Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night

by James Runcie

  ‘Oh her. I know her all right. She keeps accusing me of following her when all we are doing is travelling in the same direction. She goes to the garage; I go to my workshop. It’s only natural that we’re going to bump into each other.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘I did try to talk to her but she thought I was trying to pick her up.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Sidney tried to appease him. ‘I’m sorry. I do not know about your personal circumstances.’

  ‘There is not much to know. I’m not the easiest of people.’

  ‘You must spend a lot of time on your own; watching and waiting in the woodland.’

  ‘You do need patience, yes.’

  ‘And you must have to train your eyes to look out for signs of life and movement?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Since you live so close to the garage,’ Sidney asked, ‘I wondered what you were doing on the night of the fire. Did you see it at all?’

  ‘I saw it all right; but only once it had taken hold.’ Benson hesitated. ‘You don’t think I started it, do you? Morden had my best stag’s head in there, and I’d already paid him to do my next catalogue. Why would I burn his place down?’

  ‘I am not saying you did.’

  ‘You have a very odd way of going about things, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘I should not have troubled you.’

  ‘No,’ Jerome Benson replied. ‘You shouldn’t.’

  He put on a pair of protective goggles and took up a blowtorch to cauterise the back of an alligator’s head. There was little that was attractive about the man. He had no charm, he cared little for his appearance or for his effect on others, and he didn’t appear interested in anything other than animals and young women.

  On his way out Sidney passed a white-faced ibis surrounded by grassland in a rectangular case, and then a series of panoramas involving a selection of seabirds: a puffin, razorbill, guillemot and red-throated diver. He was depressed by this lifeless display. At least his dog still had plenty of vim in him, and his boundless enthusiasm would be sure to cheer him up. Dickens was sniffing round a low table that held an African grey parrot.

  On seeing it, Sidney remembered one of his favourite stories. A friend had once told him about his uncle’s funeral. His aunt had insisted that her husband’s pet parrot should join the mourners but, on seeing his beloved owner’s coffin being solemnly carried from the church at the end of the service, it had called out for all to hear: ‘Wakey! Wakey!’

  The next morning Sidney was overtaken by a strange whim. He picked up a copy of Sultry magazine from the shelves at the newsagent’s and added it to his morning purchase of The Times.

  ‘Are you sure you want this?’ the shopkeeper asked. It was Abigail Redmond’s Aunt Rosie.

  ‘I’m doing a little bit of research.’

  ‘Into what, may I ask?’

  ‘Contemporary morality.’

  ‘And you need to read this to help you understand it?’

  ‘I thought I’d see what young people were reading these days.’

  ‘It’s not just young people that’s the problem.’

  ‘Then it’s probably more important that I take a look. I don’t plan on studying it closely. I just wanted to get the general idea.’

  ‘I see. I’m sure you can imagine most of it. We only stock one or two copies. This is a decent village, after all. The taxidermist always asks for one but that’s about it. I’ll be glad to be rid of it, if you want my opinion.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘It’ll be our secret, Canon Chambers.’

  Sidney knew that it would be no such thing. The news would be all round the village by lunchtime and he would have no choice but to brazen it out. Why had he done this? It was madness. He returned home and made himself a cup of tea.

  As he waited for the kettle to boil Sidney skimmed through the pages of Sultry. It seemed harmless enough. Then he came across a girl who looked alarmingly familiar. She went by the name of Candy Sweet. Sidney recognised her to be Gary Bell’s girlfriend: Abigail Redmond.

  ‘I don’t pose for no one.’

  Abigail was the only daughter of Harding and Agatha Redmond, a prominent farming family with plenty of land between Grantchester and Barton. Her mother was a member of the flower guild and had provided Sidney with his Labrador. Sidney presumed that Abigail had left school and wondered whether her parents would approve of her liaison with Gary Bell, or if they even knew about it. He decided to visit her mother on some canine pretext and ask a few questions.

  The farmhouse stood on the east side of a large paved courtyard which contained a milking shed, a hay barn and a series of outbuildings in various stages of disrepair. Two black Labradors and a Jack Russell approached Dickens on arrival, scattering a group of chickens that had been pecking in the shadows. An outside tap dripped lazily on to the flagstones.

  It was early afternoon. Agatha Redmond had been baking and she offered her guest a cup of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge cake. She explained that her husband was away at the dairy and Abigail was out seeing her Cousin Annie. Sidney was informed that it was hard to keep track of her these days and he wondered if ‘seeing Annie’ was an excuse for something else.

  ‘She’s going to agricultural college but I can’t see too much point in that. She could teach them all a thing or two. She knows how a farm works.’

  ‘I suppose there is more to it all than meets the eye.’

  ‘She could do with finding out about the financial side of things. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders, I’ll say that for her.’

  ‘So you imagine she will end up working on the farm?’

  ‘I can’t think of her doing anything else.’

  ‘She hasn’t talked to you of anything different?’

  ‘What are you getting at, Canon Chambers?’

  Sidney took up his slice of cake. It was a Victoria sponge as he had never experienced before: light, melting and moist. He supposed it was the freshness of the eggs. ‘I don’t know. So many girls these days are becoming secretaries or hairdressers; even models.’

