It was dark now, and the light from the buildings beyond his window shone on his face as he gave a great yawn. He left the office quietly, made his way out of the yard, and as he walked through the clear night to St George's, Bloomsbury, the cold December air turned his breath into clouds of moisture which rose above his head. He paused at the corner of Russell Street and New Oxford Street as a vagrant, muttering 'Jesus fucking Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!', glared at him; and in alarm he walked quickly up to the church, opening the iron gate which led to the small courtyard beside it. He stood beneath the white tower, and looked up at it with that mournful expression which his face always carried in repose: for one moment he thought of climbing up its cracked and broken stone, and then from its summit screaming down at the silent city as a child might scream at a chained animal. But his sudden anger was destroyed by a noise quite close to him. He remained still; a wooden door to his right seemed to be moving in the wind and, as he peered at it, he saw the sign Crypt Entrance written above the portal. The wind continued to blow the door gently backward and forward: to prevent it from opening too suddenly upon him, he hurried towards it and held it closed with his palm. But the wood felt unnaturally warm, and he snatched his hand away. The door opened slightly once more, and Hawksmoor decided to move it towards him with the tips of his fingers, very softly and very slowly so that it was only gradually he heard a faint but sustained laughter coming from within.
When he had opened the door to a sufficient width he slid through its entrance, holding his breath as he did so although the odours of wood and old stone were already forming a metallic taste in the back of his throat. The passage of the crypt was warm, and in his anxious state he imagined a host of people pressing around him -not touching him but close enough to forbid him movement. He walked forward slowly, since his eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness, but he paused when he thought he heard scuffling noises somewhere in front of him.
He did not cry out, but he lowered himself to the ground and put his hands across his face. The faint sounds had diminished, and now he could hear a voice murmuring, 'Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes'.
Hawksmoor stood up at once and, poised for flight, he bent his body away from the direction of that voice and its whispered words. Then there was silence, and Hawksmoor knew that his presence had been sensed; he heard the sound of something being struck, and the light at the end of the passage made him jerk back his head in astonishment for in that instant he saw a young man, with his trousers draped around his ankles, holding onto a girl who was leaning against the stone wall. 'Fuck off!' the young man screamed, 'fuck off, you old sod!'
And Hawksmoor laughed in relief: 'I'm sorry,' he called out to the couple, as the match flickered out and they once more vanished into the darkness, 'I'm sorry!' When he got out of the passage, he leaned against the wall of the church, fighting for breath; once more he could hear the sound of laughter but, when he looked around, he saw only the rubbish of the city being blown against the church steps.
Slowly he walked back to Grape Street, his head bowed against the wind; when he reached the door, he looked up at Mrs West's window and saw two shadows thrown by the firelight upon the ceiling. So she has found a man at last, was his thought as he entered the passageway; it was dark here but at once he saw a small package, addressed to him, which seemed to have been tossed over the threshold. It was wrapped in coarse brown paper: he took it in both hands, held it out in front of him, and climbed the stairs to his own flat. Then, still in his overcoat, he sat down in his bare front room and tore open the parcel greedily: there was a small book within it, with a shiny white cover which was slightly sticky to the touch as if it had recently been coated in wax or resin. As soon as he opened it he saw the same drawing: the man was kneeling and holding something like a spy glass against his right eye. On other pages there were verses, sketches in the form of a cross and then on separate sheets certain phrases inscribed in brown ink -The Fortitude of the Stars', The Power In Images', The Seven Wounds'; towards the end Hawksmoor read, 'O Misery, They Shall Die' and in his horror he dropped the white book upon the floor, where it lay as the darkness of the night changed to the grey of the winter dawn. At which time he was thinking of the man who had drawn the kneeling figure beside St Mary Woolnoth; the tramp's shape was just above Hawksmoor's own as he stretched wide-eyed upon his bed, as if both of them were stone effigies of the dead lying above each other in an empty church.
'I'm still interested in that tramp,' he said as soon as Walter had entered the room.
'Which one was that, sir?'
The tramp by the church. The one who made the drawing.' He turned away from Walter to hide his eagerness. 'Do you still have the letter?' And after a brief search among the files arranged neatly on Hawksmoor's desk, it was found. It seemed so flimsy, just a sheet torn from a memorandum pad with the words 'Don't Forget' printed at its top, and at that moment Hawksmoor made a simple connection: it was as if he had climbed higher and, seeing much further into the distance, had lost his fear. 'Where,' he asked, 'is the nearest class- house to that church?'
The nearest one to the City is in the Commercial Road, it's that old building '
The one between Limehouse and Wapping?'
As they drove across London to the Commercial Road, Hawksmoor felt quite calm and allowed his fingers lightly to touch the letter placed in the inside pocket of his jacket. But as soon as they arrived he left the car hurriedly and dashed up the steps of a grimy brick building: Walter looked at him running ahead, beneath the grey London sky, and pitied him. Following Hawksmoor, he opened the wooden doors of the hostel, saw the faded green paint of its interior and the linoleum floors stained with grease or dirt, smelt the mixture of disinfectant and stale food, heard the faint calls and sounds from within the building.
And by this time Hawksmoor was knocking on a glass partition, behind which sat an elderly man eating a sandwich: 'Excuse me,' he was saying, 'Excuse me' as the man slowly put down his food and, apparently with reluctance, slid back the glass partition and murmured 'Oh yes?'
'You work here, I take it?'
'What does it look like to you?'
Hawksmoor cleared his throat. 'I am a police officer.' He handed him the letter. 'Do you recognise this piece of paper?'
The man pretended to study it. 'Yes, I've seen this kind of paper.
The staff use it. Don't ask me why.' He took out of a drawer a memorandum pad with the same words printed across it. 'What can you forget in a place like this?'
'And do you recognise the handwriting?' Walter noticed that Hawksmoor had become very still.
'Well, it's not mine.'
'I know it's not yours. But do you recognise it?'
'Not as far as I know.'
And Walter saw Hawksmoor nod, as if this was exactly what he had expected. Tell me this, then. Have you come across a tramp called the Architect, or anything like that?'
He blinked and put his finger in the air. 'We have the Preacher, the Flying Dutchman, the Pilgrim. But I don't know of any Architect. He'll be a new one on me.'
Hawksmoor stared at him. 'Do you mind if we have a look around?'
'Be my guest. ' His eyes briefly met those of Hawksmoor. 'You'll find just two of them there. They're supposed to be sick.'
Walter followed Hawksmoor down a corridor and into a large room which contained some formica tables and metal chairs: a large television set, placed upon a high shelf, had been turned on and the sounds of a children's programme chimed as emptily as an ice-cream van in a deserted street. Hawksmoor glanced up at it before walking through into another room where a number of mattresses, wrapped in plastic, had been arranged in two rows. On one of them a tramp lay upon his stomach, while a second man was crouched in a corner smoking. 'Hello,' Walter called out, 'And what do they call you, then?'