Hawksmoor (18 page)

This mundus tenebrosus, this shaddowy world of Mankind, is sunk into Night; there is not a Field without its Spirits, nor a City without its Daemons, and the Lunaticks speak Prophesies while the Wise men fall into the Pitte. We are all in the Dark, one with another. And, as the Inke stains the Paper on which it is spilt and slowly spreads to Blot out the Characters, so the Contagion of darkness and malefaction grows apace until all becomes unrecognizable. Thus it was with the Witches who were tryed by Swimming not long before, since once the Prosecution had commenced no Stop could be put to the raving Women who came forward: the number of Afflicted and Accused began to encrease and, upon Examination, more confess'd themselves guilty of Crimes than were suspected of. And so it went, till the Evil revealed was so great that it threatened to bring all into Confusion.

And yet in the way of that Philosophie much cryed up in London and elsewhere, there are those like Sir Chris, who speak only of what is Rational and what is Demonstrated, of Propriety and Plainness.

Religion Not Mysterious is their Motto, but if they would wish the Godhead to be Reasonable why was it that when Adam heard that Voice in the Garden he was afraid unto Death? The Mysteries must become easy and familiar, it is said, and it has now reached such a Pitch that there are those who wish to bring their mathematicall Calculations into Morality, viz. the Quantity of Publick Good produced by any Agent is a compound Ratio of his Benevolence and Abilities, and such like Excrement. They build Edifices which they call Systems by laying their Foundacions in the Air and, when they think they are come to sollid Ground, the Building disappears and the Architects tumble down from the Clowds. Men that are fixed upon matter, experiment, secondary causes and the like have forgot there is such a thing in the World which they cannot see nor touch nor measure: it is the Praecipice into which they will surely fall.

There are those who say further that these are meer Dreames and no true Relations, but I say back to them: look upon my Churches in the Spittle-fields, in Limehouse, and now in the Parish of Wapping Stepney, and do you not wonder why they lead you into a darker World which on Reflection you know to be your own? Every Patch of Ground by them has its Hypochondriack Distemper and Disorder; every Stone of them bears the marks of Scorching by which you may follow the true Path of God. Now, these men of Reason assert that such Signs are but the Stuff of deep Melancholists or cozening Rogues but even in the Bible, that Book of the Dead, there are innumerable Instances: Evil Angels were sent among the Aegyptians, Psalm 78.49, God asked Sathan whence he came Job 1.7, and Sathan raised the Great Wind 5.19. Divils entered the Swine, Luke 8.33 and the Unclean Divil entered the Man, Luke 5.35. And of the Demoniack: No Man cou'd bind him, Mark 5. And divers other Passages: the Witch of Endor, that Pythoness whom Saul consulted 1. Sam 28 and who brought forth Samuel: an Old Man cometh up, and he is covered with a Mantle. And then as the Witch in Josephus verse 13 saith: I saw Gods ascending out of the Earth.

But some good Gentlemen of the present Age might ask me, Where is your Proof? And I answer: regard my Churches and the way their Shaddowes fall upon the Ground; look up at them, also, and see if you are not brought into Confusion. And I say further: if every thing for which the Learned are not able to give satisfactory Account shall be condemned as False and Impossible, then the World itself will seem a meer Romance. Let this suffice also: the Existence of Spirits cannot be found by Mathematick demonstrations, but we must rely upon Humane reports unless we will make void and annihilate the Histories of all passed things. But those who dare not say, There is no God!, content themselves by saying that Daemons are but Bugs and Chimaeras. I dispute not with such Persons: when a Man is of short sight he will be so in the midst of Prodigies or Miracles, and will mistake the Candle of his Reason for the Noonday Sunne. He will see nothing but Extension, Divisibility, Solidity, Mobility: he forgets his frail Mortality, and goes groaping in the Dark.

And o God it is Dark still: Certainly you slept very sound, says Nat, and I have already done all my little Jobs and the Floor is so clean, Master, there is no Place to Spit and all the while I was by my leathern Bucket you were murmuring Words in your Sleep Nat, I said, Nat I thought I had just lit a Candle and laid me down for an Instant.

