Sidney Chambers and The Dangers of Temptation by James Runcie

means they will be more prepared.’
    ‘I’m sure you can lull them into a false sense of security.’
    The Cambridge quads were full of large marquees and bands unloading their equipment. This particular year the May Ball committees had secured the services of the Who, the Moody Blues and the New Vaudeville Band, who were soundchecking a jaunty number called ‘Winchester Cathedral’. Sidney wondered why on earth it was called that, and he was just thinking about the need to concentrate on his regular duties, and find a new vicar for All Saints in Newmarket, when he saw Harding Redmond on the edge of Spring Lane Meadow. The farmer was getting out of his Land Rover to look in on his herd after the drama of the near-stampede. There were about seventy cows in all, a mixture of breeders, heifers, yearlings and four or five calves, dark red in colour with white touches on the tail-switch and udder.
    Redmond was an imposingly broad-framed outdoor-hued man in his mid-fifties who preferred animals to people. In his youth he had opened the bowling for the village cricket team but age had lessened his physical presence, boiling it down to a simmering aggression.
    On being asked to recall the events of the previous week he said he hated the students thinking they owned the place, interfering with innocent cows and then blaming him. He’dalready had the police round, explained what had happened, and didn’t fancy going over it all again. The students had been mucking about by the river in an area known as Little Fen. The herd was in Trench Meadow and the victim had got between a cow and her calf. The animals thought they were under threat and so rushed towards one of the partygoers. The boy could only make his escape uphill and that slowed him down. He fell and the cows surrounded him. It had been a job to get them all off.
    ‘When did you arrive on the scene?’
    ‘After the ambulance. My daughter sorted it all out. Saved the boy’s life.’
    ‘I’m sure he’ll be grateful.’
    ‘We won’t be expecting thanks.’
    ‘And that must have been Abigail? How’s she keeping?’
    ‘Baby John isn’t so much a baby any more.’ The memory brought the farmer’s guard down. Sidney had been instrumental in persuading a grieving woman to return the child she had snatched from hospital in the Christmas of 1963. ‘We’ll always be grateful to you, Mr Chambers, for getting him back.’
    ‘I didn’t do very much.’
    ‘We all know you did. But you’re getting yourself involved in this now? I hope you’re not going to cause trouble.’
    ‘It’s not so much about the cows. There was a crime committed at the same time.’
    ‘Apart from the one against my animals?’
    ‘I’m afraid so. But please tell me: what did Abigail do?’
    ‘She reunited the calf with the mother. It was a third-calver and she knew our Abi straight away. As soon she’d got them back together it was all over. They’re not normally soaggressive, not like the continental breeds – the Limousin or Charolais. Polled cattle are born with no horns. They’re a cross between the Norfolk cow that was bred for beef, and a Suffolk, which is used for dairy. So they’re dual-purpose . . .’
    ‘Two for the price of one.’
    ‘Not that they’re cheap. But they’re docile and friendly in the main. If that boy had got under some horns he’d have a punctured lung, so he’s lucky they were our polls. They’re the best cows you can get, in my opinion. The meat’s like fine wine, the beef of old England. The Queen keeps a herd at Sandringham. Not that she has to put up with students messing about.’
    ‘I’m sure they won’t be doing that again.’
    ‘A new generation comes every autumn. They never know better. They don’t understand that the land needs to be worked. It’s not a private park where they can swan past peasants doffing their caps. Those days are gone.’
    ‘Indeed they are, Harding. But the Meadows are common to us all.’
    ‘King’s