Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER FIVE

He was dreaming that Nunne had been condemned to death, and he was telling Stein that it was a monstrous stupidity, that Nunne was a man of genius, an irreplaceable loss to literature. But as he said it, he did not believe it. He knew it would be impossible to express his real reasons for defending Nunne to Stein or anybody else.

A noise woke him. He stared at the wall, and listened to a male voice in the room below singing a popular song. It sounded as if there were decorators at work in the room. He turned on to his back and stared at the sky through the window. It was marble-grey. He found himself wondering whether he would ever defend Austin if it came to a trial for murder. They would be wrong; Stein and the judges would be wrong; but there was no way of altering that. A good psychiatrist might have him declared insane; that would be the simplest solution; but Nunne was not insane.

He got out of bed to put the kettle on, turned the gas to medium and climbed back into bed. As he did so his eyes rested on the Nijinsky Diary, and something concentrated inside him. There was the image of a man walking along a tree-lined avenue at night, listening to sounds of music coming from a hotel lounge. In the man was an obsession with the superhuman, a desire to rise cleanly and naturally beyond human pettiness, maintaining the flight without uncertainty. For a moment he felt he understood Austin, received a clear insight into the disgust that became violence. He looked out at the grey sky, holding the knowledge firmly, thinking: Nothing matters but this power. No price is too high for it.

At the same time he heard footsteps on the stair, and guessed they were coming to his room. Carlotte's voice called: Mr Sorme!

Hello?

She opened the door.

Are you up yet? There's a gentleman to see you.

Who?

She shrugged.

I don't know. A German.

German?

He thought hard for a moment, then asked:

An old man?

Yes.

Ah. Ask him to come up, would you, please?

He pulled on a pair of trousers, and was tying his dressing-gown as Stein came into the room. Stein glanced at the rumpled bed, and smiled apologetically:

Am I too early?

Sorme shook his cold hand.

That's OK. I was awake. What did you want to talk to me about? Austin?

He was leading deliberately, unwilling to play a cat-and-mouse game. Stein said:

Austin? No, not particularly. I am more interested in this old man above you.

For a moment, registering his surprise, Sorme believed him.

Why? You don't think he's the Whitechapel killer?

No. But he may know something. When he was in hospital, he shouted strange things in his sleep.

I'm sure he knows nothing, Sorme said decisively.

No?

I had a talk with him last night. He's as mad as a march hare, but he doesn't know anything. How did you find out about him, anyway?

Stein shrugged expressively:

I happened to notice the address on Inspector Macmurdo's list of routine calls. I knew it was your address also. So I came on the off-chance that you might be able to tell me something.

To Sorme, watching him, the he seemed transparent; but he remembered that Stein was unaware that Father Carruthers had spoken to him of Nunne. From Stein's viewpoint, there was no reason why Sorme should disbelieve him. He said:

I'll tell you what I can, but you ought to see him yourself. You'd see, he's cracked.

He raved about murder in the hospital.

Yes. But not these murders. The only Whitechapel crimes that interest him happened sixty years ago.

The Jack the Ripper murders?

Sorme said:

What on earth makes you interested in a man of that age? It must be obvious that he'd be incapable of a series of murders?

Stein said wearily:

Somewhere in London there is a killer. There is nothing to do but check every possibility.

I agree. But you're wasting your time with the old man. He's too old. And he's insane, anyway.

So is the killer.

You think so?

Stein said:

Yes, I think so.

The kettle began to simmer. Sorme said:

Sit down and have a cup of tea. You look tired.

Thank you. I am tired.

Don't you take a rest on Sundays?

Stem said, shrugging:

In a case like this, there is no time to rest.

He dropped into the armchair, placing his hat on the table. Sorme found himself feeling sorry for him. He spooned tea into the thermos flask and poured in the boiling water. As he turned off the gas ring he lit the fire. The room was warm from the burning gas; he removed the dressing-gown, and put on a shirt. He said:

Never mind. Maybe you'll catch him in the act some time.

Perhaps, Stein said. He contemplated the steam that rose from the flask, and then added:

He made another attempt last night.

What?

Sorme stared at him, wondering at the same time if Stein was trying to trap him in some way. Stein was not even looking at him. He asked:

What happened?

I don't know in detail. A woman was attacked in her room early this morning. Neighbours heard her screams and ran in. The man jumped out of the window and disappeared.

In Whitechapel?

Yes.

But what happened to the woman?

She was still unconscious at eight o'clock this morning. Her skull was fractured.

Will she live?

Probably. Luckily, the injuries have not affected the brain.

So you should get a description of the killer?

We hope so. But the room was in darkness.

Pouring the tea, Sorme thought: Poor Austin. There's nothing I can do now. Then he stopped himself, thinking: Why Austin? It may not be Austin.

Stein accepted the mug of tea, saying:

So you see why we are getting tired of it all.

I do. Never mind. With luck, you'll get a description.

Perhaps.

Stem relapsed into silence, drinking his tea.

You say you're sure he's insane, doctor?

I think so.

Sorme stopped himself on the point of asking: Insane enough to get sent to Broadmoor?

Instead, he asked:

Do you think all sexual killers are insane?

Why, no, assuredly not. Any more than a starving man who steals a loaf of bread is insane.

I see.

Stein looked at him and asked, smiling:

What are you thinking?

I'm wondering… if a murderer might not be saner than the average man.

How?

Sorme stared out of the window for a moment, then said:

For instance, in the days when sacrifices were offered in temples. The priests might have profounder insight into reality than most people. The killing was a symbol.

A symbol? Stein said unbelievingly.

Yes. A sort of rejection of the ordinary daylight. A deliberate turning away from daylight logic.

Stein said, frowning:

But a man who kills is under strain. He is not a philosopher.

Someone knocked on the door. The girl called:

Telephone for Dr Stein.

Stein said wearily:

Again!

