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

his housekeeper. Not everyone could live in Hampstead. ‘Mrs Maguire does her best on very limited means, Amanda.’
    It was approaching two o’clock in the afternoon and Sidney was worried that the Swan Hotel might not be serving food. He promised the waitress that they would be happy with anything and, as it was a Friday, both soup and fish would be perfectly adequate. Amanda, however, had other ideas.
    ‘A gin and tonic with ice and lemon together with warm bread rolls while we look at the menu, if you would be so kind . . .’ she asked.
    The waitress was unimpressed. ‘Chef’s off in a minute and the gentleman has ordered.’
    Amanda looked at the leather-bound menu. ‘I don’t think he’s done so. He has expressed a desire not to be of inconvenience. They are not the same thing. Is everything listed here available?’
    ‘In a manner of speaking . . .’
    Sidney tried to alleviate the tension. ‘Amanda, please don’t cause a scene . . .’
    ‘What would you recommend?’ she asked.
    The waitress looked at Sidney. ‘I would have the soup and the fish, madam.’
    ‘And what kind of soup is it?’
    ‘I’ll have to check with Chef . . .’
    ‘Never mind,’ said Sidney. ‘Let him surprise us.’
    ‘I think it’s mushroom . . .’
    ‘I can’t abide mushrooms,’ said Amanda.
    ‘We do a very good tomato.’
    ‘Tomato will be fine; and then the fish, I suppose. Thank you very much.’ Amanda handed the waitress the menu. ‘Honestly, Sidney. What a fuss.’
    Two bowls of lukewarm tinned tomato soup arrived on the table. A sprig of parsley had been added but a dash of cream only served to lower the temperature further.
    ‘I might as well warm up with another gin,’ Amanda said, ‘or I could add it to the soup and spice it up. I can’t believe we’re paying six shillings for this.’
    ‘Let’s not worry,’ said Sidney. ‘I am sure the fish will be tasty. Then we can concentrate on the complexities of the case.’
    ‘There are certainly no complexities about the meal,’ Amanda brooded.
    There were three other diners left in the restaurant: a silent pair of tourists and a man with a prodigious beard whose response to the inadequacy of the meal resulted in him wearing his food rather than eating it.
    ‘Extraordinary,’ Amanda muttered. ‘To take so little care . . .’
    Sidney took out the photographs of the portrait of Anne Boleyn and looked at them once more. ‘We must find this Phillips chap . . .’
    ‘You think he was working in association with the picture restorer?’
    ‘It’s a possibility. Or the restorer never knew. It has to be someone who recognised the painting.’
    ‘An inside job? The butler, perhaps. Or one of Lord Teversham’s friends?’
    Sidney considered the situation. ‘I was thinking about the man who came to assess the collection for insurance purposes. The painting was restored shortly afterwards, and he was the person who suggested that it should be done. How much do you think it is worth?’
    ‘I did some research. A Holbein sold for just under £4,000 in 1946. The Anne Boleyn would be worth far more; certainly enough for a nice house in the country.’
    Sidney looked at the photograph once more. ‘It’s a less flattering image than I would have imagined,’ he observed.
    ‘It was the beginning of the age of realist portrait painting,’ Amanda began. ‘Holbein was trying to paint psychologically as well as representationally.’
    The fish arrived and looked more promising than the soup. Sidney thought for a moment and then continued. ‘Anne Boleyn is, of course, one of the main reasons I am in my present job. Without her there would be no Church of England; no Archbishop Parker at my college, and no Cranmer Prayer Book.’
    ‘But you would probably still be a priest.’
    ‘I’m not so sure about that. But it was probably the moment in history when England first defined itself, don’t you think? It’s interesting that the picture restorer was called Wyatt. Didn’t Thomas Wyatt love Anne Boleyn – his great poem “Whoso list to hunt” and all that?’
    ‘Probably, Sidney.’
    ‘So, in the end, Anne Boleyn may well have inspired both the Prayer Book and the introduction of the sonnet into the English language.’
    ‘Do you think so?’
    ‘Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
    But as for me, hélas, I may no more. . .’
    ‘Sidney, don’t get carried away.’
    ‘The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
    I am of them that