Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins by James Runcie Read Free Book Online

campus of the recently established university at Heslington. It took over three hours to drive up the A1 to York in heavy rain and, after a brief stop for petrol in Stamford, Sidney knew they would have difficulty being home by midnight.
    A simple poster had been placed outside the hall offering a mixed programme culminating in what was clearly intended to be the university orchestra’s pièce de résistance , Haydn’s Symphony no. 35 in B flat major. There was even a photograph of a smiling Sophie Madara with her left hand holding the bow of her cello. Sidney noticed both an engagement and a wedding ring. He presumed she took them off to perform.
    Her husband had spruced up for the occasion. Sidney thought of a recent production of A Winter’s Tale in which the dead king’s wife had come back to him as a living statue. With the dramatic music of Holst in the background, this reunion could have proved equally dramatic but Inspector Keating’s thoughts were more prosaic. ‘Let’s get to Sophie Madara’s dressing-room. We don’t want to do this in front of the whole orchestra.’
    The unlikely foursome were let in at the stage door and shown up a flight of stairs.
    ‘This is a dream,’ said Madara.
    ‘It won’t take long.’
    ‘I know she is dead.’
    Keating knocked on the door. It was opened by a small dark-haired woman who had not yet put on her make-up. She did not look very like Sophie Madara at all. Perhaps they had come to the wrong place? Could this be yet another wild-goose chase and, if it was, would Sidney be able to face a further explosion of frustration from his colleague?
    ‘Sorry, I was expecting the conductor. Josef! What are you doing here?’
    ‘Angela . . .’
    The woman kissed Madara on the cheeks. This was not the response of a wife who had been presumed dead. ‘Is Sophie coming? She told me that she was going away . . .’
    ‘Are you aware that you are talking about a missing woman?’ Keating asked.
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘A police officer. Where is Sophie Madara?’
    ‘I’ve no idea.’
    ‘But she’s alive?’
    ‘I hope so. I spoke to her on the telephone a few days ago.’
    ‘She told you she was going away. She didn’t say where?’
    ‘I can’t remember.’
    ‘You haven’t been reading the papers?’
    ‘Is that a legal requirement?’
    ‘Who are you?’ Helena asked.
    ‘I might ask the same question about you. I have a concert to perform. Josef, who are all these people? What are they doing here? Can’t you get them out of my dressing-room?’
    Keating tried to restore order. ‘Please answer the question, madam.’
    ‘I don’t see why I should. But if you must know, I’m Angela Jones. Sophie’s dep. I think she’s helping me out in Yarmouth next week. I try to keep Easter free.’ She noticed Sidney. ‘My husband’s a priest. What are you doing here? Anyone would think I had died. Shouldn’t you be making your Easter garden?’
    ‘My wife’s a musician too . . .’
    ‘It’s more common than people think. God and music tend to go together.’
    Helena had her notebook at the ready. ‘But on the poster . . .’
    ‘We don’t bother with out-of-town concerts. We’re always covering for each other. Josef knows that, don’t you, Josef? Sophie did tell you about this, didn’t she?’
    Madara could hardly speak. ‘Sophie is alive? I didn’t kill her?’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘I think I’d better take over,’ said Keating. ‘There’s a lot to sort out. Bloody hell .’
     
    It was well after midnight when Sidney got home but he was too restless to go to bed.
    He took off his shoes, put on the thick pair of comforting bedsocks his mother had knitted him for Christmas, and made himself some baked beans on toast. He needed a good think.
    He was just about to make a list of all the things he still had to do when he heard Anna cry. He would have to see to her quickly, before Hildegard woke, and he padded up the stairs in order to