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

Morrison gave Sidney a conspiratorial look, one that assumed the atmosphere was now safe for prejudice. ‘I think he needed a bit more looking after than she was able to do.’
    ‘It must have been a full-time job, and out of the office as well on some occasions.’
    ‘It was. But I am not sure what you are suggesting?’
    ‘I am not suggesting anything at all, Miss Morrison. I am merely remarking that you must have accompanied Mr Staunton on many occasions, on business, of course. I am not implying that there was anything improper.’
    ‘We did sometimes travel together, but those times were quite rare.’
    ‘But then Mr Staunton also travelled with other women.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Sidney looked at Annabel Morrison and decided to take an extraordinary gamble. ‘With Mrs Morton, for example.’
    ‘Did he?’
    ‘I believe Mrs Morton travels down to London on Tuesday mornings.’ Sidney decided to add a lie to his risk. ‘I believe that sometimes they went together?’
    Annabel Morrison was clearly discomfited by the question. ‘This was never in the diary that I kept.’
    ‘Perhaps Mr Staunton didn’t like to tell you?’
    ‘But if he was travelling with Mrs Morton I would have known.’
    ‘I gather they were rather fond of each other.’
    ‘What on earth are you suggesting?’
    ‘I am sure there was nothing compromising or untoward,’ Sidney replied, in as unconvincing a manner as he could.
    He had told a second lie.
    He was astonished to discover how easy it was.
     
    The railway station at Cambridge had been built in the 1840s, in a symmetrical style in warm local stone, and was the heart of a regular service between London and Kings Lynn. When it was at its busiest the platforms were crowded with people, and this Tuesday morning was no different. A stooping elderly don kept dropping a selection of books which he had tied up with string; three girls were preparing to put their bicycles into the guard’s van; and Pamela Morton was waiting for the 10.04 express train to London. She was wearing a dark burgundy coat and a matching beret, and she carried a small portmanteau. A thickset man in a double-breasted navy pinstriped suit stood to her right. He looked, to all intents and purposes, to be a man about to do business in the City but he held neither briefcase, papers nor an umbrella.
    As the express train approached, a petite but determined woman with silver hair pinned in a bun, and dressed entirely in black, made her way through the crowds. She wore dark glasses, although it was November, and leather gloves. She appeared to know exactly where she needed to be on the platform and stood directly behind Pamela Morton.
    The train whistled. The woman in black stepped and stretched both arms, palms facing forward. As she leaned back to gain the necessary momentum to push Pamela Morton off the edge of the platform on to the rails and under the train, one man blocked her path, a second pulled her back from behind, while the businessman next to Pamela Morton threw his arm around her waist.
    ‘What are you doing?’ she shouted, struggling to break free. ‘Let go of me!’
    The train braked, slowed and stopped. The businessman let go, and just as Pamela Morton was about to complain to the stationmaster she saw that the two men behind her were holding Annabel Morrison. Her face was filled with fury. ‘You tart. Isn’t one man enough for you?’
    ‘What do you mean? What are you doing?’
    ‘It’s all your fault.’
    ‘My fault?’
    ‘He was happy with me. You never knew that, did you? He never told you.’
    Pamela Morton looked at her lover’s secretary. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You.’
    ‘You don’t know anything.’ Annabel Morrison continued. ‘You never knew him at all; what he felt, what he went through, how he suffered. He told me everything.’
    ‘You tried to kill me.’
    ‘I could kill you all.’
    The doors to the train opened, and the people of Cambridge alighted and boarded. Inspector Keating came forward to make his arrest. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Morton?’
    ‘I don’t understand. What is this woman doing?’
    Keating gestured to his men. ‘Take Miss Morrison away.’
    ‘You’ll never have him now,’ she spat. ‘No one will.’
    Keating turned to Pamela Morton. ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes desperate crimes require desperate measures . . .’
    Pamela Morton looked hard at the Inspector. ‘You risked my life.’
    ‘We had two men following Miss Morrison and