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

being the bearer of bad news. During the war, and shortly afterwards, he had often had to ring a doorbell with news of a death. Sometimes a mother would faint; a father would punch the wall; a sister would stare out of the window. The presence of a priest confirmed the worst, and nothing Sidney could say could ever bring people comfort. All he could do, once the news had been given, was to sit with the bereaved in silence and let grief take its insidious course.
    And yet, at Locket Hall, it was different. After Sidney had told Ben what had happened, his host looked stoic. It was almost as if he had been expecting the information.
    ‘My father has always tried to ruin my life,’ he said. ‘And now he has succeeded. He should have murdered me. I was the disappointment, not Dom.’
    ‘He could not kill his own son.’
    ‘But Lord Teversham had done nothing wrong.’
    ‘He had taken a son away from his father.’
    ‘I had gone a long time ago. I would never have worked in his factory. You can’t want the best for your child, educate him away from the family and then expect him to come back as the same person. We lived in different worlds.’
    ‘Perhaps your father was not ready for your world.’
    ‘How did he do it?’ Ben asked.
    ‘He had a spring-loaded knife strapped to the inside of his arm.’ Sidney mimed the actions. ‘He shook his arm down and the knife projected forward in line with the palm of his hand. He raised his hand high, as in a fascist salute, and the blade retracted with the upward movement. The invention suited the gestures made during the play. It was ingenious.’
    ‘Dad the inventor. How did you find out?’
    ‘I saw the spring-loaded mechanisms at the factory. I realised how it could be done, but I could not prove anything.’
    ‘The blade at Simon Hackford’s?’
    ‘Planted. We’re not sure how your father did that. We could only ascertain his guilt by extracting a confession.’
    ‘You provoked my father’s anger?’
    ‘He wanted to be proud of you. It was a matter of honour.’
    ‘And I was not honourable?’
    ‘It became a question of shame.’ Sidney quoted from Richard II , ‘Mine honour is my life, both grow in one. Take honour from me, and my life is done.’
    ‘I like art, Canon Chambers. I like beauty. Is that so very bad?’
    ‘Of course not. It was your friendship that your father thought was wrong.’
    ‘And do you?’
    ‘Think it wrong? I am a great believer in privacy. It is none of my business.’
    ‘What people don’t understand,’ said Ben, ‘is that you can be intimate with someone, whether it is a man or a woman, without being physical. In fact, to be physical sometimes ruins the whole relationship.’
    ‘Are you sure you want to tell me this?’
    Ben continued. ‘You can hug someone, and kiss someone, and go for walks or a picnic or go swimming but this is not something that is governed by passion. It is ruled by friendship.’
    ‘I understand.’
    ‘Passion is such a strong emotion that it dominates everything. It’s like a strong spice in a meal, or a dominant red in a painting. Your senses are drawn to it at the expense of everything else. Dominic and I were not physical friends, so to speak. But I did love him. We can’t help loving the people we do, can we? But that love doesn’t have to be physical. You can be equally intimate. It doesn’t matter. Do you understand what I mean, Canon Chambers?’
    Sidney was thinking over what Ben was saying. Out of the window he could see a pair of swans flying low over the river and into the distance. He wondered where they were going.
     
    Amanda had agreed to come down on 5 November for Grantchester’s annual fireworks party. A vast bonfire had been built on the Meadows and a display had been planned for 6.30 p.m. Potatoes wrapped in foil had been placed at the base of the fire and refreshments were on offer in the pavilion. Most members of the village were in attendance and Sidney hoped that the same number might come to his carol concert in a month’s time. Dickens, who was scared of the noise, was hiding under Sidney’s bed.
    ‘It was good of you to come, Amanda, especially on a weekday.’
    ‘I’m always keen to see you, Sidney, and, I know you’ve all had a terrible time. Poor Ben; and poor you . . .’
    ‘I just want the year to end.’
    ‘It’s been so eventful. But at least we’ve got to know each other. That is one consolation, don’t you think?’ Amanda asked. ‘We can