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

‘I think you might have seen her last Christmas at King’s after the carols. I must introduce you.’
    Sidney knew that the family came to church on high days and holidays, and for social rather than religious reasons. When he was at his most mean-spirited, he sometimes wished that he had the courage to turn such people away.
    He looked around the room. There were over a hundred people in attendance but Sidney knew very few of them. He was just about to resort to bland clerical bonhomie with a lady of middle age, who was sporting a pair of unpleasantly practical sandals, when Ben Blackwood introduced himself. ‘Lord Teversham sent me over,’ he explained.
    Ben was an aesthetically pale young man who had studied at Magdalene. He was, he said, an architectural historian, and he was writing the official history of Locket Hall. ‘Of course, once they open it to the public it will make the family a fortune,’ Ben began. ‘Architecturally it’s one of the unacknowledged gems of England.’ He placed a Black Sobranie into a cigarette holder. ‘The art collection alone is worth millions. Have you seen the portrait of Elizabeth I? She sent it as a gift after one of her visits . . .’
    Sidney tried to keep up. ‘I remember reading that the Royal Progress was very expensive. Hosts had to lay on banquets, masques and hunting expeditions . . .’
    ‘The Queen sometimes stayed for weeks ! Nearly bankrupted the place. Now the government is trying to do the same thing with its insistence on death duties. It’s rather unfair considering the art has already been paid for.’
    As Sidney was a guest, his behaviour was restricted by the etiquette of a world in which he only had visiting rights. His only advantage, he thought, was that, as a priest, he could say things that others might not. And so he found himself suggesting that perhaps the loan of a few paintings either to the Fitzwilliam Museum or to the National Gallery might not necessarily be a bad thing.
    Lord Teversham overheard him and was unenthusiastic. ‘And why would I do that, Canon Chambers?’
    ‘I believe that you can then offset the death duties while retaining ownership . . .’
    ‘But then I have to go to a museum to see paintings that have been in my family for generations . . .’
    His sister, Cicely, intervened. ‘It’s hardly as if you look at them on a daily basis. We could just let them have one or two. I’m sure we wouldn’t miss them. And we do have a few pecuniary issues . . .’
    Lord Teversham was building towards one of his famous tantrums. ‘But they’ll want the best ones!’
    ‘If it helps,’ Sidney continued, ‘I do have a very good friend at the National Gallery.’
    Lord Teversham was ill at ease. ‘I don’t want some chap with a monocle coming down here and eyeing up the family silver.’
    ‘She’s not a chap.’
    Cicely Teversham interrupted once more. ‘I’ve no doubt Canon Chambers’s “friend” would be tactful.’
    ‘I don’t like letting go of my possessions,’ Lord Teversham muttered. ‘Once those people start there’ll be no stopping them.’
    Ben Blackwood tried to compromise. ‘I suppose you could let them have one or two as divertissements – or loan them in lieu of tax. The lesser-known works, obviously . . .’
    Cicely Teversham put her hand on her brother’s arm. ‘What about the lady with the swollen chin? You never cared for her. I am sure you wouldn’t miss such a thing . . .’
    ‘I would miss it,’ Lord Teversham grumbled. ‘This is a collection. That is the point.’
    His sister did not agree. ‘You don’t like the painting, Dominic. You said as much when I sent it away to be restored. You thought it was a waste of money and then complained that she came back even uglier than when she left.’
    ‘Well, you could see more of her. Warts and all.’
    ‘She doesn’t have any warts, darling. Don’t be ridiculous.’
    Sidney tried to calm the situation. ‘Perhaps I should not have made the suggestion. I wouldn’t want to create discord . . .’
    Lord Teversham turned to him. ‘Who is this woman of yours, anyway?’
    ‘Miss Amanda Kendall. She is the curator of sixteenth-century paintings. She trained at the Courtauld Institute under Sir Anthony Blunt.’
    Lord Teversham was surprised. ‘I was at Trinity with him. His father was a vicar. Do you know him?’
    ‘I’m afraid not. But Miss Kendall is a friend of my sister.’
    ‘Why isn’t she here?’ Cicely Teversham