Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death by James Runcie

Morton.’
    ‘It’s just as well I was once an actress. Do you think he’s going to go along with even more lies?’
    ‘Trust me . . .’
    Pamela Morton shielded her eyes from the low November sun and gave Sidney a stern look. ‘Do you know, Canon Chambers, I’m not sure that I will. I think I’ve trusted you enough for one day.’
     
    That evening Sidney stopped outside Hildegard Staunton’s front door. He was about to ring the bell when he heard the sound of the piano inside. The music was stark, angular, dramatic and mysterious. It seemed to hover on the edge of atonality, using all twelve notes of the chromatic scale as it built to a conclusion that was as natural as it was inevitable. It was Bach’s Fugue in B Minor; the final piece in the first book of The Well-Tempered Clavier .
    Hildegard held the final chord for a long time and let the music die away. When Sidney was certain that she was not going to continue, he rang the doorbell.
    Inspector Keating had suggested that the news of Annabel Morrison’s arrest would be better coming from a clergyman than a policeman, but Sidney had not decided how much to tell her about all that had happened, or how many details of the case he would leave out.
    The light in the porch came on, the door opened, and Hildegard Staunton smiled. ‘Come in,’ she said as he stepped up and stood by her side. ‘I had forgotten how tall you are.’
    ‘I am often too tall for a room,’ said Sidney. ‘I try to sit down as soon as it is polite to do so.’
    ‘I hope you don’t develop a stoop,’ Hildegard replied. ‘I always think a man should be proud to be tall.’
    ‘I try not to be proud,’ said Sidney, sounding more pompous than he had intended.
    ‘You have come to tell me things?’
    ‘I have come to return your husband’s diary and, yes, I have come with news.’
    ‘I can tell already that you are nervous, Canon Chambers.’
    ‘Sidney . . .’
    ‘Very well, Sidney .’
    ‘It is not easy.’
    ‘I am not frightened of difficult things . . .’
    ‘It is to do with Miss Morrison . . .’
    ‘Ah . . . She loved my husband . . . I think . . .’
    ‘You knew?’
    ‘Women often know more than men think that they do.’
    ‘Unfortunately . . .’
    ‘Oh,’ Hildegard Staunton interrupted. ‘Now I see. But it can’t be?’
    ‘Yes . . .’ Sidney hesitated. He wondered how much she understood.
    ‘My husband loved me but wanted another. What did she do?’
    ‘Your husband did not commit suicide, Mrs Staunton. He was murdered by his secretary. I am sorry to have to tell you this.’
    ‘Why would she do such a thing?’ Hildegard spoke slowly as she tried to take in what Sidney was saying.
    ‘I think because he stopped seeing her.’
    ‘He wanted to come back to me? He once told me that he could never leave me.’
    Sidney considered his answer. There was no need to tell Hildegard about Pamela Morton. What purpose would it serve other than to hurt her? It was true that the facts could well emerge at Annabel Morrison’s trial but it was likely that Hildegard would have returned to Germany by then. Besides, this was not the time for further revelation. The sin of omission was surely kinder than the telling of truths.
    ‘No,’ Sidney said quietly. ‘And he never did.’
    Hildegard stood up and started to walk round the room. She stopped by the window and looked out. It was almost dark. Sidney could hear the wind gathering outside. It began to rain.
    ‘You are kind to tell me.’
    ‘The police were going to come; but I thought it better . . .’
    ‘If you came yourself? I am grateful. It is horrible but you make it less so.’
    ‘If you would like me to leave you alone, you just have to say.’
    ‘No,’ Hildegard replied. ‘Don’t go. We do not have to speak. I have to think of death in a different way now. I wish I didn’t have to consider it so often.’
    ‘I will stay for as long as you need, Mrs Staunton.’
    ‘Hildegard.’
    ‘I am sorry.