Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

Ah, really?

  Have you heard of him, father?

  The priest said:

  I have. And I’m afraid it sounds as if you’re right.

  Why?

  Franz mentioned him to me a few days ago. He said that a man was frightening women in White­chapel by jumping out of doorways with a black face. The police don’t really believe he’s the murderer. And Franz most certainly doesn’t.

  Why?

  Because a man who jumps out of doorways and frightens women sounds a very different proposition from a murderer. He’s a sadist of a sort, of course . . . but not the kind the police want.

  But this man attacked a woman, father. He caused serious head injuries, according to Stein. It was in a room in White­chapel, and he escaped by jumping through the window.

  Indeed? Ah. . . .

  Sorme stirred uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. He un­buttoned his overcoat; the heat was making him sweat. The priest said finally:

  If you are sure he attacked a woman . . . perhaps I am wrong.

  Stein said he’d confessed to the attack, but not to the other murders.

  I see. Then it sounds as if he was being quite sincere. If he was trying to deceive you, he wouldn’t have admitted that the man had not confessed to the previous murders.

  You mean he’d either tell me he had, or wouldn’t mention it at all?

  I’m afraid it sounds like that.

  A shiver passed over the skin of Sorme’s back. He said:

  Why afraid, father? Do you think Austin’s the murderer?

  The priest said:

  From my knowledge of Austin, it seems unlikely.

  Why?

  Because . . . I have known Austin since he was a child. I should say, I have been acquainted with him since he was a child. And his mother has talked to me about him a great deal. Do you think he could commit a murder?

  The question took Sorme by surprise. After a hesitation, he said doubtfully:

  That’s not easy to answer. In the sense you mean, no. He’s not a ruffian, he’s not callous. . . . But . . . I can’t explain.

  Try to explain, Gerard.

  Sorme pulled off the overcoat, and dropped it on the bed, then unbuttoned the jacket. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. He said slowly:

  You see, father, it’s like this. I met him at the Diaghilev exhibition, you know. . . .

  Yes. What has that to do with it?

  Quite a lot, actually. You didn’t see it, did you? No. Well—it impressed me, because . . . it was like a fairy tale. These old costumes, designs, soft music, scent—the same scent that Austin uses, incidentally—just like another world. Well, that’s Austin’s world, father, the world he wants to live in. He’s not a very brilliant person. He wouldn’t get much out of the writings of the saints or the Church fathers. But he wants to find an ideal world all the same. . . . You remember, I told you the same thing about his basement flat?

  Yes.

  I think being alive exhausts him. He can’t accept reality. I can understand him because I feel the same. The reality of the world batters him. It bullies him. So he wants to see it from some beautifully detached standpoint. That’s why he’s so theatrical. Instead of real slums, he wants a stage set that looks like slums. Instead of real despair and defeat, he wants tragic actors raving about it. He has to simplify everything. . . .

  I see your point. But this doesn’t sound like the definition of a murderer to me.

  He becomes the tragic actor himself, making a gesture of defiance. Don’t you see, father? He dramatises his own self-disgust. If he committed a murder, he wouldn’t be a real murderer. He’d be a tragic actor playing Macbeth.

  The priest said:

  I’m afraid you overestimate his need for self-dramatisation. I doubt whether it would extend to actual killing.

  Sorme felt confused and involved, unable to capture the thread of insight. He said finally:

  I dunno, father. . . . It’s all this feeling of wanting to impose yourself on the world. Murder’s the ultimate taboo. In a certain mood, it could be a kind of suicide. I think that’s how Austin feels. Unless he can dramatise it, the world seems unbearably alien. He wants to do something positive to justify his existence.

  The priest’s face clouded. He said:

  I . . . see what you mean. All the same. . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t strike me as likely.

  No, and I agree, it’s no final proof that Austin would commit murder. . . .

  You should see Austin . . . and perhaps you should warn him.

  I thought you didn’t want me to warn him?

  Not openly, perhaps. On the other hand, it seems to me very probable that he is not guilty. In that case . . .

