Ritual in the Dark

  But he wouldn’t be allowed to park for long in the main street.

  It isn’t the main street—it was in the side street.

  How far is the cottage?

  About two miles on the other side.

  Have you been there before?

  Once. He took me for a trip in the aeroplane.

  Sorme said:

  I suppose he could be in Paris by this time.

  I doubt it. He wouldn’t leave his car outside a hotel if he intended to leave the country.

  He looked at her with admiration.

  You’d make a good detective!

  She smiled without replying. The car turned left into a side lane with a signpost that said ‘No Through Road’. After another five hundred yards, she turned left again, and braked to a stop.

  You’ll have to walk from here. I shan’t be able to turn if I go any further.

  Where is it?

  Beyond those trees. When you reach the trees, you’ll see the cottage. It stands on its own.

  And what will you do?

  I’ll wait for twenty minutes.

  O.k. If I haven’t returned by then, you’ll know I’ve found Austin. Where will you be?

  Back in the hotel. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk back. It’s called The Crown, and it’s in the phone book in case you want to phone me.

  That’s fine. Bye-bye, sweet.

  He leaned across and kissed her. The sensation was strange; since the police arrived he had ceased to feel like her lover. Her lips felt cold and tight.

  He climbed over the stile, and heard the car backing into the lane. The clump of trees was a hundred yards away, on the edge of the field. Beyond them, he could see nothing but the sky. In spite of the sunlight, the earth of the ploughed field looked hard and frozen. He took the path that ran beside the hedge, and walked quickly, his hands in his pockets. After the heat of the car, the wind was cold.

  There was a pond in the midst of the trees; its brown water looked lifeless; a broken tree jutted from the middle like an arm. Standing on its edge, he could see the cottage in the corner of the next field. He experienced a sense of depression and foreboding. He stood there for several minutes, hoping to see some sign of life. There was no smoke rising from the chimney. Two windows faced towards the pond, but their curtains appeared to be drawn.

  It was cold among the trees. He glanced at his watch, and remembered that Miss Quincey would be waiting in the car. He set out briskly across the field, hurrying to reach the cottage. He was aware of a desire to find it empty, to hurry back to the wait­ing car and to London.

  The gate of the small front garden stood open. The walls of the cottage had been whitewashed, but winter rain had cut channels in it, leaving rust deposits from the corrugated iron roof. Outside the back door, a water-butt was full to overflowing.

  He banged the rusty knocker, calling: Austin!

  When there was no movement from inside, he shouted:

  Is anybody home?

  He was suddenly struck by the thought that the place might be under observation by the police. He turned and stared at the clump of trees he had just left, at the bare hedges, and the hay­stack covered with tarpaulin in the other corner of the field. As he looked, he heard a movement inside the door. He looked round, and found Nunne’s eyes looking at him from the letter-slit, under the knocker. He stared back, too startled for a moment to speak. The flap closed and a chain rattled; several bolts moved back. The door opened, and Nunne stood there in his shirt-sleeves. His face looked unshaven and exhausted. Sorme said:

  Hello, Austin.

  Nunne smiled unsteadily; a smell of whisky came to Sorme. He said:

  Come in, dear boy. Childe Roland to the dark tower came. . . .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was as if they were meeting for the first time. In the past two days, Nunne had ceased to strike him as a reality. His relief expressed itself as a desire to laugh. He said:

  It’s good to see you, Austin!

  Thank you, Gerard. Your face is also welcome.

  The small kitchen smelt of damp; behind the door stood a Calor-gas cylinder with the seal intact. The sink, stove and washing machine were all obviously new. On the draining-board stood three empty whisky bottles.

  Which way?

  To your left.

