Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Good. That's fine. And could we go and see Oliver on the way? I'd like to make sure he's OK.

All right.

She stood up.

I'll go and get dressed.

He came to the door, and pulled her to him.

Poor darling. A lot's happened to you in twelve hours, hasn't it? How do you feel?

She smiled briefly.

Bewildered.

He tilted her face by tugging gently at her hair, and kissed her; her lips parted, and she relaxed against him. His hand moved inside the dressing-gown. He said softly:

Don't worry. It's going to be all right.

She shuddered suddenly, pressing against him; a sense of mystery and exaltation rose in him.

As the Consul backed out of the garage, he saw the two men walking down the drive. Looking in the driving mirror, Miss Quincey had not noticed them. He said:

You've got visitors.

Really. Who?

She continued to back the car until it was clear of the garage doors.

Two men. Do you know them?

She stopped the car and slipped it into neutral.

No…

She turned off the ignition.

Insurance salesmen, perhaps?

I don't think so…

They could be police.

The men had seen the car and were standing by the front door, looking across at them. Sorme said:

Listen. If they are police, for heaven's sake keep your wits about you. Don't tell them anything about Austin.

But… how do I explain your being here?

That's none of their damn business.

She got out of the car and went across the lawn, saying:

Would you close the garage doors, please?

He was glad to see she was calm as she approached them. He closed the doors and slipped in the lock, then stood by the car, watching her as she inserted her key in the front door and led them into the house. He hesitated about following her; if they were police, he would prefer to stay in the background. He stared up at the sky; it was blue and pale after the downpour; the December sunlight was warm.

She called his name. She was standing in the doorway, beckoning to him. As he crossed the soggy lawn, she came to meet him. She said quickly:

They want to see you too.

Are they police?

Yes. They seem to know who you are.

There was no trace of nervousness in her voice. He said, smiling:

That's OK. We've nothing to worry about.

They went into the house. The two men were in the sitting-room, standing in the centre of the rug; the bigger of the two was cracking the joints of his fingers. Something in the large, red face and the receding hair reminded Sorme of Brother Robbins. The big man said:

Mr Gerard Sorme?

That's right.

We are police officers. My name is Macmurdo — Inspector Macmurdo. This is Detective-Sergeant James. I believe you're a friend of a Mr Nunne?

He spoke slowly, with the formality of a beadle making an announcement; he had a slight Scottish accent.

That's right, Sorme said. He bent down and switched on the electric fire. As he did so, he thought he saw the detective-sergeant noticing his familiarity with the house, then thought with irritation: It's none of his business, anyway.

Miss Quincey said:

Won't you sit down?

No, ma'am, we won't do that. We won't keep you a minute — I can see you're on your way out. We're simply trying to find Mr Nunne. Do you know where he is?

Austin? No… Have you tried his flat?

We have, ma'am. He hasn't been back for two days.

But why do you want him? What has he done wrong?

Macmurdo smiled.

There's no need to get upset, ma'am. Most of the people the police interview haven't done anything wrong. Mr Sorme, do you have any idea where we might contact Mr Nunne?

I'm afraid not. What about his parents' home?

No. He's not there. When did you last see him?

I… I think… on Saturday. I had lunch with him on Saturday.

Have you had any contact with him since?

No. I've tried to phone him at his flat several times.

I see. For any particular reason?

No. He's quite a close friend of mine.

You've no idea where he might be?

None at all. Miss Quincey might have more idea than me.

Miss Quincey shook her head.

I'm afraid not. But he often goes off for days without bothering to tell anyone.

Macmurdo asked Sorme:

Did he tell you he was likely to be going away for a few days?

No.

I see. Well, thank you very much. Sorry to have troubled you.

Miss Quincey said:

But can't you tell us what it's about? His family must be terrified… with the police making enquiries about him.

Why, ma'am? Have they any reason to feel worried about him?

Well… no. But when the police start to enquire… it would be hardly surprising if they were worried. Can't you give me some idea of whether it's serious?

Before Macmurdo could reply, Sorme said:

You're investigating the Whitechapel murders, aren't you?

Yes. How did you know?

I've seen your name in the papers.

Miss Quincey sat down. She said:

Murders? Is Austin involved in…?

Her voice trailed off. Watching her, Sorme was surprised and pleased; she was showing exactly the right degree of uncertainty. Macmurdo said soothingly:

We only want to ask him a few questions. He might be able to help us.

Sorme said:

I thought the murderer had been caught?

The Inspector and the sergant exchanged glances. It was the sergeant who replied:

So did we, until last night.

Has there been another murder?

Macmurdo said: Yes.

He walked towards the door, followed by the sergeant. Miss Quincey said:

But what could Austin know about it?

Macmurdo said:

He may know nothing, ma'am. That's why we want to see him. If you hear from him, I'd be grateful if you'd let us know. You too, Mr Sorme. Good morning.

Miss Quincey sat, staring at him, until the door closed. They watched the two figures walking back up the drive. She said:

So… it looks as if it is Austin they're looking for?

I… don't know. If there was a murder last night… it's hardly surprising, is it? They'd want to question everybody even remotely connected with it. Besides, they can't be very suspicious of Austin, or they'd have asked more questions. They didn't even ask me about the Kensington flat…

Do you think they know about it?

Surely they must. They aren't as slack as all that.

He stopped, staring out of the window; they heard the sound of a car engine starting. He said slowly:

I just… don't know. I don't know what to believe.

She said quietly:

If he's guilty, there's nothing we can do.

She went out of the room before the meaning of her words came home to him. He switched off the fire, and went out. He heard her bedroom door open; when he went in, she was powdering her nose at the dressing-table. He said:

Listen, Gertrude. Tell me something. Supposing he is guilty. Would you let them hang him?

She looked at him from the mirror; her face was surprised.

What could I do?

Wouldn't you even try to help him?

She turned around to stare at him.

You mean… if Austin had killed all those women?

As she said it, he saw the dawning of belief in her eyes. It was no longer a remote possibility, too improbable to consider. The shock was reflected back in him. It was the first time he had considered it as a simple matter of crime and punishment. He said:

I can't believe he's the killer. After all, he's homosexual. But I'm certain he knows something about it. All the evidence points that way.

But how? How can he?

He moves among perverts. There's a kind of freemasonry. Anyway, it might not be one man who's responsible. It could be several… a society, even.

You mean… a society for killing?

Well, it could be. There have been stranger things. The thugs of India were a religious society.