  He broke off, staring at the eiderdown, his chin on his chest. Sorme was uncertain whether his attitude showed deep thought or simply fatigue. He stood up and crossed to the window, which was open about an inch at the top; the faint current of cool air was a relief. As he waited, the priest went on:

  What you say about Austin may be true for yourself. I could imagine a certain type of man who needs a sense of moral purpose, who feels the world to be meaningless. . . .

  Sorme interrupted:

  Austin once said something like that to me. He said he felt futile or meaningless . . . no, unintended; that was the word.

  Did he? What else did he say?

  Oh . . . something about feeling he ought not to be alive. He said if there was any justice in the world he’d’ve broken his neck or something. Mind, he was in a pretty low state that evening.

  Unintended. I must admit, you surprise me. But it bears out what you say. But, as I was about to say . . . I can imagine that a man might feel a need to enter the order of good and evil, to escape a sense of futility. And I can imagine him committing a crime merely to prove to himself that he is capable of evil, and therefore not entirely . . . unintended. But I have never in my life come across such a case—except, perhaps, in juvenile delinquents.

  Sorme said, shrugging:

  The way you put it, I agree it sounds unlikely. But I’m not talking about conscious motives. I’m just saying that if Austin was the killer, I could understand. I mean, take Oliver Glasp. . . . He’s the same sort of person. I’ve seen a lot of Oliver over this past week, father, and I think I’ve got to know a lot about him. Well, I know he’d never suffer from any sort of strain if he believed in his own genius. He’d have a purpose then. As it is, he’s got himself involved with some ten-year-old girl from a slum tenement. It gives him a sense of meaning from day to day, and that’s what he needs to keep going. But he doesn’t believe in his own reality enough to exist without something of the sort. Don’t you see what I’m trying to say, father? Oliver needs people more than ideas—he’s an emotional person. So when he’s under strain, he gropes around for people. I need ideas more than people. When I rebel, it’s a rebellion of ideas. But Austin’s sensual as well as emotional. He needs a physical outlet for his rebellion—driving fast cars, flying an aeroplane. Doesn’t it sound plausible?

  He was carried away by the excitement of his own words; when he stopped, he experienced a feeling of guilt. Father Carruthers was listening with his head drooping, his eyes closed; he might have been asleep. Without opening his eyes, he said softly:

  Yes, it sounds plausible.

  Sorme said: I’m afraid I’m talking too much.

  I’m sorry. I’d like to help you more. But I feel very tired.

  Yes, absolutely, I’ll go now.

  Go and see Austin.

  If I can find him!

  Try at his Kensington flat. Take a taxi there.

  All right. But I’ll take a tube.

  The priest said:

  Open that top drawer behind you . . . no, the left one. There should be a plastic case there. . . . Yes, thank you.

  He opened the black wallet that Sorme had handed to him, and took out a pound note.

  Take this and use it for a taxi.

  No, really, father. . . .
>
  Take it. I have no use for money here—I spend my days in bed. Besides, you are doing an errand for me. I’d go if I could. Take it.

  Sorme took the note unwillingly, and pushed it, folded, into his top pocket. He said:

  Thank you, father. Shall I phone back to let you know?

  No. If anything important happens, come back. But I shall sleep now.

  All right, father. Thanks. I hope you get well soon.

  Thank you, Gerard.

  He let himself out of the front door. As he turned the corner, he met Robin Maunsell hurrying across the road. Maunsell said:

  Well, Gerard, you’re rather a stranger, aren’t you? A stranger to me, I should say, because I hear that you’re always popping in and out to Father Carruthers.

  Sorme said embarrassedly:

  How are you?

  I’m very well. But what on earth’s going on with you? Are the two of you planning a campaign to convert Austin Nunne?

  Something like that, Sorme said, grinning.

  Come in and have a cup of tea.

  No, thanks, Robin. I’m just doing an errand for Father Carruthers.

  Really? Are you coming back?

  I expect so. Later in the day.

  Well, I can see you’re dying to go. Perhaps I’ll see you later.