He made a tired gesture of disgust, and went out of the room.

Sorme finished drinking his tea, seated in the armchair. Obscurely, he felt that something important was taking place, but he found it difficult to take it seriously. A sense of reality in him revolted against the complications of diplomacy and deception. Although he knew Nunne's life might be at stake, it was still impossible to feel completely involved. He tried to focus this sense of unreality, wondering how quickly Stein would interrupt him; after a moment, the feeling recreated itself briefly; he tried to verbalise it. What was at stake was murder — murder of a number of women. If they died, it was because they had no good reason to stay alive. The lives they lost were only half lives; consequently, the Whitechapel killer could only be half a murderer. And the killer himself was probably only half alive too. In that case, it was a case of quarter murder. Futility murdering stupidity and uselessness. Nietzsche had said that a whole nation was a detour to create a dozen great men…

Stein came back into the room. The tired look had gone. He said:

We have caught him.

Sorme sat up.

What!

Stein's eyes were alive with restrained excitement.

The murderer. He was caught an hour ago.

Sorme stared at him unbelievingly.

Who was it?

A Brixton labourer. He was the man who attacked the woman last night. His description was circulated, and a police car saw him trying to climb the dockyard wall. The woman identified him an hour ago.

Are you certain it's the murderer? Has he confessed?

No. In fact, he admits the attack last night, but says it was his first attempt.

Are the police quite sure it's the right man?

Quite sure. He had blacked his face with burnt cork. They found a sponge smeared with burnt cork in his pocket.

Sorme said, smiling:

Well, congratulations. I hope you've found the right man.

Stein said shrugging:

He may not be. Murderers are imitative. In the Kurten case, an idiot was caught in the act of attempted rape, and confessed to the murders. Unfortunately, he was not the killer. I could cite many cases where a murder has been imitated by other murderers… All the same, we must hope.

Sorme said dubiously:

Brixton's a helluva way from Whitechapel.

Stein smiled.

This man was born and brought up in Whitechapel. Probably he knows Whitechapel better than Brixton. Besides, he may have motives of revenge against women in Whitechapel.

Stein lifted his teacup and emptied it. He said, smiling:

Now we shall see if your theories about the murderer's mentality are accurate.

He put the cup back on the table, and picked up his hat.

I thank you for the tea. I shall hope to see you again before I return to Germany.

I hope so. You — er — don't feel interested in the old boy upstairs now? Stein said:

We shall remain interested, of course, until we are certain that this man is the murderer. But I intend to take a short rest now.

His smile was no longer tired. He said, politely:

I wish you good morning, and thank you.

Sorme shook his hand.

Don't mind if I don't come down?

Stein said firmly:

Not in the least. Goodbye.

Sorme listened to the steps descending the stairs, counting slowly up to fifty to make sure that Stein had left the house. Then he glanced in the mirror, caressed his unshaven chin with his fingers, and put on a jacket and overcoat.

Stein's visit left him with a feeling of suspicion; the news of the arrest had fallen out too neatly. It seemed prearranged. He turned off the gas fire, and made sure the window was fastened, then locked the door behind him.

Before he asked the question, he knew the answer would be negative. He stood, holding the receiver, contemplating with distaste the moisture that had condensed around the mouthpiece from the previous user. After a while, the girl returned:

The porter says that, as far as he knows, Mr Nunne didn't come back last night. I'll tell him you rang, shall I?

He walked along Camden High Street, uncertain what to do. A taxi cruised past, and for a moment he considered hailing it and going to the Kensington flat. Then the thought that Nunne might not be there either discouraged him. He stood, hesitating, at the corner of Crowndale Road, contemplating the boxes outside the post office. The sight of a bus labelled 'Farringdon Road' decided him; he jumped on to the platform before the lights changed. Relaxed on the upper deck, he noticed again the same sense of interior clarity that had come earlier in bed. A point of vitality stirred in him, imposing itself on the outline of St Pancras station, transforming the thought of trains into a sense of triumph.

The Hungarian priest was at the door of the hostel. He said immediately:

You want to see Father Carruthers?

If it's possible, please.

Yes? I don't know if he's resting.

It's very important.

The priest opened the door with a latchkey.

You will wait in there, please.

Thank you.

The formalities irritated him. He sank into the armchair beside the gas fire, then stood up again, tensing his shoulders with impatience. He glanced out of the door, and saw Robin Maunsell coming up the stairs. He withdrew his head immediately, wondering if Maunsell had seen him. The steps turned the corner, and went up the next flight. He smiled with relief. Almost immediately, the Hungarian priest came back.

Will you go up?

Thanks.

He pretended to be looking for his gloves on the armchair, to make sure Maunsell was out of sight. The priest said:

You have lost something?

Oh… no. They're here in my pocket…

He went up the stairs two at a time, at once impatient and cautious.

Father Carruthers said:

Good morning, Gerard. You're soon back.

Morning, father. Hope I'm not a nuisance.

The priest was in bed; he looked ill and tired. The fire in the grate was a mass of glowing coals; Sorme observed the contrast between the room temperature and the icy coldness of the priest's hand as he took it.

You're not a nuisance. But I'm afraid I'm not too well today. We shall have to make it brief.

OK, father. Briefly, then, Stein has just been to see me about Austin.

Was he quite frank with you?

Well, no. In fact, he hardly mentioned Austin at all. That's why I wanted to see you. He says the Whitechapel killer's been arrested.

When?

About an hour ago. The phone rang while he was with me. He claimed he'd come to talk about the old man in the room above… the one who tried to set the house on fire.

The priest said slowly:

I see. Well, what do you think?

I wonder if it's some sort of a trick.

Did he question you about Austin?

No. He hardly mentioned him.

But you believe he wasn't sincere about his reason for coming to see you?

