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Authors: James Runcie
Tags: Suspense
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through Christmas then everything would be all right.’
‘And the other dates?’
‘I don’t have to account for all of my movements, do I?’
‘You just have to tell me if these were the days on which you saw Stephen Staunton. September the first, second, eighth, fifteenth and twenty-second, and the two nights of October the fifth and sixth.’
Pamela Morton thought for a moment. ‘I can’t be exact without my own diary but I can tell you that we did see each other two days running because my husband was away and it probably was on the nights that you mention. If the other days were Tuesdays, then yes. I always get the 10.04 to London on Tuesdays. Stephen would follow me later. We went on separate trains. We were very careful, Canon Chambers. I want you to understand that. Why do you want to know?’
‘It would make everything clear, Mrs Morton. Everything . . .’
During many a moment in the course of his investigation Canon Sidney Chambers considered once again how much he had neglected his calling. Prayer, scripture, sacrament and fellowship were supposed to be the sacred centre of the priest’s life and yet he could be found wanting in all of these activities. Instead, he had been distracted. He had attended meetings of the Mothers’ Union, the Women’s Institute and the PCC. He had organised the flower rota, and typed up a timetable for the church wardens, the sidesmen, and the volunteers to clean and polish the brasses. He had edited the monthly issue of the parish magazine, continued with the weekly Bible study group, and run a series of confirmation classes. He had even taken a group of Scouts and Cubs on a hike, supervised the building of the Christmas crib, organised the carol singers and set up a search for a lost cat. At the same time he had continued his teaching at Corpus. Any visiting archdeacon, sent to check up on him, would have no cause for complaint, but Sidney knew that he was not at his best. He had not visited the sick as regularly as he had hoped, he was three weeks behind on his correspondence and he had not even begun to write the big Advent sermon which he was due to preach in King’s College Chapel.
There were also his parents to consider. His father, a doctor in North London, was still complaining about the demands of the National Health Service. His mother had recently telephoned to say how worried she was about Sidney’s brother and sister. Jennifer was, apparently, seeing a man who was ‘too common by half’ and Matthew had joined a skiffle band that included ‘all kinds of riff raff’. Perhaps their elder brother could go and knock some sense into them, she wondered? Sidney thought that this was not really his business but the plain fact was that even before he had involved himself in this criminal investigation he had had too many things on his plate. His standards were slipping and the daily renewal of his faith had been put on the back burner. He thought of the General Confession: ‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done . . .’
He started to make a list, and at the top of the list, as he had been advised at theological college, was the thing that he least wanted to do. ‘Always start with what you dread the most,’ he had been told. ‘Then the rest will seem less daunting.’ ‘Easier said than done,’ thought Sidney as he looked at the first item on the list of his duties.
‘Tell Inspector Keating everything.’
It was a Wednesday morning, and he knew that a visit to the St Andrews Street Police Station would not be popular, but Sidney was so convinced by the accuracy of his deductions that he decided the truth was more important than Geordie Keating’s impatience.
‘I hope this is not going to become a habit,’ his friend warned, as he pushed an old cup of tea on to a stack of stained papers and began a new one.
‘Not at all, Inspector. I do have more
‘And the other dates?’
‘I don’t have to account for all of my movements, do I?’
‘You just have to tell me if these were the days on which you saw Stephen Staunton. September the first, second, eighth, fifteenth and twenty-second, and the two nights of October the fifth and sixth.’
Pamela Morton thought for a moment. ‘I can’t be exact without my own diary but I can tell you that we did see each other two days running because my husband was away and it probably was on the nights that you mention. If the other days were Tuesdays, then yes. I always get the 10.04 to London on Tuesdays. Stephen would follow me later. We went on separate trains. We were very careful, Canon Chambers. I want you to understand that. Why do you want to know?’
‘It would make everything clear, Mrs Morton. Everything . . .’
During many a moment in the course of his investigation Canon Sidney Chambers considered once again how much he had neglected his calling. Prayer, scripture, sacrament and fellowship were supposed to be the sacred centre of the priest’s life and yet he could be found wanting in all of these activities. Instead, he had been distracted. He had attended meetings of the Mothers’ Union, the Women’s Institute and the PCC. He had organised the flower rota, and typed up a timetable for the church wardens, the sidesmen, and the volunteers to clean and polish the brasses. He had edited the monthly issue of the parish magazine, continued with the weekly Bible study group, and run a series of confirmation classes. He had even taken a group of Scouts and Cubs on a hike, supervised the building of the Christmas crib, organised the carol singers and set up a search for a lost cat. At the same time he had continued his teaching at Corpus. Any visiting archdeacon, sent to check up on him, would have no cause for complaint, but Sidney knew that he was not at his best. He had not visited the sick as regularly as he had hoped, he was three weeks behind on his correspondence and he had not even begun to write the big Advent sermon which he was due to preach in King’s College Chapel.
There were also his parents to consider. His father, a doctor in North London, was still complaining about the demands of the National Health Service. His mother had recently telephoned to say how worried she was about Sidney’s brother and sister. Jennifer was, apparently, seeing a man who was ‘too common by half’ and Matthew had joined a skiffle band that included ‘all kinds of riff raff’. Perhaps their elder brother could go and knock some sense into them, she wondered? Sidney thought that this was not really his business but the plain fact was that even before he had involved himself in this criminal investigation he had had too many things on his plate. His standards were slipping and the daily renewal of his faith had been put on the back burner. He thought of the General Confession: ‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done . . .’
He started to make a list, and at the top of the list, as he had been advised at theological college, was the thing that he least wanted to do. ‘Always start with what you dread the most,’ he had been told. ‘Then the rest will seem less daunting.’ ‘Easier said than done,’ thought Sidney as he looked at the first item on the list of his duties.
‘Tell Inspector Keating everything.’
It was a Wednesday morning, and he knew that a visit to the St Andrews Street Police Station would not be popular, but Sidney was so convinced by the accuracy of his deductions that he decided the truth was more important than Geordie Keating’s impatience.
‘I hope this is not going to become a habit,’ his friend warned, as he pushed an old cup of tea on to a stack of stained papers and began a new one.
‘Not at all, Inspector. I do have more