'So what do you make of it?' was the question he asked Walter as they sat together later in Hawksmoor's office, contemplating the sign of the arrow which now lay on the desk between them.
'I don't really make anything of it. If the computer '
'And the tramp?'
Walter was puzzled at this. 'It could be the same man who did the drawing. And that sign might be a tramp sign, No Hope Here, or something. Shall I have it analysed?'
'And one of the tramps was killed. We could make a connection there.' Hawksmoor saw a pattern forming, but its vagueness angered him.
'As far as I can see, sir '
'As far as you can see, Walter, tell me what do you see?'
He was taken aback at this: 'I was simply going to say, sir, that we have to be logical about this.'
'Oh yes by all means let's be logical. Tell me this logically, then.
How did he know about the churches?'
The crosses may not be churches.'
Hawksmoor paid no attention to this. 'I never mentioned the churches. Not to anyone outside. Of course they must be churches.'
This last remark was directed again at Walter, who now shifted uneasily under Hawksmoor's gaze as he tried to think of something more positive to add. 'And that tramp was there, wasn't he?'
'I know he was there, Walter. That's what worries me.'
The evening was misty as Hawksmoor left the office, and a circle of roseate light had formed around the almost full moon. He walked up Whitehall and then turned right into the Strand, noticing at that moment how the exhalation of his breath mingled with the mist.
Someone behind him was saying, 'I have said too much!' but when he turned his head he could see only two children coming towards him through the cold evening. And they were singing: Then he unto the parson said, Shall I be so when I am dead?
Oh yes, oh yes, the parson said,
You will be so when you are dead.
But this must have been an illusion, for then he heard 'Penny for the guy! Penny for the guy!'. He peered into the pram which the two children were pushing in front of them, and saw a straw effigy with painted face. 'What are you going to do with that?' he asked as he dropped three small coins into the open hand of one child.
'We're going to burn him.'
'Well wait, don't do it yet. Wait.' He walked on and, as he turned up Katherine Street, he thought he heard the sounds of one particular step following him: he turned around quickly with a sigh, but he could see only the crush of evening travellers with their bodies bent forward.
Then he walked a little further and heard the same step again, echoing louder in the mist. 'I'll lead you a dance,' he whispered to himself, and quickened his pace as he turned sharply left into Long Acre, crossed among the heavy traffic coming out of St Martin's Lane, and darted through the small alleys of that vicinity. When he turned once more, he smiled because he could see no one still in pursuit.
In fact Walter had been following him. The behaviour of his superior was beginning to alarm him, not least because he was closely associated with Hawksmoor and would undoubtedly rise or fall with his reputation. There were those in the office who considered Hawks- moor to be 'old fashioned', even to be 'past it'; it had been precisely in order to mitigate those opinions that Walter had tried to interest him in computer technology. But the oddity of Hawksmoor's behaviour in recent days -his sudden rages and no less abrupt retreats into silence, his tendency to walk off by himself as if walking away from the case altogether -all this, combined with his apparent inability to make any progress in his investigations of the murders, was a cause of some concern to Walter. It was his belief that Hawksmoor was suffering from personal problems, and that he was probably drinking. Walter was nothing if not enterprising: the only way to satisfy himself about such matters, and eventually to safeguard his own career, was to watch him closely. And Hawksmoor had not, as he believed, eluded his pursuer. He had gone back to his flat in Grape Street, and as he stood in front of the window he remembered part of the song he had just heard. And all the while Walter was gazing up at him, examining with curiosity his pale countenance.
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.