Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER NINE

The girl behind the enquiries desk directed him to the bar. Miss Quincey was sitting alone in a basket armchair, reading a copy of Vogue. She looked up as soon as he came into the room; her smile was spontaneous and warm. It was good to be back with her again. She said:

I'm glad you came. I was beginning to worry. Is everything all right?

She took his hand as he bent over her, releasing it almost immediately. He said:

Not too bad, sweet. I'll get a drink. Will you have another?

No thanks. This is my second. I've just had lunch.

He brought his pint of bitter back to her table, and pulled a chair close to hers. He said:

It's lucky the police didn't come in here with me. They arrived about an hour after me.

They found Austin?

Yes. But it's all right. Don't be alarmed. I think it's going to be OK.

She glanced around the empty bar, then asked in a whisper:

Is it Austin?

He said noncommittally:

I'll talk about it outside. You ready to leave?

She nodded. He tilted the beer glass and took a long draught, almost emptying it. She asked:

Where is Austin now?

On his way to Scotland Yard. For questioning.

Have they a warrant for him?

No. And I don't think they will have. I've arranged to meet him for supper tonight.

She sipped her gin and orange; her hand was trembling slightly. He said:

Don't worry. He's probably one of fifty suspects they've questioned today. It doesn't mean a thing.

This seemed to reassure her. He finished the beer, and stood up. The barman said: Good afternoon, sir! as they went out.

Where did you park the car?

Over in the car park.

Neither of them spoke until the car had begun to pull out of the Leatherhead traffic on the Epsom road. He said:

Remind me to contact Caroline when we get back. I'm supposed to meet her for supper.

She ignored the words, staring straight ahead through the the windscreen. Then she asked:

What has happened to Austin?

For the first time, Sorme realised that he had not yet decided what to tell her. An instinctive desire to protect her made him say:

He'll be all right. He's in trouble, but not too much.

But… does he know about…?

The murders? He didn't tell me specifically. I think he was afraid to involve me, for my own sake. But I'm afraid he knows enough to get him into trouble. As an accessory…

Then he's not…

No. He's not the killer.

Are you sure?

Quite sure.

Thank God.

Her relief touched him, and made him feel guilty. She started to laugh, leaning forward; the car swerved, then straightened out. She said:

You don't know what a nightmare this past few hours has been.

He said sympathetically:

I can guess, sweet.

But I knew it couldn't be true. I know Austin's often a little foolish… but he could never do that.

The families of most murderers probably feel like that, you know.

But he's not a murderer. You said you…

No, he's not. But he may be in pretty bad trouble.

But why? Surely they aren't interested in anyone else?

They are. This murder hunt has turned the underworld upside down. An awful amount of dirt has been stirred up.

But what has he done? It can't be as serious as all that? His father can pay lawyers…

I hope it won't get to that stage. If he's sensible, he'll stay out of England for six months. Look, sweet, could you stop at the Post Office in Epsom? I'd better send Caroline a telegram. Do you know the address of this place she's at?

The Scottish woman said:

He's asleep at the moment. Can you come back at six?

Sorme said:

I'm afraid this is urgent. It's something he'll want to know immediately. It may be a matter of life and death.

She looked unimpressed.

I'm sorry. I can't disturb him when he's asleep.

He repressed the irritation that made him want to push her out of the way. The Hungarian priest came out of the vault behind him, saying politely:

Excuse me.

Sorme said:

Look, father. I've got to see Father Carruthers. It's urgent.

The priest glanced from Sorme to the Scotswoman; he looked embarrassed and doubtful. He asked:

And he is asleep?

The woman said:

And he can't be disturbed.

Father Rakosi asked anxiously:

Is it important?

Sorme took two paces back from the door, coming close to the priest. He said in a low voice:

It's about the Whitechapel murders. He asked me to let him know immediately anything happened.

The priest glanced at the woman, then said apologetically:

I think you'd better wait inside. I will see if he is awake.

The woman turned without another word, and walked off. Sorme followed the priest into the dark interior that smelt of polish and tidiness. The priest said:

You wait here, please.