No. I don't think the police really suspect the old man. He's too old. They might as well… they might as well suspect you. If you see what I mean…

Indeed, they might! Well, so you suppose they might still be interested in Austin?

Sorme said helplessly: I just don't know, father.

I'm inclined to feel they are. Have you seen him?

Well, that's another problem. Austin seems to have disappeared. He hasn't been home for twenty-four hours. Mind, he could be at the Kensington place.

Couldn't you phone?

He's not on the phone.

I see. And what about this man who has been arrested?

Some man who attacked a woman last night in Whitechapel. A Brixton labourer. He'd blacked his face, apparently.

Ah, really?

Have you heard of him, father?

The priest said:

I have. And I'm afraid it sounds as if you're right.

Why?

Franz mentioned him to me a few days ago. He said that a man was frightening women in Whitechapel by jumping out of doorways with a black face. The police don't really believe he's the murderer. And Franz most certainly doesn't.

Why?

Because a man who jumps out of doorways and frightens women sounds a very different proposition from a murderer. He's a sadist of a sort, of course… but not the kind the police want.

But this man attacked a woman, father. He caused serious head injuries, according to Stein. It was in a room in Whitechapel, and he escaped by jumping through the window.

Indeed? Ah…

Sorme stirred uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. He unbuttoned his overcoat; the heat was making him sweat. The priest said finally:

If you are sure he attacked a woman… perhaps I am wrong.

Stein said he'd confessed to the attack, but not to the other murders.

I see. Then it sounds as if he was being quite sincere. If he was trying to deceive you, he wouldn't have admitted that the man had not confessed to the previous murders.

You mean he'd either tell me he had, or wouldn't mention it at all?

I'm afraid it sounds like that.

A shiver passed over the skin of Sorme's back. He said:

Why afraid, father? Do you think Austin's the murderer?

The priest said:

From my knowledge of Austin, it seems unlikely.

Why?

Because… I have known Austin since he was a child. I should say, I have been acquainted with him since he was a child. And his mother has talked to me about him a great deal. Do you think he could commit a murder?

The question took Sorme by surprise. After a hesitation, he said doubtfully:

That's not easy to answer. In the sense you mean, no. He's not a ruffian, he's not callous… But… I can't explain.

Try to explain, Gerard.

Sorme pulled off the overcoat, and dropped it on the bed, then unbuttoned the jacket. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. He said slowly:

You see, father, it's like this. I met him at the Diaghilev exhibition, you know…

Yes. What has that to do with it?

Quite a lot, actually. You didn't see it, did you? No. Well — it impressed me, because… it was like a fairy tale. These old costumes, designs, soft music, scent — the same scent that Austin uses, incidentally — just like another world. Well, that's Austin's world, father, the world he wants to live in. He's not a very brilliant person. He wouldn't get much out of the writings of the saints or the Church fathers. But he wants to find an ideal world all the same… You remember, I told you the same thing about his basement flat?

Yes.

I think being alive exhausts him. He can't accept reality. I can understand him because I feel the same. The reality of the world batters him. It bullies him. So he wants to see it from some beautifully detached standpoint. That's why he's so theatrical. Instead of real slums, he wants a stage set that looks like slums. Instead of real despair and defeat, he wants tragic actors raving about it. He has to simplify everything…

I see your point. But this doesn't sound like the definition of a murderer to me.

He becomes the tragic actor himself, making a gesture of defiance. Don't you see, father. He dramatises his own self-disgust. If he committed a murder, he wouldn't be a real murderer. He'd be a tragic actor playing Macbeth.

The priest said:

I'm afraid you overestimate his need for self-dramatisation. I doubt whether it would extend to actual killing.

Sorme felt confused and involved, unable to capture the thread of insight. He said finally:

I dunno, father… It's all this feeling of wanting to impose yourself on the world. Murder's the ultimate taboo. In a certain mood, it could be a kind of suicide. I think that's how Austin feels. Unless he can dramatise it, the world seems unbearably alien. He wants to do something positive to justify his existence.

The priest's face clouded. He said:

I… see what you mean. All the same… I don't know. It doesn't strike me as likely.

No, and I agree, it's no final proof that Austin would commit murder…

You should see Austin… and perhaps you should warn him.

I thought you didn't want me to warn him?

Not openly, perhaps. On the other hand, it seems to me very probable that he is not guilty. In that case…

He broke off, staring at the eiderdown, his chin on his chest. Sorme was uncertain whether his attitude showed deep thought or simply fatigue. He stood up and crossed to the window, which was open about an inch at the top; the faint current of cool air was a relief. As he waited, the priest went on:

What you say about Austin may be true for yourself. I could imagine a certain type of man who needs a sense of moral purpose, who feels the world to be meaningless…

Sorme interrupted:

Austin once said something like that to me. He said he felt futile or meaningless… no, unintended; that was the word.

Did he? What else did he say?

Oh… something about feeling he ought not to be alive. He said if there was any justice in the world he'd've broken his neck or something. Mind, he was in a pretty low state that evening.

Unintended. I must admit, you surprise me. But it bears out what you say. But, as I was about to say… I can imagine that a man might feel a need to enter the order of good and evil, to escape a sense of futility. And I can imagine him committing a crime merely to prove to himself that he is capable of evil, and therefore not entirely… unintended. But I have never in my life come across such a case — except, perhaps, in juvenile delinquents.

Sorme said, shrugging:

The way you put it, I agree it sounds unlikely. But I'm not talking about conscious motives. I'm just saying that if Austin was the killer, I could understand. I mean, take Oliver Glasp… He's the same sort of person. I've seen a lot of Oliver over this past week, father, and I think I've got to know a lot about him. Well, I know he'd never suffer from any sort of strain if he believed in his own genius. He'd have a purpose then. As it is, he's got himself involved with some ten-year-old girl from a slum tenement. It gives him a sense of meaning from day to day, and that's what he needs to keep going. But he doesn't believe in his own reality enough to exist without something of the sort. Don't you see what I'm trying to say, father? Oliver needs people more than ideas — he's an emotional person. So when he's under strain, he gropes around for people. I need ideas more than people. When I rebel, it's a rebellion of ideas. But Austin's sensual as well as emotional. He needs a physical outlet for his rebellion — driving fast cars, flying an aeroplane. Doesn't it sound plausible?

