Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night (9 page)

By the time the fire brigade arrived, the first floor was on the point of collapse. The heat travelled so far in advance of the flames that it was impossible to get close to the centre of the blaze. A changeable breeze meant that the conflagration was spreading in three different directions at the same time. A small group of people filled buckets from an outdoor tap and both Gary Bell and his parents were terrified that the flames would jump to the garage with its plentiful supply of petrol. Thomas Bell was swearing that they should never have rented out the building in the first place, that he had always thought the photographer was a liability. It was typical of Daniel Morden to have evaded any responsibility by being in London. ‘I bet it was one of his bloody cigarillos,’ he shouted to his son, who answered that it was too late to worry about that now.

Suddenly there was flashover. The summerhouse sucked in the surrounding air and burst out of itself in a mighty eruption that filled the entire structure, the violent flames circling in an uncontainable whirl of fire that swept across each surface. This was the full venom of a blaze at its highest temperature. The timber-framed building could offer no resistance. The roof collapsed under its force. The air was filled with the crack of wood, the fall of brick, and the force of a wind that contained pure heat.

Within half an hour the dwelling had been reduced to its skeletal structure. A few supporting vertical poles smoked and steamed against the midnight-blue sky. Sparks, ash flakes and fire-drops crackled and drifted through a smoke that carried with it the stench of charred wood, burnt fabric and photographic chemicals.

It took over two hours to bring the flames under control and by dawn there were piles of brick, rubble and timber all over the ground, glowing hard, occasionally flaring up with the residue. Only a few items were recognisable amidst the remains: the tangled metal of a photographic enlarger, a melted metronome, a cracked glass ashtray, part of an antler from what had once been a stag’s head.

Sidney visited the site before morning communion and found one of his parishioners, Mark Bowen, already at work, wearing heavy boots and thick rubber gloves. He was a fire investigator.

‘Is it still going?’ Sidney asked.

‘In some places it’s hot enough to bake a potato. I think the point of origin is near the main windows, but I can’t tell yet.’

Sidney could see no sign of main windows and any casual passer-by would have had considerable difficulty working out either the structure or the orientation of the building.

‘The destruction is much greater than you would expect from a straightforward house fire and there may have been multiple points of origin. I suppose it must have been the photographic chemicals: toner, developer, acetic acid. There are all kinds of nastiness in there. I also found a petrol can near the scene. I suppose that’s normal . . .’

‘The Bells having a garage?’

‘But you wouldn’t expect them to be so careless with it. I can’t imagine any of the family leaving petrol lying around.’

‘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?’