Sorme stood by the frosted-glass windows, swearing under his breath about the Scotswoman. It was not her refusal that irritated him, but her hostility and the desire to obstruct. He thought: How dare she be hostile to me, the bitch? She doesn't know me. What makes people turn nasty like that? Is that a form of sadism?

The idea interested him; he sat in the chair, thinking about it. Sadism is inflicting pain. Does petty-mindedness qualify as sadism? The choice of stupidity rather than intelligence? But how do I understand Austin's? Inverted love…

The priest came back, he said quietly:

He is awake.

He turned and walked into the next room. Sorme hastened up the stairs and along the corridor, half expecting to be intercepted by the Scotswoman. The priest's door stood slightly ajar; he rapped with his knuckles and went in.

Father Carruthers was sitting up in bed, the plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders; his face looked tired and dazed. The room was colder than usual; the window was open.

Hello, father.

The priest said:

What has been happening?

Sorme closed the door carefully, and sat on the edge of the bed. He said:

Austin has been taken to the police station for questioning. There was another murder last night.

I heard about the murder. What do they want with Austin?

He sat up, pulling his body into a more comfortable position; Sorme leaned forward and stopped the pillow from slipping until the priest had adjusted himself. He said:

They suspect him of the murders.

Have you spoken to him?

Yes, father. I was there when the police arrived.

Do you think he might be guilty?

Sorme hesitated, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, the priest seemed too old and tired to burden with a knowledge of pain. As he waited, the priest pulled the blanket tighter round his shoulders, and sank deeper into the pillows. He said:

I take it your hesitation means that he is?

Sorme said:

Yes, father.

I'm sorry, the priest said.

Before he could go on, someone tapped on the door. It was the Scotswoman. Without looking at Sorme, she said:

Father, there's another gentleman downstairs to see you. It's the German doctor…

The priest looked at Sorme:

Would you like to see him?

Sorme said:

I don't mind, father. I can go.

Would you send him up, please?

The woman closed the door quietly. Sorme said:

This is a little too much like a coincidence…

You don't have to speak to him.

I've nothing to hide, father. But… you won't mention Austin, will you?

No. But if you're certain Austin's guilty, I'm afraid there's nothing any of us can do.

I know, father. But I've only got his word for it. And I don't intend to tell anybody — beside you — that he's guilty.

If the police have evidence…

They haven't any evidence.

The priest said:

We shall soon find out.

As he spoke, Stein came into the room. He looked dapper and healthy, swinging an umbrella. He showed no surprise on seeing Sorme, but smiled pleasantly and nodded. He tossed the umbrella on to the armchair, and removed his overcoat, saying:

How are you, Larry? You look better. And Mr Sorme. I'm glad to see you here.

The priest said:

This is an unusual hour to call, Franz.

I know. I would not have dreamed of interrupting you… but I saw our young friend enter. I was in the vaults when he arrived. I would like to speak to him… while he is with you.

Sorme asked:

How did you know I'd come?

I didn't, Stein said.

The priest said to Sorme:

Would you mind closing that window, please? And putting a little more coal on the fire?

Sorme crossed obediently to the window. The priest said:

Why do you want to speak to Gerard when I'm present, Franz?

Stein said:

I think he understands.

Sorme glanced at his face as he bent over the coal scuttle; the exhaustion of the previous day had vanished; he looked calm and sure of himself. Sorme said:

I'd rather you explained, doctor.

Very well. You know that your friend Austin is at present at Scotland Yard?

Yes.

You also know that he will probably stay at Scotland Yard until he goes to prison?

Sorme replaced the coal tongs on their hook. He asked:

Why?

Stein leaned forward; he said deliberately:

You know why. Because he is the man the police want for the Whitechapel murders.

Sorme sat down again. He said: Are you sure?

Stein glanced quickly at the priest, as if suspecting that he was backing Sorme in the deception. He said:

I am sure. And I think you are sure also.

Sorme decided to bluff; he stared Stein directly in the eyes, and said:

What I don't understand is: Why tell me about it? What can I do?

Stein held his stare; his eyes became penetrating and aggressive.

You were with him this morning.

Yes.

He felt relaxed and indifferent, waiting for Stein to make the moves, unwilling to help. Stein must have sensed something of this in his calmness. He said impatiently:

I think you fail to understand your position.