  Sorme said untruthfully:

  I’m just off for lunch. I’m pretty hungry. But I’ll see you later. . . .

  All right.

  As Sorme turned away, Maunsell said:

  Give Austin my regards.

  Sorme looked back in surprise, but Maunsell was already in the doorway.

  He crossed Rosebery Avenue, walking towards Ludgate Circus, with the idea of finding a taxi in Holborn. His neck was still damp with sweat from the heat of the room, and his throat felt dry. For some reason, he felt no belief that Nunne would be in the Kensington flat. Nunne wouldn’t be anywhere where he was known to go regularly if he was avoiding the police . . . The thought of the women’s clothes came to him suddenly. At the time, Nunne’s explanation had been inade­quate. But his new suspicions provided no satisfactory hypothesis to explain them either.

  In Fleet Street he turned into the bar of the first pub he saw. He ordered a pint of mild, and drank a half of it before the burning sensation went out of his throat. He grinned at the bartender, saying:

  Ah, that’s better.

  From the next bar, someone called:

  Cheerio, George!

  Goodbye, Mr. Payne.

  Sorme said:

  Was that Bill Payne?

  Yes, sir.

  He hurried to the door of the pub, and saw Payne on the point of crossing the road. He called:

  Hi, Bill!

  The noise of traffic drowned his voice; as Payne was about to step off the pavement, he jumped forward and touched his arm. Payne said:

  Hello, Gerard! What are you doing here?

  Having a drink. Come and join me.

  In there? Where were you? I didn’t see you.

  The bartender said:

  You’re soon back!

  Payne said, grinning:

  I planted my friend here to give me an excuse. What are you having, Gerard?

  I’ve got one, thanks. Have one with me. What is it?

  Usual, please, George. Let’s go in next-door. This wood’s icy to the arse.

  A fire was burning in the lounge bar; Payne carried his glass to the table that stood near it. He said:

  Have you heard the news?

  About the arrest? Yes.

  Payne said with surprise:

  Where’d you hear it?

  From a police pathologist.

  Starr?

  No, Stein—the German doctor I know on the case. He came around this morning to follow up the business of the old man. They phoned him while he was with me.

  Did they? You mean they told him the hunt was off?

  Oh no. Just that the man had been arrested. Stein admitted it might be the wrong man.

  Why?

  Well . . . surely it’s obvious? He hasn’t confessed to the murders. . . .

  Ah, then you haven’t heard the latest. He’s made a full con­fession since.

  What! Confessed to what?

  All the murders—except one of the women killed the other night.

  Are you sure?

  Quite sure. It came just before I left the office.

  What did it say? Do you know the details?

  Some of them. You know about the attack last night?

  Yes.

  Well, the police found charcoal marks on the woman’s throat and hands. She was unconscious, of course. They started a full-scale murder hunt. He must have got into the dockyard somehow—down near Limehouse pier. And somebody spotted him as he tried to climb over the wall this morning. They say he’s got a broken knee. He’d tried to clean the charcoal off his face, but there were still traces, and they found the sponge he’d been using in his pocket. They took him to Commercial Street police station and he denied the murders—although he admitted the attack last night. Then they took him to Scotland Yard, and he confessed the lot. So that’s it!

  Sorme found it difficult to conceal the cold feeling of relief that gave him a desire to laugh. He said:

  So he’s caught!

  He’s caught, Payne said.

  Do they know anything about his motive?

  No. But he’s a bit of an idiot. Can’t speak properly—has a hare lip—and he’s been on probation for being involved in a robbery.

  An idiot? That doesn’t sound so good.

  Why?

  Stein told me that an idiot was arrested in the Düsseldorf case, and confessed to the murders. He wasn’t the murderer.

  I think the police must be fairly sure of themselves. They wouldn’t announce his confession if they doubted it. Anyway, for the sake of the police I hope they’ve got the man.

  So does everybody. But why did he wear charcoal last night? There was no sign of charcoal in the previous murders. And Stein told me they’d been after this bloke for a few weeks—he’d been jumping out of doorways and frightening women. That doesn’t sound like the killer.

