Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night

by James Runcie

  ‘Which suggests?’

  Mark Bowen stood up and started to take off his gloves. ‘Either that someone started the fire by using a can of petrol and then ran away or . . .’

  ‘Someone put the petrol can there deliberately . . .’

  ‘Exactly, Canon Chambers, although what is strange is that this doesn’t feel like a petrol-based fire to me.’

  ‘What does it feel like?’

  ‘Something more intense.’

  Sidney knew that he should head off back to church and check through the readings for the tenth Sunday after Trinity. ‘You don’t think it was an accident then?’ he asked.

  ‘The photographer was away at the time. He still doesn’t know anything about it. I imagine it might be a bit of a shock when he comes home.’

  ‘It could have been an electrical appliance, I suppose. Did the place have power?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it.’

  Sidney realised that he was out of his depth and should move on but he couldn’t help wondering. ‘Why do people commit arson, Mark?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s arson, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘I can see that would be jumping to conclusions. But in theory?’

  ‘It’s mostly young men. You don’t find many female arsonists. Sometimes it is straightforward pyromania. The most common cause, in my experience, is revenge. But I am sure you know all that, Canon Chambers. You don’t need me to tell you that most of the trouble in the world is caused by love and money.’

  ‘I suppose sometimes people even set fire to their own homes.’

  ‘Not when they are sixty miles away. I haven’t found any evidence of a timing mechanism.’

  ‘You can’t rule anything out, you mean?’

  ‘Whoever did it could even have hired a professional arsonist. They’re often around when a business has money worries. The owner claims on the insurance; although I can’t think that this place would have been worth very much.’

  ‘One would have to check Daniel Morden’s policies?’

  ‘That’s not really your line of work, though, is it, Canon Chambers? You deal in the more dramatic stuff.’

  ‘I don’t seek it out.’

  Mark Bowen had one last thought. ‘You also have to remember that people sometimes burn places down to get rid of evidence.’

  ‘What kind of evidence?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I am sure you can imagine.’

  ‘You mean incriminating paperwork, vital clues, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Actually I meant something more than that, Canon Chambers. I meant dead bodies.’

  A few days later, Keating was able to give Sidney an update on the situation. Daniel Morden had, indeed, been away in London at the time of the blaze, taking photographs at the second marriage of one of his best friends. He had been renting the summerhouse from the Bells for around three years, using it as his studio while he lived in what had once been his mother’s flat off Hills Road. He was divorced (his wife had since died, although not in any suspicious circumstances as far as the inspector was aware) and he had a son who lived abroad.

  ‘One wonders why Morden came here in the first place?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘He said something about avoiding the temptations of London. He’s led what’s known in the trade as “a colourful life”. You know what photographers are like around women. They’re like vicars only with sex appeal.’

  Sidney was about to protest when he realised he was being teased. ‘He could keep himself to himself here,’ Geordie continued. ‘None of the distractions of Soho that you’re all too keen on.’

  Sidney let this reference to his love of jazz and seediness pass. ‘I imagine he lived in his mother’s old flat for free. Do you think he had money worries?’

  ‘Divorce is always more expensive than people anticipate,’ Keating replied with an air of disinterest that surprised Sidney. ‘But there’s no sign of a lady friend. Perhaps she scarpered too.’

  ‘You mean his first wife left him?’

  ‘Women do leave as well as men, Sidney. Sometimes they can’t stand it any more; as my wife keeps warning me.’

  ‘We can’t really suspect Daniel Morden of burning down his own studio?’

  ‘Except it isn’t his. It belongs to the Bells.’

  ‘And you’ve spoken to them?’

  ‘They’re angry, although they could be acting up. They’re bound to have needed the money and, besides, the fire’s a way of getting Morden out of there.’

  ‘So they could have been the arsonists?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘And they had the insurance, you say?’

  ‘The Bells had the building insurance. Morden was covered for contents. Although there’s not likely to be any pay-out until we tell them what happened.’

  ‘It can’t be a lot of money, surely?’

  ‘No, but it’s probably worth burning the place down if you can get away with it. Unless there’s something else going on . . .’

  Sidney hesitated. ‘I think that’s what Mark Bowen was implying.’

  ‘There’s no evidence of any dead bodies, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Perhaps someone thought that Morden was inside?’

  ‘Attempted murder, you mean? No, Sidney, I’m pretty sure this is some kind of insurance trickery. Go and see the man yourself, if you like.’

  ‘I’d have to think of an excuse.’

  ‘That hasn’t stopped you in the past. It’s your job, isn’t it, caring for the afflicted? It would be interesting to see what you could get out of him.’

  ‘Would you like me to go then?’

  ‘I’m always grateful for any help you can give, Sidney. You know that.’

  ‘Then I have your blessing?’

  ‘I’d be glad to be the one giving the blessing. It certainly makes a change.’