Sorme shrugged:

What is my position?

I will tell you. A man named Austin Nunne has inherited sadistic tendencies from his father's side of the family. He is sent to see a psychiatrist, who places his case history on report. A year later, he is suspected of killing a youth in Hamburg. He returns to England and becomes known in certain circles as a man of peculiar tastes. Finally, he murders a series of East End prostitutes, killing with increasing frequency. A week before the police finally come into the open with him, he makes your acquaintance and becomes infatuated with you. You are not homosexual; his frustration leads to more murders. Do I make the position clear to you?

Sorme said levelly:

Quite. If Austin is the killer, then I'm indirectly responsible?

Stein shook his head.

I am not saying that you are responsible, indirectly or otherwise. What I am saying is that you can help the police if you want to.

How?

Tell them, in detail, about your contacts with him in the past week.

Sorme said, shrugging:

I'll do that, willingly. But they won't find anything of interest. To begin with, I believe you're wrong in thinking Austin's infatuated with me. He's been inclined to make me a sort of father confessor. But what he's confessed hasn't been murder.

No? Then what?

Stuff about being bored, useless, futile, and all the rest. Secondly, if his sexual tastes are very sinister, he's taken care not to let me find out. He gives me the impression of glossing over many things… things about his sex life. But then, he knows I don't share his tastes; perhaps he doesn't want to obtrude them on me.

Stein said:

But you agree with me that it seems very likely that he is the murderer?

I… I wouldn't go so far as to deny it. But I don't think it very likely.

And yet when you began to defend a murderer to me yesterday…

The priest interrupted suddenly:

Franz, wouldn't it be better if you took Gerard to some other room to ask him these questions? I can't help, and I'd rather not be involved.

Stein said, with concern:

I apologise if we tire you, Larry. We…

The priest interrupted:

You don't tire me. But I suspect you want me to act as a witness, and I don't want to act as a witness. I'm too old to start appearing in courtrooms, and I don't want policemen taking statements from me.

Stein said politely:

I'm sorry, Larry. But you are wrong. I shall not ask you to act as a witness. I want you here to support me. Your friend will listen to you…

The priest said:

I don't understand…

Stein said earnestly:

Let me explain. I think Mr Sorme here knows that Austin Nunne is the man we want. I think he has suspected it for several days. I think he feels he owes loyalty to his friend, and has invented excuses for murder. I want you to tell him: there can be no excuse for murder…

The priest said tiredly:

I don't understand. You say the police are certain that Austin is the murderer. In that case, it's up to them to find evidence or get a confession. But even if Austin had confessed openly to Gerard, I don't see that would be of any use in court. It would be an unsupported testimony. If Gerard can help you and he wants to, well and good. But don't ask me to interfere.

Sorme said:

Look, Doctor Stein, let me explain what I feel. If Austin's guilty, I don't want to help convict him. But if he's innocent, I don't want to help him escape. I don't see why I should be dragged in at all.

Stein stabbed his forefinger at Sorme; he said:

You don't want to be involved! And supposing Nunne was released tomorrow — what do you suppose would happen? He would kill again.

Sorme said:

You are assuming that he is the killer.

You know he is the killer.

All right. Suppose for a moment he is the killer. Why should he kill again? He'd be the first suspect in every sexual murder committed in London for the next ten years. He'll feel a constant watch being kept on him. Do you think he'd kill under those circumstances?

Stein smiled faintly, and leaned back in his chair. He seemed to feel the conversation was getting somewhere at last.

All right. You are right. The police would watch him day and night, waiting for evidence. He would probably leave the country. Wherever he goes, the police know about him. He is really a man on the run. Sooner or later he will kill again. It is inevitable. Nervous tension, fear, a feeling of persecution. If he kills again, you will be responsible. Think carefully about this. He is your friend. But he is also a murderer. If he is convicted, he may be judged insane and sent to a criminal lunatic asylum. If he is released, he has two enemies to fight — his own impulse to kill, and the feeling of being constantly watched. Would he not be better in a mental home?