He was carried away by the excitement of his own words; when he stopped, he experienced a feeling of guilt. Father Carruthers was listening with his head drooping, his eyes closed; he might have been asleep. Without opening his eyes, he said softly:

Yes, it sounds plausible.

Sorme said: I'm afraid I'm talking too much.

I'm sorry. I'd like to help you more. But I feel very tired.

Yes, absolutely, I'll go now.

Go and see Austin.

If I can find him!

Try at his Kensington flat. Take a taxi there.

All right. But I'll take a tube.

The priest said:

Open that top drawer behind you… no, the left one. There should be a plastic case there… Yes, thank you.

He opened the black wallet that Sorme had handed to him, and took out a pound note.

Take this and use it for a taxi.

No, really, father…

Take it. I have no use for money here — I spend my days in bed. Besides, you are doing an errand for me. I'd go if I could. Take it.

Sorme took the note unwillingly, and pushed it, folded, into his top pocket. He said:

Thank you, father. Shall I phone back to let you know?

No. If anything important happens, come back. But I shall sleep now.

All right, father. Thanks. I hope you get well soon.

Thank you, Gerard.

He let himself out of the front door. As he turned the corner, he met Robin Maunsell hurrying across the road. Maunsell said:

Well, Gerard, you're rather a stranger, aren't you? A stranger to me, I should say, because I hear that you're always popping in and out to Father Carruthers.

Sorme said embarrassedly:

How are you?

I'm very well. But what on earth's going on with you? Are the two of you planning a campaign to convert Austin Nunne?

Something like that, Sorme said, grinning.

Come in and have a cup of tea.

No, thanks, Robin. I'm just doing an errand for Father Carruthers.

Really? Are you coming back?

I expect so. Later in the day.

Well, I can see you're dying to go. Perhaps I'll see you later.

Sorme said untruthfully:

I'm just off for lunch. I'm pretty hungry. But I'll see you later…

All right.

As Sorme turned away, Maunsell said:

Give Austin my regards.

Sorme looked back in surprise, but Maunsell was already in the doorway.

He crossed Rosebery Avenue, walking towards Ludgate Circus, with the idea of finding a taxi in Holborn. His neck was still damp with sweat from the heat of the room, and his throat felt dry. For some reason, he felt no belief that Nunne would be in the Kensington flat. Nunne wouldn't be anywhere where he was known to go regularly if he was avoiding the police… The thought of the women's clothes came to him suddenly. At the time, Nunne's explanation had been inadequate. But his new suspicions provided no satisfactory hypothesis to explain them either.

In Fleet Street he turned into the bar of the first pub he saw. He ordered a pint of mild, and drank a half of it before the burning sensation went out of his throat. He grinned at the bartender, saying:

Ah, that's better.

From the next bar, someone called:

Cheerio, George!

Goodbye, Mr Payne.

Sormesaid:

Was that Bill Payne?

Yes, sir.

He hurried to the door of the pub, and saw Payne on the point of crossing the road. He called:

Hi, Bill!

The noise of traffic drowned his voice; as Payne was about to step off the pavement, he jumped forward and touched his arm. Payne said:

Hello, Gerard! What are you doing here?

Having a drink. Come and join me.

In there? Where were you? I didn't see you.

The bartender said:

You're soon back!

Payne said, grinning:

I planted my friend here to give me an excuse. What are you having, Gerard?

I've got one, thanks. Have one with me. What is it?

Usual, please, George. Let's go in next door. This wood's icy to the arse.

A fire was burning in the lounge bar; Payne carried his glass to the table that stood near it. He said:

Have you heard the news?

About the arrest? Yes.

Payne said with surprise:

Where'd you hear it?

From a police pathologist.

Starr?

No, Stein — the German doctor I know on the case. He came around this morning to follow up the business of the old man. They phoned him while he was with me.

Did they? You mean they told him the hunt was off?

Oh no. Just that the man had been arrested. Stein admitted it might be the wrong man. Why?

Well… surely it's obvious? He hasn't confessed to the murders…

Ah, then you haven't heard the latest. He's made a full confession since.

What! Confessed to what?

All the murders — except one of the women killed the other night.

Are you sure?

Quite sure. It came just before I left the office.

What did it say? Do you know the details?

Some of them. You know about the attack last night?

Yes.

Well, the police found charcoal marks on the woman's throat and hands. She was unconscious, of course. They started a fullscale murder hunt. He must have got into the dockyard somehow — down near Limehouse pier. And somebody spotted him as he tried to climb over the wall this morning. They say he's got a broken knee. He'd tried to clean the charcoal off his face, but there were still traces, and they found the sponge he'd been using in his pocket. They took him to Commercial Street police station and he denied the murders — although he admitted the attack last night. Then they took him to Scotland Yard, and he confessed the lot. So that's it!

Sorme found it difficult to conceal the cold feeling of relief that gave him a desire to laugh. He said:

So he's caught!

He's caught, Payne said.

Do they know anything about his motive?

No. But he's a bit of an idiot. Can't speak properly — has a hare lip — and he's been on probation for being involved in a robbery.

An idiot? That doesn't sound so good.

Why?

Stein told me that an idiot was arrested in the Dusseldorf case, and confessed to the murders. He wasn't the murderer.

I think the police must be fairly sure of themselves. They wouldn't announce his confession if they doubted it. Anyway, for the sake of the police I hope they've got the man.

