The Meaning of Night Part 3

4 [An inferior, usually juvenile, street thief and pickpocket. Ed.]

5 [The bookseller Bernard Quaritch, 16 Castle Street, Leicester Square. Ed.]

6 [At 160, Piccadilly. Ed.]

1 ['It is finished'. Ed.]

2 [The Earl of Aberdeen (George Hamilton Gordon, 17841860). He became Prime Minister after the resignation of the Earl of Derby in 1852. He was widely blamed for the mismanagement of the Crimean War and resigned in February 1855. Ed.]

3 [The battle took place on 5 November 1854 the day Florence Nightingale arrived at Scutari. Ed.]

4 [Marie Taglioni (180184), the celebrated Swedish-Italian dancer, for whom her father, Filippo Taglioni, created the ballet La Sylphide (1832), the first ballet in which a ballerina danced en pointe for the duration of the work. Ed.]

5 [Large ornamental dispensers of sweets, etc. Ed.]

1 [The following three letters have been bound in at this point in the ma.n.u.script. Ed.]

2 [Religio Medici, part I, section 48. Ed.]

1 [Dion Boucicault (Dionysius Lardner Boucicault, 1820?90), Irish-American actor, producer, and dramatist. The play that provided Glyver's alibi in question was Pierre the Foundling, adapted by Boucicault from the French, the first performance of which was on 11 December 1854 at the Adelphi Theatre in the Strand. The existence of his 'impeccable' witness may be doubted. Ed.]

2 [William Howard Russell (18201907), The Times' correspondent in the Crimea. His reports of the conditions suffered by the British Army, and especially by the wounded in the hospital at Scutari, during the winter of 18545 scandalized the nation. Ed.]

We proceeded steadily westwards through the raw October cold and the thickening mist. At length he turned into a narrow court, not much more than a pa.s.sage, flanked on either side by high windowless walls, that cut through to the Strand. I glanced up at the discoloured sign 'Cain-court' then hung back, to make sure the court was deserted.

My victim, all unsuspecting, continued on his way; but before he had time to reach the steps at the far end, I had caught up with him noiselessly and had sunk the long blade of my knife deep into his neck.

I'd expected him to fall instantly forwards with the force of the blow; but, curiously, he dropped to his knees, with a soft gasp, his arms by his side, his stick clattering to the floor, and remained in that position for some seconds, like an enraptured devotee before a shrine.

As I withdrew the blade, I moved forwards slightly. It was then I noticed for the first time that his hair, where it showed beneath his hat, was, like his neatly trimmed whiskers, a distinct shade of red. For a brief moment, before he gently collapsed sideways, he looked at me: not only looked at me, but I swear smiled, actually smiled, though in truth I now suppose it was the consequence of some involuntary spasm brought about by the withdrawal of the blade.

He lay, illuminated by a narrow shaft of pale yellow light flung out by the gas-lamp at the top of the pa.s.sage steps, in a slowly widening pool of dark blood that contrasted oddly with the carrotty hue of his hair and whiskers. He was dead for sure.

I stood for a moment, looking about me. A sound, perhaps, somewhere behind me in the dark recesses of the court? Had I been observed? No; all was still. I dropped the knife down a grating, along with my gloves an old pair, with no maker's label and walked smartly away, down the dimly lit steps, and into the enfolding, anonymous bustle of the Strand.

Now I knew I could do it; but it gave me no pleasure. The poor fellow had done me no harm. Luck had simply been against him and the colour of his hair, which, I now saw, had been his fatal distinction. His way that night, inauspiciously coinciding with mine in Threadneedle-street, had made him the unwitting object of my irrevocable intention to kill someone; but had it not been him, it must have been someone else.

Until the very moment in which the blow had been struck, I had not known for sure that I was capable of such a terrible act, and it was absolutely necessary to put the matter beyond all doubt. For the dispatching of the red-haired man was in the nature of a trial, or experiment, to prove to myself that I could indeed take another human life, and escape the consequences. When I next raised my hand in anger, it must be with the same swift and sure determination; but this time it would be directed, not at a stranger, but at the man I call my enemy.

And I must not fail.

The first word I ever heard used to describe myself was: resourceful.

