the inhabitants of these infernal regions step aside as I approached. And still the voice whispered in my ear as I made my way westwards.
At last I climbed the stairs to my rooms, heart-sick and chilled to the bone from my sojourn on the shore. Throwing off my wet and filthy rags, I washed myself and put on clean clothes. Then I lay on my bed, breathing hard, looking up through the skylight at a single winking star that hung, like fragile hope itself, in the pale immensity of morning.
I would not fail in my next attempt to kill Phoebus Daunt. The voice had told me what I must do to make a trial of my resolve to become a murderer. Another man must die before I faced my enemy again; only then would I know for sure that my will was truly equal to the task.
I awoke shaking. For an hour I lay and listened to the wind, dreaming that I was in my bed at Sandchurch once again. There are shadows on the wall that I cannot explain. A woman with [tusks?]. A king wielding a great scimitar. A terrible claw-like hand that creeps over the counterpane.
I reach for my bottle of Dalby’s. This is the third time tonight.
* * *
At ten o’clock, Mrs Grainger knocked at the door. I sent her away again, telling her I was unwell. I will not go out today.
My bottle of Dalby’s is empty. I began to weep as I tried to shake the last few remaining drops into my wineglass.
It will be tonight.
I walked down to the river and across Southwark Bridge to take my luncheon in the Borough. The Catherine Wheel Inn was dark and crowded, and no one paid me any heed. I called for two slices of [beef?] from the platter, and then observed the waiter as he went about his task. The knife he used was pitted and discoloured, but it sliced through the red flesh with ease. It would do very well. Much better than a pistol.
And so to Messrs [Corbyn*] in High Holborn. ‘A persistent headache, sir? Nothing more unpleasant. We recommend [Godfrey’s] Cordial. You prefer Dalby’s? Certainly, sir.’
* * *
Five o’clock by the Temple Church. On with my great-coat. Stow the knife securely. On with my gloves, a new pair, which I must take care not to spoil.
I stepped outside. A sharp night, with fog coming down.
St Paul’s rose monstrously into the murk. The [lantern] was invisible, and also the Golden Gallery, where I had stood with my dear girl a lifetime ago.
East down Cheapside and into Cornhill, the City churches ringing out six o’clock. I had been wandering for an hour. Him? Or him? The fellow loitering outside St Mary-le-Bow? The old gentleman coming out of Ned’s chop-house in Finch-lane? I was bewildered. So many black coats, so many black hats. So many lives. How could I choose?
At length, I found myself in Threadneedle-street, looking across to the entrance of the Bank of England.
Then I saw him, and my heart began to thump. He was [dressed] the same as all the others, but something seemed to distinguish him. He stood, looking about him. Would he cross the street? Perhaps he intended to take the omnibus that was now approaching. But then he pulled on his gloves and walked smartly off towards Poultry.
I kept him in sight as we walked westwards, back along Cheapside, past St Paul’s again, and down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street and Temple Bar. Then he turned northwards a short way, up Wych-street and across to Maiden-lane, where he took some refreshment at a coffeehouse, and read the paper for half an hour. At a few minutes after seven o’clock, he left, stood for a few moments on the pavement in the [swirling] mist to adjust his muffler, and then continued on his way.
A little further we went, and then he turned into a narrow court that I had never noticed before. I stood at the entrance, taking in its high blank walls and deep shadows, and watching the solitary figure of my victim as he walked towards a short flight of steps leading down to the Strand. At the head of the steps was a fizzing gas-lamp that threw out a weak smudge of dirty yellow light into the foggy dark. Where was this? I looked up.
Cain-court, W.
He was nearing the steps at the far end of the court, but I quickly and silently caught up with him.
My hand was closed round the handle of the knife.
And so, at last, I bring my confession back to the point at which it started: the killing of Lucas Trendle, the red-haired stranger, on the 24th of October 1854. He died that night so that Phoebus Daunt might also die, as justice demanded; for without the death of guiltless Lucas Trendle, I might have failed in that greater aim. But now, by his sad death, committed swiftly and without compunction, I knew, beyond all doubt, that I was capable of this terrible extremity of action. The logic was that of the madhouse; but it did not seem so to me then. On the contrary, it made perfect sense to me, in my disordered state, to kill an innocent man in order to ensure the death of a guilty one. As I confess the deed now, for the second time, I am racked with remorse for what I did to poor Lucas Trendle; but I cannot, and will never, regret what it steeled me to do.
The events successive to that momentous night have already been laid before you: the shock that I felt when I learned my victim’s name; the blackmail note received by Bella; and then the invitation to Lucas Trendle’s funeral at Stoke Newington slipped under my door; my parting from Bella following our night in the Clarendon Hotel, when she rightly suspected me of withholding the truth about myself from her; my confrontation with Fordyce Jukes, whom I suspected of being the blackmailer; and, finally, those mysterious taps on the shoulder, outside the Diorama and at Stoke Newington, and the menacing figure who had followed Le Grice and me as we rowed up to Hungerford Bridge.
It is now the 13th of November 1854. The place: Le Grice’s rooms in Albany. The time: an hour after dawn.
