Sidney Chambers and The Shadow of Death (The Grantchester Mysteries)

He didn’t even have the courtesy to leave a note explaining why he had done such a dreadful thing. Poor Mrs Hughes . . .’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Our cleaner. She found him.’
    ‘So there was definitely no explanation for what he did?’
    ‘There’s not much need to explain something that dramatic. He downed enough whisky to give him the courage and off he went.’
    ‘Had you been partners for long?’
    ‘Just coming up to five years. We read law at Trinity and got back in touch after the war.’
    ‘So you were friends?’
    ‘Most of the time. We did have the odd contretemps but nothing too serious. Although it has to be said that Stephen could be bloody moody. The charming Ulsterman who drinks too much and then tells you it’s all hopeless; you know the type . . .’
    Clive Morton’s presence dominated the room. Miss Morrison gave a little nod and left. She seemed upset. ‘If you’ll excuse me . . .’
    Sidney pressed on. ‘Did he have a temper?’
    ‘Oh, he had a temper all right. I remember I once remarked that it was rather amusing that a man with a German wife should have to initial all his paperwork “SS”. He went berserk!’
    ‘I can imagine that he would.’
    ‘Never one to take a joke, our Stephen.’ Clive Morton moved towards the drinks table and began to open a bottle of sherry. ‘Would you like a drink, Canon Chambers? It’s nearly lunchtime and it’s been sticky round here recently, as you can imagine.’
    ‘I shouldn’t . . .’
    ‘Go on . . .’
    ‘A small whisky perhaps.’
    ‘Oh,’ Clive Morton paused. ‘I had you down as a sherry man.’
    ‘Most people do . . . but I’d prefer whisky if that’s possible.’
    ‘How do you have it?
    ‘Neat, please, from the decanter.’
    ‘Stephen was very partial to the whiskey; the one spelled with an “e”. I’m more of a gin and tonic man. I’m sure Miss Morrison will bring in some ice. She knows I need a bit of fortification before lunch.’
    Sidney took a sip of the whisky that had been poured from the decanter. It tasted exactly as it did at home. ‘Is this from Stephen Staunton’s supply?’
    ‘I wouldn’t know. Miss Morrison stocks the cupboard. We normally offer a gin or a sherry. If a client is particularly upset we do have some medicinal brandy. Stephen, however, stuck to his whiskey.’
    Sidney was no aficionado but he had spent enough time with his friends in the Ulster Rifles to recognise that he was not experiencing Stephen Staunton’s favourite blended whiskey. There was no smoky aroma, no fruity sweetness redolent of vanilla and bitter toffee. In short, it was not Bushmills.
    ‘Of course, Stephen used to drink far too much,’ Clive Morton continued. ‘And it always gets to you in the end. I’ve seen it in so many friends, especially those who couldn’t settle down after the war. They come home and can’t explain what they’ve been through. So they drink to cheer up, the alcohol depresses them, and then they drink even more to get through the depression. Did you fight yourself, Canon Chambers, or were you a padre?’
    ‘I fought, Mr Morton. With the Scots Guards . . .’ The reply was more insistent than he had intended but Sidney did not intend to be patronised.
    ‘Good for you!’ his host continued.
    Sidney remembered bayonet practice on the Meadows, running into sandbags and being told how important it was to hate his enemy. He had never been much good at that but he guessed that he had seen more of death than Clive Morton.
    ‘Is this all that’s left?’ he asked. ‘In this decanter?’
    ‘Why? Do you want another?’ His host laughed.
    Sidney remembered Hildegard Staunton’s words. ‘You cannot get Bushmills in Cambridge and he wouldn’t drink anything else.’ ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘This is quite enough.’
    There was a pause. Sidney knew that he should leave but thought that if he let the silence hold a little longer then Clive Morton might say more.
    ‘Do you think Mr Staunton’s affairs will be complicated to settle?’ Sidney asked, and then felt compromised and guilty about using the word ‘affair’ in the presence of Pamela Morton’s husband. He wondered if his wife’s adultery had been a form of secret revenge.
    ‘Lawyers are a bit like doctors, Canon Chambers. We neglect our own lives, perhaps because we think we are immortal. An occupational hazard.’
    ‘But in Stephen Staunton’s case . . .’
    ‘Well, I suppose it was inevitable . . .’ Clive