  ‘I can’t see our Abi doing that kind of thing. She’s an outdoor type.’

  Sidney tried to sound as innocent as he could. ‘Are you having to deal with the troublesome business of boyfriends yet?’

  ‘I know Gary Bell is sweet on her but she can do better than that. I think she fancies his car more than him. It makes a change from the tractor.’

  ‘I imagine she likes a bit of glamour.’

  Sidney was rather proud of the way he was directing the conversation towards photography but Agatha Redmond failed to take him up. ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Modelling is very popular these days. I understand that Daniel Morden, the unfortunate photographer . . .’

  ‘The one whose house burned down?’

  ‘He was very keen on the whole business of . . .’

  ‘A lot too keen, if you ask me. There’s nothing unfortunate about him.’

  ‘So you know the man?’

  ‘Him and his friend Benson. They’re a bit too interested in young girls, if you catch my drift. Harding had to go over and have a word with him; so did Abi’s Uncle Andrew. They told him that if he ever went near our Abi he’d blow his brains out. Benson too. I’m not surprised someone burnt the photographer’s place down. That taxidermist, or whatever he calls himself, will probably be next.’

  ‘You suspect it was arson then?’

  ‘That’s what people are saying.’

  ‘I don’t think the police have made any announcement . . .’

  ‘They don’t need to. I think someone got wind of what those men were up to and took the law into their own hands.’

  ‘And that someone wouldn’t have been your husband, by any chance?’

  ‘We’re not criminals, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘No
. Although I don’t think it’s a good idea to go round threatening people.’

  ‘What else are we supposed to do?’

  ‘Call the police, I would have thought.’

  ‘You think they can do anything about it? Those men can just say they’re enjoying the fresh air.’

  ‘And Abigail never encouraged them or let them take her photograph?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Of course she didn’t. She would have had her father to answer for if she had.’

  ‘And she wouldn’t go against her father’s wishes?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘Never, Canon Chambers. She’s a real daddy’s girl. If there’s one thing I know for certain about my daughter, it’s that.’

  While Sidney was out on his rounds Mrs Maguire discovered the copy of Sultry magazine in the vicarage and took the rest of the day off to consider her future. Leonard Graham was left to do the explaining. On entering the kitchen to pour a medicinal glass of whisky, Sidney found his curate waiting. He had his hands behind his back and his facial features were in movement, unable to settle on an appropriately concerned look.

  ‘Mrs Maguire is rather upset,’ he began.

  Sidney added water to his whisky. ‘That is, if I may say, her natural condition.’

  ‘She has discovered something amongst your possessions that seems rather out of character.’

  ‘And when did she do this?’

  ‘As she was dusting.’

  ‘It is a miracle that Mrs Maguire was doing any dusting. I presume she has put everything back in the wrong place. What did she find?’

  Leonard Graham brought his hands out from behind his back and revealed the copy of Sultry that he had been holding.

  ‘Oh,’ said Sidney. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Mrs Maguire is disappointed in you. The magazine looks well thumbed. I presume it belongs to you.’

  ‘Of course it is mine. I bought it for research purposes.’

  ‘I think Mrs Maguire would regard any descent into the pornographic, even for the purposes of research, unconvincing. Surely, in a criminal case, one can use one’s imagination?’

  ‘You might assume so, Leonard, but there are times when one needs to look for hard facts.’

  ‘And look closely, it seems.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have even placed an asterisk by one of the magazine’s “naughtiest newcomers”. I assume it is your pen that has made the mark?’

  ‘It is.’

  Leonard began to read with an increasing dryness of tone. ‘ “This luscious lollipop could sugar any man’s tea. Cuddly Candy Sweet loves the outdoors even when it’s chilly. But don’t worry, readers! She’s certainly hot enough for us!” ’

  Sidney cut off his curate. ‘I agree that the prose is not up to Dostoevsky’s standard. Do you not think that the girl looks familiar?’

  Leonard was unimpressed. ‘It’s not a habit of mine to look closely at seventeen-year-old girls.’

  ‘Nor of mine, but surely you can tell that Candy Sweet is a pseudonym?’

  ‘That much is obvious.’

  ‘The girl is Abigail Redmond. Agatha Redmond’s daughter.’

  ‘Agatha? From the flower guild? Labrador breeder to the clergy? I suppose you think the photographer is Daniel Morden?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘Which might mean that anyone seeing this photograph, particularly if they were enamoured of Candy, or rather Abigail, wouldn’t want her “sweetening another man’s tea”?’

  ‘Exactly. Now perhaps you understand why I needed to buy the magazine.’

  Leonard paused for a moment. ‘But how did you know, when you were buying this particular copy of Sultry, that you would find a photograph of Abigail within its pages?’

  ‘A hunch, Leonard, merely a hunch.’

  ‘And how many copies of the magazine would you have been prepared to buy in order to satisfy that hunch?’

  ‘Who knows, Leonard? But I can assure you the study of such a bevy of beauties delights not me.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Will you tell Mrs Maguire or shall I?’