Stein spoke persuasively; Sorme was aware he was using all the force of his personality to charm. He began to regret that he had started to argue. It was difficult not to be persuaded. He averted his face, aware that his indecision was showing there. He shrugged, saying doubtfully:

I don't know.

Stein smiled suddenly.

Will you let me show you something?

Sorme glanced up at him.

What?

It would not take long.

Sorme looked at the priest. His eyes were closed; he seemed to be asleep. His white face had withdrawn from the situation. Sorme said:

All right. Where is it?

Stein stood up.

Wait here for me a moment, if you don't mind. I have a phone call to make. Then we can go.

He went out of the room. Sorme stood looking at the door, wondering if he was standing outside, listening. After a moment, he went to the door and opened it softly. There was no one in the passageway.

When he turned round again, the priest was looking at him. He smiled embarrassedly saying:

I don't entirely trust him, father.

He is honest.

Is he? What do you think he wants to show me?

The body, perhaps. I don't know.

Sorme said, with disgust:

I hope not!

A strange excitement stirred his stomach and loins. He sat in the chair Stein had vacated. He said:

I'm sorry to put you in this position, father.

It is your problem, Gerard.

But — you see how I feel? I can't betray Austin, no matter what he's done. Even if what Stein says is true — that Austin would be better off in Broadmoor…

You feel you owe him too much loyalty?

No, it's not that. I talked to him this morning. He's not insane. He's like me — he has problems that need all his efforts to solve them. He's a free man, father. And it's only in this past week that I've come to realise the meaning of freedom. You see, father, I'm certain of one thing: Austin did whatever he did out of a need for freedom. He told me this morning that he thinks he's been subconsciously driving his life towards a state of crisis. You heard what Stein said? He inherited sadism from his father's side of the family. God knows what else he inherited. He's had a life that's made him neurotic. He feels he's in a prison and he has the courage to do something desperate to smash his way out of it. I know it's wrong to kill — but it's done now. It's in the past. If he gets out of this, he'll know more about the meaning of freedom. Don't you see? He's fighting a battle against himself as well as against society. Why should I help society? I sympathise too much.

The priest said:

There may be some truth in that, Gerard. But don't identify yourself too closely with Austin.

But that's just it, father. I can identify myself with him. The judges who condemn him wouldn't understand. They've got to condemn him because society has to go on somehow. But I can't cooperate. This man Stein is persuasive. He's plausible. But so was Pontius Pilate. He belongs to the world. He doesn't understand…

The priest said softly:

Be careful, Gerard.

Why, father?

You think Austin is made of the stuff that saints and martyrs are made of — the holy obsession. You may be wrong. He may only be…

The door opened, and Stein came back into the room. He said:

I am sorry. I should have knocked. Am I interrupting?

The priest said:

No; come in, Franz.

Stein said:

If Mr Sorme is ready, we need not disturb you.

Sorme stood up.

I'm ready.

Stein said:

I may see you later, Larry. Try to get some sleep.

Thank you, Franz. And Gerard… if you want to come back, I shall be glad to see you.

Thanks, father.

Goodbye, Larry. I may be back.

In the taxi, Stein looked out of the window without speaking. Sorme asked him finally:

What makes you so certain that Austin's your man?

Stein turned to him, smiling.

His case report.

From the psychiatrist, you mean?

Yes.

What did it say?

A great many things. But one of them was this. When Austin was thirteen, he was expelled from his private school for being the ringleader in an affair of bullying that led to the death of a boy. He was not directly responsible — the boy died of brain fever — but Austin was guilty, nevertheless. Immediately afterwards, he experienced a religious conversion. He begged his family to send him to a monastery as a novice. They refused, but they engaged some kind of clergyman as his tutor.

Stein sat back, staring at Sorme from under the bushy eyebrows. The shadows in the taxi made his face look as if it had been cut out of rock. Sorme said doubtfully:

I don't quite understand.

No? Then perhaps you will understand this. After the murder of a male prostitute named Grans in a Hamburg rooming-house Austin entered an Alsace monastery, where he stayed for about three months. At the end of the period, a neighbouring haystack caught fire. Austin was among the monks who attempted to stop the fire from spreading. The next day he left the monastery and returned to England.

I… I don't see what the haystack has to do with it.

