Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins (6 page)

During the second track, Malcolm interrupted to ask for some advice about his next sermon. He stood in the doorway with a slice of poppyseed cake on a plate and explained that he was going to develop the theme of nature versus nurture. Was it possible, he mused, to nurture ourselves away from sin? How could we make the most of the spiritual nourishment Christ had to offer?

Sidney wondered, having seen his curate’s prodigious cake-eating in action, if all of Malcolm’s homilies were to contain gastronomic metaphors. There were certainly plenty of biblical references to manna from heaven, the bread of life and thirsting for righteousness. At least there were few mentions of cake itself (Sidney dimly remembered a passage in the Book of Ezekiel about barley cake, and a fig concoction in 1 Samuel). But when had it been invented, he asked himself, and what was the moment when a biscuit became a cake? Was it the presence of sponge that allowed McVitie’s, for example, to refer to their produce as Jaffa
cakes
rather than biscuits?

‘Sidney,’ his wife interrupted as she gave him a goodbye kiss before popping out to the shops, ‘you are dreaming again.’

The doorbell rang.

‘What? Sorry?’

‘Malcolm was asking if you had made any progress on the case.’

‘Sorry. I thought he said
cake
.’

‘I said nothing of the kind. But if there is any more going . . .’

It had been Helena Randall at the door. She walked straight in and announced: ‘Sophie Madara is due to appear at a concert in York. I have my car.’

‘Good heavens . . .’

‘How far away is that?’ Hildegard asked.

‘A few hours. Geordie says Sidney’s to come. We can be back tonight. I’m a very fast driver.’

Sidney looked to his wife. ‘I remember. I don’t find that reassuring.’

‘Go if you must,’ Hildegard replied. ‘Your curfew is midnight.’

‘I’ll hold the fort,’ said Malcolm.

‘What is the concert?’ Hildegard asked.

‘The Holst Invocation for Cello and Orchestra.’

‘An early version of one of
The Planets
.’

Sidney was less interested in the musical programme, and more concerned about the case. ‘What about Geordie?’

‘He’s bringing Madara to verify that it really is his wife.’

‘It could be quite a reunion.’

‘I think that’s the point.’

The concert was held on the campus of the recently established university at Heslington. It took over three hours to drive up the A1 to York in heavy rain and, after a brief stop for petrol in Stamford, Sidney knew they would have difficulty being home by midnight.

A simple poster had been placed outside the hall offering a mixed programme culminating in what was clearly intended to be the university orchestra’s
pièce de résistance
, Haydn’s Symphony no. 35 in B flat major. There was even a photograph of a smiling Sophie Madara with her left hand holding the bow of her cello. Sidney noticed both an engagement and a wedding ring. He presumed she took them off to perform.

Her husband had spruced up for the occasion. Sidney thought of a recent production of
A Winter’s Tale
in which the dead king’s wife had come back to him as a living statue. With the dramatic music of Holst in the background, this reunion could have proved equally dramatic but Inspector Keating’s thoughts were more prosaic. ‘Let’s get to Sophie Madara’s dressing-room. We don’t want to do this in front of the whole orchestra.’

The unlikely foursome were let in at the stage door and shown up a flight of stairs.

‘This is a dream,’ said Madara.

‘It won’t take long.’

‘I know she is dead.’

Keating knocked on the door. It was opened by a small dark-haired woman who had not yet put on her make-up. She did not look very like Sophie Madara at all. Perhaps they had come to the wrong place? Could this be yet another wild-goose chase and, if it was, would Sidney be able to face a further explosion of frustration from his colleague?

‘Sorry, I was expecting the conductor. Josef! What are you doing here?’

‘Angela . . .’

The woman kissed Madara on the cheeks. This was not the response of a wife who had been presumed dead. ‘Is Sophie coming? She told me that she was going away . . .’

‘Are you aware that you are talking about a missing woman?’ Keating asked.

‘Who are you?’

‘A police officer. Where is Sophie Madara?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘But she’s alive?’

‘I hope so. I spoke to her on the telephone a few days ago.’

‘She told you she was going away. She didn’t say where?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You haven’t been reading the papers?’

‘Is that a legal requirement?’

‘Who are you?’ Helena asked.

‘I might ask the same question about you. I have a concert to perform. Josef, who are all these people? What are they doing here? Can’t you get them out of my dressing-room?’

Keating tried to restore order. ‘Please answer the question, madam.’

‘I don’t see why I should. But if you must know, I’m Angela Jones. Sophie’s dep. I think she’s helping me out in Yarmouth next week. I try to keep Easter free.’ She noticed Sidney. ‘My husband’s a priest. What are you doing here? Anyone would think I had died. Shouldn’t you be making your Easter garden?’

‘My wife’s a musician too . . .’

‘It’s more common than people think. God and music tend to go together.’

Helena had her notebook at the ready. ‘But on the poster . . .’

‘We don’t bother with out-of-town concerts. We’re always covering for each other. Josef knows that, don’t you, Josef? Sophie did tell you about this, didn’t she?’

Madara could hardly speak. ‘Sophie is alive? I didn’t kill her?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I think I’d better take over,’ said Keating. ‘There’s a lot to sort out. Bloody
hell
.’

It was well after midnight when Sidney got home but he was too restless to go to bed.