  Sidney thought things through as he made his way home from the pub. He had brought Dickens with him so that the dog could have a good walk on the way there and back. Canine companionship had become one of the great and unexpected treats of his life. Although there were times when his Labrador took the law into his own hands (he could still get excited by sheep, for example, and the lambing season was something of a challenge), Sidney admired his exemplary combination of patience and affection. While other people’s dogs yapped and leapt up and slobbered and barked, Dickens kept his curiosity closer to home, straying far less than he had done in the past, contented with his lot in life. He seldom took against people and was slow to anger, and there was a time when Sidney realised that he could learn much simply by observing his dog’s good nature.

  However, this made it all the more troubling when Dickens became agitated. He had run on ahead but stopped at the stile that led on to the meadows and began barking loudly. It was almost dark and, as Sidney approached, the figure of Jerome Benson ran past them with his lurcher in close pursuit. A girl in a powder-blue cotton sundress was walking quickly away in the opposite direction with her head down. Her left hand scooped back the fall of her blonde hair over the side of her head, and her right hand was shaking. Surely that was Abigail Redmond? Sidney thought. And if it was, what had Jerome Benson done that had distressed her?

  A handsome olive-skinned man in his late fifties, Daniel Morden wore a cream linen suit that had seen better days. His brown brogues were well worn and his panama hat had been thrown on to a beaten armchair. He sat at his desk with a weak tumbler of whisky by his side, tapping his cigarillo into a full ashtray. He did not offer Sidney a drink. He merely expressed bemusement at the fact that a clergyman should want to pay him a visit. Although his were hardly the lodgings of a successful man, Sidney recognised, after a few minutes’ conversation, that his host had known some level of glamour in the past. In fact, in his heyday, he must have benefited from natural good looks and an easy charm.

  ‘Everything requires so much energy these days,’ Morden began. ‘I was ambitious when I was young, but now I have
to work hard just to stand still; and that can be rather boring, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘It depends on what you are looking at, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, a pretty young girl always helps.’

  ‘And you photograph pretty girls, Mr Morden?’

  ‘When I am given the opportunity. These days it’s mostly weddings.’

  Morden had been in the film business in the 1920s, starting off as an assistant to the great English cinematographer Charles Rosher. He had even directed a couple of silent movies, but then had what he described as ‘a spot of bother’ with the financiers and his career had slid back down the ladder through stills and fashion photography to advertising features, weddings and low-level private commissions. Sidney noticed an empty bottle of whisky in the wastepaper basket and wondered how much alcohol had been to blame for this fall from grace.

  It was clear that Daniel still had some enthusiasm for life when he talked about things that interested him but his ageing looks and the decline of his career meant that his face, in repose, was one of resignation. His long cheeks appeared to sink, his mouth remained in neutral and his eyes had a faraway look. This was a man who appeared to be able to switch himself on and off.

  He explained that he had been in London taking photographs at a society ‘do’ as a favour (although Sidney suspected that the groom was probably doing his friend a service by providing employment). ‘One has to grit one’s teeth and wish them well, of course, when half the time you can tell that the couple are doomed. I imagine it must happen to you as well, Canon Chambers. You must see a bride walking up the aisle and think “here comes another poor lamb off to the slaughter . . .” ’

  ‘Actually, I hope to prevent that. I try to prepare couples thoroughly for matrimony . . .’

  Daniel interrupted. ‘But you’re not married yourself. You must have seen enough to put you off.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘It always amazes me how people doll up their daughters. All those debutantes. “Love for Sale.” I used to make such a lot of money taking their photographs and putting them in Country Life. Nowadays, of course, there aren’t so many of them about; although I once photographed your friend. Miss Kendall.’

  ‘How do you know I know her?’

  ‘Oh, Canon Chambers, everyone knows that. She’s one of those socialites with a soft spot for vicars.’

  ‘You mean there’s more than one?’

  ‘A lot of women like to have a clergyman to get them out of a scrape. It’s a good insurance policy.’

  ‘Talking of insurance . . .’ Sidney began.

  ‘It’s just as well I paid my premiums, isn’t it?’ Morden replied quickly. ‘There should be a tidy sum. I shall have to be careful not to celebrate too lavishly.’

  ‘Isn’t the money meant to replace the equipment you have lost?’

  Morden nodded. ‘It is. But I am having second thoughts about the rest of my life.’

  ‘You won’t start again?’

  ‘I was about to give it all up, not that you have much choice in this business. You only know you’ve retired when the telephone stops ringing. Hollywood is a lifetime away.’

  Sidney tried again. ‘There’s one thing I’m not sure about, and it’s why you rented the summerhouse in the first place.’

  ‘It wasn’t the most exotic location, I’ll grant you. In fact it was falling down, but it had perfect natural light; south-facing, with windows down one side that you could soften with gauze.’

  ‘I thought photographers needed a darkroom?’

  ‘I did all the developing here in the flat. There’s a bathroom and a spare room at the back.’

  ‘I was also going to ask about your family.’ Sidney thought he knew the situation but wanted to hear Daniel Morden explain it.

  ‘You’re taking an unusual amount of interest in my life. Are you like this with all your parishioners?’

  ‘I try to be of service to everyone. I think that’s part of my job.’

