Ritual in the Dark (8 page)

Tea for both of you?

Not for me. Ah’m just goin’. G’bye, m’dear.

Goodbye, Sorme said.

Payne brought the two teas over. He said:

What did he want?

Nothing. Just to talk.

Talk? Didn’t he put the bite on you?

Only for two bob.

I knew it. He usually tries to tap me when he sees me. That’s how I knew he’d bitten you already.

You look ill, Sorme said.

Payne’s face was bloodless. It was a thin face, with a clean-cut profile and cleft chin. When he was tired, his skin took on the greenish tint of the albumen of a boiled duck egg.

I am. I’m half dead with sleepiness. I’ve done two shifts running. The other man’s away with ‘flu.

Did you send a reporter?

Yes, he’s on his way there now. I told him the story came from the police. Tell me what happened.

Sorme repeated the story, beginning with the bottle-throwing incident. Payne drank his tea slowly, and listened without interrupting. He asked:

Do you know which hospital they took him to?

No idea.

Never mind. We can soon check on that. It sounds interesting. You say he was trying to destroy something—papers? That sounds as if the police might have a line on him. But I doubt whether he’s the man they want.

Why?

He was a small man, you say. The pathologist’s report says that the girl was stabbed by a tall man. They can tell from the angle of the wound.

I never read the papers. Tell me all you know about this case.

Nobody knows much. Only what the headlines say.

Yes, but I haven’t even read the headlines. I’d never heard of this murder case until the other day.

You ought to read the papers, you know, Gerard. No writer can afford not to.

I suppose so, Sorme said dubiously. He finished his tea and stared ruminatively at the caked sugar in the bottom. He said:

Tell me about these murders.

Haven’t you read anything at all?

Only about this girl on Friday. Where was she killed?

Somewhere in Whitechapel. I wasn’t on the newsdesk Friday night.

He was looking past Sorme’s head towards the door. He waved suddenly, calling: Martin.

He told Sorme: Here’s the man who can tell you. He was on one of the murders.

The tall, raincoated man waved from the counter. Payne moved across to the inner chair to make room for him as he crossed the room. He said:

You know Martin Mason, don’t you, Gerard?

I didn’t, Sorme said. How d’you do?

The man had a thin, beaky face, with bird-like eyes. The shoulders were narrow and stooped. He nodded briefly at Sorme, carefully placing his hat under the chair.

Martin, Gerard wants to know about these murders. Give him the gen.

Doesn’t he read the papers?

No, Sorme said patiently, not unless I can’t help it.

Nonconformist, eh? Mason said. He had a smooth, nasal voice, with no tone variation; the kind of voice that seems perfectly adapted for sneering.

Sorme smiled to disguise his distaste; he said:

I heard you were on one of these murders?

I was, Mason said, stirring his tea. What do you want to know about it?

Which one?

The third—Catherine Eddowes.

I thought it was the second, Payne said.

No. That was the Spanish dancer, Juanita Miller. Jimmy and Sam covered that. Superb woman.

What about the other case? Sorme said. Did you see her?

Yes, but only later, in the morgue. And she was all covered up. She wasn’t much to look at. Little, middle-aged woman.

Sorme asked: Was it a sex crime?

They can’t tell.

Why not?

She was a prostitute.

What about the other women?

Same, Mason said. He smiled, like a conjurer bringing off a trick. Sorme found his dislike concentrating on the blotchy, beak-like nose.

The Spanish girl wasn’t, Payne objected.

She wasn’t much better, Mason said, glaring. She slept with so many men they couldn’t even check up.

Tell me, Sorme said. Is it quite definite that they were all committed by the same man?

Not certain, Mason said. Juanita Miller and Catherine Eddowes were both knifed. But it wasn’t the same knife. The knife was found by the body in both cases. In one case a Boy Scout’s bowie-knife, in the other a little kitchen affair. But the really surprising feature is that the murderer must have got blood on him, yet he probably returned through London in the early hours of the morning.

Not so difficult, Payne said. London is fairly deserted then.

Sorme said: There could be three explanations of that. He might have been a local man, and not had far to go. He might have had a car. Or he might have carried a coat over his arm which he dropped while he killed the girl, and put it on afterwards to conceal the blood.

