Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins by James Runcie Page B

‘But perhaps it is grief. That would be enough.’
    ‘Grief doesn’t make you burn yourself on purpose.’
    ‘Have you ever seen Sir Mark lose his temper?’ Sidney enquired.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Have you asked Henry about this?’
    ‘I know he’s Mark’s oldest friend but he’s not the type of man to rock the boat. I don’t think I can put a dampener on things at this stage. That’s why I’m so glad you’re here.’
    ‘What have you actually said to Elizabeth?’
    ‘I tried to ask but she stopped me. She doesn’t want anyone to think there’s anything wrong.’
    ‘How long have they been married?’ Hildegard asked.
    ‘About fifteen years. She was very young when they became engaged; it was just after her twenty-first birthday . . .’
    ‘Many people think that’s a good time . . .’
    ‘You can tell she’s terrified of her husband. I am not imagining it.’
    ‘It’s always hard to know what goes on in a marriage,’ Sidney replied. ‘There’s never a single story. People tell you different things. They leave out what they don’t want you to know; anything that might make you less compassionate.’
    ‘But what could be more sympathetic than to tell a friend that your husband is hitting you?’
    ‘Unless you fear that, by doing so, he will find out that other people know and punish you for the revelation.’
    Sidney thought for a moment about the nature of intervention in friendship; whether it was advising someone to leave his or her job, avoid an affair, give up alcohol or escape an abusive marriage. A friend had to be sure of his or her facts. The timing had to be right.
    ‘Whatever’s going on’, Amanda continued, ‘Elizabeth is desperately unhappy. It’s more than grief.’
    ‘She was nervous tonight,’ Hildegard agreed. ‘But if her husband is hitting her why do you think he’s doing it?’
    ‘Blame, perhaps. Frustration. Lack of success. Failure to keep a son and heir. It could be all these things.’
    ‘Did you notice the maid?’ Sidney asked.
    ‘Which one?’
    ‘The small girl with the bob. Big dark eyes. Looked a bit sullen.’
    ‘Like the act of service was beneath her?’
    ‘That’s the one. I think she’s called Nancy.’
    ‘What about her?’
    ‘She was avoiding Sir Mark all evening.’
    ‘What do you think is going on?’ Hildegard asked.
    Amanda stood up. ‘I’ll try and get something more out of Elizabeth. For once we could stop something before it starts . . .’
    ‘I fear it’s already begun.’
    Hildegard turned to her husband. ‘Perhaps you could talk with the doctor tomorrow. He may be able to help you. He has done so before.’
    ‘You would like me to ask some unofficial questions?’
    ‘I would like you to ask as many questions as you can,’ said Amanda.
     
    There was a light frost in the night and the Saturday morning was dark, threatening snow without ever producing a flurry. The sky looked as if it had been shaded in charcoal, given a light wash of pale blue and left for the day. Sidney stood at the bedroom window and wondered what on earth he was doing in this gloomy country house when he could have been back in Grantchester with his beloved daughter, his parishioners and his enthusiastic Labrador. He had thought of bringing Byron but he had only just reached his first birthday and he would have proved too unreliable a companion, intimidated by the other dogs, possibly to the same degree that Sidney was by the other guests.
    He went down for a breakfast of lukewarm hard-boiled eggs and cold toast. At least the tea was hot. Despite an obvious hangover, Sir Mark read out the news he felt might be of interest from that morning’s copy of The Times . Decca had released a twelve-disc recording of Winston Churchill’s speeches in honour of his ninetieth birthday. Someone had complained that the Oxford and Cambridge boat race was a waste of money; and the four-year-old granddaughter of the Canadian prime minister had discovered a hotline to