th February 1970.

Roger Waters, whom Sidney had first met on the Meadows after the theft of Olivia Randall’s necklace, had provided him with a pair of tickets. Sidney had been at the start of so many things for him, he said, and he had been the accidental inspiration for one of their finest songs. The bass player and co-lead vocalist of one of Britain’s most exciting ‘prog-rock’ bands did not specify the exact track but sent an LP care of the cathedral so that Sidney could experience ‘how it all blends together’.

Hildegard was teaching in Ely until seven that evening and Geordie was investigating an arson attack on a Cambridge antique shop, so Sidney invited Amanda to accompany him. He had not seen her for a while and asked his wife if it would be all right, saying that he wanted news of his friend’s job and
her life post-divorce. Hildegard said that she would be amused to discover what Amanda thought of such avant-garde music and, even though it might cheer her up, she was pretty sure their friend would complain about the volume.

Sidney was distracted on leaving Ely, missed the train he had intended to catch, and was late. Amanda smoked a cigarette and fretted as she waited, worried about missing the beginning of the concert, only to be told that these events never started on time anyway. A student in a T-shirt and jeans then told her that she looked pretty cool for a woman ‘her age’.

Amanda had not taken kindly to the remark but was, none the less, flattered that the younger generation had paid homage to her elegance. She was wearing a Hannah Troy white silk dress with a black front panel, flared elbow-length sleeves and what appeared to be a clerical collar, half black and half white.

‘I can’t be good all the time and I need to dress up in the evenings otherwise I get too depressed. Besides, I thought this might amuse you, Sidney. Never grey. Just black and white. That’s what you get and, at the moment, because of your tardiness, I’m afraid I’m feeling pretty black. You must never leave me to wait on my own in public again. I haven’t got the cheekbones for it.’

Sidney looked stricken and then caught her eye. He could see that she didn’t really mean what she was saying. ‘I’m glad you’re back to your combative best,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. I think we’ll be all right. We’ve got a box so we can slip in and out. And Roger promised he’d send up some drinks.’

‘You don’t get that at the Proms.’

‘I don’t think they let you take anything in to Glyndebourne either. Things are looking up.’

The concert began with a frenzy of strobe lighting over a wash of deep red, and a chaos of drums, percussion and bass guitar that Amanda mistook for tuning up. After a couple of numbers the band then settled into ‘Careful with That Axe Eugene’, a number that instantly reminded Sidney of Fraser Pascoe’s murder.

‘Do they sing at all?’ Amanda shouted into Sidney’s ear. ‘Or are they just going to wail?’

‘I think the lyrics come later.’

‘Now I know why it’s called “prog-rock”. They play every chord in turn and hold on to each one for as long as possible.’

‘I think this is just the build-up. I’m rather enjoying it. Have you ever heard anything like it?’

‘We’ve had twenty minutes of this and nothing has built up to anything at all.’

Things livened up with ‘Sysyphus’ and ‘Atom Heart Mother’ but Amanda insisted that the music sounded like the space-age soundtrack for a film she had no intention of seeing. The evening was not exactly a success and Sidney wished Hildegard had been able to come. She would have been more broadminded about the soundscape and amused by the seriousness of performers tripping to their own music before a crowd of secular charismatics.

Amanda cheered up by the time they got to dinner. She had persuaded the maître d’ at Mirabelle to let them eat late, and ordered champagne as an early celebration of Sidney’s birthday. There were only a few days left before Lent and she told him that if he was going to stop drinking this year, he might as well stock up now.

‘I don’t think it works quite like that, Amanda.’

‘I don’t know how you do it. Abstinence from anything is such a bore.’

‘Restraint is the road to redemption,’ Sidney replied, quaffing his first glass.

Amanda laughed at the gulf between word and deed and they were almost back to their old routine. She was relieved to be able to speak, saying that she had only agreed to come to the concert as it gave them a chance to talk properly afterwards and resume a bit of normality. She still found social events difficult and she had lost some of her confidence in situations where she didn’t know people well. But she was enjoying her new job at the British Museum. In fact she had already discovered a ‘sleeper’: a previously misattributed work which she thought to be a presentation drawing of a young male nude by Michelangelo for his friend Tommaso dei Cavalieri. The circumstances were still hush-hush.

‘It seems you have “a saucerful of secrets”, to quote from one of the songs of tonight. Is it exciting?’

‘Well, I think it’s a lot more interesting than that farrago of noise, I must say. If you ask me, Pink Floyd’s main secret, if that really is what they call themselves, is how on earth they persuade people to come to their psychedelic howling.’

‘I liked it. All those lyrics about setting the controls for the heart of the sun and the man making the shape of questions to heaven.’

‘I couldn’t understand a word of it. In any case, you’re just saying that to be provocative.’

‘We have to move with the times.’

‘I don’t know, Sidney. It doesn’t seem so long ago that we were jiving to jazz.’

‘You were doing the dancing, Amanda. I was only watching.’

‘I distinctly remember you jiving. Quite badly, in fact.’

‘An aberration of my youth.’

‘It’s depressing to dwell on past mistakes.’ Amanda put down her menu. ‘I think I’ll have the crab and avocado, or maybe the devilled kidneys. That would require some additional red wine. That’s probably just as well, as I’m in need of fortification.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ she continued, after dispatching their order. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

‘Oh, golly, Amanda.’

‘I should warn you, it’s quite awkward.’

‘Is it about the divorce?’

‘No, that’s all done and dusted.’

‘And it’s not Henry?’

‘Not at all. He is no longer any part of my life.’

‘Then perhaps it’s a new admirer?’ Sidney asked, attempting a comical raise of one eyebrow.

‘Don’t be silly. Even if I had one I’m hardly likely to tell you at this stage. No, it’s trickier than mere romance.’ Still Amanda hesitated.

‘What is it then? Spit it out.’

‘Leonard.’

Sidney’s voice jumped an octave. ‘Leonard?’

‘Your former curate.’

‘I
know who he is
. I didn’t realise you had been seeing him.’

Amanda signalled to the waiter to refill their glasses and told him off. ‘It’s always so annoying when you store the bottle away from the table. Please don’t.’ She then turned back to Sidney. ‘We’re friends too. Leonard’s one of the few men in
whose company I’ve never had to worry if there’s any ambiguity of feeling.’

‘Do you mean you worry about most men?’

‘Yes. That’s why I’ve stopped seeing them. I don’t like meeting new people. They either want my “understanding” about their marriage, or they flirt and hope for something more, or they talk about some kind of business initiative or charitable foundation in a roundabout attempt to extort money.’

‘I would have thought that marrying Henry had put a stop to all that.’

‘Well, now I’ve put a stop to him.’

‘And so you were having lunch with Leonard?’

‘Drinks. I took him to Claridge’s. He likes places that are a teensy bit camp, as I am sure you can imagine.’

‘I never really think of Leonard in that way, mainly because I don’t think he sees himself as anything other than a celibate priest.’

‘Which is why our conversation was so troubling, Sidney.’

‘How was that?’

‘He asked me for money.’

‘Leonard?’

‘Quite a lot. Fifty pounds. A loan.’

‘Did you ask him what it was for?’

‘Personal reasons, he said. Perhaps he’s got himself into terrible debt? He did say that he was in a pickle.’

‘And did you agree to lend it to him?’

Amanda hesitated as their starters were delivered to the table. ‘I did. I said I would give it to him in cash next week. As you know, I like Leonard very much and he seemed quite relieved. Then we talked about Michelangelo and the British Museum.’

‘Ah, yes. T.S. Eliot. Women come and go talking of Michelangelo.’

‘Actually we talked about the sonnets. Leonard was very helpful. He knows them, of course.

‘
Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume
,

Che co’ miei ciechi già veder non posso
. . .’

‘Italian was never my strong point, Amanda.’

‘But detection is.’

‘What do you mean?’

Amanda leant back in her chair and folded her arms. It was a familiar gesture that always meant trouble. ‘You know perfectly well, Sidney. I’d like you to talk to Leonard as soon as you can. You need to get to the bottom of all this. You’re his friend, aren’t you? Something, or someone, is making him frightened.’

