Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (34 page)
He decided to unwind by reading some poetry and picked out a volume of George Herbert from his bookshelf. He began to read from ‘The Temple’, a poem in which Father Time pays the narrator a visit.
In the poem, the old man’s scythe is dull and his role in human life has changed. Since the coming of Christ, and the promise of eternal life, he is no longer an executioner but a gardener:
An usher to convey our souls
Beyond the utmost starres and poles
Sidney remembered how strikingly original the poem was. For George Herbert, the time we spend on earth is not all too brief and transient but too long: because it detains human beings from a life outside time and with God.
Sidney decided to preach on the subject. He would outline the differences between our time and God’s time. Human beings live in the threefold present: the memory of the past, the expectation of the future and a perpetual ‘now’ that passes as soon as it is thought. God, however, is not bound by time. He is outside it. And so our bounded life moves from the world of time to the eternal world of the timeless.
Sidney cast the book of poetry aside and lifted Dickens’s head from his lap. He would have to make a note of these thoughts because they would be forgotten by the morning. He moved towards his desk. Almost immediately the telephone rang.
It was two o’clock in the morning. Sidney only hoped that it was not another death.
‘It’s me . . .’
Amanda.
‘Is anything the matter?’ Sidney asked.
‘Nothing at all. I’m only telephoning to tell you the most ridiculous thing . . .’
‘It’s nothing serious?’
‘Nothing serious whatsoever. I’m sorry it’s so late. I did try before but there was no answer. Where were you?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Amanda . . .’
‘I’m only telephoning because we couldn’t wait to tell you. Jenny and I have been to the most absurd concert. I can’t think why we went but I just wanted to let you know what happened. We’ve calmed down a bit now but we were spitting with rage.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘The concert turned out to be all that modern plink-plonk music you know I can’t stand. We had to have a whole bottle of red wine afterwards . . .’
‘The plonk to cope with the plink?’
‘Exactly. I’d rather have gone to one of your jazz concerts . . .’
‘As bad as that, Amanda?’
‘It was atrocious. In the second half a man just sat at the piano and didn’t do anything at all. It was most odd. No one knew what to do or say.’
‘Nothing? He must have played something?’
‘No! That’s precisely my point. He didn’t play anything. He just sat there.’
‘You mean he didn’t tickle the ivories at all?’
‘Not a tusk. The piece consisted of the audience coughing and muttering and being embarrassed. We were, apparently, the music. The audience. Can you imagine? And to think we paid five bob to get in.’
‘Who was it by?’
‘Oh I don’t know, some American: John Cage, I think he was called. He even had the nerve to give it a title. ‘Four minutes, thirty-three seconds.’ Can you imagine? It certainly didn’t feel like four minutes and thirty-three seconds. It felt like an eternity. I never knew four minutes could last so long. It was ridiculous. Four minutes! I kept thinking of all the other things I, or anyone else for that matter, could have done in the same time. Can you believe it, Sidney? It was appalling.’
Sidney looked out into the dark night and thought of Gloria Dee’s voice, Claudette’s simple vulnerability and the terrible murder. He could not begin to explain to Amanda all that had happened or what he thought and felt.
‘Are you still there?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone all silent. Is there something the matter, Sidney, or are you trying to pretend you’re John Cage? Speak up!’
‘I’m still here,’ Sidney replied. ‘I’m always here, Amanda . . .’
He remembered Gloria Dee’s voice in the darkness:
‘Four minutes
Just four minutes to Midnight
Four minutes
I just want four more minutes with you
If the world ends
Then the world ends
But all I need
Is those four minutes
With you . . .’
Locket Hall, with
its grand E-shaped exterior of Ham Hill stone and mullioned windows, had been built at the beginning of the sixteenth century and was one of the finest stately homes in the vicinity of Cambridge. It was the official seat of the Tevershams, a family able to date their lineage back to the Norman Conquest, and an invitation to attend a social function at the Hall was considered an honour, and even a right amongst those socialites whose bible was Debrett’s. Accustomed to abbeys and cathedrals, Sidney was not as humbled either by aristocracy or architecture as others might have been, but he still felt apprehensive as Mackay, the butler, opened the door and asked him to climb the grand staircase up to the long gallery, where Lord Teversham was entertaining his guests to midsummer drinks.
Sidney had mixed feelings about the nobility. He enjoyed the spaciousness of their homes and the warmth of their hospitality but he found their sense of entitlement unnerving. ‘And if that isn’t enough,’ he could hear Lord Teversham complaining, ‘the government now wants us to open up to the public. This is my
home
, for goodness sake, not a tourist attraction. I might as well give it lock, stock and barrel to the National Trust.’
This was a man who clearly took great pains over his appearance. He was the same height as Sidney, with an angular, matinée-idol jawline and luxuriant silver hair that, despite needing a cut, had been groomed in a manner designed to make bald men tremble. He was dressed in a handmade three-piece suit, with both tie and pocket handkerchief in matching navy blue; while his steel-rimmed pince-nez and silver accessories – cufflinks, fob watch and tie-pin – had all been chosen to set off his coiffure.
He greeted his guest with manners that were so practised that they came without effort. ‘Canon Chambers, how very good of you to come; you’ll take a dry sherry, I presume . . .’
‘That would be most kind,’ Sidney answered. There was no point making a fuss.
‘Mackay will see to it. I can’t remember whether you’ve met my sister?’ He gestured into the middle distance where an elegant lady with similar hair was holding court. ‘I think you might have seen her last Christmas at King’s after the carols. I must introduce you.’
Sidney knew that the family came to church on high days and holidays, and for social rather than religious reasons. When he was at his most mean-spirited, he sometimes wished that he had the courage to turn such people away.
