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

rather than a clergyman who is ill-equipped to deal with these matters . . .’
    ‘There is no need to be defensive, Canon Chambers. I know you would not have summoned me to your home if you did not have something to tell me. Is there the faintest chance that you might actually believe me?’
    I have always believed you, Mrs Morton . . .’
    ‘I have told you before. Pamela  . . .’
    Sidney ignored her request. ‘Although I do need to ask you to account for your movements . . .’
    ‘On the day of the murder? You don’t think I’m a suspect? That would be rich.’
    ‘No, I am not saying that.’
    ‘But you might be suggesting it .’
    ‘Well, it would be a good way of throwing an investigator off the scent; to suggest a murder that no one has considered to be murder; to open a case that was never going to be opened. Perhaps one would only do that if one wanted to frame someone else?’
    ‘And do you think that is what I might have been doing?’
    ‘I don’t wish to insult you, Mrs Morton. . ..’
    ‘You’re doing a pretty good job so far . . .’
    ‘I have to think about every possibility: your husband, for example.’
    ‘Yes, I can see why he might be a suspect but I can assure you he knows nothing. He’s too busy playing golf. He’s obsessed. The hobby is worse than gambling.’
    ‘That’s as may be. But I need you to be both specific and honest.’
    ‘That’s how I’ve always been.’
    ‘Then I must ask you to remember where you were on the evenings of September the first, second, eighth, fifteenth and twenty-second, and the two nights of October the fifth and sixth.’
    ‘You expect me to remember all that?’
    ‘It’s very important . . . Pamela . . .’
    ‘And you want to know now?’
    ‘There is only one thing about these dates that interests me . . .’
    ‘October the sixth is the night before Stephen died. I certainly saw him then. I will always remember it. I told him that we just had to get through the winter. If we could just get through Christmas then everything would be all right.’
    ‘And the other dates?’
    ‘I don’t have to account for all of my movements, do I?’
    ‘You just have to tell me if these were the days on which you saw Stephen Staunton. September the first, second, eighth, fifteenth and twenty-second, and the two nights of October the fifth and sixth.’
    Pamela Morton thought for a moment. ‘I can’t be exact without my own diary but I can tell you that we did see each other two days running because my husband was away and it probably was on the nights that you mention. If the other days were Tuesdays, then yes. I always get the 10.04 to London on Tuesdays. Stephen would follow me later. We went on separate trains. We were very careful, Canon Chambers. I want you to understand that. Why do you want to know?’
    ‘It would make everything clear, Mrs Morton. Everything . . .’
     
    During many a moment in the course of his investigation Canon Sidney Chambers considered once again how much he had neglected his calling. Prayer, scripture, sacrament and fellowship were supposed to be the sacred centre of the priest’s life and yet he could be found wanting in all of these activities. Instead, he had been distracted. He had attended meetings of the Mothers’ Union, the Women’s Institute and the PCC. He had organised the flower rota, and typed up a timetable for the church wardens, the sidesmen, and the volunteers to clean and polish the brasses. He had edited the monthly issue of the parish magazine, continued with the weekly Bible study group, and run a series of confirmation classes. He had even taken a group of Scouts and Cubs on a hike, supervised the building of the Christmas crib, organised the carol singers and set up a search for a lost cat. At the same time he had continued his teaching at Corpus. Any visiting archdeacon, sent to check up on him, would have no cause for complaint, but Sidney knew that he was not at his best. He had not visited the sick as regularly as he had hoped, he was three weeks behind on his correspondence and he had not even begun to write the big Advent sermon which he was due to preach in King’s College Chapel.
    There were also his parents to consider. His father, a doctor in North London, was still complaining about the demands of the National Health Service. His mother had recently telephoned to say how worried she was about Sidney’s brother and sister. Jennifer was, apparently, seeing a man who was