Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins (3 page)

‘Where are you off to?’ Sidney asked.

‘I can’t stay in this backwater much longer.’

‘Cambridge isn’t a backwater.’

‘It’s hardly London.’

‘You want the big city and the bright lights?’ Sidney asked.

‘One big scoop and I’m there,’ Helena replied. ‘And this could be it.’

‘I wouldn’t be so hasty,’ Keating snapped back. ‘All we’ve got so far is an empty room, a mad fantasist and an unlikely story. You can wait here while we talk to him and then we’ll decide what to do.’ He turned to Sidney and gestured to the open doorway. ‘Shall we?’

They walked into the nave. The soft winter light took away all sense of modernity. It could have been a hundred years ago. Malcolm Mitchell was reading quietly in a pew, pretending that the situation was perfectly normal. He had fetched a blanket and given the fugitive a cup of tea and a slice of cake. Josef Madara was praying.

Sidney wondered if the stranger had heard their approach and deliberately positioned himself in a state of penitence. Tears had fallen over his cheeks and his eyes (viridian) now appeared large and sorrowful. He looked like a cross between an El Greco painting and Alan Bates in
Whistle Down the Wind
.

‘Did you find her?’ he asked, without looking at his visitors. ‘Is she still there?’

‘She is not,’ Sidney replied.

‘Then God must have taken her.’

Inspector Keating stepped forward to introduce himself. ‘I think we have to find a more plausible explanation.’

‘I left her in the hotel room.’

‘And was her cello still there?’ Keating asked.

‘It was. She never leaves it anywhere.’

‘Well it’s gone now.’

Keating was about to ask the man to describe the crime scene when Sidney jumped ahead of him. He wondered how Madara had met Sophie, how long they had been married and had she loved anyone before him? Did she have fans and admirers? Were there things that she never told him about? Did she have secrets? How much time did they spend apart? Did she ever go missing and did he always know where she was?

Madara kept to his story. His wife was the sweetest woman. She was a Madonna and he was the sinner.

‘In killing her?’

‘No,’ the man corrected himself. ‘Before then.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It is too much to explain. Many terrible things.’

‘An affair?’

‘You know?’

‘With Natasha Zhirkov?’ Sidney asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And your wife knew?’ Keating checked, impressed by Sidney’s intuition.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Did Dmitri Zhirkov?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Well, whether he does or not, at least three out of four of you knew,’ said Keating. ‘And if your wife really is dead, then every surviving member of the quartet has a motive for killing her. I think you’d better come with me to the station.’

‘But here is sanctuary.’

Keating spared Sidney the trouble of answering. ‘We are no longer in the Middle Ages, Mr Madara. Other people need to come to church too. You can’t have it all to yourself.’

‘There can be no forgiveness. I am a miserable sinner.’

‘Then we can talk about your sin at the station.’

Helena was waiting in the church porch. She was writing in a pair of fingerless gloves that must have been under her mittens and she looked up from a shorthand notebook that was filling up fast. Sidney wondered how much, if anything, she had overheard. ‘Can I come too?’ she asked.

‘Of course not,’ Keating answered, all too testily. ‘We’ll brief you when we can. Don’t get your hopes up.’

‘Charming. Have you anything to go on?’

‘I am sure you can make it up.’

‘I’d rather have the facts.’

‘And so, Miss Randall, would we.’

Once they reached St Andrew’s Street, Keating told Sidney what was on his mind. ‘How much is this wish fulfilment? If Sophie Madara really is dead, then why is your man telling us this? And if he didn’t kill her, then how did one of the others, or anyone else for that matter, get into a locked room? Why didn’t Madara wake up during the attack; and why wasn’t he killed at the same time?’

‘Whatever his story,’ Sidney replied, ‘we have to find the wife. If she is dead then it’s a full-scale murder investigation. And if she’s alive . . .’

‘Perhaps she can tell us what the hell everyone is playing at,’ Keating completed the sentence. ‘Have you ever known the like?’

It was mid-afternoon by the time Sidney returned to the vicarage for a baked potato and some cold ham. His mood was not improved by the fact that they had run out of chutney. What he really wanted was a warming stew and a hot toddy but it was Lent, he was not drinking, and he was in no position to make demands.

Hildegard had abandoned all hope that they might eat together and was settling their daughter for an afternoon nap. Anna was recovering from croup. Neither parent had been getting very much sleep, walking the floor in the night, holding their child close. (She was not yet three months old; a baby who was only just beginning to respond to feelings other than hunger and pain, contentment and sleep.) What was Sidney doing involving himself in this latest incident?

‘I don’t have any choice, my darling. Josef Madara just walked into church.’

‘Can’t Inspector Keating deal with it?’

‘He needs my help.’

‘I need it too. I am tired.’

‘Is something the matter?’

‘I don’t think so. I was worried. It’s nothing; only the lack of sleep perhaps.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Sidney . . . do you think we will ever leave this place?’

‘We can’t stay for ever.’

‘And where will we go?’

‘Wherever the Lord takes us.’

‘He moves in a mysterious way?’ Hildegard asked.

‘Although not as mysteriously as some of his subjects. I wish there wasn’t so much to do. It all gets in the way of being with you.’

‘I should say I am used to it. But I don’t want to get to a stage where I don’t mind.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘I don’t mean to worry you,’ Hildegard continued. ‘And I’m sorry. I don’t like complaining. At least we are tolerant of each other’s faults.’

‘We are.’

She smiled. ‘Even if one of us does have more than the other.’

