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

name Helena Randall shot out her first question. ‘A successful visit to the coroner, Canon Chambers?’
    Sidney paused. ‘I am not sure what you mean?’
    ‘Are there any positive results?’
    Sidney stopped. ‘I would like to help you but what I am doing is rather confidential.’
    Helena Randall took out her notebook. ‘And are there degrees of confidentiality?’ she asked.
    ‘I like to think not.’
    ‘And will you be going to see Dr Robinson or his fiancée again?’
    Sidney had never met someone so pale and so determined. ‘I haven’t seen them today.’
    ‘But you have seen them recently? When?’
    ‘In the last few days, but I don’t know whether this is anything that might be of interest to your readers. There is no evidence of any wrongdoing.’
    ‘There are coincidences.’
    ‘It is winter, Miss . . .’
    ‘Randall. Helena Randall. I think you are a police spy, Canon Chambers.’
    ‘I have never heard anything so absurd. There may be spies in Cambridge but I can assure you that I am not one of them.’
    ‘So you admit to knowing spies?’
    ‘Of course I don’t. Now please; I must be going home.’
    ‘I can walk with you.’
    ‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’
    ‘I gave you my card, I believe?’
    ‘You did.’
    ‘Well then. You probably need to know that I, too, am never off duty. I think this has the makings of a story.’
    ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
    ‘Not yet, Canon Chambers. But there soon will be. And when the story breaks you will want to tell me your side of it first.’
    ‘I am not sure that I will.’ Sidney replied tersely. ‘Good day to you, Miss Randall.’
    He crossed Granta Place and headed up Eltisley Avenue and glanced up at Hildegard Staunton’s old house. He wished she were still there. He could have stopped off on the way home and listened to her play Bach. Now all he had was his bun from Fitzbillies.
    He ate it as he walked across the Meadows. It was almost dark. A group of schoolboys were enjoying a snowball fight as people returned from work, bicycling along the high path with books, bags and shopping. Greeting people as they passed, Sidney had a simultaneous sense of belonging and alienation. These were, in the main, decent respectable people, and yet Sidney felt that he had little to do with them. He was detached, separated from their lives and their employment by his calling, by the university and by his dream-like daily musings. Normal life, simultaneously, had both everything and nothing to do with him.
    When he returned home his dog scampered up to meet him. It was clear that he expected his master both to give him his full attention and to go straight back out again but the telephone in the hall was already ringing. Sidney had been hoping that he could heat the place up a bit and sit by the fire with some light reading but it was not to be. Who on earth could this be? he wondered as the telephone rang. What fresh hell is this?
    It was Amanda. ‘How is Dickens?’ she asked. Already, Sidney thought, her dog mattered more than he did.
    ‘How did you know he was called that?’ he replied.
    ‘I telephoned earlier and got Mrs Maguire. She tried to be polite but was really quite ratty. She thought I should come and get him and take him away.’
    ‘Dickens is quite a handful, Amanda.’
    ‘I bought him for that very purpose.’
    ‘Did you indeed . . .’
    ‘He’s there to take your mind off all the dreadful things that have been happening. You told me you were lonely.’
    ‘You asked me if I was lonely. That’s not quite the same thing.’
    ‘You answered in the affirmative and I have taken steps to address the situation. I thought it was rather thoughtful of me . . .’
    ‘It was Amanda, and I am grateful.’
    ‘How is he?’
    ‘He’s perfectly well.’
    ‘You sound grumpy. Are you sure you are looking after him properly? When can I see him?’
    ‘You can come whenever you like.’
    ‘Good. You haven’t got the flu or anything like that?’
    ‘No. Why do you ask?’
    ‘Why do I ask?’ Amanda was almost shouting. ‘Because I don’t want you going to see that doctor.’
    ‘What has Mrs Maguire been saying?’
    ‘I am sure you can guess. She thinks that your doctor has been taking the law into his own hands.’
    ‘Nothing has been proved.’
    ‘But by the time it is, it will be too late. You need to be careful, Sidney. In crime stories the murderer is always the doctor. It’s why I no longer read Miss Christie.