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

school soon found themselves in the unusual position of being surrounded by fellow students who were equally, if not more, intelligent than they were themselves. This, matched by the superiority of Fellows who didn’t actually like teaching, meant that undergraduates in their first year were often prone to a vertiginous drop in confidence. The gap between a student’s expectation of academic life and his subsequent experience could prove dispiriting. At the same time, the University itself displayed little sympathy for their disorientation, believing that those in their charge should understand that it was a privilege to be at Cambridge and they should either shape up fast or go crying back home to Mummy. Sidney therefore saw it as one of his duties to look upon the more vulnerable undergraduates with more sympathy than that shown by his colleagues, especially towards those theological students who found the rigorous investigation of some of the more unreliable biblical sources a challenge to their faith. Sidney, as in so many other areas of his life, had to ensure that those in his charge took a long view of life and held their nerve. The race was not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, he told himself. Time and chance happened to them all, and it was vital, above all, to hold a steady course.
    It was a lesson he still needed to learn himself.
     
    Although Sidney knew that he would see Inspector George Keating for their regular game of backgammon the following day, he decided that he really did need to telephone his friend, even if it might incur wrath. This it did, as the inspector had made it clear in the past that he never liked to have open and shut cases questioned and he was still smarting from England’s loss at football to the Hungarians the previous evening.
    ‘6-3! And to think we invented the game, Sidney. Wembley Stadium is the home of football and a team no one’s ever heard of put six goals past us. Unbelievable!’
    ‘I don’t know why you are so fond of football,’ his friend replied. ‘It always leads to disappointment. Cricket is the game . . .’
    ‘Not in the winter . . .’
    ‘Then Rugby Union. Perhaps even hockey . . .’
    ‘Hockey!’ Inspector Keating exclaimed. ‘You think I should start taking an interest in hockey? Next thing it will be bloody badminton. Why are you on the telephone, man?’
    ‘There is something I wish to discuss with you.’
    ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
    ‘It could but I don’t want it to ruin our game of backgammon . . .’
    The inspector let out a long slow sigh. ‘You had better pay a visit to my office, then. If you can fit me in between services . . .’
    ‘I think you are rather busier than me.’
    ‘Come to St Andrews Street, then.’
    Sidney had never been invited into the inner sanctum of the police station and had been expecting something altogether more organised, modern and scientific than the sight that greeted him on arrival. Inspector George Keating’s private space was not the methodical hub of an organised crime-fighting force but a mass of manila files and papers, notes, diagrams, paper bags and old cups of tea that covered every conceivable space: desks, chairs and bookcases. The windows were lightly steamed from the heat of a two-bar electric fire, the ashtray was full and the desk-light had blown. The whole interior could easily have been mistaken for the rooms of a university don, an effect the inspector would not have intended.
    Sidney often wondered whether he should say something about his friend’s demeanour. He was a man who was two inches shorter than he wanted to be, which was not his fault, and his suit needed pressing, which was. His tie was askew, his shoes were scuffed and his thinning sandy-coloured hair was not as familiar with a comb as it should have been. The demands of the job, three children at home and a wife who kept a tight control on the family finances were perhaps beginning to take their toll. There were times when Sidney was glad that he was still a bachelor.
    He knew that his visit was something of an imposition and felt increasingly guilty, but his suspicions were on his conscience and he needed to share them. He reported what he had discovered and conveyed his concerns about the whisky.
    ‘Stephen Staunton’s wife specifically told me that he only drank Bushmills, which, as you may know, has a distinctive smoky, vanilla and bitter-toffee taste. However, the whisky in