It was said by Tom Grexby, my dear old schoolmaster, to my mother. They were standing beneath the ancient chestnut tree that shaded the little path that led up to our house. I was tucked away out of view above them, nestled snugly in a cradle of branches I called my crow's-nest. From here I could look out across the cliff-top to the sea beyond, dreaming for long hours of sailing away one day to find out what lay beyond the great arc of the horizon.

On this particular day hot, still, and silent I watched my mother as she walked down the path towards the gate, a little lace parasol laid against her shoulder. Tom was panting up the hill from the church as she reached the gate. I had not long commenced under his tutelage, and supposed my mother had seen him from the house and had come out expressly to speak to him about my progress.

'He is', I heard him say, in reply to her enquiry, 'a most resourceful young man.'

Later, I asked her what 'resourceful' meant.

'It means you know how to get things done,' she said, and I felt pleased that this appeared to be a quality approved of in the adult world.

'Was papa resourceful?' I asked.

She did not reply, but instead told me to run along and play, as she must return to her work.

When I was very young, I was often told gently but firmly by my mother to 'run along', and consequently spent many hours amusing myself. In summer, I would dream amongst the branches of the chestnut tree or, accompanied by Beth, our maid of all work, explore along the sh.o.r.e-line beneath the cliff; in winter, wrapped up in an old tartan shawl on the window-seat in my bedroom, I would dream over Wanley's Wonders of the Little World,2 Gulliver's Travels, or Pilgrim's Progress (for which I cherished an inordinate fondness and fascination) until my head ached, looking out betimes across the drear waters, and wondering how far beyond the horizon, and in which direction, lay the Country of the Houyhnhnms, or the City of Destruction, and whether it would be possible to take a packet from Weymouth to see them for myself. Why the City of Destruction should have sounded so enticing to me, I cannot imagine, for I was terrified by Christian's premonition that the city was about to be burned with fire from heaven, and often imagined that the same fate might befall our little village. I was also haunted throughout my childhood, though again I could not say why, by the Pilgrim's words to Evangelist: 'I am condemned to die, and after that to come to judgment; and I find that I am not willing to do the first, nor able to do the second.' Puzzling though they were, I knew the words expressed a terrible truth, and I would repeat them to myself over and again, like some occult incantation, as I lay in my cradle of branches or in my bed, or as I wandered the windy sh.o.r.e beneath the cliff-top.

I dreamed, too, of another place, equally fantastic and beyond possession, and yet strangely having the distinctness of somewhere experienced and remembered, like a taste that stays on the tongue. I would find myself standing before a great building, part castle and part palace, the home of some ancient race, as I thought, bristling with ornamented spires and battlemented turrets, and wondrous grey towers, topped with curious dome-like structures, that soared into the sky so high that they seemed to pierce the very vault of heaven. And in my dreams it was always summer perfect, endless summer, and there were white birds, and a great dark fish-pond surrounded by high walls. This magical place had no name, and no location, real or imagined. I had not found it described in any book, or in any story told to me. Who lived there whether some king or caliph I knew not. Yet I was sure that it existed somewhere on the earth, and that one day I would see it with my own eyes.

My mother was constantly working, for her literary efforts were our only means of support, my father having died before I was born. The picture that always comes to mind, when thinking of her, is of spindles of grey-flecked dark hair escaping from beneath her cap and falling over her cheek as she sat bent over the large square work-table that was set before the parlour window. There she would sit for hours at a time, sometimes well into the night, furiously scratching away. As soon as one tottering pile of paper was complete and dispatched to the publisher, she would immediately begin to lay down another. Her works (beginning with Edith; or, The Last of the Fitzalans, of 1826) are now quite unremembered it would be disloyal to her memory if I say deservedly so; but in their day they enjoyed a certain vogue; at least they found sufficient readers for Mr Colburn3 to continue accepting her productions (mostly issued anonymously, or sometimes under the nom de plume 'A Lady of the West') year in and year out until her death.

Yet though she worked so long, and so hard, she would always break off to be with me for a while, before I went to sleep. Sitting on the end of my bed, with a tired smile on her sweet elfin face, she would listen while I solemnly read out some favourite pa.s.sage from my precious copy of Monsieur Galland's Les milles et une nuits, in the anonymous translation published by Bell in 1706; or she might tell me little stories she had made up, or perhaps recount memories of her own childhood in the West Country, which I especially loved to hear. Sometimes, on fine summer nights, we would walk, hand in hand, out onto the cliff-top to watch the sunset; and then we would stand together in silence, listening to the lonely cry of the gulls and the soft murmur of the waves below, and gaze out across the glowing waters to the mysterious far horizon.