  The room looked like a smaller version of the Albany Street flat. The carpet was the same egg-shell blue; the walls were dis­tempered in cream and navy blue. It was stiflingly hot; a paraffin heater with a hemisphere of glowing wires burned in the grate; the room was lit by two paraffin lamps with tall chimneys. The room had an appearance of disorder; there was a great deal of cigarette ash on the carpet and shells of monkey-nuts. On the table were the remains of a meal, and two whisky bottles, both full. Nunne threw a newspaper and some books off a chair, and said:

  Sit down.

  Thanks. Mind if I take my coat off?

  How did you get here?

  Gertrude brought me.

  Where is she?

  She’s gone back to the hotel.

  Nunne dropped into an armchair, and picked up a glass from the table. He said:

  Help yourself to whisky. Open a fresh bottle. Why did you decide to come?

  Sorme tore the lead foil off a bottle of White Horse, and poured himself a large one. He said:

  The police have been looking for you.

  He squirted soda, then turned round. Nunne was smiling. The teeth looked yellow and fang-like. He said:

  I see.

  Sorme took off his jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair. He said:

  Mind if I open a window?

  Do. Where did they visit you?

  At Gertrude’s.

  When?

  This morning.

  I see.

  Nunne was still smiling. Sorme anticipated the question, and was prepared to answer truthfully. Instead, Nunne said:

  How long will she wait for you?

  All day, if necessary. Or I could phone her at the Crown.

  Good. Perhaps we’ll do that later. I can drive you back to town.

  Sorme allowed no surprise to appear on his face. He said:

  Good. You’re going up today?

  I expect I may as well . . . now you’ve come. Allow me a few hours to sober up.

  He stretched in the chair, yawned, then emptied his glass.

  So you’ve come all this way to warn me? That’s rather sweet of you.

  Thanks. It’s nothing.

  Nunne crossed to the table, and poured more whisky. He was drinking it straight. On his way back, he stopped by Sorme’s chair and placed his hand on Sorme’s head. He said:

  I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, dear boy.

  Sorme recognised the note of sincerity through the whisky. He said:

  Thanks.

  Nunne leaned on the back of the chair. He was still swaying slightly. He said:

  You are a friend, aren’t you, Gerard?

  Sorme looked up at him, and felt again the sudden knowledge of affection. He said:

  Yes. I’m a friend.

  Nunne smiled down, then walked unsteadily to his chair. Sorme said:

  But if you intend to sober up, you won’t do it that way.

  Nunne said slowly:

  No. I think you are right. Yes. I don’t wanna get stinko yet.

  He returned to the window and emptied his glass outside. He said:

  Unfortunately, I need something to drink once I start. No milk.

  He went back into the kitchen. Sorme heard him say:

  Don’t suppose champagne’d improve things. Or Niersteiner. That leaves baby pol or lemonade.

  He returned carrying three bottles of lemonade and an opener. He poured a bottle into his empty glass and tasted it. He said:

  Ugh! How disgusting!

  He set it down on the arm of the chair as if it were nitro­glycerine, then seated himself carefully. He said:

  Well, go ahead. What did the police want?
r />   Just to know where you were.

  I see. Did they say anything more?

  No. But when I asked Macmurdo if he wasn’t in charge of the White­chapel murders, he said yes. And he told me there was another murder last night.

  Nunne said indifferently:

  And did he give you any details?

  No.

  What time was the body discovered?

  Not till late, I think. It wasn’t in the early editions of the evening papers.

  Nunne reached over and pulled a footstool closer. He closed his eyes, and stretched out, his head dropping forward. He said:

  Rather an awkward situation, isn’t it, Gerard?

  I don’t know.

  Nunne smiled, his eyes closed. In his attitude of complete abandonment to exhaustion he might have been asleep. He said:

  For five hours I’ve been thinking about this problem. But the whisky was beginning to overcome me.

  He opened his eyes suddenly and looked at Sorme.

  What am I to do?

  Sorme said:

  I don’t know. I don’t quite understand your problem.

  He moved his chair further back from the fire; the breeze from the window had lowered the temperature of the room, but it was still overpowering. Nunne stood up and crossed to the window again; Sorme could feel a restlessness and tension that the whisky had not released.

