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

over.’
    ‘Please,’ said Hildegard. ‘Take it to remember me by.’
     
    Sidney could hardly bear the days that followed. He could not concentrate on his work, not least the Advent sermon that he was due to preach at King’s, and even the idea of another evening in The Eagle with Inspector Keating had lost its appeal. Their meetings had become a matter of work rather than pleasure. It was his own fault, Sidney thought, but then how could he have behaved otherwise? An injustice had been uncovered and his conscience had given him no choice.
    Now he had to resume the priestly life. He remembered his Principal telling him at theological college: ‘the clergyman’s identity is defined not by what he does but what he is’. He was required to live an exemplary live. It would not do to sniff out murderers and sit on a widow’s sofa drinking sherry.
    This, however, was easier said than done. Sidney had to admit that he was distracted. Hildegard had sent him a letter to remind him of the date of her leaving, but he had been so uncertain as to what he would say, and how he might ask for her forwarding address, that he almost missed her departure completely.
    A removal van was parked outside the house and Hildegard was waiting for a taxi to take her to the station. She was dressed in a dark blue coat and she held her gloves loosely over a matching handbag.
    ‘I’m glad I arrived in time,’ said Sidney.
    ‘I would have asked the taxi to stop at your church. It is not so far.’
    ‘I might not have been there.’
    ‘But you are here now.’ She smiled. ‘And I am glad. I hope you will come and see me in Germany . . .’
    ‘Yes, I . . .’
    Hildegard saw his embarrassment. ‘I do not believe in farewells . . .’
    ‘No. Well . . . it’s only that it might be difficult to arrange . . .’
    ‘Nonsense. I will help you.’
    Sidney could not understand why his words would not come. ‘I’ve never been to Berlin. Or Leipzig . . .’ he said.
    The taxi pulled up and Hildegard paused, as if she was wondering whether to get in it after all. ‘I will write to you. I will send you my address.’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ said Sidney.
    She held out her hand. ‘Thank you. You are a good man.’
    ‘I don’t know about that.’
    As he took her hand, Hildegard leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I will not forget you . . .’ she said.
    ‘Nor I you . . . .’
    Sidney watched the taxi recede into the distance. He touched his own cheek. Then he bicycled back to the vicarage. Outside the front door was a large brown case. Hildegard had instructed the removal men to leave the case of Bushmills that she had been sent from County Antrim for Christmas. A card was attached.
    ‘For my friend Sidney, who I know will appreciate what lies within. With love and gratitude. Your Hildegard.’
    Sidney walked into his study and sat in silence.
    He tried to write his sermon. It would be about hope, he decided, and grace. He remembered the flimsy pages of Stephen Staunton’s diary. We cannot erase the past, he thought, no matter what we do; instead we have to let it carry us into the future.
    As he wrote, he stopped to think about each stage of Hildegard’s journey home. He imagined her boarding a train and leaning out of the window to wave him goodbye. He could picture her, even now, blonde and pale, dressed in her dark blue coat, standing on the stern of a ferry with seagulls cawing in its wake as the light fell. He saw her walking through wintry German streets and passing through Christmas markets where people drank Glühwein amidst the swaying lanterns. He wondered what Hildegard would say to her family when she first saw them, her sister Trudi and her mother Sibilla, and if she would speak about all that had happened; or if it would be like the war, which had rendered so many people so silent. Would she mention him at all, he asked himself; and how, come to think of it, would he ever talk about her?
    The next evening he made his way to King’s College Chapel. As the candlelight flickered over the carved wooden choir stalls, Sidney thought once more about the hope and the fragility of Christmas, the uncertain morning and evening of our lives caught amidst the unfurling of time and season, day and year.
    The service made his sadness at Hildegard’s parting all the more resonant. It was the end of another day, a further chance to contemplate mortality and glimpse eternity as the precentor continued the