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

duty.’
    ‘Ah, yes. The poet George Crabbe wrote about that, didn’t he? The priest as an example to his flock:
     
    Sober, chaste devout and just
    One whom his neighbours could believe and trust.
     
    It must be hard to set such an example.’
    ‘It is almost impossible,’ Sidney replied.
    ‘Sometimes, it is not the achievement but the intention that matters.’ The doctor smiled.
    The organist struck up the wedding march and they were off.
    Sidney tried to cheer himself up by reminding himself that he enjoyed a good wedding. He was not so keen on the receptions that followed: the nervous bonhomie, the lengthy speeches and the warm white wine, but he had learned to walk through them with a semi-detached benevolence that many people, he was relieved to notice, mistook for holiness.
    Isabel Livingstone, soon to be Robinson, was dressed in white taffeta, and Sidney noticed she had chosen an empire line dress rather than the currently fashionable fitted waist and full skirt. She appeared younger than when Sidney had last seen her as if it was only now, at this moment, that she had become herself. The anxiety and grief of the previous months had fallen away, and her walk up the aisle had the air of a triumphal march.
    She was followed by two bridesmaids dressed in frocks of buttercup yellow. Both girls were under the age of eight and they walked with a grace and a solemnity of purpose that Sidney hoped might provide an example to the rest of the congregation.
    He smiled as he gave the opening welcome but something held him back. He was not going to let the couple off lightly. He spoke slowly, clearly and with authority. He emphasised the fact that marriage had to be entered into reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God. He would explain each of these phrases in his sermon and he would expect everyone to pay attention. This was not just a social event. It was a sombre religious ceremony in which the promises made had eternal consequences.
    He would preach, as he often did, on Christ’s first miracle, at a wedding feast at Cana of Galilee. The water was changed into wine, as Michael and Isabel would be changed, the two becoming one; but, rather than losing themselves in self-indulgence, the challenge would be to bring out the best in one another. They would have to become different people, better, stronger, more tolerant and more generous.
    Even though he told the congregation that the best wedding present they could give the happy couple would be to love, support and be watchful of this marriage, both Michael and Isabel Robinson knew that Canon Sidney Chambers was speaking directly to them. He was telling them to be careful. He was telling them to watch out . There was steel, both in his compassion, and in his Christianity. This was not so much a sermon as a moral warning.
    God was watching them.
    Sidney was watching them.
    Six months later Isabel Robinson gave birth to a baby boy.

A Matter of Time
    It was the seventh of May 1954 and Sidney had, at last, perfected the art of boiling an egg. He filled a saucepan with water, lowered a speckled specimen into position and placed it on the stove. As the water began to heat up, Sidney commenced his morning routine. It was vital to complete his shaving at the exact moment the water reached boiling point. Then he would prepare his toast. The time taken to cook, turn and remove the toast from the grill, butter it and then cut it into soldiers, was the exact time needed to boil his egg. If successfully achieved, the toast would still be hot, the butter melted and the egg in perfect condition. It was extraordinary that he was now able to combine the preparation of breakfast with the act of shaving and, every time he did so, Sidney was filled with quiet satisfaction.
    On a bright spring morning, as the last of the frost was disappearing from the meadows, Sidney’s attention turned to the news on the wireless. Roger Bannister had broken the four-minute mile on the Iffley Road athletics track in Oxford. How odd, Sidney thought, that a man could run a mile in the same length of time that it took to boil an egg. It was also the time needed for an over of cricket, or for that other Sidney, Bechet, to work his way through ‘Summertime’ on the soprano saxophone. It was extraordinary how much could be achieved in such a short space of time.
    He tried to spend a great deal longer walking Dickens as Sidney was, at last, beginning to enjoy the company of his