Oh, there are more explanations than that, Mason said. We published a letter from someone who thought he might have escaped through the sewers.

Impossible, Payne said.

I think so too, Mason said. But until they catch him, no one can know definitely, can they?

His eyes rested meditatively on Sorme. He asked abruptly, as if trying to take Sorme by surprise:

Why do you want to know?

Sorme glanced at Payne. Payne said:

It’s all right. He works for us.

It’s like that, is it? Mason said.

Not exactly. It’s just that. . . well, I’ve been drawn within their orbit, as it were.

He turned to Mason to explain:

The police tried to question an old man about the murders in the place where I live, and he barricaded himself in his room and set it on fire.

Have they any idea why?

No. I think he’s a little cracked.

Or he might not be. . . Mason said.

Oh, I think so.

You could be right. But I’ll tell you one thing. The police must have a pretty good reason for announcing that they think the four murders were committed by the same man. It’s just not good policy. It centres the public interest on the idea of the Killer at Large, and then people start writing letters to The Times and asking questions in Parliament about the efficiency of the police. They must have some reason for risking it.

What’s your theory? Payne asked.

That they have a good idea who the man is. And they want him to feel that the net is closing. To scare him into giving himself away.

Perhaps, Payne said.

Can you think of any other reason?

Payne said, shaking his head:

If they had an idea of who he was, they’d close the net quietly. They’d watch him and wait for him to try it again. Sexual killers always try it again.

Sorme said: This girl—the one you saw.

The middle-aged woman, you mean? Catherine Eddowes?

Yes. How was she killed?

I’ve told you. Knifed.

But how? Cut-throat, or stabbed in the heart, or what?

They counted nearly sixty wounds.

Mason smiled. He obviously took pleasure in Sorme’s shocked expression.

He must be a maniac! What about the other murders?

Mason drew deeply on his cigarette, smiling.

Less spectacular.

They need to be, Sorme said.

Mason turned to Payne:

Have you heard these rumours about Janet and Ken?

Which one? I heard about his wife screaming at Janet over the phone.

Sorme stood up.

I think I’ll go, Bill. You two want to talk shop.

OK, Gerard. I’ve got to get back in a minute anyway. We’ll probably be sending you a cheque soon.

That’d be useful, Sorme said. He shook hands with Mason. See you soon.

Bye-bye, Gerard.

He stopped at the counter to pay for the meal. Outside, the noise of the pneumatic drill was deafening. He unlocked the bicycle, and wheeled it on the pavement to Fleet Street. He stood there, hesitating whether to go towards the Aldwych or Blackfriars. Finally, remembering that his landlady might be in the house, he decided against returning to his room, and went towards Farringdon Street. His stomach felt watery and rebellious. It was the talk of murder. It had settled on his senses like a film of soot from a smoking lamp, coating them with a greyness of depression. He noticed also that he cycled with less confidence. The depression brought a sense of his body’s betrayal. He stared up Ludgate Hill at St Paul’s, thinking: London in November has no daylight. Only dusk. And London in July has too much daylight. Unreal, or too real.

The newsvendor’s placard read: SEARCH FOR MANIAC KILLER. He turned towards Rosebery Avenue. Why should I care? Poor sod probably a paranoiac. Bored and confused. Kills as a protest. Stop the world. I wanna get off.

*
  
*
  
*

The grey front of the Rosebery Avenue hostel had a pumice-stone quality that chilled the skin, like water. He rang the bell; behind him, the bicycle suddenly fell on to the pavement, the rear wheel spinning. He was leaning it against the wall again when the door was opened. He said:

Hi, Robin! How are you?

Gerard! Good heavens, what are you doing here?

The thin, damp hands clasped his. Robin Maunsell pulled him gently over the threshold.

I was just passing, Sorme said. Is it a bad time to call?

No, of course not. Do come in. Have you had lunch?

Yes, thanks.

How lovely to see you.

He peered into Sorme’s face, smiling. Sorme withdrew his hand, feeling the pleasure that he had experienced tensing and congealing. Maunsell threw open a glass-panelled door, and led the way into the room, the cassock round his feet making the gentle, swishing noise of a gown.