'Over there is France, Eddie,' I remember her saying once. 'It is a large and beautiful country.'

'And are there Houyhnhnms there, mamma?' I asked.

She gave a little laugh.

'No, dear,' she said. 'Only people, like you and me.'

'And have you been to France ever?' was my next question.

'I have been there once,' came the reply. Then she gave a sigh. 'And I shall never go there again.'

When I looked up at her, I saw to my astonishment that she was crying, which I had never seen her do before; but then she clapped her hands and, saying it was time I was in my bed, bundled me back into the house. At the bottom of the stairs, she kissed me, and told me I would always be her best boy. Then she turned away, leaving me on the bottom stair, and I watched her go back into the parlour, sit down at her work-table, and pick up her pen.

The memory of that evening was awakened many years later, and has ever since remained strong. I thought of it now, as I puffed slowly on my cigar in Quinn's,4 musing on the strange connectedness of things: on the thin, but unbreakable, threads of causality that linked for they did so link my mother labouring at her writing all those years ago with the red-haired man who now lay dead not half a mile away in Cain-court.

Walking down towards the river, I felt strangely intoxicated by the thought that I had escaped discovery. But then, whilst paying my halfpenny to the toll-keeper on Waterloo Bridge, I noticed that my hands were shaking and that, despite my recent refreshment at Quinn's, my mouth was dry as tinder. Beneath a flickering gas-lamp, I leaned against the parapet for a moment, feeling suddenly dizzy. The fog lay heavy on the black water below, which lapped and slopped against the piers of the great echoing arches, making a most dismal music. Then, out of the swirling fog, a thin young woman appeared, carrying a baby. She stood for a few moments, obliviously staring down into the blackness. I clearly saw the blank despair on her face, and instantly sensed that she was about to make a jump of it; but as I moved towards her, she looked at me wildly, clutched the child tightly to her breast, and ran off, leaving me to watch her poor phantom figure dissolve into the fog once more.5 A life saved, I hoped, if only for a time; but something, perhaps, to set against what I had done that night.

You must understand that I am not a murderer by nature, only by temporary design. There was no need to repeat this experimental act of killing. I had proved what I had set out to prove: the capacity of my will to carry out such a deed. The blameless red-haired stranger had fulfilled his purpose, and I was ready for what now lay ahead.

I walked to the Surrey side of the bridge, turned round, and walked back again. Then, on a sudden impulse, as I pa.s.sed back through the turnstile, I decided to take a turn back along the Strand instead of returning to my rooms.

At the foot of the steps leading down from Cain-court, which I'd descended not two hours earlier, a crowd of people had gathered. I enquired of a flower-seller concerning the cause of the commotion.

'Murder, sir', she replied. 'A poor gentleman has been most viciously done to death. They say the head was almost severed from the body.'

'Good heavens!' says I, with every expression of sudden shock. 'What a world we live in! Is anyone apprehended?'

My informant was uncertain on this point. A Chinese sailor had been seen running from the court a little time before the body had been discovered; but others had said that a woman carrying a b.l.o.o.d.y axe had been found standing in a daze a few streets away and had been taken away by the officers.

I shook my head sadly, and continued on my way.

Of course it was most convenient that ignorant rumour was already weaving nets of obscurity and falsehood around the truth. For all I cared, either the Chinese sailor or the woman with the b.l.o.o.d.y axe, if indeed they existed, could swing for my deed and be d.a.m.ned. I was armoured against all suspicion. Certainly no one had observed me entering or leaving the dark and deserted court: I had been most particular on that point. The knife had been of a common type, purloined for the purpose from a hotel across the river in the Borough, where I had never been before, and to which I would never return again. My nameless victim had been entirely unknown to me: nothing but cold Fate connected us. My clothes appeared to be unmarked by his blood; and night, villainy's true friend, had thrown its accomplice's cloak over all.

By the time I reached Chancery-lane the clocks were striking eleven. Still feeling unwilling to return to my own solitary bed, I swung northwards, to Blithe Lodge, St John's Wood, with the intention of paying my compliments to Miss Isabella Gallini, of blessed memory.