So does everybody. But why did he wear charcoal last night? There was no sign of charcoal in the previous murders. And Stein told me they'd been after this bloke for a few weeks — he'd been jumping out of doorways and frightening women. That doesn't sound like the killer.

Payne said thoughtfully:

Perhaps you're right. That's a good point. I'll mention that to the chap who's doing the story. Anyway, why should he confess if he's not the killer?

Perhaps the police were rough with him. You said he'd got a broken knee. He wouldn't have much resistance, would he?

But the police wouldn't want him to confess if he wasn't the killer.

Sorme said, shrugging:

I don't know. It's only guesswork. I hope it's the right man. What's his name, by the way?

Oh… Bentley, Alfred Bentley. Lives in Brixton.

But he used to live in Whitechapel, Sorme said.

Did he? Are you sure?

That's what Stein told me.

I didn't know that. So he'd know the district well. Listen, Gerard, I'd better get back to the office. What's the name of this German, in case we want to contact him?

Stein. Franz Stein. And he's working with Macmurdo.

Right. Thanks a lot. I might ring you later. Let's meet for a drink.

All right. Be seeing you, Bill.

After Payne had gone, he finished his pint, staring into the fire. The excitement had been replaced by doubt. He replaced his glass on the counter, went into Fleet Street, and hailed a passing taxi.

When the taxi turned into Palace Gate, he asked the driver:

Would you mind waiting at the end of Canning Place? I shan't be long.

As he walked towards the house, he told himself he could return and dismiss the taxi if Nunne was in. He had no desire to encounter Vannet, and was afraid the taxi might attract his attention.

The area gate creaked open. The curtains behind the barred windows were drawn. He rang the bell and listened carefully. He could hear it ringing somewhere inside. There was no other sound. He rang again. After a wait of another half minute, he took an old envelope out of his pocket, scrawled a message on it and slipped it through the letterbox. Above his head, the front door opened. A man he had never seen before looked down at him. The man said:

Oh.

His head disappeared, and the front door closed again. Sorme decided to leave immediately, afraid that Vannet might appear. He felt better when the door of the taxi had closed behind him. He gave the driver his Camden Town address.

As he passed the telephone in the hall, he stopped and dialed Nunne's flat, knowing as he did so that it would be pointless. After a moment, the girl said:

I'm afraid there's still no reply, sir.

He groped through his pockets and found another four pennies. With his address book propped open on the coin box he dialed Caroline's number; a man's voice with a London accent answered.

'Old on a minute. I'll get 'er. 'Oo's it speakin'?

A moment later, Caroline's voice said:

Gerard! Hello, sweet!

Hello, pet. How are things?

Fine. What are you doing?

Nothing much. Have you heard the Whitechapel murderer's been caught?

Yes; it was on the radio just now. Isn't it exciting?

Terrific. How are you feeling?

Oh, all right, now. I've recovered.

Is anyone there with you?

No; daddy's gone upstairs.

When can you come over here again?

Not today, sweet, I'm afraid.

You doing something this evening?

No, but they don't like me to go into town on Sunday. They say I'm there too often. I could come tomorrow…

Good. Make it tomorrow night, then?

All right, darling. I'm longing to see you.

He went upstairs feeling curiously let down. The tension of the morning had aroused an anticipation in him. To spend the rest of the day alone seemed an anticlimax.

In his room he opened a tin of tomato soup, and ate it with bread and butter. He took a volume of Blake off the shelf and tried to read as he drank the hot soup. A few minutes later he returned the book to the shelf and took down The Return of Sherlock Holmes. This attempt was more successful; he read four stories before he became tired. It was now three o'clock. He remembered Miss Quincey's invitation, but felt no real desire to go there. He would have preferred spending the afternoon in bed with Caroline. He stretched and yawned, massaging his eyelids with his fingers, then stood up and looked out of the window. The day was grey and cold. He typed a note on a half sheet of quarto paper, then put on his coat and went downstairs, locking his door behind him. He propped the note against the telephone as he went out.

She looked pleased to see him.

Come and get warm. I've been expecting you.

Really? Why?

I just rang you up. The girl told me you'd left a telephone number, and when I asked for it it turned out to be mine?

He said, chuckling:

That must have been a pleasant surprise!

There was a coal fire burning in the sitting-room. The curtains were drawn, and the lamplight gave the room an atmosphere of warmth. He was suddenly glad he had come.

Where's Oliver today?

Oh… at home, I suppose. What did Brother Robbins think of him?

Oh… he thought he was a Communist. But he liked you.

Sorme said: Hmmm.

She asked, smiling:

You didn't like him much, did you?

Not much. Do you?

He's a very good man. He does a great deal of social work besides his work for us.

She saw Sorme's grimace as she said 'us', and coloured. She asked:

Why didn't you like Brother Robbins?

Sorme said:

I didn't dislike him particularly. But I can't imagine why you're mixed up with that bunch. I don't mind intelligently religious people. But anybody can see he's as crack-brained as a flat-earther.

She said, shrugging:

It's true he's not particularly intelligent. But he's kind-hearted, and that's the main thing.

I suppose so. But what's to stop you becoming a Catholic or a Baptist if that's all that matters? You'll find just as many kind people there, I expect.

I can tell you in one sentence. I can't stand churches.

No?

No. I don't know why. When I was a little girl, I used to be sick in church.

And is that the only reason you're a Jehovah's Witness?

Of course not. But it's the reason that I wasn't a member of any other congregation before I became a Witness.

But surely the Witnesses have a sort of a church — Kingdom Hall, or whatever they call it?

Yes.

Don't you go there?

Not often. Twice a year perhaps I go to prayer meetings at the houses of other members — and of course I hold them here.

Sorme looked at her face, lit by the flames, and became aware of her as a different personality; she seemed younger, and also weaker. A kind of understanding was forming in him.

But you didn't feel the same aversion for the Bible?

