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 constituted 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.
My newly purchased gloves were, I knew, unsullied. But 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, snatching up an eye-glass 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-glass, like a jeweller eagerly examining some object of great worth. Then I removed my jacket and trousers, then my waistcoat, shirt and neck-tie; all were subjected to the same frantic scrutiny. Finally, I inspected my hat and placed my boots on the table, bathed 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 whether 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 bloodstain. In a few minutes, washed, shaved, and combed, and with a clean shirt on my back, I prepared to face the day. It was the 25th of October 1854 – St Crispin’s Day. Far away in the Crimea, though we in England did not yet know it, Lord Cardigan’s heroic Light Brigade was charging the Russian guns at Balaclava. For me, the day passed quietly. In the morning, I occupied 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 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 my enemy 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, and did not return to my rooms until late, with evening coming on. There was a copy of
He had been on his way to a meeting in Exeter Hall of some charitable enterprise dedicated to providing copies of 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 had passed 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 had 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 from 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 needed to have the raw taste of London on my tongue.
With rain beginning to patter against the skylight of my little bedroom, I threw on my great-coat and ran down the stairs into the gathering night.
And a merciless rain it soon became, pouring in thick frothy streams from water-spouts and ledges, tumbling in vertical sheets from roofs and spires and parapets high above the teeming city, turning streets and thoroughfares into evil-smelling streams of filth and liquid refuse. I found my old companion, Willoughby Le Grice, lounging, as I knew he would be at this hour, at the Ship and Turtle in Leadenhall-street.
Le Grice and I had been chums since our schooldays, though we were as different as could be. Whether he had ever read a book through in his life, I beg to doubt; he did not care for books, or music, or paintings – as I most certainly did; as for more advanced pursuits, I believe that he considered philosophy to be actively pernicious, whilst the mention of metaphysics made him quite mad. Le Grice was a sportsman to his size-twelve boots: taller even than I; thick tow-coloured hair above a four-square manly gaze, the neck and shoulders of a young bull, and a luxuriant arc of curled hair above his top lip that made him look a very Caractacus. A true Briton, and a good man to have by you in a dangerous corner, though an innocent for all that. A strange pair, we must have made; but I could have wanted for no better friend.
We ate the grilled fowl (Indian style) for which the house was celebrated, washed down with gin-punch; then, ever biddable as he was on such occasions, Le Grice allowed me to take him across the river to the Victoria Theatre,* just in time for the nine o’clock performance.
There is no better place than the Victoria to watch the lower orders of the city taking their pleasure; to me, it was a constantly fascinating sight, like lifting a stone and observing the insect life beneath. Le Grice was not so charmed as I of such things; but he kept his counsel and sat back in his seat, a cheroot – as always – clenched grimly between his teeth, whilst I leaned forward eagerly. Below our box, the coarse deal benches were packed to overflowing: costers, navvies, lightermen, hackney-coach drivers, coal-heavers, and every sort of disreputable female. A ferocious, sweating, stinking herd. Only the louder shouts of the pigstrotter woman and the porter men who patrolled the aisles and stairways could be heard above the tumult of whistles and yells. Then, at last, the curtain rose, the master of ceremonies finally subdued the mob, and the performance – sublime in its vulgarity – began.
Afterwards, out in the New Cut, the rain had begun to ease, leaving the streets awash with mud and debris brought down from roofs and gutters. Degraded humanity, with its attendant stench, was everywhere: congregating on corners, or squatting beneath dripping archways; sitting on doorsteps, hanging out of windows, or huddling in the mouths of alleyways. Faces, hideously painted by the satanic light of the lamps and flares, and by the glow of the baked-chestnut stoves that lit up the street stalls and public-houses, passed by us like a parade of the damned.
As we crossed back over the river, I suggested that we might drop into Quinn’s. I wished especially to go to Quinn’s. On the excuse of attempting to locate a lost pocket-book, I sought out the waiter who had served me the previous evening. It soon became perfectly clear that he had no recollection of me; and so I returned, with a lighter