  ‘I imagine some people might find you a bit of a nosy parker.’

  ‘That’s something of an occupational hazard.’

  ‘I suppose that depends on which of your occupations you might be referring to.’

  ‘I am a priest.’

  ‘And a part-time detective, I hear. Word does get around.’

  ‘I hope that one does not compromise the other.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, but I’m happy enough to tell you about my family. Not that there’s much of it. I have a son. He’s in France. We don’t speak to each other.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We had a disagreement.’

  ‘And his mother?’

  ‘She died, although not before divorcing me. It was a bad time.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be done.’

  Sidney knew he should leave. ‘You said you were thinking of stopping. I wonder what you might do instead of photography?’

  ‘I’m going to try and paint. I’ve always wanted to do that. Photography, however, is more lucrative.’

  ‘Painting is a slower process, I imagine.’

  ‘And time passes all too quickly, don’t you think?’ Morden asked. ‘You can’t ever really comprehend its momentum. All you can do is to take hold of individual moments and analyse them closely: the way light falls through a window, for example. That’s why the summerhouse was perfect. You could spend a whole day watching the light.’

  ‘Is that what you want to paint?’

  ‘I try to capture beauty,’ Daniel Morden answered. ‘I want to find stillness in the middle of movement.’

  ‘And youth too, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes, of course, the rose before it flowers. Once it comes into full bloom you can already anticipate its decline. I like to photograph promise, and the moment before full beauty. Then you have expectation; drama. But I am sure I am boring you, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘Not at all. You speak with such enthusiasm I wonder why you are planning on giving it up?’

  ‘I’m not sure people appreciate what I am trying to do; and, of course, as with all artists, there is the problem of confidence. Not to mention the balance between doing what you want to do and earning a living.’

  ‘Are they very different?’

  ‘Sometimes you have to prostitute yourself in order to earn money, Canon Chambers. It is easier for a doctor, or even a priest, to retain his integrity. People will always be ill, and they will always die, and so you will always be in work. No one really needs a photographer.’

  ‘And have you lost everything?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I still have the Leica I took to the wedding. And I also carry round an everyday camera. It’s a little Minox. I’ve been experimenting, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of a Minox.’

  ‘It’s the camera spies use for photographing documents, although I’ve been using it for people. I don’t even look through the lens. You have to guess the framing, fire the shutter and hope for the best. It’s shooting from the hip but you often discover unexpected angles, surprising accidents, hidden everyday moments; sometimes, if you are very fortunate, the revelation of unexpected beauty.’

  ‘Do people know they are being photographed?’

  ‘No, that’s the point. You catch them unawares. They have no idea the camera is on them and so they are more like themselves. It means you can be a bit of a voyeur, but I don’t mind that.’

  ‘It sounds quite hit and miss.’

  ‘Life is hit and miss, Canon Chambers; this kind of photography mirrors the elusive unpredictability of our existence.’

  ‘As elusive as knowing who would have wanted to burn down your studio?’

  ‘I have no idea about that.’

  ‘You have no enemies?’

  ‘I probably do, but they have been very careful not to tell me who they are.’

  ‘You have no clues?’

  ‘I don’t believe in looking fo
r clues where the results may be distressing, Canon Chambers. I don’t like to seek out more trouble than I’ve already got.’

  On his way home, Sidney decided to stop at the garage and have a look at the scene of the fire. He also hoped that he might be able to have a word with Gary Bell. Why had a petrol can been left lying around? Did the Bells keep a disorganised garage or were they tidy and efficient? How well did they know Daniel Morden and why had they rented out the summerhouse in the first place?

  Sidney approached with trepidation, as he was still sure that it was Gary Bell who had called him a pervert when he had been walking Dickens two weeks previously. The memory rankled.

  Gary was working on a motorbike in his blue boiler suit and it was not going according to plan. Abigail Redmond stood beside him, dressed in a gathered white blouse and skin-tight jeans, ready for a ride.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here,’ Gary began after Sidney had made his introduction. ‘The last thing we need is a priest.’

  ‘People often say that to me,’ Sidney began, ‘and, of course, in many cases it’s the last thing people get: a priest at the moment of death.’ He was not going to put up with any nonsense.

  ‘Well no one has died here.’

  ‘It could have been close.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Morden was hardly ever around. He was always off with his friend Benson, looking at women. I thought you were one of them. What were you doing gawping at us the other day?’

  ‘Yes, I wanted to have a word with you about that. I was merely walking past with my dog. I did not “gawp”, as you say.’

  ‘I saw you looking at us.’

  ‘I glimpsed as I passed. It seemed you had other things on your mind,’ Sidney replied firmly.

  ‘Well, I did, as a matter of fact.’ Gary smirked at Abigail.

  His girlfriend spoke for the first time. ‘That man with the beard and the shotgun. Benson. He’s always prowling around. I think he’s following me.’ She lit a cigarette.

  Sidney decided not to let on that he had recently as good as witnessed a confrontation between them. He didn’t want the couple developing their notion that he was something of a voyeur. ‘Have you told the police?’