Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night

by James Runcie

  Morden snorted. ‘I don’t think so. I have no influence these days, and she’s too small and chubby.’

  ‘Even though you sold her photograph to Sultry magazine without her knowing?’

  ‘They’ll take anything . . .’

  ‘And then she came back. How much did she ask for?’

  ‘Fifty pounds.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call her bluff?’

  ‘I panicked, I suppose.’

  ‘And the only way you could liquidate the money quickly, apart from selling your mother’s flat, would be to burn down the studio and claim on the insurance?’

  ‘I can see how easy it is for you to think that.’

  ‘Then you would also be taking some kind of revenge on Gary Bell at the same time.’

  Daniel Morden poured himself a small tumbler of whisky and went through to the kitchen to add water. He called out, ‘Sounds rather good. I wish I’d thought of it.’ He came back into the room. ‘The only thing is that I was in London at the time of the fire.’

  ‘I know you were,’ Sidney replied, ‘but that doesn’t mean that you didn’t start it.’

  ‘And how would I do that? The fire investigator didn’t discover any timing device as far as I am aware.’

  ‘You didn’t need one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You had the sun.’

  Morden was still standing. He took a sip of his drink. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  ‘It was a hot day in the middle of August,’ Sidney explained. ‘The preceding days had been sweltering; the weather forecasts had predicted that it was likely to get hotter. The windows of the summerhouse faced south. I would suggest that you removed your old silent films from their cans, laying the cellulose nitrate film on the window seat and on the floor. The sun was a natural timing device. The windows became a magnifying glass. You left the summerhouse in the morning, taking the empty film cans to London where you disposed of them. Then you let the sun ignite it all while you were giving your lecture. It was a simple idea. You let nature do the work.’

  ‘It all sounds rather implausible,’ Morden replied, already finishing his whisky. ‘And I don’t think there is any way of proving this.’

  ‘No. There was too much destruction.’

  ‘And Gary Bell’s petrol can?’

  ‘You placed it there afterwards.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I cannot prove anything.’

  ‘What gave you the idea to think how I might have done it?’

  ‘Gary Bell saw you taking two films cans away with you. Then I discovered why there is no good print of Sunrise. The original negative was destroyed in a fire. It was a famous incident in the history of cinema and yet you never mentioned it. Pointing out that cellulose nitrate was highly flammable was too much of a risk.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I will have to tell Inspector Keating what I think. He may not believe me. But I am sure the insurers will.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re going to pay out, in any case.’

  ‘You may be liable for prosecution.’

  ‘I suppose I might. But I don’t have much to live for these days.’

  Sidney was surprised by his host’s resignation. ‘But what will you do with the rest of your life, Daniel?’

  ‘It’s a question of confidence.’ Morden began moving about the flat, looking for whisky, cigarillos and distraction from what he was saying. ‘Once you’ve lost it, often for the smallest, pettiest reason, someone says something or a job doesn’t go your way, then it can be very hard to get back. That’s the great conundrum of ambition: knowing when to acknowledge one’s own mediocrity. I’ll probably sell this flat. It’s depressing being surrounded by memories of your mother. I don’t know why I’ve stayed so long. I thought I might try and see my son again in France. We had such a stupid misunderstanding.’

  ‘I think you should always try to make your peace with people you have loved.’

  ‘Provided the police don’t take my passport away. Do you think they’ll arrest me?’

  ‘I don’t know. As you point out, there is no evidence. I could be wrong.’

  ‘The rumour in Grantchester is that you are never wrong, Canon Chambers.’

  ‘That is a myth.’

  ‘Then I must congratulate whoever does your publicity. Perhaps I could hire them for my first exhibition?’

  ‘You are planning to paint after all?’

  ‘If I can.’ Morden sat down once more. ‘You are right, of course. I must make something of the days that I have left. I’m going to try and look at life more closely: pictures not words. That can’t be so bad, can it – to study the world as hard as you can before your eyes close for the last time?’

  Sidney was pleased with his ability to winkle out a story from his suspects and he was looking forward to a celebratory drink with Inspector Keating. It came, therefore, as something of a shock when he was confronted by the unexpected arrival of the Reverend Chantry Vine, archdeacon of Ely, early on the Monday morning.

  The archdeacon was considerably smaller and rounder than Sidney, and in his late forties, practically bald, with short arms and broad shoulders, flattened ears and a grim-looking mouth which turned any attempt at a smile into a snarl. It was unlikely that there had ever been such a gulf between a man’s name and his physique. He looked more like a rugby player than a clergyman.

  Chantry Vine was concerned about the rumours and stories that had been emanating from Grantchester. He spoke with an accent Sidney had never quite been able to place (Bristol was the most likely candidate) and what he had to say combined disappointment with attack. There had been, he told Sidney, ‘rather too much going on’.

  Sidney pointed out that he could not be held responsible for other people’s criminal activity.

  ‘I also think that you should give up this detective nonsense,’ Vine continued. ‘Let the police get on with their job while you get on with yours. I hardly need to remind you of the primary duties of a priest, do I?’

