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.
O.k., 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 Chekhov, 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.
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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?
I’m sorry . . . Sorme began.
Maunsell said: Is he awake?
Yes. He says he can see people for the next hour.
You’d better go up, Gerard. We can have a talk afterwards.
The priest smiled, nodded at them, and went out. Sorme called: Thank you.
You are silly, Gerard. Why didn’t you wait for me?
Sorry. I didn’t realise he’d arrange it so quickly.
Oh, never mind. You’d better go up now.
I can drink my tea here, can’t I?
No, you hadn’t better. Take it up with you. Come on. I’ll show you the way.
Sorme followed him up the thickly carpeted stairs. On the first landing, a blue plaster madonna stood in a niche, her hands raised in blessing. Maunsell knocked gently on the door at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open and allowed Sorme to pass in.
This is Gerard Sorme, father. He’s a friend of Mrs. Nunne.
The priest was sitting up in bed, surrounded by white pillows. He wore a nightgown of some coarse blue material. Maunsell closed the door, and left them alone together.
Not Mrs. Nunne, Sorme said. Her son.
Ah, Austin. I haven’t seen him for a long time. How is he? Do sit down.
His face struck Sorme as one of the ugliest he had ever seen; without actually being deformed, it was crudely and gratuitously ugly, with the strong lines of a gargoyle. The jaw was too big; it would have had the effect of overbalancing the face if it had not been for the forehead, which also jutted, and had a sharp, vertical crease down the middle, as if someone had hit him with a crowbar. The large nose was slightly flattened; the mouth was wide, and spread across the face like a fissure. The eyes were small, almost colourless. If a lamp had been suspended overhead, they would have disappeared completely in the shadow of his brows. Sorme tried hard to remember where he had seen the face before, or where he had seen one like it. Then he remembered: the bust of Charley Peace in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. The thought made him smile. The priest smiled back friendlily. He seated himself in the armchair near the fire, saying:
Austin’s fine, father. He suggested that I should come and see you.
What did you say your name was?
Sorme, father, Gerard Sorme.
Sorme? Sorme. . . . I know the name. It’s a rare name, isn’t it?
I’ve never met anyone else with it, outside my family. . . .
The priest held up his hand to silence him. The furrow in the brow might have been an incision. For a few seconds, he frowned, concentrating.
Ah, I remember! Father Grey of Campion House. Did you ever know him, by any chance?
Sorme felt unaccountably guilty; he said:
Yes, I did. He instructed me once.
Good! the priest said. He was smiling happily again. I don’t often forget a name. Yes. . . . Father Grey talked to me about you once. Why did you give up instruction?
I . . . I . . . I didn’t get on with Father Grey to begin with.
Why not?
He seemed to want to convince me that Catholics were decent blokes after all. You know the sort of thing? Beef-eating, beer-drinking R.A.F. padre style. And he had no time for mysticism. He spent three instruction periods convincing me that St. Peter was really the first Pope. I got fed-up.
The priest said sympathetically:
I understand. Father Grey isn’t everyone’s idea of a Catholic . . . which is no doubt just as well.
Sorme grinned, waiting. The pale, blue-grey eyes contemplated him steadily. The priest said, smiling:
Well, you keep coming back, don’t you? Why?
Sorme frowned, shrugging. It was difficult to find an answer. The soft voice pressed him:
Do you think you’ll become a Catholic one of these days?
I may, I suppose.
But do you expect to?
No, not really, father. I don’t mean it’s impossible. . . .
Quite. But have you no idea what you’re looking for?
No, father, not really.
None at all?
Well, I suppose I have some idea. . . .
Can you tell me?
Well . . . I suppose I hope to find somebody I can talk to.
What about?
I shan’t know until I find somebody I can talk to.
He felt the answer was silly, and was irritated with himself. The priest’s eyes rested on him calmly, as if completing an examination whose last stages consisted simply in looking at Sorme. He felt a desire to get up and go away. The priest asked suddenly:
Do you know Austin well?
Not well. I met him for the first time on Friday. I haven’t seen him since.
How did you meet him?
In the Diaghilev exhibition. I talked to him.
You spoke first?
No, he did. We talked about Nijinsky. Then we went off and had a meal together.
And then what?
Then I went home. And he went home. Why are you asking me this, father?
Only curiosity.
Irritation rose in him, looking at the undisturbed face; it was an odd sense of shame about the incident, considered in retrospect, that frayed his nerves. He said bluntly:
Are you wondering whether anything else happened between us? Because I’d rather you asked me frankly.
The priest shrugged slightly.
Did anything else happen?
No.
It doesn’t interest me particularly, you understand. What you tell me is completely your own affair. I have no wish to force your confidence. But, as you can guess, I know Austin very well indeed.
Sorme caught up the unspoken meaning instantly.
Quite. Which is why I’d prefer you to ask me anything you want to know quite frankly. I don’t know Austin at all well. We just ate a meal together and talked. But I don’t share his . . . tastes. Any of them.
The priest inclined his head.
I like your frankness. Then tell me: When Austin spoke to you and you went
off together, did you have any idea of his . . . sexual peculiarities?
I guessed he was homosexual. That worried me a little. But I didn’t feel he was just picking me up.
Did he tell you later that he was homosexual?
No.
I see. And did he speak of anything else?
Sorme stared hard at him, failing to understand.
Anything else? What else?
I see. I was simply curious.
Sorme could see that the priest wanted to drop the subject, but his curiosity was touched.
Do you mean he has other sexual peculiarities?
That is not for me to say, is it?
Sorme stared hard at him for a moment, then said:
I see.
The priest smiled immediately.
Please don’t think I’m snubbing you. But as you probably know, Austin came to me a year ago with certain problems of his own. Now he sends you along, and, naturally, I wonder whether yours are of the same nature. But I cannot talk about Austin’s problems. He can do that himself if he wants to. Presumably you’re here to talk about yourself, not about Austin?
Sorme said embarrassedly:
I dunno that I’ve got anything that could be called a problem, father.
Well, no. That is not necessary, I agree. What kind of work do you do?
I write.
For a living?
No. I’ve got a small allowance. Just enough to live on.
You’re very lucky! What do you write?
A novel, at present. . . .
Do you take any interest in politics, at all?
He said with surprise:
None whatever.
Do you ever go to church?
I often go into churches—preferably when there’s nobody else there.
Do you have any friends to discuss your ideas with?
Not really. . . .
The priest smiled at him; the deep eyes were transformed when he was amused. Their good humour made Sorme feel completely at ease. He said:
You’re rather a difficult case, aren’t you?
Why, father?
You do nothing at all. Except write. That leaves an immense amount of time and opportunity for introspection. Then you go to see a priest in the same way that a man who never takes any exercise goes to see a doctor. Have you ever thought of seeing a psychologist?
The tone of banter made the words seem casual, but Sorme sensed their seriousness. He said: