Sidney Chambers and The Problem of Evil (The Grantchester Mysteries) by James Runcie

subject. It exists outside ourselves, unrelated to any specific human being.’
    ‘Then why do we all want to have it?’
    ‘Because we are human.’
    ‘And therefore we suffer.’
    ‘Yes, Geordie.’
    ‘So what you are saying is that God does not know happiness; even though he is supposed to be omniscient? I don’t understand how that works.’
    ‘John Stuart Mill argued that happiness is not something that can be achieved by striving for it. You have to pursue some other goal and “if otherwise fortunately circumstanced you will inhale happiness with the air you breathe.”’
    ‘So happiness is an accident?’
    ‘Possibly. Schopenhauer defined it as the temporary absence of pain.’
    ‘And that is the best we can hope for?’
    ‘Perhaps, but not necessarily.’
    ‘Oh, Sidney, this is all too deep for me.’
    ‘And me. Life still has many pleasures; not least the company of our delightful wives. Let us enjoy that while we may.’
    Hildegard leant forward and whispered to Cathy Keating. ‘How do you put up with it all?’ she asked.
    ‘To tell you the truth, Mrs Chambers, most of the time it’s best to ignore what they get up to. It gives you time to yourself. They’re out of the house and don’t get in the way. That’s the consolation. You’ve no need to be jealous of any of it. They’d be lost without us. They always know what’s best for them in the end.’
    As Cathy Keating finished speaking, Helena Randall walked past. She was wearing a diaphanous green summer dress, her arms were bare and she had just washed her hair. It hung, still damp, in soft waves almost to her waist, small stray tendrils framing her face. She had not noticed the party at the table and the four friends did not ask her to join them. Cathy Keating remarked that even though it was a warm day Helena would catch her death of cold dressed like that and that her uncombed hair would lose its shape if she didn’t watch out. It was a pity, she observed. Miss Randall could be quite a pretty girl if she just made more of an effort.
    The two men looked at each other and knew that it was safest to say nothing.
    A gathering of swallows flew above them, away and then into the distance, twittering in the skies. The sun had begun its decline. Sufficient unto the day, Sidney thought to himself, was the evil thereof.

Female, Nude
    It was midday in October and Sidney was waiting for his good friend, the art historian Amanda Kendall, in the upper galleries of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge. They had arranged to view the new acquisition of a painting by Matisse, The Studio Under the Eaves , before enjoying a leisurely lunch at Le Bleu Blanc Rouge. That afternoon, Amanda had an appointment to see the director of the museum in order to confirm that the collection’s portrait of William Fitzwilliam, Earl of Southampton was painted ‘after’ Hans Holbein the Younger and was therefore of considerably less valuable than the museum had hoped. Such a possibility might diminish the reputation of the collection but at least it would save on the insurance.
    It was a long time since Sidney had spent any time in the galleries and he had forgotten that the Fitzwilliam contained works of art that were far more impressive than many people imagined. There were paintings by Italian Renaissance artists, particularly Venetian, a superb collection of landscapes of all schools, a distinguished group of portrait miniatures by British artists and a remarkable range of French Impressionist paintings which were like old friends: a lilac-washed Monet scene of springtime, a simple plate of Cézanne’s apples, and a Matisse portrait of a woman, La Blouse Bulgare , that always made him think of Amanda. He was reminded of the fact that the greatest paintings could always sustain repeated viewings. Like a classic book or a Shakespearean play, they were open to multiple interpretations. What mattered in art was not impact but resonance.
    That autumn, there was a special