Oh no. At least, I did as a girl. Or I should say, I was indifferent to it. I could never understand why they had to say 'art' instead of 'are' and things like that. And once I got slapped by my nurse when she thought I was making fun of the Bible. I wanted to know why it was always talking about people 'arising'. 'He arose and went to the land of Uz.' I said it made it sound as if the ancient Hebrews were sitting down all the time, and it was quite an event when they stood up.

Sorme said, laughing:

You sound as if you had quite a sense of humour!

No. I was serious.

The telephone began to ring. She went out to answer it, and called a moment later:

It's for you.

He said:

Good. That'll be Austin.

No, it's Oliver.

Oliver!

He went to the phone and said:

Hello, Oliver.

Glasp's voice sounded muffled.

Listen, Gerard, can you help me? I'm in trouble.

What sort of trouble?

I'm in Commercial Street police station. I'm under arrest.

What the hell for?

Oh… it's about Christine. Her father's laid a complaint against me.

What's the charge?

Seducing a minor.

But… but that's insane! I mean… they can't have any evidence. They've only got to examine her to find it's nonsense.

Glasp said:

I know, but in the meantime I'm in gaol. And Christine's run away, so I shall probably be stuck here till they find her.

Blimey! What a bloody nuisance. Can't something be done?

Yes. You could get me out if you could lend me the twenty-five pounds bail. Or if you couldn't, I'm pretty sure Father Carruthers would.

Right. Just hold on. I'll be right over with the money. See you in an hour. Twenty-five pounds.

Thanks a lot, Gerard. I don't want to spend longer in this dump than I have to.

Miss Quincey came out of the kitchen, saying:

Twenty-five pounds? What does he want that for?

She was carrying a tea tray with a teapot on it.

Bail. He's in the Whitechapel police station.

What on earth for?

He's charged with seducing a minor. Have you got twenty-five pounds in cash here?

No… Seducing a minor?

It's nonsense, of course. Actually, it's some little girl he's taken an interest in. He thinks she has artistic talent. Her father's a habitual drunk and he's trying to cause trouble. The charge'll collapse as soon as she's been examined by a doctor… I wonder if the police would take a cheque?

I… I know someone who'd probably cash one. But how preposterous! Oliver really ought to be a little careful. Do you have to go immediately? Come and have a cup of tea first.

He followed her into the sitting-room. She said:

Have you got twenty-five pounds?

Well… not really. But Oliver thinks Father Carruthers could lend it to him.

The Catholic priest? But I doubt whether he'd have that much money in cash. I'd better lend it to him, I think.

That'd be very sweet of you. You'd get it back, of course.

I know someone who lives near here who could probably cash a cheque. But how silly of Oliver!

While he drank the tea, he outlined what Glasp had told him the night before. She listened gravely; when he spoke of the child posing she commented:

That was stupid!

He said:

I can understand Oliver's motive. He's a lonely person. He needs people.

She stood up.

I'm going to phone a solicitor friend of mine. He usually keeps some spare cash in the house for emergencies like this.

He drank another cup of tea while she phoned. She was speaking for a long time. He built up the fire, squatting on the rug, thinking: Why do all my friends seem to get involved in violence? And why do I loathe violence so much? Is it cowardice or laziness?

She said:

I've talked to my friend about it. I'm afraid Oliver is in rather a bad position. Even if the girl is still a virgin, they can accuse him of attempted rape. In that case, it all depends on the child's word. If there was any suggestion that he made advances to her while she was posing, he'd almost certainly go to prison.

Sorme shrugged, concealing his misgivings. He said:

That's all right. From what Oliver told me there couldn't be the faintest breath of such an idea.

I hope you're right. If you go down to Hampstead Heath station you'll find this solicitor's address just opposite. His name is Pettiford. I'll write his address down for you. He'll give you the twenty-five pounds. Will you come back here afterwards?

All right.

Here's the address. Go down East Heath Road as far as South End Green, and you can't miss it.

Glasp looked dishevelled and exhausted. He came into the office escorted by a policeman. He said:

Thank God you're here, Gerard.

Sorme was surprised by the warmth and gratitude of his smile. He said:

Sorry I'm late.

He asked the sergeant:

Can we go now?

Yers. But your friend'll have to stay where we can contact him. Otherwise you might lose your money.

Thank you, Sorme said automatically.

As they left the police station, a man approached them. Sorme noticed that Glasp shrank away nervously. The man thrust a sheet of paper into Sorme's hand, saying:

Take one…

Thank you.

One for your friend.

Sorme glanced at the duplicated sheet of foolscap as they crossed the road. It was headed: Justice for the people of Whitechapel? The message was short:

'The man who may be the killer of six women is now in the hands of the police. The idle rich and the dirty bourgeoisie hope that he will be declared insane, and they will pay "trick cyclists" to try to defeat the ends of justice. But it is the people of Whitechapel who have suffered, and the people of Whitechapel who should have the last say. Bentley should hang! If we stand firm, all the psychiatrists in the world won't get him off. Forewarned is forearmed!'

Sorme said:

What a bloody odd farrago! Why on earth should the idle rich want him declared insane?

Glasp screwed his sheet up and dropped it into the gutter, shrugging irritably. He said:

The world's full of people who should be behind bars — in a zoo! They're no better than animals.

Sorme dropped his own sheet of paper into a wastebin attached to the railings of the Wren church.

What do you intend to do now, Oliver? Gertrude says you can go and stay there if you like.

Glasp said sarcastically:

That's very kind of her.

She lent me the money.

Did she? Did you have to tell her about it?

I'm afraid I did…

Glasp shrugged ill-naturedly.

So long as she doesn't sick her Come-to-Jesus pals on to me.

But where do you intend to go now?

Where do you think? Back home.

And… would you rather I… left you now?

Why? Glasp said with surprise. He laughed suddenly, and laid his hand on Sorme's shoulder for a moment.