No, Master, it is already Seven.

And the Night has passed?

It has gone like an Arrow tho' it is but an ill Morning and the Post-Master's Boy, who I contemn, has given us this.

And Nat puts down a little Pacquet which had inscribed upon it: To Mr Dyer, left at the Post-House in Leester-Fields. He stands next to me and peers at it, but a strange Trembling seiz'd me: Go on your way, Master Eliot, I said, and bring me some Beef and Eggs. When he left the Room I opened the Pacquet and there found a small Paper sent by a Hand unknown to me, which was written in large plain Letters thus: I have sin yr work in Gods name.1 am hear this fortnighet, and you shall hear from me as soon as I com into Whytehill. I ham with all my art your frind and the best frind in the world if Iget my service for all is due and my mouth quiet. As I read this Message which seem'd to Threaten me, my Bowels mov'd and I ran from my Bed to the Stool-pan; I sat there and looked about fearfully, as if the very Walls menac'd me, and I was near Shitting away my Life. Then I heard Nat come up the Stairs and I call'd out to him, I am at Stool: leave the Beef by the Door! Which he quickly did, and walk'd down again to the Kitchin.

This letter was not so cunningly writ that I could not puzzle out its Meaning: by some foul Chance, my Company at Black Step Lane had been discover'd, and with it my own earnest Business beside the Churches. I was now fix'd indeed and in an Instant become once more the Child crouched in an Ash-pit, in too much Agonie of Mind to cry out against the World. I rose from my Pot and laid my self down upon the Bed, as like to call for a Shroud as for a Pair of Breeches. I knew all the Acts were against me: In the 39 of Eliz 4 it was enacted that all Persons using any subtile Craft, or telling Destinies or Fortunes, should be taken and deemed Rogues, Vagabonds, sturdy Beggars, and shall be stripped naked from the Middle upwards and whipp'd till his or her Body be bloody. But that was as Nothing; I could be indicted on the Statute Primo Jacobi cap 12: that to feed, imploy or reward any evil Spirits is a Felony -that I did thus quondam malum Spiritum negotiare. It was further enacted that any Person or Persons using Witchcraft, Sorcery and all their Aiders, Abettors and Counsellors, being convicted and attainted of the same Offences, shall suffer Pain of Death as a Felon without Benefit of Clergy. This did stick in my Mind (as they say), and as I lie upon this Bed I rise up and enter the Stone Room of Newgate and I am stapled fast down to the Floor; now I am re- mov'd to the Bar of the Court of the King's Bench and Sir Chris, is come to bear Witnesse against me; now I am dragg'd to the Carte and I laugh at the Mobbe around me; and now my Hands are being tyed and the Cap is draped over my Face; and as I am dying I am pull'd by the Legs.

Thus my Fear crept through the Passages of my Senses: it presented itself in Figures, it adhered to Sounds, introduced Odours and infused it self in Savours. And I said softly to my self, Oh no, my Sentence is just.

But then my sanguine Humour came up again, and I bit my Hand till the Blood came from it: I know my own Strength, says I, for it has been tried and, if I foresee Storms, it is fit I should prevent them. Why should I shrink before an ignorant and covetous Rogue? When I find who wrote this, I will utterly destroy him.

And then this became the Thread of my Thoughts which led me through a Labyrinth of Fear: this insipid Letter, says I, is ill writ by Désigne to lead me out of the right way of my Suspicions. Thus the Fellow writes Whytehill when the meerest Squab knows it is Whitehall.

And who are those that watch me or speak against me but only those in the Office? And who would know of my Désignes but only those who steal into my Closet or question Walter Pyne about my Work? And who has set Walter against me and, as it may be, follow'd me? And yes, yes Indeed there is one who haunts Walter and gives him brave Words -one Yorick Hayes, the Measuring Surveyour, and one who if I were remov'd from the Office flatters himself that he would leap up into my Place. It may be he who writes: I shall Watch him, and Track him, and Crack him like a Crab-louse. The Thought of how I might get him out of the Way fill'd me with a Delight which ran in my Blood and set me walking about my Chamber.

And as I walked I conceeved a Bait of my own to catch this Sprat, this Homunculouse, and I wrote back thus: I understand not your Meaning by your Writing, explain yourself in your next and lett me know. I did not sign my Name but put upon the Cover: Mr Hayes.

Then I placed the Letter in the Waistband of my Drawers and call'd out for Nat, who came running into me.

You have not touch'd your Beef, says he, and you have drank Nothing neither: I say to Mrs Best that I know not what to do with you, and you are like the little Shrinking Man of the Fable who Enough, Nat.

You are in the right, says he and Yawns.

And then I went on: Nat, if you see any mean-faced, covetous idle Fellows lingering in this Quarter, and any such who cause you Uneasinesse, watch them and tell me. He looked at me surpriz'd and said nothing further but yawned again. Then, with a little Whistling under my Breath, I dress'd my self. Here was a Bold one indeed, but as I walk'd to the Office, my Feares returned. Each Passer-by who looked on me struck me with a fresh Terrour: I was a perfect Mystery to my self and was affected by so many various Passions that I scarce knew which way I travell'd. I entered Scotland-yard like a Guilty thing and, wheeling about to see that I was unobserv'd, I left my Letter to Mr Hayes in the Passage where the Rogue was assured of Discovering it.

Then, once again in my own Closet and among my own Planns and Papers, I took Heart and press'd forward with the Negociacions concerning my Work. Quickly I wrote to the Commission thus: The Church of Wapping Stepney moves forward. The Walls are now coming up to a height of fifteen or sixteen feet everywhere; the Mason has had a good Quantity of Portland Stone, although he has not made that Advance with the Work as might be expected. The Frost has pritty much affected some of the Brickwork that was done about the beginning of November: some must be taken out and new laid. But I am content. I am also inclosing Scetches of a very spacious and curious Peece of Painting to be placed at the West End of the Church -being the Figure of Time, with Wings display'd. Under the Feet of Time lyeth the Pourtrait of a Sceleton about 8 Foot in Length, under which is Glory in the form of an Equilateral Triangle within a spacious Circle.

This being a most proper Emblemme for a Christian Church, and one that hath been imployed since the early days of Christianity. Your humble servant: Nich. Dyer.

This is the only Picture which will be unveiled to the Commissioners, and my own Work remains conceal'd: for, in the third of my Churches, must also be represented a huge dark Man with red Eyes holding a Sword and clad in a white Garment, a Man holding a golden Sphere and dressed in Red, a Man with a hood of dark Linen over his Head and with his Hands raysed. When my old Mirabilis first acquainted me with such Stuff, I told him they brought into my Memory the Stories I had heard in my Childhood. And why should they not, said he, since it is in Childhood that our Sorrows begin? And how could I now forget the Corse withinne the Foundacions?

There was a Noise in the Passage and I took my self to my Doorway as if by Chance: it was the man Hayes entering, as I had thought, but I dared not glance at the Letter I had left as a Snare for him. We bowed to each other civilly enough, and then I turned as if I had forgot some thing. But I paus'd at my Door and, moving my Head a little, I saw out of the Corner of my Eye the clown Hayes pick up the Letter, open it, read it swiftly, and throw it down without so much as looking at me.

You are a dead Man, I thought to myself, so to taunt me.

And then the Serpent speaks: Mr Dyer, says he, I have examin'd the Ground by Wapping Church.

Did you look upon the Dust, as the Preacher tells us?

And he smiled for a Moment at my Jest before continuing: It will be very chargeable and difficult to make a Sewer there, Mr Dyer.

But it must be done, Mr Hayes, there is no other Place.

Then I must wait till the Foundations of all the Pillars are layed, he goes on, so pray do me the Favour to tell me when this is done.