After his return from London, and his abandoning of yet another course of Lenten abstinence on the dubious grounds that ‘tension’ and his ‘volume of work’ required the necessary consolation of alcohol, Sidney picked up the phone to hear that his presence was required in Cambridge. Geordie announced that the arson victim who had prevented his attendance at the Pink Floyd concert needed a pastoral visit.

‘I think you know him. He remembers you from that case we had when we first worked together: Lord Teversham, the man who was killed during a production of
Julius Caesar
.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Simon Hackford.’

‘Good heavens!’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Yes. I do remember him.’

‘Hackford is, as you may know, something of a homosexualist.’

‘Not “–ist”, Geordie. He is simply a homosexual.’

‘They say they’re one in twenty these days.’

‘I’m surprised the figure is so low.’

‘You have a way with these kind of people, Sidney. I thought you could be of assistance.’

‘I hope I have “a way” with everyone, Geordie, whoever they are and in whatever situation they find themselves.’

‘The thing is, the man doesn’t want us to investigate. He says the stress will get to his nerves. I hope it’s not an insurance scam like the photographer we had a few years back.’

‘I don’t think Simon Hackford would set fire to his own shop. He loves those antiques too much.’

‘At least there wasn’t much damage. It certainly wasn’t a professional job; they used the kind of Molotov cocktail any amateur could knock up in a shed; although the lock was picked, so it did take some knowhow.’

‘No witnesses?’ Sidney asked.

‘None so far. You don’t get many of them at two in the morning.’

‘A local man?’

‘Possibly, but Hackford’s well liked and it’s hard to find anything against someone whose main love, apart from the obvious, is eighteenth-century English furniture.’

‘Perhaps it was meant as a warning. Something to scare him?’

‘It could be that. I’m not sure, Sidney. I’d like you to have a word with Hackford. He’s Leonard’s friend, isn’t he?’

‘You know that?’

‘I was waiting for you to tell me; and I have noted that you deliberately didn’t hand over the information, even when I gave you the opportunity. Don’t think you can keep things from me, Sidney. Our friendship comes first.’

‘Priests do have their own code of confidentiality.’

‘That doesn’t seem to have stopped you in the past. Hackford trusts you. Thousands wouldn’t.’

‘I think you’ll find thousands do,’ said Sidney with uncustomary arrogance. He was not going to let Geordie have the last word.

Simon Hackford’s antique shop was situated in Trumpington Street, almost opposite the Fitzwilliam Museum, with four clear windows in which were displayed a tasteful collection of china, landscape paintings, portraiture and traditional English furniture. The front door had been destroyed and there were scorch marks across the floor, but the main area of the blaze had been confined to a walnut chest and gilded mirror. As such, the physical damage was relatively minimal; the emotional trauma of such a deliberate attack, Sidney suspected, was likely to be worse.

The proprietor was a well-preserved man in his early fifties, dressed in a three-piece double-breasted Prince of Wales suit, as if the layers of cloth could give him some form of protection against the modern world. His was a look of quiet decoration; discreet but stylish cufflinks, an understated watch, a pale-blue spotted handkerchief, and a navy silk tie worn over the same Turnbull & Asser shirt his father had owned. Tradition, perhaps, and a belief in the aesthetics of connoisseurship, had meant to keep him safe from contemporary barbarism.

Hackford was known for his ability to spot high-quality silver. He had made money after finding a lost set of apostle spoons but had then let his most lucrative patron down by failing to spot a Gainsborough at a country auction. In the early 1950s he had been part of a lavender marriage, the result of both parties trying to please their parents, but since his divorce some five years previously he had been careful to keep a low profile.

He told Sidney that he could not imagine anyone who would have wanted to burn his shop down.

‘Leonard’s been so on edge,’ he added.

‘That’s unlike him.’

‘About the Bedford thing.’

Sidney was confused. This was new information and had nothing to do with the arson. ‘What Bedford thing?’