Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night by James Runcie Page A

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