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

murder.’
    ‘Could any of them have been modified or replaced?’
    ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Because you deal with knives every day. Have any of yours gone missing recently?’
    ‘I do not think so.’
    ‘Have you trained anyone in the use of knives?’ Inspector Keating asked.
    ‘No one who was in the play. I have a sous-chef, Gavin, but he is Scottish and he hates the theatre. He was cooking that night. We had many customers. But, of course, we always need more. It is one reason why I was taking part. I have to persuade more people to come and eat at my restaurant.’
    ‘What did you think of the stage knives you were given?’
    ‘They were toys. They were short and no good. We painted them black.’
    ‘You did not see the flash of a blade under the lights?’
    ‘I thought it was a reflection or a mirror.’
    ‘So you might have seen something?’
    ‘In the middle of it all I saw a glint, I think. Is that the word?’
    ‘In the middle of the assassination? You are sure? Not at the beginning or the end?’
    ‘No. It was before my turn. Not after.’
    ‘And who was holding the knife?’
    ‘I cannot tell. It was quick – like the back of a fish in a river. You see it and it is gone.’
    ‘But it was not at the very beginning?’
    ‘No. I do not think so. Not the first or the second person.’
    ‘You are sure?’
    ‘It was very fast. But I think so.’
    ‘You could not have imagined it?’
    ‘I always tell the truth. I am a man of honour.’
    The inspector turned to Sidney. If what Michel Morel was saying were correct, then that would rule out Clive Morton.
    ‘How well did you know Lord Teversham?’ Sidney asked.
    ‘He was one of my best customers.’
    ‘How often did he come and who did who did he come with?’
    ‘They were business meetings. First with Mr Hackford but not recently not so much; they argue, I think.’
    ‘You saw them do this?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘What were they arguing about?’
    ‘They talk about paintings and money. It was last year. Then Lord Teversham comes with a different man.’
    ‘Ben Blackwood?’
    ‘ Bien sûr . Now they include me more. Lord Teversham is happier. They talk to me about art. We have a little joke. I say the French are always best; David, not Gainsborough, Poussin not Constable, Rodin not Henry Moore. They were amused that I know so much. But most of the time, you must remember, I am in the kitchen. I say hello and goodbye. I do not have the time to listen. Mr Blackwood came once with your beautiful friend, Canon Chambers.’
    ‘My friend? You mean Miss Kendall?’
    Inspector Keating interrupted. ‘Where did you stab Lord Teversham?’
    ‘I was to the left. I stab him in the guts. I ask if I can do this. More passionate.’
    ‘I don’t think this murder is about passion.’
    ‘You do not think so?’
    ‘These were all men.’
    ‘You do not think men can have passions with each other?’
    ‘It’s not considered decent in this country.’
    ‘Sometimes passion is deeper than we think, Inspector. People have feelings. Even in the police, I am sure . . .’
    Inspector Keating was in no mood for insinuation and cut short the interrogation. ‘That will be all, thank you very much. We are not here to discuss the feelings of my officers.’
    Once Michel Morel had left, Keating rose from his chair and started to pace around the room. ‘I think that chef saw more than he was letting on . . .’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Sidney. ‘I rather liked him.’
    ‘We’ll have to sound him out again. Perhaps you could go to his restaurant.’
    ‘He must wonder why he ever came to England.’
    ‘He’s never going to make any money,’ Keating continued. ‘I looked at the menu in the window. Who is going to eat snails? Or artichoke? As soon as you’ve peeled the leaves off there’s nothing left. We don’t like waste in this country, and I don’t like him wasting my time.’
    ‘He was teasing you, Inspector, but I can’t believe he is a murderer. Who have we got next?’
    ‘Frank Blackwood.’
    ‘Ben’s father?’
    ‘Not the most restful of people to be interviewing in the middle of the night. We had better call him in. Offer him some tea while you’re at it.’
    Such thoughtfulness was not appreciated. ‘I’m sick of bloody tea,’ Frank Blackwood began. Sidney had always thought that he had been miscast. He was too bulky to have the lean and hungry look the part of Cassius demanded. In fact, thought Sidney, his son might have