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

sooner without arousing the suspicions of his frumpy wife.’
    ‘Do you think she is frumpy?’
    ‘I wouldn’t call her stylish. And no one would say she was thin.’
    Sidney suddenly felt very sad. There was no need for Pamela Morton to talk like this. He had been moved and haunted by his visit to Stephen Staunton’s widow and he had kept remembering it: her poised profile as she looked out of a window; the way that she would stop in the middle of a sentence as if she had suddenly remembered something else; the fact that she turned to Bach for consolation. He was upset that Pamela Morton could be so dismissive.
    ‘You don’t seem to care for the other women in Mr Staunton’s life?’ he asked.
    ‘Why should I care for them? They did not make him happy. In fact, they contributed to his misery . . .’
    ‘I am not sure Miss Morrison could be considered guilty of that . . .’
    ‘She is an irrelevance, Canon Chambers.’
    ‘Although she seems to know rather a lot about her employer. She knew where he went and she certainly made excuses for him when he was in places where, perhaps, he should not have been. Are you sure that your relationship with him was a secret?’
    ‘I don’t think little Miss Moribund knew a thing. There was only my friend Helen in London. The odd “seen-it-all-before” barman might have guessed but no one else.’
    ‘And you are convinced that your husband did not have his suspicions?’
    ‘I’m not stupid, Canon Chambers. I know how to keep secrets. Have you heard of Tupperware?’
    Sidney was distracted by this sudden change of tack. Something Mrs Maguire had once said when she replenished the larder came back to him. ‘Don’t they have those American-style parties for housewives?’
    ‘It’s not the parties I’m interested in. They’re plastic boxes that keep food fresh and separate. No cross-contamination. Nothing gets in; nothing comes out.’
    ‘And so you “Tupperware” your life?’
    ‘That’s right, Canon Chambers. I keep things separate. It’s like making meringues . . .’
    Sidney understood the allusion but was not sure that dividing the white of an egg from its yolk was on a par with adultery.
    ‘You have to keep things fresh, Sidney,’ Pamela continued with her egg-bound metaphor, ‘and discrete. Both discrete and discreet if you know what I mean. Sometimes people are not aware of the difference between the words so I think it’s safer to do both. That way no one is hurt.’
    Sidney could not remember allowing Pamela Morton to call him by his Christian name but was too surprised by her way of looking at human behaviour to comment. He decided to challenge her. ‘There is a flaw . . . of course.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Well, if there are two of you then you both have to be equally diligent about your Tupperware, or, indeed, your egg whites. The slightest bit of yolk . . .’
    ‘That’s true. But Stephen was very careful. Do you know about the private diary?’
    ‘His secretary mentioned it.’
    ‘Well, he certainly made sure she never saw it. He kept it in his jacket pocket. That was the one that could tell you what was really going on.’
    ‘But his secretary kept an office diary . . .’
    ‘That was for show. What he really thought and what he really got up to was in the private notebook. Miss Morrison did not know him as well as she thought she did.’
    ‘I am not so sure about that. But I am surprised that you do not appear to accept this note as being genuine.’
    Pamela Morton hesitated. ‘Have you shown it to the police?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘But you will.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Then I hope you will be appropriately sceptical.’
    ‘I haven’t decided what I think,’ Sidney replied, but knew that he would have to see Stephen Staunton’s widow once more.
     
    It was always a difficult matter for a vicar to decide when to call in on his parishioners. The traditional hours were between three and five, before Evensong and the preparation either of high tea or dinner; but clearly those hours were unsuitable for people in employment and Sidney knew that Hildegard Staunton sometimes taught piano to private pupils after school. He therefore decided to risk a visit at six-thirty, making the assumption that she would be at home and unlikely to be either dining or entertaining. This proved correct.
    Josef Locke’s ‘I’ll take you home again, Kathleen’ was playing on the wireless when he arrived. Hildegard switched it off and