Have you view'd the Désigne? I ask'A showing my Teeth to him in a Grin.

[1051 Yes, it is in my Box.

I would be glad to have it againe in my Possession, Mr Hayes, since I havenoCoppie.

He saw then that he could not Shake me. He made to enter his own Chamber and, with his back towards me, spoke as it seemed into the Air: This is the third Church is it not, Mr Dyer?

Let atone, puppy, let alone was my Thought as I measured him up for his Shroud. Yes, I said, yes, it is the third.

'IS IT the third?'

'Yes, the third. The boy at Spitalfields, the tramp at Limehouse, and now another boy. The third.'

'And this was at Wapping?'

'Yes.'

Hawksmoor looked out of his window at the streets below, from which no noise reached him; then his eyes grew larger as he looked at the window itself and noticed the patina of dust thrown up by the city; then he altered his gaze once more and concentrated upon his own image as it was reflected in the window -or, rather, the outline of his face like an hallucination above the offices and homes of London. His head ached and he closed his eyes at last, pressing his fingers lightly against his temples before asking, 'And why do they think there's a connection?'

The young man behind him was about to sit on a small office chair but he stood up again awkwardly, brushing his sleeve against an indoor plant which quivered in a stream of air from the ventilation system. The connection is, sir, that they were all strangled, all in the same area, and all churches.'

'Well this is a mystery, isn't it? Do you like mysteries, Walter?'

'It's a mystery they're trying to solve.'

And Hawksmoor was impatient to see it for himself. The strip lighting in the corridors emitted a vague hum which pleased him, but when he looked up he could see its exposed cables covered in dust: part of the corridor was in darkness, and so they waited in darkness for a little while before the doors of the lift opened for them. And as he and his assistant drove away from New Scotland Yard, he gestured at the streets outside and murmured, 'It's a jungle out there, Walter.' And Walter laughed, since he knew Hawksmoor's habit of parodying the remarks made by their colleagues. A song was passing through Hawksmoor's head -One for Sorrow, Two for Joy, but what was the third for?

The oddly shaped tower of St George's-in-the-East, which seemed to have burst through the roof rather than simply to rise from it, was visible as they parked by the river; and, as they walked across Ratcliffe Highway towards the church, Hawksmoor bit the inside of his mouth and drew blood: once again, as with every such inquiry, he was faced with the possibility of failure. The church and its precincts were already cordoned off, and a small crowd had gathered in front of the white tape -a crowd composed largely of local people who had come out of curiosity to stare at the scene of the child's death. And there were murmurs of 'here he is!' and 'who's he?' as Hawksmoor passed quickly through them and ducked under the tape before walking around the side of the church to a small park behind. An inspector and some young constables from the local CID were crouched over, looking at the ground beside a partly ruined building which had the words M SE M OF still visible above its entrance; the inspector was dictating observations into a tape-recorder but, as soon as he saw Hawksmoor striding towards him, he switched it off and stood up, grimacing at a pain in his back. Hawksmoor chose not to see it and came very close: 'I am Detective Chief Superintendent Hawksmoor, and this is my assistant Detective Sergeant Payne: your Divisional Superintendent has been in touch with you about my involvement?'

'Yes, he's been in touch, sir.' Hawksmoor, satisfied that everything had been explained, turned round to look at the rear wall of the church and wondered how long it had taken to erect. A group of children were peering through the railings of the park, their faces pale beside the dark iron. 'Some queer found him late last night,' the inspector was saying and then he added, since Hawksmoor did not reply, 'Some queer might have done it.'

'I need a time.'

'About four in the morning, sir.'

'And there is an identification?'

The father -' and the inspector glanced over at two figures, a man sitting down upon a bench beneath an oak tree with a woman constable standing and looking down at him, one hand upon his shoulder. A siren could be heard somewhere in the distance.

Hawksmoor took out a pair of spectacles from his top pocket and examined the man: he knew the face of shock and this one seemed no different, although now the father looked up and caught his gaze.

