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

animal!’
    ‘He is a present from Miss Kendall.’
    ‘What the dickens is going on? How long is he staying?’
    ‘For ever, it seems.’
    ‘What on earth do you mean, Canon Chambers? I hope you don’t expect me to clean up after that thing?’
    ‘I certainly don’t, Mrs Maguire. At the moment I am not sure what to do. The puppy is an extremely recent arrival.’
    ‘What’s he called?’
    ‘Archie. But I think I’m going to change his name. Now you mention it, Dickens sounds rather a good name for a dog.’
    Mrs Maguire was unimpressed. ‘None of us needs a puppy yapping away. They never stop, you know.’
    ‘I am sure he will grow. I was hoping that he might prove to be something of a companion . . .’
    ‘He’ll be nothing but trouble, mark my words. And you, Canon Chambers, have enough trouble in your life already.’
     
    The day did not pass well. Dickens, for that was the name Sidney decided upon, wet the kitchen floor immediately Mrs Maguire had cleaned it, the church roof had sprung a leak under the weight of the melting snow and Sidney forgot his shepherd’s pie in the oven. As he ate the burnt remains with his curate, Leonard advised Sidney that he really should see the coroner once more. They needed to know whether Mrs Livingstone’s cremation could take place, if her daughter’s marriage could proceed and if not, what Inspector Keating was going to do about it.
    Sidney found all the demands on his time even more irritating than usual. He knew that he didn’t actually like Derek Jarvis. But now he decided he was not too keen on Dr Michael Robinson either. Or Mrs Maguire. Or his curate. Or his dog. Or even Amanda. In fact the monastic life suddenly seemed far more appealing than ever before.
    Later that afternoon, Sidney rang the bell of the coroner’s office and was shown through to a small waiting room. Derek Jarvis was efficiently polite. ‘You’re taking quite an interest in this case, I see . . .’
    ‘Apparently there is some considerable disquiet in the town. People have stopped going to see Dr Robinson.’
    ‘There are other doctors.’
    ‘We can’t hound a man out of town because of an unfounded rumour.’
    Derek Jarvis sighed. ‘I can assure you, Canon Chambers, that I have been professional throughout this investigation and will continue to be so.’
    ‘I cannot believe that Dr Robinson is a murderer.’
    ‘Well,’ Derek Jarvis concluded. ‘So far, despite all the anxiety, it appears that he is not.’
    ‘Morphine?’
    ‘A high level but nothing more . . .’
    ‘You sound disappointed.’
    ‘I am not disappointed. I am wary. As I said, a high level of morphine.’
    ‘But within acceptable limits.’
    ‘ Just. ’
    ‘Then you will release Mrs Livingstone’s body?’
    ‘I will. However, as I am sure you are aware, other sudden elderly deaths have occurred.’
    ‘Anthony Bryant . . .’
    ‘Indeed.’
    Sidney could not let the situation finish like this. He knew that he should act in a more priestly manner. ‘I know it is hard to act in good faith with someone you may not like. As a Christian . . .’
    ‘Please, Canon Chambers, do not make such assumptions or jump to conclusions.’
    ‘I was merely suggesting . . .’
    ‘My work is scientific and objective. My personal feelings are kept in abeyance.’
    ‘Very well,’ Sidney answered. ‘When will you have completed your examination of the second body?’
    ‘All in good time.’
    Sidney looked at the coroner and wondered whether there was ever such a thing as ‘good time’. It was going to be a long wait.
     
    As he walked back through the streets of Cambridge, Sidney stopped to admire a pipe-smoking snowman that had been given an air-raid warden’s helmet. He heard a sudden movement behind him, turned to see who it was, but there was no one there. Perhaps he was being followed? But why would anyone want to do such a thing? He tried to put his suspicions down to the fact that he was cold and anxious, but the feelings of unease grew as he resumed his walk. He was also hungry after the debacle of his lunchtime shepherd’s pie. There was nothing for it but to enter Fitzbillies and buy yet another one of their Chelsea buns. He would find a discreet way of eating it on his way home.
    Although his purchase was successful, his initial attempt to eat the bun was foiled by the presence of the young female journalist he had seen outside the police station. In the pause in which he tried to remember her