  ‘You tell her, Leonard. Although . . .’

  ‘You think it might be amusing to keep her suspicions up?’

  Sidney hesitated. ‘No. I don’t think so, tempting though that might be. Mrs Maguire’s ideas are dangerous enough already. We can’t have her spreading rumours all over the village.’

  ‘I think she’s already started,’ his curate replied. ‘You have been tarred with the same brush as Morden and Benson. They assume you are all in a ring. You need to be careful. And talking of rings, Amanda telephoned. She asked if you would care to return her call?’

  Amanda was asking Sidney to a concert (Isaac Stern was beginning the autumn orchestral season with concertos by Prokofiev and Mendelssohn at the Festival Hall) but the invitation was little more than a pretext to question him about an academic called Anthony Cartwright. He was a Professor of Physics in London and although she was sure that Sidney would not have heard of him, she asked him to make some enquiries amongst his colleagues at Corpus. He was, she told him, ‘promising’.

  ‘He’s certainly got a lot more potential than that Morden chap. I was thinking about him only the other day. Are you getting anywhere on the case? I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a jealous husband lurking in the background. That’s where I’d start. Look to the ladies, Sidney. You’ll enjoy that.’

  ‘I think Morden’s more interested in younger girls.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean the older women in the parish won’t take a fancy to him. I’d have thought that he was getting on a bit for girls and beggars can’t be choosers. I should know.’

  ‘I’m interested you should be seeing an academic, Amanda. You know that they very seldom have any money?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Anthony has status. That’s all my parents seem to care about.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be marrying anyone to please your parents.’

  ‘I’m not planning on marrying anyone yet, Sidney. I was just saying he had potential. A girl has to be vigilant for she never knows the day nor the hour. Isn’t that what the good book says?’

  ‘I think that’s a reference to the kingdom of heaven, Amanda.’

  ‘From the parable of the wise and foolish virgins, I seem to remember, and there’s even a bridegroom in the story so I think you’ll find that was rather clever of me.’

  ‘I would expect little else.’

  ‘Although I’ll thank you not to make any mischievous remarks about my virginity.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Sidney promised that he would do his best to attend the London concert and that he would make enquiries about Cartwright even if it was yet another thing to do. He made himself a cup of tea, and settled down to read a few chapters of Angus Wilson’s Anglo-Saxon Attitudes before bedtime. After twenty minutes, he acknowledged that he could not concentrate and went into his study. There he began to make a list. He drew a dividing line down the centre of a piece of paper and wrote down his parish duties on the left, and his thoughts about the arson case on the right. When he had finished he could see that his forthcoming tasks as a detective were twice as long as those involving the priesthood. There could be no clearer example of how his priorities had changed.

  He had to put the arson case to one side and make a start on Sunday’s sermon. It was the eleventh Sunday after Trinity and the text was from St Mark’s Gospel. He opened his Bible and pulled out a fresh piece of paper from the stand. Then, before he began to theorise on the feeding of the five thousand, he changed his mind and wrote a letter.

  The Vicarage

  Grantchester

  4 September 1957

  My dear Hildegard

  It was so wonderful to see you in Germany that life in Grantchester seems very strange without you. I know it will be hard for you to think of visiting a place that does not contain too many happy memories, but I would like you to know, once more, that yo
u will always be welcome. Having said that, I must confess that it is a strange place and that I have become involved in yet another complicated criminal investigation. I can see you smiling and shaking your head as I write. When it has all settled down, as I am sure it will, perhaps I could come and see you once more, either in the autumn, or just after Christmas? It would be good to see more of the Rhine, enjoy your company, and even improve my very faulty German. The trip would also be a welcome respite from the curious machinations of my parishioners!

  Please give my best regards to your sister, who I very much enjoyed meeting, and do let me know more of your news. How many piano pupils do you have these days? Is Berlin very changed? Have you met many new friends?

  I seem to live two different lives: one when I am with you, and the other when I am not. I hope that you will not be too alarmed when I say that I miss you and that I wish you were here with me now. I think of you every time I hear the music of Bach and, indeed, whenever I hear music at all.

  With warmest wishes, and as ever,

  Sidney

  Inspector Keating was relaxed and almost amused by the gossip surrounding his friend when they met for their regular evening of backgammon. ‘I wouldn’t take it too seriously if I were you,’ he smiled as he placed Sidney’s drink in front of him. The froth foamed over the lip.

  ‘But you’re not me,’ Sidney replied indignantly.

  ‘No, you’re a one-off; and a million miles from these chaps. We’ve been looking into all of them, you know. Benson’s had a few warnings, Gary Bell went a bit further with a girl than she wanted but then the accusation was withdrawn, and Daniel Morden has certainly had a chequered past. We even found his son.’

  ‘In France?’

  Keating was rather pleased with this bit of news. ‘He’s called Jonathan. We got him on the blower.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They do have telephones across the Channel, Sidney.’

  ‘I am aware of that. What did you find out?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, we discovered why Jonathan Morden is not speaking to his father. Turns out one of his girlfriends took rather a shine to his dad.’