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.
OK, 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?
