Ritual in the Dark

  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 court-rooms, 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 passage-way.

  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 co-operate. 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 Kürten 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 st
omach. 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: