Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

She said, with a touch of scorn:

Of course.

She folded the paper carefully, and stowed it away somewhere inside the coat. He said:

I'm afraid I'll have to go now. Goodbye, Christine.

Can I come on Saturday?

Well… if you want to. Perhaps I'd better meet you somewhere. Will you phone me before then?

All right.

Will you have money for the telephone?

She nodded vigorously. He said:

Don't be too upset about Oliver.

No.

Goodbye, Christine.

Goodbye.

He walked towards the Aldgate tube, thinking: What an extraordinary child. What am I going to do with her? Could take her to Gertrude's for tea, I suppose. Then get Gertrude to run her back in the car. My God, that damn' fool Oliver!..

His mind came back to Nunne with a sudden shock; for the past ten minutes, he had completely forgotten about him. For a moment, his mind held simultaneously the face of the child, and the unrecognisable face of the woman in the morgue. Disgust lurched from his stomach like a vapour of stagnation, and was succeeded by a heavy sense of pity and sadness. He found himself saying aloud:

Poor Christine…

As he was about to insert his key in the front door, the telephone started to ring. He withdrew round the edge of the wall, where his shadow would not be visible against the glass. A moment later he heard Carlotte's voice saying:

Hello… No, he's not in. I've just been up to see. I'll tell him you rang. Yes, he'll ring you. Goodbye.

The bell tinkled as she hung up. He turned his key and went in. She was starting to write on the memo pad.

Oh, Mr Sorme. You just missed a telephone call.

He said: I know. I wanted to miss it.

Did you? It was Mr Nunne. He wouldn't leave a message.

If anybody rings again, will you say I'm out, please?

You don't want to speak to anybody?

That's right.

A lady rang a few minutes ago. She said you'd know who it was.

Oh, thanks…

And you want to speak to no one?

Please. If you don't mind.

Oh, I don't mind. What if somebody comes to the door?

I… I expect you'd better let them up. I'll say I've just come in. I'm pretty tired. I'm going to sleep now.

She smiled sympathetically.

All right. I'll tell them you are out.

She went downstairs. He found four pennies in his pocket and dialled Miss Quincey. She answered immediately. She must have been standing close to the phone.

Gerard. Where have you been?

Oh, all over the place. I've only just got in.

Are you coming up here?

No, sweet. I'm pretty tired. I want to sleep.

You could sleep here. Shall I fetch you?

It's not that. I've got a lot to think about.

About Austin?

Yes. But don't say anything on the phone. I want a few hours alone to brood about it all.

Is Austin coming over?

No. He just rang, and the girl said I was out. I don't want to see him right now.

Why?

I'll explain later. I may give you a ring in a few hours. I'm deadly tired now.

All right. Have a sleep.

See you later, sweet.

His own room was strange to him; it seemed a long time since he had been in it. He filled the kettle and set it on the gas ring, then lit the gas fire. Overhead, the old man was playing gramophone records. He thought: Christ, he's started early. He glanced at the clock and realised it was not early; it was almost eight o'clock. He had eaten a meal at the workman's cafe in the Kentish Town Road before coming in. It was not true that he was tired; it was an excuse for not seeing Gertrude.

He cleared the table of its dirty cups and glasses, and covered it with a folded army blanket from the bed. This was to deaden the noise of the typewriter for the room underneath. He began to type immediately; when the kettle boiled, he turned the gas very low, and went on typing. He used quarto sheets from a folder labelled 'Notes'. In half an hour, he had filled three of them

He stopped to read back; excitement was like alcohol in his blood. Before he reached the end of the three pages, someone knocked on the door. He called: Come in.

It was Gertrude Quincey. She said:

I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?

Politeness made him say:

Not at all. Come and sit down. What made you decide to come?

She sat on the other side of the table. She was wearing a coat of light, pale fur, the colour of a teddy bear, with the high collar turned up; for a moment, she reminded him of Caroline. She said:

I wanted to see you.

He asked, grinning:

Did you suspect I'd got Caroline here?

No.

Her deepened colour told him his guess was not completely inaccurate. He said:

Would you like a cup of tea?

Yes, please.

He turned the gas fire lower; the room was stifling. She removed her coat and dropped it on the bed. She was wearing a blue woollen skirt that he had not seen before; it looked well on her slim figure. He put his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead, saying:

Mmm. Delicious.

She disengaged herself and took hold of his wrists.

What are you going to do about Austin?

I don't know, sweet. That's why I wanted to be alone this evening.

I'm sorry…

I'll be back in a moment.

He carried the teapot and dirty cups upstairs on a tray, and washed them at the sink. When he came back a few minutes later, she had found a cloth and was dusting the bookshelves.

Doesn't anyone clean your room?

The girl's supposed to do it once a week.

That girl who let me in? She's not very efficient. There's enough fluff under the bed to stuff a mattress.

He removed the typewriter from the table, and threw the army blanket on the bed. She grimaced at the sight of the plastic cloth underneath, with its circular stains of tea and beer.

Have you a sponge?

I think there's one upstairs. But don't bother now.

I don't want to keep staring at them. Up here?

She went out of the room and up the stairs. He poured boiling water on to the tea, and turned off the gas. She returned a moment later with a damp cloth, and cleaned the marks from the cloth. Through the open door they heard the ringing of the telelphone.

Do you think that's for you?

Perhaps. But I've told the girl to say I'm out.

Supposing it's Austin?

I don't want to see Austin. Not right now.

I see.

She took the cloth back up to the kitchen. Sorme poured the tea. She came back and closed the door carefully, sat down.

Why don't you want to see him?

Because… I've got a lot to think about.

She said quietly:

He is the man the police want, isn't he?

He met her eyes, and felt no inclination to lie about it.

If he is, he's still free.

I know. The radio said so tonight.

Said what?

That the police had interviewed two men at Scotland Yard and let them both go.

Mmm. Did it? That's interesting.

Is he the man they want?

He knew suddenly there was no point in keeping it from her. He nodded. She sighed deeply, turning away from him. He watched her closely. She asked finally:

You didn't intend to tell me?

I didn't want to upset you.

What do you intend to do now?

There's not much I can do.

Why did you change your mind about meeting him this evening?

He shrugged:

I wanted time to think.

Are you… deserting him?

He said:

Listen, sweet. I want you to try and understand this. For over a week now, I've suspected that Austin might be the Whitechapel killer. I didn't let it worry me. He interested me too much. I wanted to understand him, not condemn him. Well, I've only just begun to understand him. If I saw him now, I'd have to make him realise that I condemn him. And I'd rather not do that. I'd rather he went on thinking I'm a friend.