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

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