Ah, Bella. Bellissima Bella. She welcomed me in her customary way at the door of the respectable tree-fronted villa, cupping my face in her long-fingered, many-ringed hands and whispering, 'Eddie, darling Eddie, how wonderful', as she kissed me gently on both cheeks.

'Is all quiet?' I asked.

'Perfectly. The last one went an hour ago, Charlie is asleep, and Mrs D. has not yet returned. We have the house to ourselves.'

Upstairs I lay back on her bed watching her disrobe, as I'd done so many times before. I knew every inch of her body, every warm and secret place. Yet watching the last piece of clothing fall to the floor, and seeing her standing proudly before me, was like experiencing her for the first time in all her untasted glory.

'Say it,' she said.

I frowned in pretended ignorance.

'Say what?'

'You know very well, you tease. Say it.'

She walked towards me, her hair now released and flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Then, reaching the bed, she once again clasped my face in her hands and let that dark torrent of tresses tumble around me.

'Oh, my America,' I declaimed theatrically, 'my New-Found land!'6 'Oh, Eddie,' she cooed delightedly, 'it does so thrill me when you say that! Am I really your America?'

'My America and more. You are my world.'

At which she threw herself upon me with a will and kissed me so hard I could scarcely breathe.

The establishment of which Bella was the leading light was several cuts above the usual introducing house, so much so that it was known to the cognoscenti simply as 'The Academy', the definite article proclaiming that it was set it apart from all other rival establishments and alluding proudly to the superiority of its inmates, and of the services they offered. It was run along the lines of a highly select club a Boodle's or White's of the flesh7 and catered for the amorous needs of the most discerning patrons of means. Like its counterparts in St James's, it had strict rules on admission and behaviour. No person was allowed entry to this choice coterie without the unequivocal recommendation of an existing member followed by a vote: blackballing was not infrequent, and if a recommendation proved wanting in any way, both applicant and proposer faced summary ejection, and sometimes worse.

Mrs Kitty Daley, known to the members as Mrs D., was the entrepreneuse of this celebrated and highly profitable Cyprian8 resort. She went to great lengths to maintain standards of social decency: no swearing, profanity, or drunkenness was tolerated, and any disrespect towards, or ill-treatment of, the young ladies themselves was punished with the utmost severity. Not only would the perpetrator find himself immediately barred and exposed to public scandal; he would also receive a call from Mr Herbert Braithwaite, a former pugilist of distinction, who had his own highly effective way of making delinquent patrons understand the error of their ways.

Bella and her companions were thus a race apart from the doxies and dollymops who infest the Haymarket and its environs, and with whom I had long been familiar. Signor Prospero Gallini, Bella's father, the impoverished scion of a n.o.ble Italian family, having fallen on hard times, had fled his native creditors, in the year 1830, and made his way to England, where he set himself up as a fencing-master in London. He was now a widower, and an exile; but he was determined to give his only daughter every advantage that his limited means permitted, with the result that she could converse fluently in several European languages, played exceptionally well on the piano-forte, had a delightful singing voice, and was, in short, as accomplished as she was beautiful.

I had lodged briefly with Signor Gallini and his alluring daughter when I first came to London. After his death I maintained an occasional, but friendly, correspondence with Bella, feeling it was my duty to watch over her, in a brotherly sort of way, in grat.i.tude for the kindness her father had shown to me. Signor Gallini had left her little enough, and circ.u.mstances eventually made it necessary for her to leave the little house in Camberwell, to where her father had retired, and take employment as companion to a lady in St John's Wood, whose acquaintance we have already made. She had answered an advertis.e.m.e.nt for this position, which was Mrs D.'s way of recruiting new blood for her stable of thoroughbreds. Very few who applied found favour in Mrs D.'s discerning eye; but Bella instantly charmed her, and was not in the least shocked when the true nature of her employment was revealed to her. Although she began her career as the most junior citizen in The Academy's little state, she quickly rose through the ranks. She was exceptionally beautiful, talented, discreet, and as accommodating as any gentleman could wish. If there is such a thing as a vocation in this line of work, then Bella Gallini may be said to have possessed one.