‘Life, God willing, is long, Hildegard. These things even up over time. I hope you’re not keeping score?’

‘I am. One day there will be a great reckoning. One that will be even more frightening for you than the Last Judgement.’

‘I look forward to it, then.’

‘Why, Sidney?’

‘Because when it is all over the subsequent peace will be wonderful.’

He kissed his wife and made for the study. He was behind on his Easter preparation and this new case had only made the situation worse. He thought of Harold Macmillan’s explanation of the precariousness of political life and the unpredictable nature of events that could destabilise the most organised routine. No matter how diligent he was as a vicar there was no end to the amount of time he could spend on the spiritual care of his congregation. Unlike a builder or a decorator who could stop in the hours of darkness or when a project was over, the labour of being a priest was never complete.

He cleared out the grate and began to lay a fire. As he did so, he could hear Hildegard singing Anna a lullaby.

‘Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht

Mit Rosen bedacht

Mit Näglein besteckt

Schlüpf unter die Deck.’

His wife had such a beautiful voice. What was he doing, sitting at his desk worrying about a case in which he had already become involved when he could have been enjoying the company of his wife and daughter? What had happened to his priorities?

At teatime the following afternoon, as they were keeping warm by the kitchen stove, Sidney realised that his workload could be lightened if he asked his curate to preach that Sunday. Malcolm was covered in cake crumbs and had been hoping that his life at that moment consisted of little more than the acquisition of a second slice of Victoria sponge. Discombobulated by the lurch back into work, he tried to find an excuse.

‘I’ve only just arrived.’

‘We need to let the congregation have a good look at you,’ Sidney encouraged.

‘It’s rather soon, don’t you think?’

‘All the more reason to get on with it. You can make an impact . . .’

The telephone rang.

‘I’m not making much headway with the lunatic,’ Keating began. ‘Technically we have to release him but the man doesn’t want to go. He keeps saying he is a sinner. If we can just find the wife. I’ve asked Dr Robinson to come over and have a look. We might need a psychiatrist. Everything about this case is the exact opposite of how things normally are. Most people shut up. This man’s telling us everything. But nothing makes sense. What the devil do you think is going on? Has he done in his wife and hidden her, or has she run away?’

‘The London boys are sure she’s not at home?’

‘Of course she’s not. A neighbour told Williams’s men there’s been no sign of her since last Wednesday.’

‘The day of the concert. But when were they last seen in the hotel together?’

‘Around ten at night. A barmaid did notice the row, but they went outside. She didn’t know much about it because the party was a bit of a riot. The birthday boy was a rugby player.’

‘So what about Sophie Madara? Did anyone see her on the first morning trains?’ Sidney asked. ‘And where is her cello? If she was murdered then why is the instrument not in the hotel room?’

On the Sunday morning Malcolm Mitchell gave his first sermon. Appropriately for Lent, it was a meditation on Christ’s words ‘Father forgive them for they know not what they do’: an investigation of the tension between sin and conscience.

‘Was Jesus correct?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Perhaps he was being overgenerous? Are we to take his words at face value?’

Steady
, Sidney thought.

‘We
do
know what we do,’ Malcolm assured his listeners. ‘We must be responsible for our actions. A baby is not born in sin; people are not murderers from birth. We have all been given a conscience. We know that it is wrong to torture a cat . . .’

It was old-fashioned good-and-evil preaching. Men and women should instinctively know, the new curate argued, right from wrong, and if they did not, then they could be taught.

Malcolm’s predecessor Leonard Graham, who was now vicar of St Luke’s, Holloway, had come to pay a visit. At the parish breakfast he congratulated the new man while Sidney stayed on to discuss a few pressing issues with the churchwarden. (There was a problem with the church guttering, complaints had been made about the Sunday School teacher, and they were behind on the Easter garden because of the snow.)

‘It appeared to go down quite well,’ Malcolm answered before taking a large bite out of a buttered roll. ‘Your former housekeeper said she enjoyed it very much.’

‘Mrs Maguire? She’s never been that keen on sermons.’

‘I told her that I had heard reports of her baking skills.’

‘Ah . . .’

‘And she offered to make me her “walnut special”.’

‘That normally takes years. Well done, Malcolm. And especially on the sermon.’

‘I’ve preached it before . . .’

‘I know a vicar who has a two-year cycle: one hundred and four little homilies with a few extra for high days and holidays. It leaves him free to get on with his hobbies. Do you have one?’

‘I am something of a model-railway enthusiast. I think it is because I was an only child. I had to learn to amuse myself.’

Leonard smiled. ‘I expect you get rather carried away.’

Hildegard joined them. ‘What are you men talking about now?’

‘Trains, Mrs Chambers. Malcolm has plans to run his tracks all over the house.’

‘I never said any such thing . . .’

‘Before you know it there’ll be a branch line from the kitchen through to the dining–room. Where Beeching cuts, Mitchell reinstalls . . .’

The curate was shocked by the teasing. ‘I don’t think the family are ready for anything like that . . .’

Hildegard was conciliatory. ‘Anna might like the trains when she gets a bit older. Although you will probably have moved on by then, Malcolm.’

‘I’ve only just arrived.’

Leonard picked up a biscuit and checked its snap before asking, almost casually, ‘Any criminal investigations yet?’

‘It’s funny you should ask that . . .’

‘Home at last,’ called Sidney, stamping the snow off his feet before hearing that his new curate had made a conquest of Mrs Maguire. He had noticed Malcolm’s appetite and wondered whether he would offer up the walnut cake for everyone in the vicarage or keep it in his room for secret scoffing in times of need.