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

felt the horrors approaching, would hole up in the grimmest boarding house in the most depressing town he could find, in order to plumb the slough of despond. The idea was, that after hitting rock bottom, he would emerge into a world in which anything would seem better than his most recent experience. The town his friend had chosen to confront every demon known to man, Sidney remembered, was Ipswich. It seemed an odd choice.
    Cocktails were served in the drawing room on the first floor where Mark Dowland began to recite from the work of John Betjeman, a promising new poet:
     
    ‘Phone for the fish-knives Norman
    As Cook is a little unnerved . . .’
     
    The other guests began to laugh at the performance but Sidney could not join in. He was already disconcerted by the fearful realisation that the party might end in charades; an activity which he always dreaded since his failure, the last time he had been at the Thompsons, to mime the five syllables of the Dickens novel Martin Chuzzlewit .
    He accepted a gin and tonic to stiffen his sinews before facing the prospect of Amanda’s potential engagement and the introduction to his sister’s new inamorato.
    Johnny Johnson proved to be a dark, good-looking man, and he was dressed in an extremely well-cut, thin black suit that Sidney rather admired. He began with a question. ‘All right?’
    ‘I think I am,’ Sidney replied.
    ‘Jennifer’s told me a lot about you.’
    ‘Nothing too damaging, I hope.’
    ‘Not at all, Sidney. Although I did find it quite a turn up for the book when she told me her brother was a vicar. I thought you’d be a teacher or a doctor.’
    ‘I think that was what was expected of me.’
    ‘I don’t go to church very much, Sidney, if I’m honest. It makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong.’
    ‘That may be the intention.’
    ‘You need to liven those services up a bit,’ Johnny continued. ‘Literally. You could have Sunday evenings as jazz nights. After you’ve done all the serious stuff.’
    Sidney brightened. He had always wanted to attract more people to his church services and stem the departure of teenagers from protracted ceremonies that still felt Victorian. Sometimes he thought that the church had hardly advanced since the days of Trollope. ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ he replied.
    ‘I could help if you like; put you in touch with some people to get you started?’
    ‘That would be splendid.’
    Mary Dowland moved over to join them. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of having jazz in church, are you?’
    ‘Why not?’ Sidney replied.
    ‘Well, you can never tell if the notes are being played in the right order.’
    ‘That’s the wonder of jazz, Mary,’ Johnny explained. ‘There’s no right way and there’s no order.’
    ‘Don’t people get very lost?’
    ‘You can’t get lost if you’ve got rhythm, Mary.’
    Sidney was amused by Johnny Johnson’s copious use of other people’s Christian names. He admired his directness.
    Edna, the Thompsons’ maid, arrived with a further tray of drinks, offering refills, which Johnny refused.
    ‘You’re not having a cocktail?’ Sidney asked.
    ‘I don’t drink alcohol, Sidney.’
    ‘How restrained,’ Mrs Dowland noted.
    ‘I like to keep my wits about me, Mary.’
    ‘Shall we go through?’ Juliette Thompson asked, as she stood up and smoothed her hair. She was dressed in a sleeveless gown that flared out from her thin waist and Sidney noticed Guy Hopkins giving her the once over. He wished Amanda’s prospective partner could have been less obvious.
    The dining room was decorated in the Georgian style, with walls painted in smoking-room red, an ornate plastered ceiling and an egg and dart cornice. A narrow sideboard held two Chinese vases and a canteen of silver cutlery.
    ‘I presume there are placements?’ Daphne Young asked, turning to her host. Her halter-necked and backless dress only drew attention to her almost skeletal frame. ‘I do expect to be seated to your right.’
    ‘Then your expectations have been fulfilled,’ Nigel Thompson replied.
    Sidney dreaded the humiliation of this moment. At many a dinner party he was placed next to the ‘difficult relation’: the cousin with a slight lack, the daughter recovering from a broken engagement, the son who had lost everything in a casino and who had come home to sort himself out. He knew, for a start, that he was unlikely to be seated anywhere near Amanda Kendall but was surprised and delighted