  Are you sure you weren’t followed down here?

  I should say it’s pretty unlikely. I kept a constant watch. Gertrude even turned the driving mirror towards me so I could watch out of the back window.

  How much does Gertrude know?

  About as much as I know.

  Nunne ignored the challenge in his words. He drew the curtain back and returned to his chair.

  I wouldn’t like to be interrupted. God, I feel pretty sloshed. . . . I could do with a cold shower and a rub-down. Never mind. I want to talk to you.

  He dry-washed his face with his hands, and pushed his hair back. He drank down half a glass of lemonade, then sat down, grimacing. He said:

  As you gather, dear boy, I’m in quite a situation.

  How bad is it?

  I’m not sure. Did Macmurdo have a warrant for me?

  The words brought a tightness to Sorme’s chest. He said:

  No. I don’t think so.

  Nunne sat sprawled in the chair; he stared at Sorme and let the silence lengthen. His eyes looked bloodshot and exhausted, but their expression was sardonic. He said finally:

  Well, Gerard?

  Sorme said nothing, shrugging. Nunne said:

  You’re still too polite to want to pry into my business. But you’re rather committed to it now, aren’t you? You’ve come all this way to warn me. Why did you come?

  I . . . I suppose, to warn you. I’ve been trying to phone you all week-end.

  I’ve been down here. But I’m grateful, Gerard, very grate­ful. . . . What would you do if they arrest me?

  Sorme said carefully:

  You mean for the . . . murders?

  Nunne said quietly: Yes.

  Could they arrest you?

  I don’t know. Probably not. And even if they did, I think they’d be forced to release me.

  Sorme emptied his glass. He had just drunk an amount equivalent to four fingers of whisky, and felt totally unaffected. He was also aware how much of his calm he owed to the drink. He reached for the bottle and poured another. Nunne wrenched the cap off another lemonade bottle. Sorme asked:

  What makes you assume you won’t be arrested?

  They’ve no evidence.

  He stood up again and went to the window. He said:

  I’d hate Macmurdo to crawl under that window with a tape-recorder. I’m afraid I’d better close it. I’ll turn the fire off.

  Sorme said:

  Are you sure they’ve no evidence?

  Fairly sure. Nothing that would be conclusive in a court of law.

  Sorme said:

  They’d try very hard. They badly need to make an arrest.

  I know. And they might find some excuse for holding me while they wait for a confession. They might easily do that. Hoping I’d crack. I wouldn’t.

  No?

  No. Have you ever noticed that most killers talk too much?

  The word made Sorme’s hand tighten around the glass; it was there now, between them, like an upturned playing-card. Nunne said:

  Whiteway, the Teddington Towpath murderer. Neville Heath. And Peter Manuel. They talked their way to the scaffold.

  Sorme said slowly:

  You classify yourself with them?

  Nunne looked at him seriously; his head made a hardly per­ceptible gesture of approval, as if he were a professor, and Sorme his most intelligent pupil. He said:

  No. I don’t. But they remain of interest. You don’t confine your reading to Goethe and Dostoevsky, although you classify yourself with them rather than with your contemporaries. The problem is that most criminals are stupid ruffians. Manuel and Heath and the rest were contemptible. Kürten was more interest­ing. In a more enlightened country—Sweden, for instance—he wouldn’t have been executed. He was deeply interested in his own impulses. He used to read Lombroso and Havelock Ellis. With the help of a panel of intelligent doctors he might have added a new domain to psychology.

  All traces of the whisky had disappeared, except for the oc­casional slurring of vowels; there was a feverish brightness in his eyes as he talked. He said:

  You know, Gerard, I’ve sat in judgment on myself many times. I’m not an animal. I’m a man. I can judge myself. If I was a writer or a poet, the human race might agree that I can add something to their knowledge. That means that I must be an identity. I can analyse my own impulses, even if I can’t control them. If I could talk to other people about them I might even learn to control them. So why should I be condemned and executed like a mad dog? No one has the right. It would be murder.