He looked around the room. There were over a hundred people in attendance but Sidney knew very few of them. He was just about to resort to bland clerical bonhomie with a lady of middle age, who was sporting a pair of unpleasantly practical sandals, when Ben Blackwood introduced himself. ‘Lord Teversham sent me over,’ he explained.
Ben was an aesthetically pale young man who had studied at Magdalene. He was, he said, an architectural historian, and he was writing the official history of Locket Hall. ‘Of course, once they open it to the public it will make the family a fortune,’ Ben began. ‘Architecturally it’s one of the unacknowledged gems of England.’ He placed a Black Sobranie into a cigarette holder. ‘The art collection alone is worth millions. Have you seen the portrait of Elizabeth I? She sent it as a gift after one of her visits . . .’
Sidney tried to keep up. ‘I remember reading that the Royal Progress was very expensive. Hosts had to lay on banquets, masques and hunting expeditions . . .’
‘The Queen sometimes stayed for
weeks
! Nearly bankrupted the place. Now the government is trying to do the same thing with its insistence on death duties. It’s rather unfair considering the art has already been paid for.’
As Sidney was a guest, his behaviour was restricted by the etiquette of a world in which he only had visiting rights. His only advantage, he thought, was that, as a priest, he could say things that others might not. And so he found himself suggesting that perhaps the loan of a few paintings either to the Fitzwilliam Museum or to the National Gallery might not necessarily be a bad thing.
Lord Teversham overheard him and was unenthusiastic. ‘And why would I do that, Canon Chambers?’
‘I believe that you can then offset the death duties while retaining ownership . . .’
‘But then I have to go to a museum to see paintings that have been in my family for generations . . .’
His sister, Cicely, intervened. ‘It’s hardly as if you look at them on a daily basis. We could just let them have one or two. I’m sure we wouldn’t miss them. And we do have a few pecuniary issues . . .’
Lord Teversham was building towards one of his famous tantrums. ‘But they’ll want the best ones!’
‘If it helps,’ Sidney continued, ‘I do have a very good friend at the National Gallery.’
Lord Teversham was ill at ease. ‘I don’t want some chap with a monocle coming down here and eyeing up the family silver.’
‘She’s not a chap.’
Cicely Teversham interrupted once more. ‘I’ve no doubt Canon Chambers’s “friend” would be tactful.’
‘I don’t like letting go of my possessions,’ Lord Teversham muttered. ‘Once those people start there’ll be no stopping them.’
Ben Blackwood tried to compromise. ‘I suppose you could let them have one or two as divertissements – or loan them in lieu of tax. The lesser-known works, obviously . . .’
Cicely Teversham put her hand on her brother’s arm. ‘What about the lady with the swollen chin? You never cared for her. I am sure you wouldn’t miss such a thing . . .’
‘I would miss it,’ Lord Teversham grumbled. ‘This is a collection. That is the point.’
His sister did not agree. ‘You don’t like the painting, Dominic. You said as much when I sent it away to be restored. You thought it was a waste of money and then complained that she came back even uglier than when she left.’
‘Well, you could see more of her. Warts and all.’
‘She doesn’t have any warts, darling. Don’t be ridiculous.’
Sidney tried to calm the situation. ‘Perhaps I should not have made the suggestion. I wouldn’t want to create discord . . .’
Lord Teversham turned to him. ‘Who is this woman of yours, anyway?’
‘Miss Amanda Kendall. She is the curator of sixteenth-century paintings. She trained at the Courtauld Institute under Sir Anthony Blunt.’
Lord Teversham was surprised. ‘I was at Trinity with him. His father was a vicar. Do you know him?’
‘I’m afraid not. But Miss Kendall is a friend of my sister.’
‘Why isn’t she here?’ Cicely Teversham asked. ‘You could have brought her along.’
‘She is in London.’
Lord Teversham was unimpressed. ‘There are trains every hour to Cambridge. It’s not difficult.’
Cicely Teversham stepped in to smooth the way. ‘Do ask her, Canon Chambers. I am sure the collection will interest her. Only a few people realise what we have here because the insurance is so high. We have to be so careful. The portrait of Queen Elizabeth is known, but there’s a Raphael Madonna, and a Titian portrait. Some of our paintings are also without attribution, and so if Miss Kendall has a good eye then perhaps she would like to come and have a look?’
‘I am sure she would be glad to do so.’
‘I would like to show her our lady in black. The restorer did such a good job.’
‘Who is the painting by?’
‘We’re not too sure,’ Lord Teversham explained. ‘Netherlandish School, probably. It used to be in the attic. Cicely had it brought down.’
His sister smiled. ‘Do bring your friend. Next time you must stay to lunch. It will be intriguing, I’m sure.’
‘Intriguing?’
‘You speak of her so fondly.’
‘Oh, it’s not what you think,’ Sidney replied hastily.
Cicely Teversham smiled. ‘And how do you know what I think, Canon Chambers?’
The painting in question was a sober, almost devotional piece, a full-length portrait of a russet-haired, dark-eyed woman in her early thirties. She wore a black, high-buttoned blouse that covered a long neck, and a headdress edged with pearls. Her hands were half-clasped, but not quite in prayer, and the only lightness of touch lay in the hint of a smile on the lady’s wide mouth. Her necklace consisted of a simple medal on a chain. In the background, and to the left, stood a table with a vase half-filled with water containing three carnations and sprigs of rosemary. A painting of Adam and Eve hung on the wall behind the table; a picture within a painting.
Amanda Kendall inspected the panel from every angle, looking at it closely and then stepping back to ascertain its effect. She was dressed elegantly, in a chemise dress by Coco Chanel that made her look decidedly French.
‘Do you mind if I take the picture down?’ Amanda asked.
Ben Blackwood stepped in. ‘Let me help you . . .’