No? Peter Kurten was a pyromaniac. He liked setting fire to things — especially haystacks. The sight of fire acts as a stimulant to many sadists.

You're trying to tell me… that Austin's a kind of split personality who bounces from murder to religion?

I think it possible.

What else did the report say?

Nothing that would interest you.

Mother-fixation stuff?

Stein smiled.

Yes. Mother-fixation stuff.

The taxi stopped at the traffic lights outside Aldgate East station. Sorme said:

Are we going to the police station?

No. To the London Hospital.

Why?

Stein said:

I want you to see the woman who was killed last night.

Why?

You should understand what you are condoning.

Sorme started to speak then changed his mind. As the taxi passed the market stalls at the end of Vallance Road, he recognised Glasp buying something in a brown-paper bag. He turned and stared through the blue glass of the rear window, but another car blocked the view. He had thought he saw a young girl standing with Glasp. A moment later the taxi stopped outside the Whitechapel tube. Stein climbed out, and paid the driver. Sorme stood on the pavement, craning to catch another sight of Glasp. Stein said:

Are you ready?

Sorme said apologetically:

I thought I saw a friend…

They crossed the road with a crowd of pedestrians. A sense of coldness invaded Sorme's chest and diffused to his stomach. Noting the confidence in Stein's manner, he prepared himself for a shock that would unbalance him. A bloated face formed in his memory, the lips blackened, a scarf knotted tightly around the throat; it was a photograph he had seen in Nunne's volume of medical jurisprudence. Walking beside Stein across the grounds of the hospital, he found it difficult to suppress a feeling of sickness; his heart was pounding unpleasantly, driving the fever from his throat and the lobes of his ears.

A uniformed policeman stood at the bottom of the concrete steps; he smiled at Stein and nodded. His greeting seemed somehow out of place there, like an executioner's formal: 'I hope everything has been satisfactory, sir?' Stein went ahead through the green door, holding it open for Sorme. The familiar iodoform smell came out to him, bringing an immediate comfort. Sorme heard his voice asking:

Why did they bring her here?

The pathologist wants to make a careful examination. The police mortuary is too far.

The room was empty; white gowns hung from the pegs on the wall. There were only two stone slabs in it. Both were covered with white cloths that concealed human outlines. Stein wasted no time on theatrical effects. He pulled back the sheet from the nearest slab, saying:

I want you to look at this.

Sorme moved closer to look. The first impression of horror disappeared immediately; it was produced by the sight of the hair clotted with blood. It was not a human being on the slab; he could feel only the slight, stomach-gripping disgust of the smell of a butcher's shop. Feeling the need to speak, he said:

This is what pathologists refer to as 'the remains'.

There was no resemblance to living humanity, although the human shape was plain enough. It was as impersonal as a half finished model in a sculptor's studio, or the face of the mummy in the stone coffin in the British Museum. The gashes in the face had removed any possibility of expression. He could have made an inventory, as precise and detached as a pathologist's report on a post-mortem. It was impossible to make the imaginative leap and envisage someone doing this to a living body. It was too dead; it had never been alive. After he had stared at it for about half a minute, it was already meaningless. He observed instead the thin plastic cover between the remains and the white sheet, protecting the sheet from bloodstains.

Stein said:

How do you feel?

I don't understand. What am I supposed to feel?

Stein said quietly:

At this time yesterday, you could have met this girl in the street.

Sorme looked at the broken flesh, and said:

I know you're right. But I can't believe it all the same.

He looked up, and met Stein's eyes; there was disappointment there. He said:

I know what you want me to say. That there's a tremendous difference between theoretical approval of a crime and the actual commission. I know that. But what's the difference?

He was about to say 'What's the difference whether I approve of Austin's crimes or not?', then stopped himself. Instead, he pointed to the other slab.

What's under there?

Stein said shortly:

A woman.

May I see?

Without waiting for permission, he lifted the sheet that covered the upper half of the body. He had half expected to find a detective making a note of their conversation. The sight of charred flesh was a shock. He asked:

What happened to him… her?

The sight of the breasts corrected his mistake. They might have been carved out of ebony.

She was burnt, Stein said. Her husband threw a paraffin lamp at her.

