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

would be a bad idea.’ Hildegard smiled for the first time.
    ‘Very bad indeed.’
    Hildegard Staunton handed Sidney his sherry. He wondered why he had got himself into all this. ‘Will you go back to Germany?’ he asked.
    ‘Some people say there is no Germany any more. But my mother is in Leipzig. I also have a sister in Berlin. I do not think I can remain here.’
    ‘You don’t like Cambridge?’
    ‘It can be dispiriting. Is that the right word? The weather and the wind.’
    Sidney wondered if the Staunton’s marriage had ever been happy. ‘I was thinking,’ he began tentatively. ‘Did your husband share your feelings?’
    ‘I think we both felt that we were strangers here.’
    ‘He was depressed?’
    ‘He is from Ulster. What do you think?’
    ‘I don’t think all Ulstermen are depressed, Mrs Staunton.’
    ‘Of course not. But sometimes with the alcohol . . .’ Hildegard let the sentence fall into the silence between them.
    ‘I know . . . it does not help.’
    ‘Why did you ask that question?’ Hildegard continued.
    ‘I apologise. It was intrusive, I know. I was only wondering if you had any fears that this might happen?’
    ‘No, I did not.’
    ‘So it came as a shock?’
    ‘It did. But then nothing surprises me, Canon Chambers. When you have lost most of your family in war, when there is nothing left of your life, and when the only hope you have turns to dust, then why should anything shock you? You fought in the war?’
    ‘I did.’
    ‘Then I think, perhaps, you understand.’
    If Sidney had been a better Christian, he thought, he would try to talk to Hildegard about the consolation of his faith, but he knew that it was not the right time.
    The conversation was unsettling because there were so many subjects moving through his mind: the nature of death, the idea of marriage and the problem of betrayal. To concentrate on any one of these issues was likely to upset Hildegard and so he tried to keep the conversation as neutral as he could.
    ‘And you are from Leipzig?’ Sidney continued.
    ‘I am.’
    ‘The home of Bach.’
    ‘I play his music every day. I studied at the Hochschule in Berlin with Edwin Fischer. He was like a father to me. Perhaps you have heard of him?’
    ‘I think my mother might have one of his recordings.’
    ‘It is probably The Well-Tempered Clavier . His playing was filled with air and joy. He was a wonderful man. But, in 1942, he went to Lucerne, and I lost my confidence.’
    ‘The war, I suppose.’
    ‘It was many things.’
    ‘And do you teach?’
    ‘In Germany I had many pupils. You know that work is our weapon against world-weariness.’
    ‘ Weltschmerz. ’
    ‘You are familiar with the word?’ Hildegard smiled once more. ‘I am impressed, Canon Chambers. But here, work is not so easy. When I return to Germany, then, perhaps, I will teach every day. I need to work. I do not know what my husband did with money.’
    ‘He left no will?’
    ‘I do not think so.’
    ‘Perhaps your husband’s business partner was waiting until after the funeral to tell you about it?’
    ‘I do not know him well. My husband was private about his work. He told me that it was unfulfilling. All I do know is that Clive Morton felt the same. I think he was more interested in golf than law.’
    ‘Perhaps I could enquire on your behalf, if it might be helpful?’
    ‘I would not like to trouble you.’
    ‘It is no trouble,’ said Sidney.
    ‘There is nothing that is urgent . . .’ Hildegard Staunton continued. ‘I have my own bank account and enough money for now. It is only that I am so tired. I think it must be the sadness. It is like looking down a lift shaft. The gap is dark. It goes down and you can see no ending.’
    Sidney sat down beside her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Staunton. Perhaps I should not have come.’
    Hildegard met his eye. ‘No, I am glad. I am not myself. I hope you will excuse me.’
    ‘You have had a terrible loss.’
    ‘I was not expecting it to be so violent. I knew that Stephen kept his revolver from the war. He told me that sometimes he thought about what he had done with it. The people he had killed. He had such a conscience. I think it was too much for him, the memory of that conflict. Perhaps marrying me was an attempt to make up for what had happened, but I think it made it worse. He kept thinking that he might have killed people I had known; teachers, friends, relations. It was hard to know what to say to him. It was not