Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

That's my worry.

I know, Sorme said.

He relaxed on the cushions and looked out of the window. The car in front had already passed the hotel.

Macmurdo said:

Stop here a moment.

The car halted at the traffic lights. Sorme asked:

Shall I get out?

You'd better, Macmurdo said.

Aren't you coming in? I thought you wanted to see Miss Quincey.

Macmurdo said shortly:

That'll do later.

Sorme stepped out of the car and slammed the door as the lights changed. He stood for a moment, watching it disappear among the traffic, then crossed the road to the hotel.

The girl behind the enquiries desk directed him to the bar. Miss Quincey was sitting alone in a basket armchair, reading a copy of Vogue. She looked up as soon as he came into the room; her smile was spontaneous and warm. It was good to be back with her again. She said:

I'm glad you came. I was beginning to worry. Is everything all right?

She took his hand as he bent over her, releasing it almost immediately. He said:

Not too bad, sweet. I'll get a drink. Will you have another?

No thanks. This is my second. I've just had lunch.

He brought his pint of bitter back to her table, and pulled a chair close to hers. He said:

It's lucky the police didn't come in here with me. They arrived about an hour after me.

They found Austin?

Yes. But it's all right. Don't be alarmed. I think it's going to be OK.

She glanced around the empty bar, then asked in a whisper:

Is it Austin?

He said noncommittally:

I'll talk about it outside. You ready to leave?

She nodded. He tilted the beer glass and took a long draught, almost emptying it. She asked:

Where is Austin now?

On his way to Scotland Yard. For questioning.

Have they a warrant for him?

No. And I don't think they will have. I've arranged to meet him for supper tonight.

She sipped her gin and orange; her hand was trembling slightly. He said:

Don't worry. He's probably one of fifty suspects they've questioned today. It doesn't mean a thing.

This seemed to reassure her. He finished the beer, and stood up. The barman said: Good afternoon, sir! as they went out.

Where did you park the car?

Over in the car park.

Neither of them spoke until the car had begun to pull out of the Leatherhead traffic on the Epsom road. He said:

Remind me to contact Caroline when we get back. I'm supposed to meet her for supper.

She ignored the words, staring straight ahead through the the windscreen. Then she asked:

What has happened to Austin?

For the first time, Sorme realised that he had not yet decided what to tell her. An instinctive desire to protect her made him say:

He'll be all right. He's in trouble, but not too much.

But… does he know about…?

The murders? He didn't tell me specifically. I think he was afraid to involve me, for my own sake. But I'm afraid he knows enough to get him into trouble. As an accessory…

Then he's not…

No. He's not the killer.

Are you sure?

Quite sure.

Thank God.

Her relief touched him, and made him feel guilty. She started to laugh, leaning forward; the car swerved, then straightened out. She said:

You don't know what a nightmare this past few hours has been.

He said sympathetically:

I can guess, sweet.

But I knew it couldn't be true. I know Austin's often a little foolish… but he could never do that.

The families of most murderers probably feel like that, you know.

But he's not a murderer. You said you…

No, he's not. But he may be in pretty bad trouble.

But why? Surely they aren't interested in anyone else?

They are. This murder hunt has turned the underworld upside down. An awful amount of dirt has been stirred up.

But what has he done? It can't be as serious as all that? His father can pay lawyers…

I hope it won't get to that stage. If he's sensible, he'll stay out of England for six months. Look, sweet, could you stop at the Post Office in Epsom? I'd better send Caroline a telegram. Do you know the address of this place she's at?

The Scottish woman said:

He's asleep at the moment. Can you come back at six?

Sorme said:

I'm afraid this is urgent. It's something he'll want to know immediately. It may be a matter of life and death.

She looked unimpressed.

I'm sorry. I can't disturb him when he's asleep.

He repressed the irritation that made him want to push her out of the way. The Hungarian priest came out of the vault behind him, saying politely:

Excuse me.

Sorme said:

Look, father. I've got to see Father Carruthers. It's urgent.

The priest glanced from Sorme to the Scotswoman; he looked embarrassed and doubtful. He asked:

And he is asleep?

The woman said:

And he can't be disturbed.

Father Rakosi asked anxiously:

Is it important?

Sorme took two paces back from the door, coming close to the priest. He said in a low voice:

It's about the Whitechapel murders. He asked me to let him know immediately anything happened.

The priest glanced at the woman, then said apologetically:

I think you'd better wait inside. I will see if he is awake.

The woman turned without another word, and walked off. Sorme followed the priest into the dark interior that smelt of polish and tidiness. The priest said:

You wait here, please.

Sorme stood by the frosted-glass windows, swearing under his breath about the Scotswoman. It was not her refusal that irritated him, but her hostility and the desire to obstruct. He thought: How dare she be hostile to me, the bitch? She doesn't know me. What makes people turn nasty like that? Is that a form of sadism?

The idea interested him; he sat in the chair, thinking about it. Sadism is inflicting pain. Does petty-mindedness qualify as sadism? The choice of stupidity rather than intelligence? But how do I understand Austin's? Inverted love…

The priest came back, he said quietly:

He is awake.

He turned and walked into the next room. Sorme hastened up the stairs and along the corridor, half expecting to be intercepted by the Scotswoman. The priest's door stood slightly ajar; he rapped with his knuckles and went in.

Father Carruthers was sitting up in bed, the plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders; his face looked tired and dazed. The room was colder than usual; the window was open.

Hello, father.

The priest said:

What has been happening?

Sorme closed the door carefully, and sat on the edge of the bed. He said:

Austin has been taken to the police station for questioning. There was another murder last night.

I heard about the murder. What do they want with Austin?

He sat up, pulling his body into a more comfortable position; Sorme leaned forward and stopped the pillow from slipping until the priest had adjusted himself. He said:

They suspect him of the murders.

Have you spoken to him?

Yes, father. I was there when the police arrived.

Do you think he might be guilty?

Sorme hesitated, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, the priest seemed too old and tired to burden with a knowledge of pain. As he waited, the priest pulled the blanket tighter round his shoulders, and sank deeper into the pillows. He said:

I take it your hesitation means that he is?

Sorme said:

Yes, father.

I'm sorry, the priest said.

Before he could go on, someone tapped on the door. It was the Scotswoman. Without looking at Sorme, she said:

Father, there's another gentleman downstairs to see you. It's the German doctor…

The priest looked at Sorme:

Would you like to see him?

Sorme said:

I don't mind, father. I can go.