You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?

Thanks. Yes, I’d love one.

Light the fire while I go and see about it.

Sorme groped in his pocket for matches; finding none, he wandered automatically towards the bookcase and scanned the titles. All were volumes of theology by writers he had never heard of. The windows of the room were of frosted glass, and overlooked the street. Vague silhouettes of people rippled past.

Haven’t you lit the fire?

Sorry, I’ve no matches.

Oh, silly!

Maunsell produced matches from the pocket of his habit; kneeling, he lit the gas fire.

Let me take your overcoat. Do sit down. How are you? And how’s your disgraceful sex life?

Sorme said, grinning:

You take a brotherly interest in my sins.

Of course; I wouldn’t like to see you damned. But I dare say you’d like to be damned, wouldn’t you?

I am, Sorme said. We all are.

Oh, I hope not.

He sat in the armchair with prim suddenness, clasping his hands in his lap. Sorme said:

I think you commit my sins vicariously, Robin.

Oh dear no. I’d really absolutely loathe to live your sort of life, really! But do tell me. How’s—er. . . thingermerjig—the one you were going to bed with the last time I saw you?

Sorme stared at the fire; he said solemnly:

Dead. She died of tetanus on top of St Vitus’s dance.

Really? I’m sorry. . . Oh, but you’re joking! Aren’t you? No, be serious. If you don’t want to tell me about your love life, let’s talk of something else.

I came to talk of something else, as a matter of fact. Tell me about Father Carruthers.

Why? Where have you heard of him?

A friend told me about him. Chap called Austin Nunne. Do you know him?

No. There’s a Mrs Nunne who comes here. Perhaps he’s some relation?

Her son. Austin suggested I should talk to Father Carruthers. What do you think?

What about?

I’d just like to meet him, that’s all. He sounds interesting.

He is. Terribly clever. He’s written several books. He’s written a life of Chehov, and a book on Dante. He’s writing a book on Marcel at the moment.

Could I meet him, do you think?

Well, yes, it shouldn’t be difficult to arrange. But listen, will you promise me something? Well, never mind. . . I’ll go and see about that tea.

Sorme stopped himself from crossing to the bookshelf, knowing there was nothing to read. He was beginning to regret coming. He had forgotten how irritating Robin Maunsell could be. The idea of speaking to Father Carruthers had also lost its attraction, for some reason. He yawned.

The door opened, and a young priest looked in. He said:

Ah, excuse me. You are waiting for someone?

He spoke with a foreign accent that Sorme did not recognise.

I wanted to see Father Carruthers, Sorme said.

I think he is asleep. I will go and see.

Sorme started to say: Don’t bother. . . but the door closed again. A moment later, someone kicked the door. Sorme opened it for Maunsell, who carried a loaded tray.

Good boy. It’s lovely to see you again, Gerard. But you’ve got a terrible pallor. Have you been overworking?

Can you imagine me working?

Oh yes. You’re not the ornamental type at all. You ought to work. Why don’t you take a job?

Why should I?

You wouldn’t get so bored. And you do get bored, don’t you?

Yes, I get bored.

Then you should take a job.

Maunsell poured milk into the cups from the china jug, and sugared them.

Why should I take a job? All right, I get bored. What does that prove? That I don’t know what to do with my time. And what do you suggest? Waste it by working. It’s not logical. By the way, before I forget. . . someone popped his head round the door and asked me who I wanted to see. And I said Father Carruthers, and he went off to see. Priest with a foreign accent, very young.

Ah, Father Rakosi. He’s a Hungarian refugee. You are silly.

Anyway, he said Father Carruthers would be asleep.

I expect he will be. He doesn’t often get up, you know. He suffers from some obscure stomach complaint. But you ought not to have let Father Rakosi go off to see.

Why?

Well, I was going to see.

Oh, sorry. He’d gone before I could stop him. Would you pass the sugar, please?

Someone tapped on the door. The Hungarian priest came in again. He looked surprised to see Maunsell.

Excuse me. . . I thought you were waiting to see Father Carruthers?