The house next door was still occupied; the front door stood open, and the smell of frying sausages came from it. Outside the door, a baby lay asleep in a pram.
He wandered, without aim, through the littered streets. In Hanbury Street, the new blocks of flats and the children's playground looked incongruous. He stopped again outside the barber's shop at number 29. In the yard behind the shop, the third of the Ripper's killings had taken place. He had once seen a photograph of it, taken immediately after the murders; it looked completely unchanged by the intervening seventy years. The barber looked up from shaving a customer as Sorme paused by the door. He said:
Hello. Long time no see.
Sorme said: How are you?
Fine. Never see you in here for haircuts these days.
I don't live around here now.
At the end of Hanbury Street he found himself facing Spitalfields Market again.
As he passed the Wren church, an old man came out of the public lavatory, muttering: Tanner for a cup o' tea?
Sorme fumbled in his pocket, turning his eyes away from the dewdrop that hung on the end of the man's nose. The clawed, dry-skinned hand took the two threepenny pieces; the man glanced around quickly to see if any policeman had observed him. His hand rested on Sorme's sleeve. Uncertain of what was being demanded of him, Sorme looked into the watery blue eyes. The man's voice was an indistinguishable mumble; he pointed to his feet, on which he wore grubby plimsolls. Sorme assumed he was asking for more money, and started to grope for loose change. He stopped when he caught the words:… lived here for close on seventy years.
Seventy years?
That's right. Near seventy years… I been 'ere.
He brushed at his nose with the cuff of his overcoat, and dislodged the transparent drop. Another formed immediately. Sorme averted his eyes. The overcoat was so long that its hem dragged on the pavement. He said politely:
You don't look that old.
Oh yers. Seventy-three, and worked every day of my life till I 'ad the trouble.
Sorme realised that the man was not drunk; he was talking to dispel loneliness, or perhaps out of gratitude for the sixpence. His words were scarcely distinguishable. Sorme said:
You must have been alive at the time of the Jack the Ripper murders.
Eh? Jack the Ripper? Yers. I can tell you something about that. He done his last murder over there…
The bent hand gestured in the direction of the market building. Sorme said:
Miller's Court?
That's right. Over there, it used to be. Before they built the market. Used to be Dorset Street. I know, 'cause I used to do a paper round at the time.
Sorme said with surprise:
How old were you?
'Ow old? Lemme see…
The watery eyes concentrated. The transparent drop fell on to the pavement. He said finally:
Why, I was ten at the time, just ten.
Sorme calculated quickly. Eighteen eighty-eight to nineteen fifty-six — sixty-eight years. He said:
And you say you're seventy-three?
That's right. Seventy-three. Seventy-four next April. And I used to take the mornin' papers to Miller's Court. Then one mornin' I goes there, and there's a crowd round the door. And a copper says: She won't want no more papers 'ere, sonny. Don't you go bringin' any more papers 'ere. An that's 'ow I know she'd been murdered. That was Jack the Ripper.
Sorme looked at his watch, saying:
Amazing! Well, I must go now. Goodbye…
The old man raised a hand in salute as he turned away. Sorme turned into Fournier Street, thinking: Either he's five years older than he thinks, or he's lying. He walked hurriedly now, taking the shortest route back to the place where he had left the bicycle.
He unlocked the wheel, unwinding the chain from around it, swearing when he got grease from the spokes on his fingers. He wiped them clean on his handkerchief, then walked the bicycle back along Durward Street. Up to the point where the street divided it was a one-way street, and a policeman stood on the opposite corner.
Before he had advanced more than a few yards into Durward Street, he noticed the old woman who came towards him from the other end of the street. She was carrying a half loaf of bread under her arm, clutched against a baggy cardigan of purple wool. She stopped, and inserted a key in a door. He rested his right foot on the pedal of the bicycle and scooted the dozen or so yards between them, arriving behind her as she pushed open the door. He said: Excuse me…
She went on into the house, without looking round. He guessed her to be deaf, and reached out to touch her shoulder. She turned, looking startled. He said loudly:
Does Mr Glasp live here, please?
The tired, red-rimmed eyes looked blankly at him. He repeated the question. She turned and waved her hand towards the stairs, with a gesture of complete indifference.
She said:
Yes. 'E's in. Go on up.
He felt doubtful, looking into the dark room that smelt of age and Victorian furniture. He shouted: Upstairs?
But she had turned away, and was already halfway across the room, leaving him to close the door behind him. At the other side of the room, she said over her shoulder:
'E might be asleep.
Sorme went cautiously up the stairs, leaning forward and groping, feeling bare wooden boards, partly covered with worn linoleum. He stumbled near the top, and swore softly. The landing was in complete darkness. There was a strong smell of paraffin. As he stood there, peering into the dark, a door on his right opened. A man's voice said: Hello. Who is it?
He said: Mr Glasp?
That's right. The voice had a faint Yorkshire accent.
My name is Gerard Sorme. I saw some of your work yesterday, and wanted to meet you.
You a painter?
No, a writer.
You'd better come on in, the voice said ungraciously. I haven't much time.
I won't keep you long…
He felt slightly bewildered; he was unprepared for coming face to face with Glasp so suddenly. He would have liked to be allowed a few minutes to decide what to say.
Glasp's tone led him to feel that the meeting would be short.
Glasp said: Take a seat.
The room was large. It seemed to have been made by knocking down a wall, and running two rooms into one. It had an irregular L-shape, and could be entered by two doors, one in each arm of the L. The only furniture was an old-fashioned single bed with brass rails, a stool and a small table. There were many canvases leaning around the walls.
In front of the window stood an easel of the type used in schoolrooms, with another canvas on it. Sorme sat on the stool, near the window, in a position from which he could see the whole room. A black paraffin stove was burning at the side of the stool; automatically he warmed his hands over it.
Glasp said: Well, what can I do for you?
His tone was blunt and irritable. He stood, leaning against the end of the bed, a tall, bony man with a mop of shaggy red hair and an unshaven chin. His blue polo-necked sweater was stiff with paint-stains.
Sorme said apologetically: Look here, I know it's rather an imposition just to come and introduce myself to you like this. But if you feel I'm wasting your time just say so, and I'll go.
Glasp looked surprised, but in no way disarmed; he said ponderously:
