Peter Ackroyd - Hawksmoor

I LOOKED DOWN upon the Street, as the Sunne rose above the mean Rents opposite, and yet I saw it not for all my Thoughts revolved upon the late Destruction of Mr Hayes and my hot Bout with the Harlot: a Torrent of Images threatened to o'erwhelm me, when I was rous'd from my Stupor by someone gazing upon me. I whirl'd about, but it was only Nat crept into the Room. You have a pale Look indeed, Master, says he.

Leave me, I whispered, I am sick and would be solitary for a while.

There is Blood upon your Gown, Master, let me Leave me! And in that Instant I bethought myself of the Writings I kept and which could still condemn me in spite of Mr Hayes his Extinction. Nat! Nat! I called out as he was about to slink away. Do you know the little Box beneeth the Bed, Nat?

I have seen it this Day and every Day since I entered your Service, which was a great Time ago, and it has never been moved Nat, leave off your Ramblings, take this Key and open it. There is a Notebook inside it which I wish you to find. Dig deep withinne the Linnen, Nat: you may tell it by the Bees-wax which covers it. And, when you hear the Car-men calling for the Rubbidge, give it to them.

But cover it first with stinking Stuff, so that they care not to look into it.

And all this while Nat was rummaging in the Box with I see it not and It is not in this Corner and It is missing from this Spot until he stands up solemnly and declares: It is gone.

Gone?

It is not here, not there, not anywhere. It is Gone.

I put my Face against the Glass, groaning and contemplating this further Turn, till like a Louse I jumped: for tho' my own Back was but patched and peeled, and my Box had vomited up its Secrets I knew not whither, I could not absent my self from the Office on such a Day as this; so, with much Pain, I put on my Cloathes and coach'd it to Scotland Yard. Yet I need not have been in as great a Hurry since Mr Hayes was not miss'd at first; he was constantly attending the Works and giving directions to the Workmen, going from place to place as he thought fit and (he being a Bachelour without Family to raise the Alarm) those in the Office merely ask'd, Has Mr Hayes left Word, or a Note in his Door, to let us know where he is to be found? It was said, I suppose he has not murdered any Body? And who laugh'd the loudest but myself?

It was after Noon when the Corse was discovered beneeth the Pipes new laid by St Mary Woolnoth, which fact was made known to me in the following Manner: Mr Vannbrugghe, a great cryer up of News, blew into my Closet like a dry Leaf in a Hurricanoe. He pulls off his Hat to me and cries, he is my Humble servant (when the Rogue is thinking all the while, Kiss my Ballocks). I hate, says he, to be a Messenger of 111 News. Then he settled himself upon the Arm of a Chair and assumed as solemn an Air as any Parson on a Holyday: Mr Hayes, Sir, is dead, murdered most Foully.

Dead?

Quite dead. Where is Walter?

I kept my Countenance: Mr Hayes dead? If this is so, I have heard nothing of it. And I rose from my Chair in feigned Disbelief.

Well that is strange, he replied, since it was Walter who discovered the Body. Where is Walter? I must speak with him.

I sat down at once and answered him trembling: I have not seen him, sir, but I have no doubt I will.

I am so much taken by the Rogue's adventure, do give me leave to question him myself.

How did Hayes die?

He died a servant to your Church, for some Ruffian must have set upon him as he inspected the Foundacions of St Mary Woolnoth.

In Lombard Street?

I believe it is there, Mr Dyer. He looked on me oddly at this, and indeed I scarce knew what I was saying as in my Thoughts I contemplated the sight of Walter gazing down at the Corse of Mr Hayes.

Did you tell me how he died?

He was choaked to Death.

Choaked?

Strangled, like a Bear on a Leash. What Age is this, he goes on, when the Churches are not hallowed?

He looked at me then with half a Smile, and it came into my Mind to jest with edge tools (as they say), knowing that from Death springs Laughter: if you have forgot your Age, I replied, consult your Glass.