Why?

Stein shrugged:

I don't know why. They had a quarrel. Probably he was drunk.

Who was she?

I don't know. I only heard what they said when they brought her in this morning. She is a married woman with three children.

How old was she?

In her mid-twenties. Excuse me a moment. I shall return.

Certainly.

He was glad to be left alone. The sight of the corpse produced no revulsion or horror; only a recognition of humanity. He pulled back the sheet from the whole body, and stared at it. It was too obviously and recognisably the body of a young woman. Where the charred flesh came to an end, the skin was burnt and raw. Fragments of clothing still adhered to her legs and arms. The fascination was one of pity and kinship. It might have been Gertrude Quincey or Caroline. The flesh had once been caressed; the body had carried children. He felt the stirring of a consuming curiosity about her. Why was she dead? Who was she? There was an absurdity in her death. How could twenty-five years as a human being lead inevitably to a mortuary slab, the breasts and smooth belly carbonised out of relevance to life? The belly and thighs were well shaped. If she had been alive, sleeping, he would have felt the movement of desire: its failure symbolised the absurdity of her death.

Stein came back into the room. He came and stood beside Sorme, then pulled the sheet back over the body.

Sorme said:

You are a romantic.

He adjusted the sheet over the other slab. Sorme followed him to the door. Before he opened it, Stein said:

Think about it. Which is more important. Loyalty, or… that?

Sorme said gravely:

I agree with you. But… there's nothing I can do.

Stein's eyes, as hard as dry ice, were trying to bore into his own, to force an admission. He said:

If you wanted, you could do a great deal.

Sorme shrugged.

If I wanted.

Stein asked coldly:

What do you mean?

Sorme said:

Would you answer me a question, doctor?

Well?

Did you support Hitler during the war?

Stein was taken by surprise; the eyes went out of focus for a moment, then recovered. He said:

Yes. Like seventy million other Germans.

Sorme said:

But you were a member of the Party. You were also a doctor. You must have had some idea of what was happening in places like Auschwitz and Belsen.

The surprise was replaced by irritation, which was controlled immediately. Stein said stiffly:

I fail to understand the point you are trying to make.

Do you, doctor?

You are suggesting that if I condoned Hitler's crimes, I should also condone Austin's?

No. But I can't understand why you should regard them as so dissimilar.

Stein said, with a touch of harshness:

It is untrue that I condoned Belsen and Auschwitz. We heard rumours of them — many Germans did. But we preferred to disbelieve them. There was nothing we could have done in any case. Nevertheless, Hitler's crimes and Austin's were different. Hitler was a political idealist. He may have been wrong, but he was not a sadist. Sexual killers were executed in Nazi Germany as they were in England.

But why do you want to catch the Whitechapel killer?

Because I have a responsibility to society. And as a doctor I have a responsibility to humanity. Remember this: Even Hitler thought he was serving humanity by exterminating the Jews. The Whitechapel murderer kills to gratify a personal lust. He knows he is serving nobody but himself.

Sorme said mildly:

He manages to do a great deal less damage than Hitler.

That is beside the point.

Sorme said:

Then let me make my point quite clear. Father Carruthers told me you became a Nazi in nineteen thirty-three. You must have known about the methods Hitler was using — all Europe did. But you didn't feel a duty to have Hitler arrested, or even to leave the Party. Well, you tell me that if Austin is the killer, I ought to help to condemn him, as a matter of principle. I'd just like to know how your principles condone Hitler and condemn Austin. If I'm being impertinent, I apologise. But I'm afraid I can't follow your logic.

Stein said irritably:

What you say is absurd. It is untrue that I condoned the concentration camps. But even if I had, it would not be a reason for you to condone sexual murder.

Sorme said:

Perhaps I don't condone it. Perhaps I just happen to feel as you did about Hitler's methods — that I just don't want to do anything about it.

Stein turned away, shrugging. He said:

In that case, I hope you are prepared to face the consequences of being an accessory.

He walked out of the door before Sorme could answer. Sorme followed him down the steps, closing the door behind him. He was not sorry that Stein was annoyed; it saved further argument.

