Hawksmoor (28 page)

'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.

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?

I was about to speak out, but the Callus of this man's Vanity has made him invulnerable and he takes everything you say in good Part.

It is agreed, I replied.

But to go on with my Theme: a Coroner's Jury had been summoned and met to make an Inquiry how the Party (as they called him) came by his Death, and such Witnesses as could be got besides Walter were examined; but their Testimonies appeared very obscure in the apprehension of most People. Some under examination confirmed that they had seen a lofty man in a dark Coat waiting about Midnight at the end of Pope's Head Alley, while others declared that they had observed a drunken Man by the New Church, and yet others beleeved that they had heard violent Singing in the Dusk of the Evening. All these had but a confus'd sense of Time, and it became clear that there was nothing Certain. So it is that the World makes its own Demons, which then the People see.

Mean-while the villain Hayes was clean'd and shav'd and put into his Shift: he was left to lie in his Coffin for just one Day, with a square peece of Flannel over his Face and Neck to obscure the Signs of his Death, before he was taken thro' Cheapside and Poultry to be buried by the east wall of St Mary Woolnoth. Sir Chris, had conceeved a great Dislike of Funerals and, sighing, he looked upon the Walls new built rather than down into the Grave. Mr Vannbrugghe glanced around at the Company with a melancholy Air but, as we threw sprigs of Rosemary upon the Coffin, he repeated in a jovial Tone the words of the Service: From dust to dust, says he, From dust to dust. Then he leaned over to whisper at me behind his Hand: I do not see you at your Devotions, Mr Dyer.