  Sidney confirmed that he had been called to be a messenger, watchman and steward of the Lord. He had a bounden duty to exercise care and diligence in bringing those in his charge to the faith and knowledge of God. And he had made a solemn promise at his ordination that there be no place left in him for error in religion or for viciousness in life.

  The archdeacon lit up his pipe. ‘I think you should consider whether there is a difference between the man you are and the priest you need to become . . .’

  ‘We all fall short, archdeacon.’

  Chantry Vine leant back in Sidney’s armchair. Clearly the conversation was not going to end soon. ‘I agree, but there are times when a man can be too wilful in the pursuit of what he may think to be the common good. He may confuse it with his own interests.’

  ‘I have tried to involve myself in the concerns of my parishioners.’

  The archdeacon pretended to reflect on what Sidney had said but was in no mood to let up. ‘But should you be “involved”, as you say? Isn’t there a case for detachment? By coming too close you are in danger of failing to see the whole picture. Sometimes a priest needs to step back and take a more dispassionate view. “Watch ye and pray, lest ye enter into temptation.” You will remember: Mark 14.38.’

  Sidney resented being lectured in this manner (and he hardly needed to remind the archdeacon that the next line in the verse was ‘the spirit truly is ready but the flesh is weak’). He knew perfectly well the difference between seeing the detail and the wider picture and he didn’t need Chantry Vine to keep going on about it.

  ‘I have also heard rumours . . .’

  ‘I can guess what they are.’

  ‘And they seem to have got rather out of hand, Sidney. I trust there is no substance to them?’

  ‘If you are referring to the purchase of a salacious magazine . . .’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about a magazine,’ the archdeacon replied, taking hi
s pipe from his mouth. Sidney had walked straight into his trap. How could he have been so stupid?

  ‘It was nothing. My housekeeper found it. I needed to do a bit of research.’

  ‘Into salaciousness? I heard it was more to do with the closer observation of the younger members of the parish. I am all for a younger, broader Church, of course, and we need to start up as many youth clubs as we can, although they cannot, alas, consist entirely of young women. That is a job for the Girl Guides.’ The archdeacon put his pipe back into his mouth and smiled, as if he had only just remembered who the Girl Guides were.

  ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I only hope that you are right. You’re a good man, Sidney, but easily distracted. We had you down as a possibility for my successor but this kind of thing doesn’t help your case.’ The archdeacon stood up. ‘Surely it’s time you were getting married? The bishop tells me that he is a good friend of the Kendall family in London. Haven’t they got a rather attractive daughter?’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘Can’t you marry her?’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple.’

  ‘Nothing is simple in this world, Sidney, but the life of a priest is a good deal easier if he’s got a decent wife, I can tell you that and no bananas. I’d be lost without my Claire.’

  Distracted by the phrase ‘and no bananas’, Sidney found himself unable to concentrate on the archdeacon’s advice. It was simply annoying that so few people understood what he was trying to do. He needed a holiday. As soon as he thought of the idea, another word popped into his head.

  Germany.

  Michaelmas term was beginning and the first autumn rains watered the parched lawns and gardens of Grantchester at last. Sidney met up with Inspector Keating to catch up on the facts of the case. There would be no arrests. Abigail was still only seventeen and it was felt that she could be discouraged from any further actions with a strong warning. There was also not enough hard evidence to present a case against Morden. His insurers had, predictably, refused to pay out, his mother’s flat was on the market and he was already heading for a reunion, of sorts, with his son in France.

  ‘So the only person whose reputation might have taken a slight dent is you, Sidney. Leonard told me that the archdeacon gave you a hard time.’

  ‘The Church is not supposed to draw attention to itself.’

  ‘If that is the case then why do you have all the tall spires?’

  ‘I think he means “in the wrong way”.’

  ‘You mean priests looking at girlie magazines?’ Sidney gave the inspector a hard look. ‘I am joking. They can’t take it that seriously, can they?’

  ‘We are expected to be above reproach. Like the police.’

  ‘How did you work it all out, by the way? The arson and the blackmail?’

  ‘I don’t really know, Geordie. Perhaps you just have to spend time with people.’

  ‘The problem with our line of work is that you never know how long anything is going to take. A bricklayer can tell you when he’s going to finish but I can’t predict things at all; although with you around they tend to happen a lot quicker. I don’t always tell you this but I am grateful to you, Sidney. Let me buy you that second pint.’

  Later that night, Sidney took Dickens out into the meadows for his evening constitutional. It was still just about light and he was surprised to hear footsteps behind, catching him up. He turned round to see that it was Abigail Redmond. She clearly wanted to speak to Sidney but hadn’t prepared what she was going to say.

  ‘I’ve broken up with Gary.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I’m not sure you are, Canon Chambers.’ There was an awkward pause before Abigail continued. ‘I’m following you now. Perhaps you’ll get to know what it’s like.’

  ‘Did the police come and see you?’

  ‘Gave me a warning they did. My dad went mad; wondered what they were doing in the house. I had to make something up.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him that Benson was following me again and the police had caught him.’

  Sidney stopped. He wanted to take Abigail by the arm but knew that he could do nothing that might provoke her. ‘But that’s not true.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, does it?’