Sorry if I seem irritable. It's the bloody police, and that swine of a father… I'd take great pleasure in killing the bastard. When this is all over I'm going to consult a solicitor and see if I can't sue him for defamation of character…

How long have you been there?

In the police station? Since about nine this morning. Then they got hold of some senior copper to see about bail. You remember I told you about the fight I had with her father? Well, the same policeman was there today. So it lent colour to my story about his grudge.

But where's Christine?

I don't know. I haven't seen the father. I only gather that Christine's not to be found. She's probably hiding somewhere.

When did all this blow up?

Last night, I suppose.

But why? You told me he'd threatened to take her to a doctor before, and it had all blown over.

You can't tell with people like that. He's a drunk. Perhaps he had a quarrel with his wife, or somebody told him they'd seen Christine leaving my place. It could be anything.

You know he could accuse you of attempted seduction, even if the doctor reports she's still a virgin?

Glasp said:

So what? They've only got to ask Christine.

But… you didn't tell them about the posing?

No.

Do you think they know?

I don't expect so. Why should they? She wouldn't tell them.

But supposing she got upset and frightened? Children do, you know.

What if she did? So long as she told the truth, I've nothing to worry about.

No… I suppose so. You really need a solicitor.

I don't see why. It'll all be settled when they examine her.

When did she run away?

This morning. She's a silly kid… Last night her father told her he was going to take her to see a doctor this morning. Her mother's away, I think. So she slipped out early this morning. Naturally, he thinks she's got something to hide. So he went to the police.

But how could they arrest you without any evidence?

Because he laid a complaint. I think he told them she'd admitted something.

What! You mean that you'd…

Quite. He was probably drunk when he asked her. Perhaps he hurt her and made her shout anything to get away.

Sorme was surprised at the detachment in Glasp's voice; there was none of the rage he expected.

But in that case… you might be able to charge him with false accusation later. You ought to get a solicitor.

Glasp said, shrugging:

And pay him with bottle tops?

It wouldn't cost much. And I'm sure Father Carruthers or Gertrude would lend you the money…

I'll think about it, Glasp said.

Sorme felt he was trying to keep him quiet. He said:

All right. That's up to you.

They had arrived at Glasp's address in Durward Street. As he started to insert the key the door opened. Sorme had the impression that the old woman must have been hiding behind it. She said:

Oh, it's you. I thought you were in gaol.

Glasp leaned forward, and shouted in her ear:

No. It's all right now.

Oh, it's all right, is it? Why have they let you out?

I can't explain now, Glasp bellowed. He pushed into the front room and closed the front door behind them. The old woman shouted:

I can't have this sort of thing in my house. I'm only an old woman all on my own, but I can't have that sort of thing in my house.

Have the police been here? Glasp shouted.

The police? Yes, they've been here. You'll have to go. I can't have it…

Glasp turned to Sorme, saying quietly:

Go on upstairs while I explain to this bloody old cow…

As Sorme went up the uncarpeted stairs, smelling the familiar paraffin odour, he heard the old woman shouting:

I've never had trouble with the police before…

Glasp shouted back:

It's not my fault. I can explain…

He let himself into Glasp's room and closed the door. It was damp and cold. He found matches on the windowsill, and lit the oil stove and the gas ring. He found Glasp's kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the gas. A few minutes later Glasp came in. He said:

Those f-ing cops have been in here searching the place.

What? But surely they can't do that without a warrant? Did they have a warrant?

No. They just asked the old woman's permission. It's her house.

But it's your room. I'm sure they're not allowed to do that. You ought to get a solicitor.

Glasp sank on to the stool, warming his hands above the oil stove. He said gloomily:

The old bugger wants me to move out. That bloody father of Christine's!.. I'd like to kill him. Why can contemptible animals like that make such a mess of my life!

Never mind. It's just a farce… But why should they search your room? What would they expect to find?

Christine, of course.

Oh yes.

Glasp said bitterly:

Or maybe her body. I don't think they put anything past me.

He began to wander round the room, peering at canvases. He said suddenly:

Oh, Christ!

What is it?

This portrait of Christine… I'd forgotten it.

Sorme remembered in time that he was not supposed to have seen the picture. He crossed to Glasp, and looked at the portrait of the underfed child. Glasp had pulled several canvases forward to expose it; they leaned against his shin.

Do you think they saw it?

I don't know.

I doubt it. Why should they? If they were looking for her they wouldn't examine your pictures.

Glasp opened a cupboard and took out a large folder made of brown paper. He laid this on the bed and opened it. Sorme deliberately refrained from showing curiosity, although he caught a glimpse of a sketch of a naked child. He asked:

Is there any sign that they've seen it?

Glasp peered closely at the pages.

Not as far as I can see. But I wouldn't expect the police to leave fingermarks.

Glasp closed the album with an exclamation of disgust. He dropped on to the edge of the bed and sighed. His big hands hung loosely between his knees. He said between his teeth:

F-ing swine.

The kettle began to simmer. Sorme emptied the teapot into the sink and rinsed it with warm water. He found the tea on the shelf, in a packet with the top screwed round. While he made it, Glasp began to go around the room systematically, looking for signs of disturbance. He said at last:

They're bloody clever. They've left no traces.

Have some tea.

Glasp lay down on the bed, pushing the folder aside, and closed his eyes. With his bony face upturned to the ceiling, and the big hands resting limply on the coverlet, he looked like a corpse. Sorme said quietly:

Poor Oliver. I know just how it feels. Why can't things be simple and straightforward?

Glasp's chest heaved with a kind of laugh that was little more than an expulsion of breath. He said:

No, you're wrong. I don't want things simple. That's not me. I don't know what I want. If my life was simple, I'd be like a fish out of water. I once knew an actress like that. She had to manufacture complications in her life. All her love affairs had to be messy. If they went wrong, she was all right. If they went right, she felt there was something wrong.

