Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (20 page)

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, Reverend 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, Reverend 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.