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

scattering a group of picnickers who were just leaving the path, ringing his bell, and apologising to parishioners who wanted him to stop for a chat. He was going to be five minutes overdue and he was trying not to think about what else he could be doing as he freewheeled into Christ’s Lane and left his bike against the railings. He was just about to enter the café when he thought he noticed something in the adjoining alley.
    He was aware before he knew.
    The slumped figure was of a man whose tongue had been cut out. His shirt had been ripped open and the mark of the beast was upon his chest.
    It was Jimmy Benson.
    A woman screamed in the street.
    Sidney asked the café proprietor if he could borrow his telephone and told Keating to come round immediately.
    It was impossible to keep the crime scene secret and Helena Randall arrived shortly after the police. Sidney had just finished making his statement when she started on a few direct enquiries of her own. ‘You had the doves. I had the blackbird. Then, and he won’t have told you this, someone left a dead bird at Geordie’s house.’
    ‘That could still be a coincidence.’
    ‘No, Sidney. It can’t be, and you know it.’
    ‘What type of bird was it?’
    ‘A canary. And it was nailed to his front gate. We are being taunted, Sidney. All three of us.’
    ‘But it’s curious, isn’t it? We are not the victims.’
    ‘Jimmy Benson was killed because he was about to talk. That would make the canary significant. Had he been in touch with you?’
    Sidney paused, uncertain whether he could lie. Helena read his hesitation. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You were on your way to see him, weren’t you?’
    ‘I was.’
    ‘Then people might even think that you could be the killer yourself.’
    ‘I don’t think that’s likely.’
    ‘Two priests and a vagrant. You knew them all. You have to be careful.’
    ‘I think I can look after myself.’
    ‘That could be what the previous victims thought. We don’t want anything happening to you.’
    ‘I’m grateful for your concern, Miss Randall.’
    ‘I care about you more than you think.’
     
    After being told of the death of his brother, Jerome Benson was questioned in his workshop for several hours. The small cramped room smelled like a post-mortem laboratory and its working light was illuminated despite the sunshine outside. Keating sought out the information he needed about Benson’s movements that day while Sidney asked about the birds. Was any special knowledge of taxidermy required to prepare them in the way in which they had been left, and how easy would it be to capture and kill specific types? Was there a connection, he wondered, between the type of bird chosen and the manner of death of the victim? The doves before Philip Agnew’s suffocation, the decapitated blackbird before the hanging of Isaiah Shaw, a canary nailed to a gatepost before the stabbing of a man who was about to talk?
    ‘How much do you think your brother knew about the previous murders? Did he discuss them with you?’
    Benson did not stop to offer Sidney a cup of tea, or even to concentrate on the questions he was being asked, but continued cleaning an otter skin. ‘He was a very clever man; far more than me – until he got into difficulties.’
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘Five or six years ago now. I think love had something to do with it. That and the late nights. I didn’t see him that much.’
    ‘But what did he tell you?’
    ‘We’re not close, Canon Chambers.’
    ‘But he came to you for help.’
    ‘He came to me for money.’
    ‘Who else did he go to?’ Keating continued.
    ‘You’d have to ask him that.’
    ‘I can hardly do so now.’
    ‘If you’d reached him sooner . . .’
    Sidney knew that it would not do to respond to such a provocative remark. Grief could make people vindictive, and he didn’t want Jerome Benson taking the law into his own hands. Keating, however, had no such qualms. ‘If your brother had come in