At that he gave a very genteel turn to the Ribbon of his Cravat-string: I see, says he, that you leave off the Grimaces of a feigned Sadnesse and, to speak plainly, I did not like the Man myself.

I liked him well enough, I declared, and I wished no Harm to come to him. Again I tried to rise from my Chair saying, I must go now to discover the Truth in all this. But there came a sudden Giddinesse into my Head: there was a scent of Orange-Flo wer-water in the Room, I saw Vannbrugghe his little Mouth wag but I heard only confus'd Words as I bowed down and stared at the Dust upon the Floor.

When I returned to my self he was showing his Teeth in a Smile.

This Death has taken away your Spirits, says he, but it cannot be helped: we all must die although (for he could never resist a Quixotic- ism)

I admit I will never do anything with as little Desire in my Life. I gave him a Glance and at that he slunk away or, as the Rakes term it, he brush'd off, having had the worst of the Lay: just as a Rod is the best argument for the back of a Rogue, so Contempt is the best Usage that ought to be shown to a Fool. Your Servant, Sir he calls out as he turns into the Passage. Yes, he loves me as an Ivy does the Oak, and will never leave me till he has hugg'd me to my Ruine.

When I could no longer hear his Step I hasten'd to the little Desk upon which Walter fair-writes, but there was nothing so much there as a Peece of Paper to reveal to me where he had been, and where he was now. His Repository was lock'd against it, but I had watched Walter and knew that he hid his Key beneath a Board where no Nail was: it was removed by me with the utmost Ease and Quietness but, upon opening the Box, I saw only a pile of Bills and Measurements.

But then a little Paper dropped down to the Ground, and when I bent to pick it up I saw plainly that Walter had written upon it, O Misery, Them Shall Dye. I puzzled over this for a Moment, but there was so much Noise and Whispering around the Office that I could not remain by myself and, in fear of Censure, I walked into the Passage to join the Throng. Mr Lee, Mr Strong, and Mr Vanbrugghe were there engaged in Talk and as I walked toward them they call'd out, Where is Walter?

What has become of him? Is he withinne? and such like Questions.

I doubt not but that he is being Examined, 7 replied, and that he will return to us presently. Vanbrugghe did not look upon me as I spoke but waited for me to finish with an indifferent Air, and then began to discourse about Mr Hayes his suddaine Death, who he supposed his Murtherer to be, and other Trifles. My Thoughts were travelling down a different Road: Is it not just, said I after a while, that he be Buried where he Fell? And to this the Pack concurred, as a proper Course for one so devoted to the Work of the Office. Then I walk'd out into the Yard to puzzle once more the meaning of Walter's words, for they strangely afflicted me. And how could it be that Walter had made so sudden a Discovery of the Corse? I wheel'd and wheel'd about, not knowing whether to go or to stay, and the Wind would not let me think but blew upon my Face bringing the Scents of the River; so at last I enter'd my Closet and shut the Door, at which Time I had a sudden Vision of Walter running in Fear down Lombard Street.

I wrote his Words upon a Paper -O

Misery, Them Shall Dye -but

I could still find no clew to unravel their Sense. Then after a while it came to me to anagrammatize its Letters and thus I spell'd out in Horrour: Dyer Has Smote Me III, with the initials YH for the name of Yorick Hayes. And I stared astonished at my Labours: for how could it be that the Villain had foretold his own Fate, when he was making merry in his Cups only minutes before his Extinction? And yet if these were Walter's own words, how might it be that he could communicate with the Dead Man unless it be by some Instillation of his Spirit? And when had he composed this troublesome Stuff? All these blinde Feares whirled about me: Walter, Walter, I said out loud, do I not talk madly? And at this there was a Knock upon the Door and I bounded up like a Dog afraid of Whipping. But it was only the coxcomb Vanbrugghe once more making his Bow: Mr Hayes, says he, was a great Frequenter of Plays and, once we have put him in a Shift and given him over to the Clerk of the Parish, we thought to take ourselves to the Play-House in his Memory. Do you agree, Mr Dyer?