Our intermittent correspondence continued for some years after she took up residence at Blithe Lodge. I would send a brief note every few months, to see how she was, and if she was in need of anything, and she would reply to say that she was going on very well, that her employer was kindness itself, and that she wanted for nothing. Then one day, in the early months of 1853, I happened to be in the vicinity of St John's Wood and thought I would call on her, to see for myself that all was well, and (I confess) to see if she was still as beautiful as I remembered her.

I was admitted to an elegant drawing-room, displaying both taste and means. The door opened; but it was not Bella. Two giggling young ladies, unaware that a visitor was within, burst into the room. On seeing me, they halted and looked me up and down, and then looked at each other. They were a most ravishing pair, one blonde, the other dark; and both had an unmistakable look about them. I had seen it a hundred times, though rarely in such sumptuous surroundings.

They begged my pardon (unnecessary, for I would have forgiven them any liberty they chose to take), and were about to withdraw when another figure appeared in the doorway.

She was quite as beautiful as I remembered her; dressed to the highest point of fashion, coiffured and bejewelled, but still possessed of a natural grace of carriage, and displaying that warm and open expression with which she'd greeted me when I'd first come to her father's house. After her fair companions had departed, we walked out into the garden and talked away, like the old friends we were, until a female servant came across from the house to tell Bella that she had another visitor.

'Will you call again?' she asked. 'I seem to have spoken only of myself, and would so like to hear more about what you have been doing with your life, and what your plans are for the future.'

I needed no further hint, and said I would come again the following day, if it was convenient.

Neither of us had said anything concerning the true character of Blithe Lodge: there was no need. She saw, by my look and tone of voice, that I was not in the least shocked or disgusted by what she had chosen to become; and for my part, I could see that as she had told me so often she wanted for nothing, and that the contentment at her lot that she professed was unfeigned.

I returned the next day, when I was introduced to Mrs D. herself; and the following week attended a soiree, at which were a.s.sembled some of the most eminent and well-placed of the capital's fast men. Gradually, my visits increased in frequency and soon brotherly solicitation began to transform into something more intimate. By special dispensation, I was not required to make any contribution to the domestic oeconomy of the house. 'You are most welcome here at any time,' said Mrs D., with whom I had quickly become a great favourite, 'just as long Bella ain't distracted from her professional duties.'

Mrs D. being a widow with no dependants, it had long been settled that Bella, who had become like a daughter to her, would in the course of time a.s.sume the reins of power in this thriving carnal kingdom. On this account I'd call her my little heiress, and she'd smile contentedly as I pictured to her the days of ease that lay ahead once the inevitable mortal release of Mrs D., now in her sixty-first year, delivered the succession into her hands.

'I don't like to think of it too much,' she'd say sometimes, 'seeing how fond I am of Kitty, and how kind she's always been to me. But, you know, I can't help feeling well, a little satisfied at the prospect, though I'm sure I don't deserve it.'

And then I would chide her for her scruples, telling her that it was folly and worse to believe that we do not merit our good fortune, especially when it is ours by right. She would kiss me and pull me close; but I would feel suddenly abandoned and alone. For was I not also an heir, and to a far greater kingdom? Yet my inheritance had now been taken from me, and could never be recovered. I longed to throw off the habit of deceit, but I could not tell Bella the truth about myself, or why I had killed a stranger that night in Cain-court; for if I did, then I might lose her too.

But he knew my enemy knew what had been done to me. And soon he would also come to know how resourceful I could be.

2:.

Nominatim1 ___*

I had slept fitfully, ever aware of the soft, warm ma.s.s of Bella's body curled up against mine as I drifted in and out of wakefulness. Though p.r.i.c.ked by occasional anxieties, I remained confident that no one could connect me to my victim, and that I had completed my experiment in murder undetected. Having consciously subdued all thought of the man as a man, I found I had attained to a kind of indifference to the enormity of the act I had so recently committed. I was guilty, and yet I experienced no feeling of guilt. It was true that, when I allowed my eyes to close, images of the red-haired stranger would rise up before me; yet even in this twilight state, between sleeping and waking, when conscience may often call up horrors from the depths of our being, I continued to feel no revulsion at what I had done. Later, it also struck me as odd that my mind did not keep returning to the fatal moment itself, when the knife had entered the yielding flesh of my victim. Instead, I would see myself following the man along a dark and deserted thoroughfare. From time to time we would emerge into a ring of sickly yellow light thrown out from an open door set in a tall windowless building. Then we would proceed once more into darkness. Time and again, when uncertain sleep came, I would find myself in this perpetual procession through dark and nameless streets. Not once did I see his face: his back was always towards me as we walked slowly from one oasis of jaundiced light to another. Then, just before daybreak, as I fell back once more into half-sleep, I saw him again.

We were in a small skiff, which he was rowing lazily down a placid river on a silent, heat-heavy afternoon. I lay in the rear of the vessel, my eyes fixed on the muscles of his back as they flexed beneath his coat with each pull on the oars. Incongruously, on such a day, his clothes were those in which he had died on that cold October evening, including his m.u.f.fler and tall black hat. As we entered a narrow channel, he let the oars rest on the surface of the water, turned to face me, and smiled.

But it was not the face of my anonymous victim. It was the face of Phoebus Rainsford Daunt, the man whose life I was studying so a.s.siduously to extinguish.

Leaving Bella asleep, placing only a gentle kiss on her flushed cheek by way of good-bye, I made my way to my rooms. The sky was beginning to lighten over the waking city, and the sounds of Great Leviathan stirring were all about me: the rattle of milk cans; a moaning drove of bullocks being driven through the empty street; the early cries of 'Fresh watercress!' as I approached Farringdon-market. As the church clocks strike six, I stop at a coffee-stall near the market entrance to warm my hands, for it is a sharp morning; the man looks at me indignantly, but I face him down, and he retires mumbling deprecations.

On reaching Temple Bar I considered strolling over once again to the scene of my late encounter with the red-haired man, to satisfy myself that all was well; instead I chose breakfast and a change of linen. At the corner of Temple-street, Whitefriars, I mounted the narrow flight of dark stairs that led up from the street to the top floor of the house in which I lodged, from there entering a long, wainscotted sitting-room under the eaves.

I lived alone, my only visitor being the woman, Mrs Grainger, who came periodically to undertake some modest domestic ch.o.r.es. My work-table was littered with papers and note-books; a once handsome, but now faded, Turkey carpet covered most of the floor, and about the room were scattered several items of furniture brought from my mother's house in Dorset. From this apartment a door led off, first to a narrow bedroom lit by a small skylight, and then, beyond, to an even smaller s.p.a.ce really no more than a closet that served as both wardrobe and wash-room.

The face that greeted me in the little cracked mirror that stood on a shelf above the wash-stand in this cubicle did not seem, to my objective gaze, to be the face of a cold-blooded murderer. The eyes looked back genially, and with calm intensity. Here was a face to trust, to confide in; yet I had despatched another human being with almost as little thought as I might crush an insect. Was I, then, some dissimulating devil in human form? No. I was but a man, a good man at heart, if the truth be told, driven to set right the wrong that had been done to me, absolved even of murder by the implacable fatalities to which my life has been subject. You think there is no such thing as Fate? That we have free will under some benign Creator G.o.d? You are wrong. We are each destined to play out whatever part has been a.s.signed to us by a determining power we can neither implore nor placate. To me, this power is the Iron Master, forever forging the chains that bind us to actions we must take, and to outcomes we must then suffer. My destiny is to take back what is rightfully mine, whatever the consequences. For the Iron Master has willed it.

I peered a little closer into the mirror. A long lean face, with large, heavy-lidded dark eyes; olive-coloured skin; a nose perhaps a little skewed, but still finely shaped; a mouth that carried the merest hint of a smile, even in repose; black hair swept back from the forehead, innocent of maca.s.sar and abundant at the sides, but, I confess, receding fast, and greying a little at the temples. Fine mustachios. Very fine. Take me all in all, I believe I stood before the world as a moderately handsome fellow.

But what was this? I moved my face closer to the grimy gla.s.s. There, on the very tip of my shirt collar, was a splash of dull red.

I stood for a moment, bending towards the mirror, gripped by a sudden fascinated fear. This voiceless, yet still eloquent, witness to the night's activities in Cain-court had taken me completely by surprise. Its pursuit of me seemed like a violation, and I quickly reviewed the dangerous possibilities it presented.

Had it been enough to betray me? Had one of the waiters in Quinn's noticed it when it had still been vivid and unequivocal, or the flower-seller when I had returned foolishly, as it might now prove to the scene of my crime? Had Bella observed it, despite the haste of pa.s.sion? Any of these, on reading or hearing of the murder, might recall the presence of blood on my shirt, and suspicion might thence be aroused. I looked more closely at the incriminating relic of my experiment.

It was insignificant enough in itself, certainly, though it const.i.tuted a very world of meaning. Here was a remnant of the life-blood of the stranger I had happened upon in Threadneedle-street as he went about his business, all unknowing of what was to befall him. Had he been returning home to his wife and children after a day in the City, or on his way to join a company of friends for dinner? What was his name, and who would mourn him? How had he seen his life ending? (Not in a pool of gore in a public thoroughfare, I warrant.) Did he have parents still alive whose hearts would break at the terrible demise of their dear son? Like a soldier in battle, I had ignored such questions in the heat of action, as being irrelevant to the task in hand; but now, as I stared at the little spot of dried blood on my collar, I could not prevent them rushing insistently into my mind.

Were there other traces of the crime that I had failed to notice? I hastily took my great-coat from its peg and hurried into the sitting-room to spread it out on my work-table, grabbing an eye-gla.s.s from beneath a pile of papers as I did so.

By the strengthening light of morning, I pored over every inch of the garment, turning the material methodically, occasionally bringing a piece up close to my eye-gla.s.s, like a jeweller eagerly examining some object of great worth. Then I removed my jacket and trousers, then my waistcoat, shirt and cravat: all were subjected to the same frantic scrutiny. Finally, I inspected my hat and placed my boots on the table, washed now in pale sunlight. I went meticulously over the upper surfaces and soles of each boot with a dampened handkerchief, using slow circular movements and stopping every few seconds to see if the white linen had taken up any incriminating residue of blood.

Having satisfied myself that I could find no other physical traces that could link me to my victim, I returned to the wash-room, where I diligently soaked my shirt collar in cold water to remove the blood-stain. In a few minutes, washed, shaved, and combed, and with a clean shirt on my back, I prepared to face the day.

It is the twenty-fifth of October, 1854 St Crispin's Day. Far away in the Crimea, though we in England do not yet know it, Lord Cardigan's heroic Light Brigade is charging the Russian guns at Balaclava. For me, the day pa.s.ses quietly. In the morning, I occupy myself with the subject to which I have now devoted my whole being: the destruction of my enemy. Of him, you shall learn more much more in the the course of these pages: for now, you must take it on trust that certain events had made it impossible that he should be allowed to live. The trial of my will that had its culmination last evening in Cain-court had demonstrated to my satisfaction that I was capable of doing what it was necessary to do; and the time was fast approaching when he and I would meet face to face for the last time. But until then, I must think, and plan, and wait.

In the afternoon I had a little business to attend to, connected with my employment, and did not return to my rooms until late, with evening coming on. There was a copy of The Times on my work-table that had been left earlier by Mrs Grainger. I can see myself idly turning the pages of the newspaper until my attention is suddenly arrested by an announcement, and my heart begins to thump. Hands shaking slightly, I walk over to the window, for the light is fading fast, and begin to read: Last evening at about 6 o'clock . . . Cain-court, Strand . . . Mr Lucas Trendle, First a.s.sistant to the Chief Cashier of the Bank of England . . . Stoke Newington . . . savagely done to death . . . distinguished public servant . . . Elm-lane Chapel . . . many charitable works . . . horror of his many friends . . . authorities confident of success . . .

He had been on his way to a meeting in Exeter Hall of some charitable enterprise dedicated to providing copies of the Holy Scripture and serviceable footwear to the Africans. I now recalled a throng of clerical gentlemen in subfusc gathered outside the grand Corinthian portico of the Hall as I'd pa.s.sed down the Strand after leaving Cain-court. It was clear from the report that the police could discern no obvious motive to explain the crime, for nothing had been taken from the victim. I drank in the details of his respectable and blameless life; but only one thing held me, and holds me still. He was no longer the red-haired man. He had a name.

On first reading the report, I'd paced about the room somewhat in a sulk, unexpectedly vexed by this knowledge. I had wanted him to remain eternally immured in his former anonymity; now I could not prevent myself picturing the possibilities of his revealed individuality. I began to find the confinement of my attic room intolerable. At last, I could stand no more. In these moods, I need to have the raw taste of London on my tongue.