Sidney Chambers and The Dangers of Temptation (16 page)

‘And that, I hope, includes her mental health.’

‘It does. It also depends on when the procedure is carried out.’

‘When life begins? I would imagine you considered that being the moment of conception.’

‘The views of the Church and the laws of the land do not always work in tandem; but when both are disobeyed there are consequences in this life and the next.’

‘You believe that?’

‘We must all account for our actions. It is often just a matter of when.’

Henry reached for a glass of water. He said that it was impossible to rationalise or justify impetuous decisions. ‘I don’t know if either of us knew what we were doing at the time. Connie was
so young, she was only just seventeen, and we both panicked. I was scared and I couldn’t promise anything by way of marriage and respectability.’

‘You could. But you didn’t want to.’

‘I suppose so. She wasn’t “the right sort of girl”, I know. That was very cowardly of me. I should have gone ahead and loved her. Connie was frightened she would lose her job. She had to keep on working for the money and her family back in County Clare. Then, after the abortion, she had a nervous breakdown. She was never really right again. I wanted her to go home, back to Ireland, but she said she could never do that. I tried to pay for her to get better, offered to cover her wages if Mr Lowe kept her job open, but in the end Connie said the only thing that would heal her was marriage. So I tried that, and she was better for a while. Then she said she wanted children to make up for what we had done, a new life for old, but it didn’t work out for us, her insides were damaged, and then things got so bad I was sure we were making it worse for each other.’

‘So you divorced.’

‘I’ve told you the story before, the last time I was in trouble.’

‘And then you sent her to Chettisham?’

‘She’s been there for over ten years. I didn’t think she ever wanted to leave. I even thought she was happy, but as soon as she found out about Amanda things changed. She could not accept that there was another Mrs Richmond. She kept saying Amanda was an imposter, as if she was a rival claimant to the monarchy or something. I could calm her down often enough but then she started to become obsessed about the child. She kept threatening to write to Amanda. I knew I
couldn’t allow that. One more secret would have endangered my whole marriage. I begged Connie not to write but she wasn’t having any of it.’

‘And that was why you argued?’

‘I didn’t kill her, Sidney.’

‘I don’t think you did. But you have to tell the absolute truth.’

‘Connie said that if she couldn’t write she would punish me in other ways. I asked her what she meant and she just smiled.’

‘Are you suggesting that she has committed suicide and deliberately made it look like murder?’

‘I am.’

‘She tied herself up?’

‘She knew how to do that. She was always good with knots. Her fingers were so dexterous. There was no note, but the handkerchief is a deliberate touch. It was Connie’s final act of revenge. I’m sure of it now.’

‘Your certainty doesn’t make much of a difference, I’m afraid. It’s convincing Geordie Keating that matters.’

‘Have you spoken to Amanda?’ Henry asked, now more concerned about his wife than the police investigation. ‘Is she very angry with me?’

‘I fear so.’

‘Will you stick up for me?’

‘I am happy, as always, Henry, to support your marriage. That is what I pledged at your service of blessing and I wouldn’t be much of a priest if I didn’t keep my promises. But you must tell her what you have told me.’

‘I’m frightened of losing her.’

‘Then you must say that too.’

‘Is honesty the secret?’

‘Not always, I fear, especially when our feelings change or are misleading.’

‘I’m not sure Amanda’s ever loved me.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘She thinks I’m still in love with Connie.’

‘And are you?’ Sidney asked.

‘No. I can’t be. But the guilt was so strong.’

‘“Was”. Has her death come as a relief?’

‘I don’t mind admitting that it has. But that doesn’t make me a killer.’

‘You must be careful what you say.’

‘That’s what I’ve been doing and it’s got me into all this trouble. I was trying to protect people from the truth. I didn’t want to hurt Amanda and now everything’s far worse than I could ever have imagined. But I couldn’t just abandon Connie. That would have been a horrible thing to do.’

‘You divorced her.’

‘And I still feel guilty about that.’

‘Do you think you ever recovered?’ Sidney asked.

‘Me?’

‘Yes. I am asking about you, Henry.’

‘Perhaps not. I knew I would always feel bound to her. And I knew Connie loved me. That has been the trouble with Amanda, I feel. I’ve always thought that she preferred you to me.’

‘You’re wrong. She loves you.’

‘How can you be sure? Has she told you?’

This was not a subject Sidney wanted to discuss in detail. ‘Amanda and I are friends, Henry. We have known each other
a long time. That is all. And we are both married to other people whom we love.’

‘You’ve been lucky with Hildegard.’

‘And you have found Amanda.’

‘It doesn’t feel like that. It seems I have lost her.’

‘Her fury is a sign of love, you know . . .’ said Sidney.

‘Fury? Is that what she feels?’

‘I’m afraid so. We have a lot of work to do, Henry, and it’s probably more than either of us realise.’

After Sidney had told Geordie about Henry Richmond’s theory, the two men drove out to the crime scene on the fens. It was an intensely still August day with so few people out in the open landscape that the countryside felt as if it had been abandoned. The hay bales were stacked in the edges of the fields and the water on the surface of the reservoir hardly moved. There was that sickly-sweet late-summer fenland smell that combined meadowsweet, nettles, honey and cowpat.

Sidney thought he could hear the
crex crex
of a corncrake but couldn’t be sure. It might have been warning him of unspecified danger. A buzzard hovered over them, high and in the distance, waiting for prey.

The pathologist had confirmed that Connie Richmond’s death was caused by drowning. ‘There’s a blow to the skull and she’s been bound and gagged,’ Geordie reported, ‘but there are anomalies about both. The first is that the blow on the side of her head would not have been enough to knock her out.’

‘Perhaps it was caused by Henry Richmond earlier in the day. He has admitted to a scuffle.’

‘And that’s about all he’s prepared to confess. Next time, Sidney, perhaps you could advise him not to start his story with a lie.’

‘I assume, Geordie, that you have frightened him sufficiently to make sure that there never is a “next time”.’

‘The other thing is that her wrists were bound in front of her in a position from which she could easily have wriggled free.’

‘Is there any evidence that she was held under water?’ Sidney asked.

‘There’s no pressure on the chest; no markings round the neck; and no movement around the knots. In fact there’s no sign of a struggle at all.’

‘So to prove Henry’s theory she would have had to have sat by the side of the reservoir, tied her feet together, put the handkerchief in her mouth, then knotted her arms in front of her and slipped into the water as she lost consciousness. It seems an incredibly elaborate plan.’

‘All to frame her husband,’ said Geordie. ‘She probably thought it was worth it. There’s no sign of any overdose either so no giveaway sedation for us to discover.’

‘And she deliberately provoked a fight in order to steal his handkerchief.’

‘That may just have been a bit of fortune.’

‘No, I think it gave her the courage to think she could get away with it, as well as the opportunity. Do you believe all this?’

‘I am beginning to think that way, Sidney.’

‘And so do you think there’s a chance Henry will get off?’

‘He will if he’s innocent. The pathologist is pretty sure that the death happened in the late afternoon. In other words, a
good few hours after Henry had left. He was back at a concert in London with Amanda at the time.’

‘And she will vouch for him?’

‘Reluctantly. I don’t think she’s in much of a mood to defend him, but she won’t lie.’

‘That’s one thing about Amanda. She’s not one to hide her feelings.’

Connie’s room at the psychiatric hospital was not as spartan as Sidney and Geordie had been expecting. There was a single bed, a lamp and bedside table together with a worn sofa. what took the attention was the desk. It looked like a seamstress’s work table with its Singer sewing machine, baskets of thread and material, scissors, tape measure, needles and pins. It was clear that no one had worried about the patient harming herself.

In the drawers were notebooks and sketchpads, drawings of wedding dresses and newspaper cuttings that included Connie’s wedding announcement (but not Henry Richmond’s subsequent union with Amanda). The wardrobe contained outfits from the 1950s and a bookcase featured a host of pulp fiction and romantic adventure.

Dr Evans assured them that Henry had never been present in his former wife’s room, but he couldn’t remember her carrying a handbag when she had left for her walk. She was, however, wearing a light jacket over her summer dress in case it got chilly, and the pockets could well have contained pre-cut lengths of string. Her ‘murder’ was quite a far-fetched thing to have staged but, he admitted, desperation carried its own logic.

