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

stronger?’
    ‘I have sherry, although I am not that keen on it myself.’
    ‘Whisky?’
    This was Sidney’s favourite tipple; a drink, he tried to convince himself, that he only kept for medicinal purposes.
    ‘How do you take it?’ he asked.
    ‘As Stephen had it. A little water. No ice. He drank Irish, of course, but I imagine yours is Scotch.’
    ‘It is indeed. I am rather partial to a good single malt but I am afraid that I cannot really afford it.’
    ‘That is quite understandable in a vicar.’
    ‘You knew Mr Staunton well, I take it?’
    ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ Pamela asked, walking towards the armchair by the fire. ‘I think this is going to be a little awkward.’
    Sidney poured out the Johnnie Walker and allowed himself a small tumbler to keep his guest company. ‘It is clearly a delicate matter.’
    ‘We are not in church, Canon Chambers, but can I presume that the secrets of the confessional still apply?’
    ‘You can rely on my discretion.’
    Pamela Morton considered whether to continue. ‘It’s not something I ever imagined telling a priest. Even now I am not sure that I want to do so.’
    ‘You can take your time.’
    ‘I may need to.’
    Sidney handed his guest her whisky and sat down. The sun was in his eyes but once he had established his position he thought it rude to move. ‘I am used to listening,’ he said.
    ‘Stephen and I had always been friends,’ Pamela Morton began. ‘I knew that his marriage wasn’t as happy as it had once been. His wife is German; not that it explains anything . . .’
    ‘No . . .’
    ‘Although people have commented. It seemed an odd choice for such a handsome man. He could have chosen almost anyone he wanted. To marry a German so soon after the war was a brave thing to do, I suppose.’ Pamela Morton stopped. ‘This is harder than I thought . . .’
    ‘Do go on.’
    ‘A few months ago, I went to the office to pick up my husband. When I arrived I discovered that he had been called away. There was some fuss about a will. Stephen was alone. He said he was going to be working late but then he suggested that we go out for a drink instead. It seemed perfectly innocent. He was my husband’s business partner, and I had known him for several years. I had always been fond of him and I could see that something was troubling him. I didn’t know whether it was his health, his money or his marriage. I think that’s what most men worry about . . .’
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘We took a drive out to Trumpington, where I suppose Stephen thought that we were less likely to meet people we knew and we wouldn’t have to explain to anyone why we were having a drink together. So, thinking about it now, I suppose it all began with something complicit.’
    Sidney was beginning to feel uncomfortable. As a priest he was used to informal confession, but he could never quite reconcile himself to the fact that it often contained quite a lot of detail. There were times when he wished people wouldn’t tell him so much.
    Pamela Morton continued. ‘We sat in the far corner of the pub, away from everyone else. I had heard that Stephen liked a drink or two but the speed surprised me. He was on edge. It was the usual chatter to begin with but then he changed. He told me how tired he was of his life. It was a strange thing to say; the intensity of his feeling came on so suddenly. He said how he had never felt that he belonged in Cambridge. He and his wife were both exiles. He said that he should have gone straight back to Ireland after the war but that the job was here. He didn’t want to sound ungrateful to my husband for giving it to him, and besides, if he hadn’t, then he would never have met me. When he said that, I started to worry. I wondered what I would have to tell my husband, and yet there was something compelling about the way he spoke. There was an urgency, a desperation and a charm to it all. He had a way with words. I’ve always admired that. I used to act, you know. In a small way. Before I married.’
    ‘I see,’ said Sidney, wondering where the conversation was going.
    ‘Despite the blarney, I knew he was telling me that his life was a shambles. Anyone who heard him speak might have thought that he was beginning to be suicidal but they would have been so wrong.’
    Pamela Morton stopped.
    ‘You don’t have to tell me everything,’ Sidney answered.
    ‘I do. It’s important. Stephen spoke about how he longed to get away and start again