  ‘It does. You must stop making up stories about people.’

  Abigail looked at her shoes. The recent rain had muddied them. ‘He was following me, though.’

  ‘Not recently. He’s been warned.’

  ‘Everyone’s following me, Canon Chambers.’

  Sidney wasn’t putting up with any nonsense. ‘No, they’re not. This is a small village. There are only so many ways people can get in and out of it.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like.’

  ‘Of course I can’t know exactly, but I cannot believe what you are saying. You should leave if it upsets you so much.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do but Dad wants me to work on the farm.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  They had reached the end of the meadows and Sidney needed to turn back to go home. He called Dickens. He wasn’t quite sure where his dog had gone. He had not expected that, at the end of a long day, he would have to counsel a teenage girl whom he could not find it in his heart to like very much.

  Abigail was in no hurry to end their conversation. ‘I could be a secretary, I suppose.’

  ‘You could train to be anything,’ Sidney replied. ‘A woman with your determination, and . . .’ here he paused ‘. . . imagination.’ He decided to be firm. ‘You just have to stop thinking that people are looking at you all the time. They’re not. Most of them are far too preoccupied to think about you.’

  ‘You mean they’re not looking at me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even you?’

  ‘Not even me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Abigail, I’m sure. Now stop making accusations about other people and leave them to get on with their own lives.’ Sidney was infuriated by the way in which rumours spread and reputations were compromised. He decided that he would preach a fiery sermon about it on Sunday.

  He walked back with a tired but contented Dickens by his side and within a few yards he saw Jerome Benson in the shadows. That is all I bloody need, Sidney thought. Any proof that Abigail was not making things up and the whole thing could start all over again. He picked up a stick and threw it into the distance. Dickens ambled, rather than ran, to fetch it. Sidney knew that he would have to keep a watchful eye on the Redmond situation because he didn’t want everything to simmer down only to blow up in flames once more.

  Flames, he thought, as he felt the first autumn chill in the air. It wouldn’t be that long until Bonfire Night. He remembered the first one he had shared with Amanda three years ago, after the murder of Hildegard’s husband.

  He opened the meadows gate and walked up the path that led to the main road. The past few weeks had been a strange time and it had made him think of the way in which people saw themselves in the world. How accurate is their perception of who they are and what they have become? Should people really try to see themselves as others saw them? He was not sure that they should. The important thing was to learn to like ourselves, and strive to be better. One shouldn’t keep looking to see what other people thought.

  When he reached home he found a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper on the kitchen table. Leonard told him that he had discovered it on the doorstep. There was a letter resting under the string. Sidney opened it and began to read:

  Dear Canon Chambers

  Thank you for understanding me and for your forgiving heart. I recognise that I no longer have a good name; and you know, I think, from recent weeks, how easy it is for a reputation to diminish. People are not kind. They may well tell you stories about me after I have gone, but all I can say is that I have tried to lead a good life even if I haven’t always succeeded. I need to
start again, and I need to stop drinking. I am going to France. I will see my son. And then I will make my peace with him and the world. I am grateful to you for your patience, and I apologise if I was ever rude. I have not been myself for many years. Here is a token to remember me by. Perhaps every great detective should have one. Look at the dawn. Wait for the sunrise. Satis verborum.

  Sidney opened the box. Inside was Daniel Morden’s Minox camera.

  Unholy Week

  Sidney was nearing the end of his annual Lenten abstinence, a time that always made him grumpy, and the Master of Corpus had asked him to take the three-hour service in the college chapel on Good Friday. There was nothing unreasonable about this request but Sidney was going to have to preach a demanding sermon slap bang in the middle of Hildegard’s first visit to Grantchester since the death of her husband. There was nothing he could do to change things. The dates had been set, the travel arrangements agreed, and the accommodation booked. He was tense.

  The sermon was, in effect, a series of meditations, reflecting on each of the seven sayings of Jesus on the Cross. Sidney had to begin with ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’, and discuss the idea of eternal salvation and the nature of the relationship between Jesus and his mother. These would be interspersed with music chosen by Orlando Richards, the Professor of Music, and sung by the college choir. Sidney then had to move on to contemplate Christ’s feelings of abandonment and distress (‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me’) before ending by concentrating on the final triumph and reunion with God (‘Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit’).

  He decided to dedicate a single day of preparation for each meditation and he took Dickens on a walk across the meadows for inspiration. It was dark and windy, with the clouds low and heavy with rain. Sidney recognised that, although the atmosphere was brooding enough to contemplate the Passion of Christ, his muse had failed to strike.

  He tried to imagine himself into the scene at Golgotha. He looked at a tall elm tree that fringed the River Cam and thought of the wood of the cross, the two thieves and the agonising death. He wondered what it would be like to talk about the event as a crime scene with Jesus as the victim. Perhaps he could go through the list of suspects? Judas would be an accessary to murder, the High Priest was guilty of sentencing an innocent man to death, and Pilate was the representative of a weak government that failed to intervene. How responsible was Jesus himself, who ‘answered him to never a word’? How provocative was his silence in court?