He took off his shoes, put on the thick pair of comforting bedsocks his mother had knitted him for Christmas, and made himself some baked beans on toast. He needed a good think.

He was just about to make a list of all the things he still had to do when he heard Anna cry. He would have to see to her quickly, before Hildegard woke, and he padded up the stairs in order to lift his daughter out of her cot.

She was still so tiny, half awake and half asleep. She cradled into his shoulder. He gave her a little milk and walked the hall downstairs talking to her, as he spoke to Byron, about all his cares and worries. He asked her if she was looking forward to her christening (they still hadn’t arranged it and were thinking about Easter Day) and whether she thought all the stars had come out in the sky or were there more still to come?

He told his daughter how he imagined that one of the stars was looking down on her. It was her star. Could she tell which one it was? Anna’s heavy eyelids closed once more, and he kept talking, as gently as he could, as he laid her down to sleep. When he turned to leave the room he saw that Hildegard had been watching from the doorway. She was wearing a nightdress that Sidney did not think he had seen before.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re very good at that when you want to be.’

Josef Madara had been taken back into custody and a psychiatric visit was arranged for the Monday. Angela Jones was convinced that Sophie Madara was still in Britain but had been unable to provide any clues as to her whereabouts. In London, Inspector Williams had charged Dmitri Zhirkov with the murder of his wife.

Sidney had to concentrate on his duties and it wasn’t until the middle of the week that he could catch up with Keating. If he really thought that Dmitri Zhirkov had been framed in some way then he had no time to prove it, and little hope, as the weapon, the motive and the evidence all pointed to the man’s guilt.

It was also possible that Dmitri was involved in the staged scene of Sophie Madara’s death (if this had indeed occurred) and that he was working with either her or her husband, who could have been feigning his insanity.

The only relatively innocent party in the whole quartet, as far as Sidney could see, was Natasha Zhirkov, and she was dead; just as she had feared she might be.

It was one big mess and he was not sure that he was in a position to do anything about it. Was it even his responsibility any more? Madara had turned up in his church, it was true, but now ‘the experts’ had taken over there was little he could do. He had failed to protect Natasha Zhirkov, they had not yet found Josef’s wife, and the man himself was still in an advanced state of psychiatric delusion. If anything, his visit to the church in Grantchester, and the subsequent investigation, had only made matters worse. What would have happened if Sidney had simply sent him on his way after a cup of tea and a sandwich as many of his colleagues might have done? Could the situation have been any poorer?

He tried to concentrate on his parish tasks once more: Easter preparation, confirmation classes and the requirement to lead a Lenten meditation on sin and suffering. These were the absolute bare minimum, let alone his need to visit the sick and interview potential candidates to run the village school.

Malcolm was unconcerned by such travails (what freedom Sidney would have if he were simply a curate again!) and was installing another section of railway track in his room. Hildegard joked that there were probably train delays owing to cake crumbs on the line. As they sat on the sofa, she asked her husband how his thoughts were progressing.

‘Not that well. In musical terms it’s more Stockhausen than Bach.’

‘It’s the end of the quartet, I imagine. They can hardly go on after this, even if they find a new member.’

‘It’s surprising that they survived so long,’ said Sidney. ‘Perhaps it’s not a good idea for married couples to work together . . .’

‘We might see more of each other if we did . . .’

‘I think couples need external stimulation, otherwise love becomes insular and claustrophobic. You have to keep bringing things back from the outside world.’

‘Is that why you keep going away? You think it refreshes our marriage?’

‘I don’t think it would be a good idea to stay cooped up here all day.’

‘Some of us have no choice,
mein Lieber
.’

Sidney recognised the possibility of an argument and tried to stick to the subject. ‘But a quartet? It must have been hard to know when work stopped; if they were ever off duty.’

‘Just like you.’

‘I do draw the line at infidelity and murder, Hildegard.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘And I miss you every minute I’m away.’

‘Then that is why you leave? In order to miss me?’

‘It is one of the consequences of love.’

‘You are fortunate to have such freedom.’ Hildegard thought about the case once more. ‘From what I know of quartets they either love each other or hate each other. There was one group where the only woman married each of the three men in turn . . .’

‘You’d think she could have looked further afield . . .’

‘Perhaps she didn’t need to. It’s the same with your investigation, Sidney. The solution must lie in the quartet itself. But I must see to Anna.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll leave you to your thoughts. You have a quiet minute to yourself.’

Hildegard gave her husband a kiss on the cheek, and began to leave the room, humming as she did so.

Sidney called after her. ‘That music’s unlike you, Hildegard. Very English.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘
“I vow to thee my country”.’

‘No it’s not. It’s Holst, the “Jupiter” movement from
The Planets
suite. I was still thinking about the quartet.’

‘But it’s the same tune.’ Sidney began to sing:

‘I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,

Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;

The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,

That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best . . .’

‘It’s Holst, I promise you,’ Hildegard answered. ‘He wrote it first.’

And then it came to Sidney. ‘But it’s a hymn tune. Thaxted.’

‘What about it?’

He was cold with fear. Why had he not realised sooner? ‘My goodness. That’s where Sophie Madara could have been all this time. Her husband talked about a place they went to when they were first married; in the countryside, on the edge of a small town, not far from London; a church with a medieval spire, some old almshouses, and a windmill. Thaxted: Holst. I may be wrong, but I must tell Keating . . .’