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I’ve got a runaway teenager, a couple of burglaries and a nasty case of blackmail to contend with.’
    ‘Then I am sorry to have troubled you.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sidney. If something comes up then of course we will investigate. You must know that we need more to go on than this. Jesus didn’t settle for one or two miracles, did he? He went on until people believed there was proof.’
    ‘I think we are quite a long way from Jesus, Inspector.’
    Sidney left the police station, mounted his Raleigh Roadster and bicycled along Downing Street and past St Bene’t’s church. As he did so, he dreaded to think how Isaiah Shaw, the current vicar, would regard his current activities. Sidney could sense the man’s disapproval not only whenever they met but every time he passed his church. For Isaiah had let it be known that he disapproved of his colleague’s early rise through the ranks of the Church of England.
    Sidney was forced to acknowledge that Isaiah had a point. He had, indeed, been fortunate. Following the untimely demise of his predecessor, the new Bishop of Ely, a Corpus man, had wanted to install his own domestic chaplain in Sidney’s place, and had therefore moved him swiftly onwards and upwards to the fortuitously vacant parish of Grantchester. This promotion to such a plum position at the relatively young age of thirty, followed by his acquisition of a canonry only two years later, was regarded with considerable jealousy by colleagues of a similar age who found Sidney’s effortless friendship with the senior clergy nothing less than an affront to their piety and hard work. There was more to being a priest, they argued, than their rival’s easy charm.
    Consequently, Sidney felt that he had to prove himself not only to his parishioners, but also to his rivals. He had to earn his position as Vicar of Grantchester after the fact . This was not always easy, and so he took it upon himself to throw himself into as many situations as possible, doing whatever he could to bring a Christian perspective to everyday events.
    He turned into Trumpington Street. There, even though he knew that it might ruin his appetite for lunch, he decided to stop off at Fitzbillies for a consoling Chelsea bun. He wondered what Mrs Maguire, his daily help, might have left for him back at the vicarage. On a Wednesday it was normally sausages. For some reason he didn’t fancy sausages, but then halfway through his bun he found that he didn’t feel like something sweet either. He was out of sorts.
    He returned to his bicycle and set off down Mill Lane towards Grantchester Meadows. He hoped that the wind against his face might freshen him up a bit but nothing seemed to make any difference. A group of students in duffel coats and long college scarves were talking loudly on their way to lectures, walking off the pavement and into the road, paying no heed to passing cyclists. A sign writer was repainting the façade of the butcher’s shop and a window cleaner was at work above the new bank. Both of their ladders spanned the entire pavement, so that those of a superstitious nature, who did not want to walk under ladders, swayed on to the road and into the traffic. How removed all this was from the desperate world of suicide, or, more likely, murder, Sidney thought.
    He passed Hildegard Staunton’s house and headed off across the fields to Grantchester. When he arrived home all was as he had expected. Mrs Maguire had done some of her famous tidying, moving papers that Sidney had carefully left in separate and organised stacks on the floor, and piling them all together on his desk so she could vacuum. There were sausages in a Pyrex dish in the kitchen and potatoes she had peeled and left in cold water. There was also a note:
    ‘More Vim please. And Harpic. Fish tomorrow. Not Friday.’
    Sidney found it hard to address these concerns. He turned on the wireless and listened to the news. The Queen had just arrived in Canada on her