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

wouldn’t call him that – but we share similar interests.’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘I can’t see that it’s any of your business.’
    ‘Would it, for example, include the photography of young girls?’
    ‘There’s nothing wrong with a beautiful woman.’
    ‘I am not saying that there is; although I didn’t use the word “woman”. I used the word “girl”.’
    ‘I can’t imagine you knowing much about either, Canon Chambers.’
    ‘That is true,’ Sidney acknowledged, in an irritated way, before keeping the conversation going. ‘But I was wondering if it was also, perhaps, something to do with the idea of time passing. I see how these animals are fixed in one moment. Perhaps photography performs a similar function. You see something at its best and you want to preserve it.’
    Benson gave a half-smile. ‘You are on the right lines there.’
    ‘You arrest decay. You believe in beauty. Do you have children, Mr Benson?’
    ‘No, I don’t.’
    ‘I’ve spent many hours with parents who find it difficult to accept their offspring are no longer young. They don’t like the fact that they’ve become adults and are now beyond their control. Perhaps they want them to remain children for ever.’
    ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
    ‘Do you know Abigail Redmond?’ Sidney asked.
    ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘You may not know her by that name. She has a boyfriend with a Triumph Roadster. She was with him the first time we met; after I thought you had shot the owl.’
    ‘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: