By the time he reached Marylebone Road it was dark, and he had great difficulty in not increasing his speed. It was an odd, prickling feeling, and most unpleasant. If he were correct in his guesses, tenuous as they were, built on impressions and a few threads of tangible, definite evidence, then it was the Headsman who was now behind him, watching, coming closer, waiting his chance. He would have the weapon with him. He would have taken it from its hiding place and left the house, hurrying to catch up.
In spite of his resolution to appear natural, he could not keep his step from hastening. He heard the rapid, slightly uneven tap, tap of his boots on the pavement, and behind him, closer now, the echoing feet, swift and light, of his follower.
Marylebone Road turned into the Euston Road. A landau passed him, carriage lamps yellow, horses’ hooves loud on the cobbles. He was walking now as fast as he could without actually running. The lamplighter was passing, tipping his long pole to each wick and one by one they sprang to life, a row of brilliant isolated globes, between which stretched areas of darkness, hiding passersby, people on their way home, weary from the day or expectant of the evening. He saw the tall outline of a stovepipe hat against the light as a man hurried by.
Euston station was only a hundred yards ahead. He could feel the sweat of fear on his body and he was breathing hard, even though he still had not quite broken from a walk.
The steps were closer behind him.
He dare not force a confrontation here. Until he was actually attacked, there was no proof. All his bullying of Mina would have been to no purpose.
He turned into the entrance of the railway station. It was late and there were few people about. The chill air of evening after the warm day had turned misty. In the clatter of trains and the shout of porters, the whistles and hoots, the hiss of steam, he could no longer hear footsteps behind him.
On the platform he turned. There was a porter; an elderly gentleman with a document case; a woman with hair that looked black in the dim light, and a shawl around her shoulders; a young man half in the shadows, seemingly waiting for someone. Another, older woman came in, looking anxiously about her.
Pitt walked across the platform then turned and went along its length towards the bridge over the tracks. He climbed up; the steps were slippery. He heard his boots clattering on the metal edges of each rise. Clouds of steam billowed up into the gathering mist and slight drizzle. The platform lights were a jumble of harsh, gleaming globes, swimming in the closing night and the gray rain, the train headlights and the belching steam.
He walked across the bridge above the tracks. There was too much noise to hear anyone’s footsteps, even his own. He could no longer see the platform.
Suddenly there was movement, a sense of violent danger, a hatred so scalding it was like a prickle at the back of his neck.
He swung around.
Victor Garrick was a yard away from him, the light from below catching his ashen face, his blazing eyes and the fair, almost silver gleam of his hair. Above him in his right hand was a naval cutlass, raised to strike, the arc of its blade shining.
“You’re doing it too!” he sobbed, his lips stretched back over his teeth, his face twisted in tormenting, inner pain. “You’re just the same!” he shouted above the roar. “You hurt people! You make them sick and frightened and ashamed, and I won’t let you do it to her anymore!” He slashed the cutlass through the air and Pitt moved sideways just in time to avoid its blade on his shoulder. It would have been a crippling blow, all but severing his arm.
Pitt backed away sharply as Victor lunged forward, going past him and swinging around.
“You can’t get away!” Victor’s breath was hissing through his teeth and the tears streamed down his face. “Why do you lie to me?” The cry was torn from him in a terrible, wrenching sound, and he seemed to be looking not at Pitt, but somewhere beyond him. “Liar! Liar! You keep saying it doesn’t hurt—but I know it does! It hurts right through till your whole body aches, and you lie awake all night, knotted up, sick and ashamed and guilty, thinking it’s all your fault and waiting for the next time! I’m frightened! Nothing makes any sense! You lied to me all the time!” His voice was a scream and again the cutlass slashed through the air. “You’re frightened too! I’ve seen your face, and the bruises, and the blood! I can smell your misery! I can taste it in my mouth all the time! I won’t let it go on! I’ll stop him!” Again he slashed wildly with the blade.
Pitt backed away desperately. He did not dare use his stick; that blade would have sliced it through and left him defenseless.
It was all very plain now: the bullying Winthrop, beating Mina; the bus conductor who had callously damaged the beloved cello; the arrogant Scarborough, who had dismissed the maid and threatened her with ruin; it was always the bruised and defenseless women. He must have attacked Bailey when he had been pursuing Bart’s whereabouts at the time of the murders, and frightened Mina. She was haunted by the terror that Bart was guilty, at least of Winthrop’s death.
“But why did you kill Arledge?” he shouted aloud, his voice hoarse.
Behind them a train belched out steam and blew its whistle.
Victor looked blank.
“Why did you kill Arledge?” Pitt shouted again. “He didn’t bully anyone!”
Victor was bending a little at the knees, adjusting his balance, one hand on the railing, the other clenched around the cutlass.
Pitt moved sideways again, and backwards, just beyond reach of the blade. “What did Arledge do?”
For a moment Victor was surprised. The sudden confusion showed in his face. The anger vanished and he stood motionless.
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. You cut his head off and left him in the bandstand. Don’t you remember?”
“No I didn’t!” Victor’s voice was a shriek above the hiss and rattle of the trains. He lunged forward, swinging the blade, his weight carrying him. Pitt leapt sideways and towards him, catching him on the shoulders as Victor’s hand, clenched around the hilt, landed on his arm so hard he dropped the stick and heard it clatter on the bridge.