*    *    *

After a visit from the most expensive lawyer in London, Henry Richmond was bailed for £150, pending further enquiries. It was deemed likely that he would escape without charge. Dealing with his second wife was, however, a more complicated matter.

‘She thinks there will always be more to discover,’ he explained to Sidney over a large whisky at the Lansdowne Club. ‘She says she can’t ever trust me and will never be completely sure I didn’t kill my wife; or at least drive her to her own death.’

‘Amanda is your wife. Did you tell her?’

‘About what?’

‘The lost child.’

‘I am not sure she believed me.’

‘I think she always suspected there was something wrong.’

‘I knew this would happen if I told her anything more about the past. It’s why I didn’t.’

‘Timing matters, Henry.’

‘She’s gone away for a few days to think about what she’s going to do. She won’t tell me where. I have no idea where she is. I am in total limbo.’

‘Perhaps we all need to consider the consequences of our actions.’

‘Amanda’s left you a note. She says you will know where she has gone and will tell her the right thing to do.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘Will you go and see her, Sidney, wherever she is?’

‘It’s not that straightforward. I’ll have to ask Hildegard. I can’t go to see Amanda unless she thinks it’s a good idea.’

‘You’re a kind man.’

‘No, I am very flawed,’ Sidney replied. ‘I can assure you of that. I just try to make people aware of my failings before it’s too late.’

Back home, he read his friend’s note.

You will know where I have gone. Please don’t worry. A
.

For a moment Sidney thought Amanda might have done something extreme, such as fly to Biafra in search of a child, but then he remembered her telling him about her happiest memory as a child on holiday on the island of Skye. It had been a day with strong winds and dark skies, the barking of dogs, the bleating of sheep, the collapse of telephone wires – with no boat daring to go out to sea, and everyone stuck inside.

He could hear her voice saying, ‘No one thought we would ever go out again, but then the dark clouds moved across the Cuillins and the sun came through the clouds and light darted over the mountains. The wind was stilled and we were free and I felt such happiness that the darkness had passed. I often think that if I ever go back there then the same thing will happen, that the clouds will vanish and the wind will be still but fresh, and the dogs will stop barking, and the light on the mountains will be sharp and clear, even if it’s only for a short time. Do you understand, Sidney?’

‘Will you go and see her?’ Hildegard asked.

‘If she is in Skye then it’s a very long way. I don’t know if the old Morris Minor can cope.’

‘I think you should go.’

‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate. She has a husband.’

‘She’ll listen to you. It would be an act of charity.’

‘Amanda’s not one for pity.’

‘Perhaps because she has not truly known it.’

‘Would you mind if I went?’ Sidney asked.

‘I don’t think it would be a good thing if I stopped you.’

‘That’s not the same as approval.’

‘I know you love me.’

‘I do, Hildegard, believe me, more than anything.’

‘Even if you are not always so good at showing it. But I will not become the nervous woman I do not want to be. We trust each other.’

‘We do.’

‘Then you must go if you want to.’

‘Do you want me to go?’

‘That is different,
mein Lieber
. The trouble with Amanda is that you are the only person she believes; and now you will prove it all over again.’

‘I don’t have to go.’

‘You do.’

‘I won’t if you tell me not to.’

‘I would never do that. You must do what you think best. Do not worry. Anna and I will still be here when you return. So go. behave well.’

After he had driven for three hours up the A1, stopped for petrol, a cup of tea and a baked potato at Scotch Corner, Sidney began to have reservations about the trip. It was going to take for ever. What on earth was he doing leaving his wife, his child, his friends, his parishioners, his job and his life?

He stayed at a hotel just south of Glencoe that was filled with eager beer-drinking climbers who planned to head on to Ben Nevis, and had an early night with a Michael Frayn novel he
was too tired to start. The next morning he drove on to Fort William and the Kyle of Lochalsh and took the ferry across to the island just as the mist was beginning to clear over the Cuillins. He stopped in Broadford to acquire rations – milk, eggs, bread, cheese, ham, mince, potatoes and the all-important Talisker whisky – before heading on to a village which was, in his namesake Sydney Smith’s words, ‘so far out of the way that it was actually twelve miles from a lemon’.