Halfway across the yard he stopped, pretending to look for something in his pockets. Stein halted at the gates of the hospital and looked back; seeing that Sorme was ten paces behind him, he shrugged and walked on. When he was out of sight, Sorme followed slowly. In the Whitechapel Road, he peered into the crowd, and saw the German standing in front of a shop window, waiting. As the traffic lights changed to red, he hurried across the road with a crowd of pedestrians, then turned in the opposite direction from Stein, and walked quickly along the pavement. At the corner of Brady Street he looked back. Stein was no longer visible; a moment later, he caught a glimpse of him signalling a taxi to stop. He stood there watching, concealed by the corner, until the taxi started in the direction of the City. Then he walked along Brady Street and turned into Durward Street.

He rang the doorbell several times, then, suspecting it was out of order, rapped with his knuckles. After another wait, he tried pushing the door. It swung open, and he found himself looking into the face of Glasp's landlady. She said:

Oh, it's you. He's not here any more.

Not here? Sorme said. He remembered she was deaf, and leaned forward to ask: Where is he?

You needn't shout. He's left. Just gone.

Has he left any address?

No. He says he'll send it on.

What about his pictures?

They're still there — upstairs. He's says he'll collect them. I 'spect he doesn't want the police to know where he's gone to.

She turned her back on him, and closed the door.

For a moment, he felt an irritable rage at her rudeness, and had to restrain a desire to kick the door. He stood still, letting it subside, then stepped back into the roadway and looked up at Glasp's window, suspecting that Glasp might have instructed the woman to turn him away, and might be peering out to see if he had gone. There was no one visible; he turned away, and walked off towards Aldgate. He had only walked a few yards when someone behind him said:

Excuse me…

He found himself looking down into the face of a girl of about twelve years old. She was muffled in a brown overcoat, with the collar around her chin. She said:

Were you looking for Oliver Glasp?

Yes. Do you know where he is?

She shook her head.

No. I wanted to see him. Do you think he's really left?

He asked her curiously:

Are you Christine?

She nodded, and her face reddened. He looked down at her with increased interest. Her hair was short and boyish, but the face was undeniably delicate and attractive. It looked pink, as if she had been running, and the flush increased its attractiveness. The eyes were wide and brown in the oval face. Sorme said:

I saw him less than an hour ago just around the corner, so he can't be far away.

But his landlady says he's gone away.

It looks like it.

Where do you think he might have gone to?

That's more than I can guess.

Her eyes became troubled.

Why do you think he went?

Sorme felt suddenly guilty about the brevity of his replies; it was obvious that she suspected him of disliking her. He said:

Oliver's a strange man. I think he was pretty angry and upset. I saw him this morning, and he seemed miserable.

She lowered her eyes.

About me?

I think so.

He could read in her expression the curiosity about how much he knew. Her face was disturbingly open, reflecting her emotions quite clearly. He could understand suddenly why Glasp had been so upset at the notion that she was capable of deception. She asked:

Did he tell you about it?

Yes.

She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other; he noticed that she was wearing ankle socks. A stirring of curtain over her shoulder attracted his attention; it was Glasp's landlady peering out of the window at them. Sorme said:

Which way are you walking?

She said miserably:

Any way.

Walk along here with me.

She fell into step beside him; they walked towards the ruined theatre at the other end of the street. Neither spoke while they were in Durward Street. She asked finally:

Do you think he'll come back?

I don't know. I hope so. But it might be a long time.

They stopped on the corner of Vallance Road. A kind of baffled indignation came into her eyes as she looked at him. She said:

But he can't just go like that. He'd say goodbye to me… wouldn't he?:

Sorme said awkwardly:

I expect he'll be back.

Perhaps… perhaps he thinks he can't see me.

Sorme fed the hope that came up to him in her face.

I expect that's the reason. Now your parents know…

But that's all right now! Mum had it out with dad and made him agree to let Oliver come round to visit us. She said she'd leave him if he didn't stop tormenting everybody…

Her face was pink again, this time with excitement. He noticed that she spoke carefully and well, but the indignation strengthened the London accent. He said soothingly:

Probably he'll write to you.

Do you think he will? If you see him, make him write to me. I don't want him to go away. It's silly. It's all right now. Tell him everything's all right, won't you?

