Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Let's call on Oliver.

As the car drove along Hanbury Street, he said:

I must say, this is quite a piece of luck for Oliver. They won't have much time to bother about him now. Anyway, they can't have taken the charge very seriously or they wouldn't have allowed him police bail… Right here. You'll have to go down to the Whitechapel Road. It's a one-way street.

At the end of Durward Street, he said:

Would you mind waiting here for about ten minutes? I'll try to be quick. But I doubt whether Oliver feels very sociable…

No. I quite understand. Don't worry.

The front door stood open. He rapped with his knuckles, calling into the room:

Anyone home?

There was no reply. He mounted the stairs cautiously, still blinded by sunlight, surrounded by the familiar smell of paraffin in the darkness. He groped his way to the door and knocked. Glasp's voice called:

Hello?

He opened the door and went in. Glasp was lying on the bed, fully clothed. Sorme said:

Hello. How are things?

All right, Glasp said. How did you get here?

Gertrude Quincey drove me in the car. She's waiting at the end of the street. I just came in to see how you are.

He sat on the stool near the oil stove. He said:

Have you heard anything?

They've dropped the charge.

Good! Congratulations! When did you hear?

A couple of hours ago.

Sorme said:

Well, what's the matter? You don't seem very cheerful about it. Why did they drop it? Has Christine turned up?

Yes.

Good. And have they examined her?

No.

Why not?

Glasp said tiredly:

Look, Gerard, do you mind not asking so many questions?

Sorme looked at him; he was staring at the ceiling. The silence lengthened. Sorme said:

OK. I'm going now. You're sure everything's all right?

Glasp looked at him, raising his head. He propped the pillow under his head, and heaved himself up slightly, resting his shoulders against the brass rails of the bed. He said:

She admitted she's not a virgin, anyway. But it was the cousin who lives with them. And he's admitted it too. So they dropped the charge.

Sorme said: Good lord!

Glasp shrugged, then dropped his head back on to the bed. Sorme said finally:

That must be quite a… shock. How do you feel about it?

Glasp's voice was level, without emotion:

She's not my daughter. Why should I worry?

Sorme stood up; he said, without conviction:

That's the sensible attitude to take. There's nothing very surprising in it. You don't feel annoyed, do you?

No.

And you'll keep on seeing her?

How can I? They wouldn't let her.

But… she'll want to keep on seeing you.

Perhaps.

Sorme stood at the door, hesitating to go out. Something about Glasp's listlessness irritated him. He said:

Surely it's nothing to worry about? This probably happened before you met her. You're giving her something she never had before. Surely this makes no difference?

Glasp turned his head to look at him. He said:

Look, Gerard, I don't know what I feel about it. I feel as if I've fallen down ten nights of stairs. I'm not even sure what I felt about her. Perhaps that's what I wanted all the time… I don't know. I just can't understand it. Why should she want to do it? I'd like to talk to her… She even said she'd marry me once. I know it's stupid. But I felt I understood her… and I just don't understand.

You probably understand her better than her parents — or this cousin. Anyway, you can't drop the girl just because of this. It's just the thing you're trying to save her from. The slum background…

Glasp said: Perhaps.

I'd better leave you. You'll feel better later. Shall I come over later?

If you like. Not today.

All right. Don't let it worry you. Goodbye, Oliver.

He closed the door quickly, glad to leave the room. Glasp's self-pity annoyed him; compared with the problem of Austin, it seemed trivial.

She was smoking a cigarette. She said:

You haven't been long.

No.

How is he?

He's all right. The police have dropped the case against him. So we can go and collect the bail money if you like…

Have they? Good. I was sure they would. Is he pleased?

The car started; she backed into Durward Street and turned. He said:

No. He irritates me. They discovered that the girl's not a virgin, but her cousin's responsible…

How appalling!

And he's working himself up into a state about it.

Why? Is he angry?

I don't know what he is. The man's a fool. Do you want to go to the police station to collect the money?

Not now. It can wait. I expect they'll be busy, anyway.

They turned again into the traffic of the Whitechapel Road, and drove towards the city. He sank into the seat, scowling out of the window. He said:

I thought Oliver was a talented artist. But now I'm beginning to wonder… He's too emotional. What does it matter whether the girl's a virgin or not? She's still the same girl.

Is he very upset?

I can't tell. I think he'd been building her up as a symbol of innocence and all that kind of thing. The world of adults exhausts him, so he turns to children. Then when he discovers the children are subject to the same kind of corruptions, he goes all gloomy and suicidal… At least Austin's a bit more grown up.

But why should it make any difference to him? I don't see the connection. He should be glad they've dropped the case.

He said irritably:

God knows. He's a typical romantic. I've come to the conclusion that the twentieth century's suffering from a romantic hangover. People like Oliver can't see straight. Everything has to be morbid to interest him… Oh, never mind. Maybe I'm being unfair. Turn down Fenchurch Street…

In Fleet Street, they stopped to buy an Evening Standard. The headline read: Search for Missing Parson Continues. He glanced down at the 'latest news' column; there was no mention of the murder. He tossed the newspaper into the back seat.

No good. Probably they didn't discover the body until late this morning. Let's go and have a quick drink. I need one.

The saloon bar was empty; it was the same room in which Sorme had spoken to Bill Payne on the previous day. He drank a pint of bitter ale while Gertrude Quincey examined a road atlas to determine the best route to Leatherhead. He noted with interest the ease with which she drank a double Scotch straight. The beer and the sunlight gave him a sense of wellbeing. Miss Quincey closed the atlas. He said:

Do you think it's worth going straight to Leatherhead? Wouldn't it be better to try the Kensington place first?

Do you think it's worth it?

Perhaps not. I doubt whether he'd stay in London if… if he knew anything about it.

All right.

He smiled at her.

How do you feel?

She touched her empty glass with the tip of her finger.

Better, thank you.

But… about all this?

She glanced around and saw that the barman was beyond the range of her voice.

Unreal. I can't believe it's serious. I feel somehow… as if you, and Austin, and the police, were practising some kind of elaborate confidence trick on me.

He said sympathetically:

I know. I feel the same. I think maybe all real murders are like this — unless you're directly involved. It's only in novels that the detective stumbles on clues and bodies all over the place. In real life the murders take place offstage, and it's all messy and unbelievable.

He finished his beer.

We'd better go. For all we know, the police may be there before us. Do Austin's family know the Leatherhead address?

Yes, of course.

I wonder if they gave it to Macmurdo?

Shall I ring and find out?

That might be an idea.

He watched her go out of the bar, and again felt surprise at the calm with which she accepted the situation. He ordered another half pint of beer, and stood at the bar to drink it, thinking: I shall never understand women. Are they all like that? One day she's a Jehovah's Witness and the next she's my mistress and an accessory after the fact. No sense of incongruity. The ancients were right. Widow of Ephesus, Helen of Troy. Maybe it's just lack of vitality.