  Payne said thoughtfully:

  Perhaps you’re right. That’s a good point. I’ll mention that to the chap who’s doing the story. Anyway, why should he confess if he’s not the killer?

  Perhaps the police were rough with him. You said he’d got a broken knee. He wouldn’t have much resistance, would he?

  But the police wouldn’t want him to confess if he wasn’t the killer.

  Sorme said, shrugging:

  I don’t know. It’s only guesswork. I hope it’s the right man. What’s his name, by the way?

  Oh . . . Bentley, Alfred Bentley. Lives in Brixton.

  But he used to live in White­chapel, Sorme said.

  Did he? Are you sure?

  That’s what Stein told me.

  I didn’t know that. So he’d know the district well. Listen, Gerard, I’d better get back to the office. What’s the name of this German, in case we want to contact him?

  Stein. Franz Stein. And he’s working with Macmurdo.

  Right. Thanks a lot. I might ring you later. Let’s meet for a drink.

  All right. Be seeing you, Bill.

  After Payne had gone, he finished his pint, staring into the fire. The excitement had been replaced by doubt. He replaced his glass on the counter, went into Fleet Street, and hailed a passing taxi.

  When the taxi turned into Palace Gate, he asked the driver:

  Would you mind waiting at the end of Canning Place? I shan’t be long.

  As he walked towards the house, he told himself he could return and dismiss the taxi if Nunne was in. He had no desire to encounter Vannet, and was afraid the taxi might attract his attention.

  The area gate creaked open. The curtains behind the barred windows were drawn. He rang the bell and listened carefully. He could hear it ringing somewhere inside. There was no other sound. He rang again. After a wai
t of another half-minute, he took an old envelope out of his pocket, scrawled a message on it and slipped it through the letter-box. Above his head, the front door opened. A man he had never seen before looked down at him. The man said:

  Oh.

  His head disappeared, and the front door closed again. Sorme decided to leave immediately, afraid that Vannet might appear. He felt better when the door of the taxi had closed behind him. He gave the driver his Camden Town address.

  . . . . .

  As he passed the telephone in the hall, he stopped and dialled Nunne’s flat, knowing as he did so that it would be pointless. After a moment, the girl said:

  I’m afraid there’s still no reply, sir.

  He groped through his pockets and found another four pennies. With his address book propped open on the coin box he dialled Caroline’s number; a man’s voice with a London accent answered.

  ’Old on a minute. I’ll get ’er. ’Oo’s it speakin’?

  A moment later, Caroline’s voice said:

  Gerard! Hello, sweet!

  Hello, pet. How are things?

  Fine. What are you doing?

  Nothing much. Have you heard the White­chapel murderer’s been caught?

  Yes; it was on the radio just now. Isn’t it exciting?

  Terrific. How are you feeling?

  Oh, all right now. I’ve recovered.

  Is anyone there with you?

  No; daddy’s gone upstairs.

  When can you come over here again?

  Not today, sweet, I’m afraid.

  You doing something this evening?

  No, but they don’t like me to go into town on Sunday. They say I’m there too often. I could come tomorrow. . . .

  Good. Make it tomorrow night, then?

  All right, darling. I’m longing to see you.

  He went upstairs feeling curiously let down. The tension of the morning had aroused an anticipation in him. To spend the rest of the day alone seemed an anticlimax.

  In his room he opened a tin of tomato soup, and ate it with bread and butter. He took a volume of Blake off the shelf and tried to read as he drank the hot soup. A few minutes later he returned the book to the shelf and took down The Return of Sherlock Holmes. This attempt was more successful; he read four stories before he became tired. It was now three o’clock. He remembered Miss Quincey’s invitation, but felt no real desire to go there. He would have preferred spending the afternoon in bed with Caroline. He stretched and yawned, massaging his eyelids with his fingers, then stood up and looked out of the window. The day was grey and cold. He typed a note on a half-sheet of quarto paper, then put on his coat and went downstairs, locking his door behind him. He propped the note against the telephone as he went out.