If I see him, I'll tell him. But he might not get in touch with me either.

She said with exasperation:

Isn't he silly! Why does he want to run away like that?

He shrugged and started to make some vague reply. She interrupted:

Is he trying to get away from you too?

He smiled at her penetration.

I think he's trying to get away from everybody at the moment. He's in one of his moods.

Do they last long?

He felt no inclination to admit that he had had no previous experience of them. He said:

Oh, not too long. He's sure to get in touch with one of his friends sooner or later.

But that's not me. If he doesn't want to see me, it's no good…

But I'll make sure he contacts you.

She stared at him hopefully.

How?

Oh… I'll tell him to.

But he might not want to.

All right. I'll send you his address, and you can write to him yourself.

Will you? Would you do that? I'm sure it'd be all right if I could talk to him.

Give me your address.

He took out his notebook, and wrote it down as she dictated it. She asked:

Do you think you'll see him soon?

I don't know. I'm afraid it might not be for a long time.

Oh dear. I wish I knew why he's gone.

He said uncomfortably:

I think he was a bit hurt…

Her eyes regarded him doubtfully for a moment; then she said:

About Tommy… My cousin?

He nodded. She said:

I thought they'd tell him about that. But tell him it wasn't my fault. Please tell him that. Make him understand, won't you?

I'll try to.

Oh please… I meant to tell him about it.

He said hastily:

Oh, it wasn't just that. I think all the trouble with your father and the police worried him…

She was tapping the point of her shoe on the pavement, then swinging it in short arcs around the other foot. He said uncomfortably:

I'm afraid I'd better go…

She said sadly:

I suppose I might not see him again.

He felt a flash of something like jealousy, and pulled the belt on his raincoat tighter to shake off the feeling. He said:

No. You'll see him again.

But perhaps not for a long time.

He asked:

Will it make much difference to you?

She nodded seriously.

Of course. I liked talking to him. He knew such a lot… and he was nice. And I liked to go there.

She looked up at him, and added, with sudden candour:

I don't like my brothers and sisters much.

He thrust his hands deep into the raincoat pockets, smiling at her. He said:

You're lucky you haven't got into more trouble.

I know. But it's worth it. I don't mind getting into trouble… But I hate being bored.

He said:

If you get too bored, come and see me.

Immediately, he regretted the impulse that had made him say it, ashamed to have said it to the girl who was so important to Glasp. It was a feeling of betraying Glasp. The girl asked:

Are you a painter?

No.

What then?

A writer.

Do you live around here?

I'm afraid not. I live in Camden Town.

Is that a long way?

Not very far.

Oliver came for supper, didn't he?

That's right.

She said doubtfully:

I'd like to come. But I wouldn't have to let dad know.

He said, smiling:

I hope you're not in the habit of accepting invitations to visit strange men?

Oh no. But you're not strange.

Thank you. But you don't even know my name.

What is it?

Gerard.

Yes. I know about you. Oliver told me.

He scrawled his address and telephone number on a page of his notebook, and tore it out.

Look, take this. If you want to come, you can phone me. Do you know how to make a phone call?

She said, with a touch of scorn:

Of course.

She folded the paper carefully, and stowed it away somewhere inside the coat. He said:

I'm afraid I'll have to go now. Goodbye, Christine.

Can I come on Saturday?

Well… if you want to. Perhaps I'd better meet you somewhere. Will you phone me before then?

All right.

Will you have money for the telephone?

She nodded vigorously. He said:

Don't be too upset about Oliver.

No.

Goodbye, Christine.

Goodbye.

He walked towards the Aldgate tube, thinking: What an extraordinary child. What am I going to do with her? Could take her to Gertrude's for tea, I suppose. Then get Gertrude to run her back in the car. My God, that damn' fool Oliver!..

His mind came back to Nunne with a sudden shock; for the past ten minutes, he had completely forgotten about him. For a moment, his mind held simultaneously the face of the child, and the unrecognisable face of the woman in the morgue. Disgust lurched from his stomach like a vapour of stagnation, and was succeeded by a heavy sense of pity and sadness. He found himself saying aloud:

Poor Christine…