I think you're doing yourself an injustice, Oliver.

Glasp sat up, saying tiredly:

Thank God for my friends. They never let me think the worst of myself.

Sorme noticed the bundle of wood that lay in the fire grate.

You ought to get yourself some coal, Oliver. You need a fire in here.

There is coal. It's outside the door. I was just making a fire when the police arrived.

Let me make one for you.

Glasp said:

Thanks, Gerard.

He took a gulp of the tea, then lay down on the bed again, his eyes closed. Sorme found a coal scuttle outside the door and a bucket containing ashes. He laid the fire and started it with paraffin; in a few minutes the flames were roaring up the chimney. He crouched over it. The cold of the room had penetrated his overcoat. Glasp was lying in his shirtsleeves, the collar unbuttoned.

Aren't you cold there, Oliver?

I… suppose I am.

Glasp seemed fascinated by the flames. He crossed the room and sat on the stool, leaning forward, the teacup between his hands.

It's good of you to bother with me like this, Gerard.

Not in the least.

I'd have been fixed if you hadn't come today.

That's OK. You'd do the same for me.

The paraffin flames began to die down, but the wood was burning well. Outside, the afternoon was turning dark. Seated in the wooden chair, Sorme reflected how dismally uncomfortable Glasp's room was. Glasp said:

I never made many friends.

Sorme said, shrugging:

Nor me.

What's the good of friends if they don't understand the problems that worry you? You've got to be able to talk to them. You, for instance… I could talk to you five minutes after I first met you. That's unusual.

Thanks.

Sorme felt slightly awkward about the compliment; he said:

I've got a theory about people. You and I are completely different types. I think too much, you feel too much. I lay too much emphasis on the mind, and you lay too much on the heart. Now some people lay too much on the body… Austin, for instance. When he gets repressed, he needs a physical outlet.

And what about you?

Oh, me. I try to think my way out of problems. I try to get detached from them. I don't like strong emotions much — I suspect them. That's why I don't feel too good at the moment about Austin.

Why? You don't feel any strong emotions about him, do you?

No. But he's stopped me from stagnating. I've become so absorbed in his problems that I've become quite detached from my own problems. That's all right… but it's not the right way to solve problems.

No? Why not?

As he spoke, Sorme became aware that his ideas reflected on Glasp; he repressed the misgiving, certain that Glasp would understand, anyway. He said:

I think it's a kind of weakness to get too involved in other people's lives. I once knew a girl who was the sort of person everybody told their troubles to. She gave the impression of being a very cool and calm sort of person, and people felt she was strong and sympathetic. When I got to know her pretty well, I found she had no ideas, no beliefs, no real self-confidence — in fact, she was a complete mess inside. She kept herself happy by worrying about other people's problems. She liked unhappy people — I suppose they made her feel superior… And when I meet people like Gertrude who go in for social work and converting people, I wonder if they're not doing the same thing.

Glasp said:

Does it matter?

Yes, it does. It matters if people are made of marshmallow. Very few people are real inside. They need people and distractions as a cripple needs crutches. Look at me. Two weeks ago I felt completely lost. I didn't like leaving my room because the street made me feel as if I didn't exist. London made me feel like an insect, and when I got back to my own room and tried to write I still felt like an insect. Then what happens? I go to this Diaghilev exhibition and meet Austin. And immediately I stop being an insect. But that's the wrong reason.

What does it matter what the reason is?

But it does matter. I should have outgrown Austin's world a long time ago. I only went to the Diaghilev exhibition out of a sentimental feeling about Nijinsky. Normally, I can't stick ballet. Last time I went to the ballet, it nearly gave me diarrhoea… a lot of bloody prancing queers and posturing women. I had to come out half way through. And yet that's Austin's world. He's a romantic. He's not real inside either. He needs unreality to stop him from feeling an insect.

Glasp said softly:

We all need something to lean on.

But we shouldn't. If a man could kill all his illusions, he'd become a god.

Or kill himself, Glasp said.

No… He'd be strong enough to live. People die because they don't know what life is.

Glasp said: Who does?

I do sometimes. Just occasionally. And I spend all my time trying to regain the insight.

And what was your insight like?

I… It was a feeling of acceptance. It happened once when I was on Hampstead Heath, looking down on London. I was thinking about all the lives and all the problems… and then suddenly I felt real. I saw other people's illusions, and my own illusions disappeared, and I felt real inside. I stopped wondering whether the world's ultimately good or evil. I felt that the world didn't matter a damn. What mattered was me, whether I saw it as good or evil. I suddenly felt as if I'd turned into a giant. I felt absurdly happy…

Glasp said:

I've never felt like that.

No?

He controlled the excitement his own words had aroused in him, waiting for Glasp to speak, watching the face that leaned into the firelight. Glasp spoke in a low voice, without emphasis. He said:

That's not how I feel… I suppose I need other people, as you say. For instance, this stupid business is bad for me because it makes me think about myself. And Christine's good for me because she makes me think about other people. Not just about her. She makes me realise that hundreds — thousands — are living in complete misery, never having a chance to feel these things you're talking about. They don't feel like giants or gods, and they don't feel like insects either. They're just ordinary men and women, and most of their lives is suffering or boredom.

He stopped speaking, and drank the remainder of the tea from his mug, then set it down on the green tiles that reflected the flames. The toe of his wornout shoe pushed a fragment of smoking coal into the grate. He said:

That's my vision… if it is a vision.

Sorme looked at him silently, realising the gulf that separated their ways of feeling, and understanding the futility of words. The coal collapsed over the burnt wood, sending up sparks. Glasp said abruptly:

What about going out for a meal? Are you hungry?

Do you know anywhere around here?

I know a place where we can get sausage, egg and chips for two bob.

Sorme said, standing up:

Good. Let's go.