  Sorme said:

  This is what you’ve been thinking about all morning?

  No. Not entirely. But I’ve thought about it often enough. . . .

  He crossed to the window again and peered out, then opened it and drew the curtain aside for a moment. The room was full of the acid odour of paraffin fumes as the heater spluttered. Sorme said:

  But what are you going to do now?

  Ah, that is a problem. There’s only one thing certain. I’ve got to stop.

  But . . . do you think you’ll get away with it?

  Why not? If they’ve no evidence against me . . .

  But if Macmurdo’s looking for you he must have a pretty definite suspicion. . . .

  That is nothing. No one saw me last night. . . .

  Sorme said:

  It was you last night?

  For the first time, Nunne looked guilty. He said:

  Yes.

  Did you . . . know the woman?

  Nunne sat down. He said:

  Ah, if you want to talk about that . . . we shall have to start all over again.

  Sorme said:

  I don’t want to talk about it particularly.

  You see . . . that’s my real problem. I can’t stay in England. If I was certain I wanted to be cured . . .

  Don’t you?

  Partly. But it’s not like a disease. Surely you can understand that, Gerard?

  I think I do. . . .

  Don’t you see . . . to do anything worth while, you have to be willing to allow yourself to be carried away? You see, I was born like this. It was in my blood. Like your restlessness. I could never settle down to an ordinary life. When I was seventeen I used to pray that I might become a great artist. I used to stare at pictures by Van Gogh or Munch, and think: These men had strange impulses. I think Munch had visions of blood too. I used to think that if I was strong enough I could become a great artist. . . .

  He seemed to collapse suddenly, dropping his head again into his hands. Sorme felt an immense pity moving inside him, and a desire to reach across to him. Nunne
said:

  It was no good. I was too lucky. My family had too much money. To do a thing like that, you need to feel alone.

  Sorme said quietly: Poor Austin.

  Nunne looked up, smiling; his eyes were red where he had been rubbing them.

  No. I’m not poor Austin. I’m f—ing rich Austin. But you know, Gerard, I have a theory. Subconsciously, I’ve been trying to induce a state of crisis in my life. To get rid of the money and privilege. And now I’ve done it. The crisis is here. There’s no way back now. Think, if I’d left the country yesterday, this poor devil from Brixton might have been sentenced for the murders and no one would have known.

  Sorme said:

  I’m not so sure. The police have been watching you. Father Carruthers told me to warn you. Stein told him.

  Father Carruthers? Nunne said. Is there anybody in London who doesn’t know?

  I don’t know whether he knows. I didn’t know until I saw you. I couldn’t believe it.

  Nunne said:

  You believe it now?

  No. Not really. Oh, I accept your word for it . . . but it’s not real to me.

  Nunne stretched out his hands on his thighs, and stared at them. He said:

  But it’s true. . . .

  Sorme said:

  But why? Why do you have to do it?

  Nunne looked at him; his eyes seemed strangely hooded, con­cealed. He said:

  How do I know? The impulse goes back so far that I can’t even trace it. Haven’t you ever felt anything of the sort?

  I . . . suppose so. When I was about six I had a nasty tendency to beat up boys who were smaller than myself . . . if there was something about them that irritated me. I don’t know whether that was sadism or just high spirits. . . .

  Nunne said, smiling:

  It sounds like authentic sadism.

  But I could always understand the impulse at the time. It wasn’t like—well, being possessed by a demon or something. It was me all right.

  Of course. It always is.

  But . . . you talked to me once about doing something that made you feel as if you’d been changed into an animal.

  Did I? Perhaps I did. But that’s only a histrionic way of putting it. If you look at yourself objectively, of course you feel like an animal. But it’s never as weird as that. You know some psychiatrist has a theory that the old legends of vampires and werewolves arose out of cases of sadism—split personality. I never felt like a werewolf.