Hawksmoor held his breath until the man looked down upon the ground, and then he turned suddenly to the inspector.

'Where is the body?'

The body? The body's gone, sir.'

Hawksmoor examined the man's uniform. 'Perhaps you have been told, inspector, that you must never move the body until the investigating officer has arrived?'

'But the father came, sir -'

'Never move the body!' And then he added, 'Where has it gone?'

'It's gone for examination. It's gone to the pathologist.'

And so the atmosphere of the murder was already destroyed. He walked over to the father, who started to get up from the bench until Hawksmoor waved him down. 'No, no,' he said, 'Don't move. Stay where you are.'

The father smiled apologetically, but his face was so red from grief that it seemed raw and unformed. Hawksmoor imagined himself peeling off the layers of skin and flesh until there was nothing left but the gaping holes of mouth and eyes. 'He was such a friendly boy,' the father was telling him, 'He was always so friendly.' Hawksmoor bowed his head. 'I was asked to bring something of his,' the father was saying, 'Is it for the dogs? I couldn't take any of his clothes, I just couldn't, you know, but I brought you this' -and he held a children's book in front of him. Hawksmoor wanted to touch its bright cover, but already the father was leafing through it and sighing. 'He used to read this book over and over. So many times.' Hawksmoor watched his hand turning the pages, and then by chance saw an engraving of an old man with a stick, while beside him a child scraped a fiddle. Even as he stared at it he remembered other such illustrations from his own books: a picture of a graveyard with a hare reading from one of the tombs, of a cat sitting beside a pile of stones. There had been verses beneath them which seemed to go on for ever, line being added to line in succession, but he could not now recall the words. He took the book from the father's hands and gave it to the policewoman before asking him gently, 'When did you last see your son?'

'Do you mean what time?'

'Yes, can you remember the time?'

And the man frowned with the effort, as if nothing really existed before the fact of this death. He might have been sitting there for ever in the shadow of St George's-in-the-East. 'It must have been about six yesterday evening. Yes it was, because the clock struck.'

'And did he say -'

'Dan. He was Dan.'

'And did Dan say where he was going?'

'He said he was going out. He just opened the door and went out.

That was the last time.'

Hawksmoor rose and said, 'We're doing all we can. We'll keep you informed.' And the father stood up beside him in order to shake his hand, in an almost formal gesture. Walter had been watching all this from the middle of the park, and now he cleared his throat as Hawksmoor came up to him saying, 'Well, we might as well go and see it'.

The body of the child was already in place in the examination room when they arrived. Labels had been tied around its left ankle and around both of its wrists; the head had been placed in a wooden block, with the nape of the neck resting in the curvature. The pathologist had just finished washing his hands and glanced up at the two men with a smile: Hawksmoor made a point of smiling also, but none of them glanced at the naked corpse which lay only two feet away. 'You don't waste any time,' the pathologist said as he took a tape-recorder out of his pocket.

'Time is not on our side.'

The pathologist, not hearing this, bent over the body and spoke softly into the tape-recorder: 'I am now examining the external surface of the body. The face has become engorged and discoloured blue, the eyes are bulged and showers of tiny petechiae in the eyelids and conjuctivae indicate asphyxia. The tongue is protruding through the teeth. A small amount of blood has trickled from burst vessels in the ears but not in the nose. There is evidence of the emptying of the bladder and back passage. No evidence of sexual assault. I am looking now for fingertip or nail impressions on each side of the neck at around voice-box level -' and then, after a sudden pause, he continued -'None of these. Several scratches on the neck which could have been made by the victim trying to prise off the attacker's hands.

From the injuries I would say that he was strangled as he lay on the ground, with his murderer either kneeling or sitting astride him. The lividity here has formed well. Minor bruises under the scalp and over the spine suggest that he had been pressed on his back during the strangling. There is no impression of a ligature, and there are no bite marks. There are some teeth pressure marks on the reverse of the lips.'

And as he talked Hawksmoor gazed at the feet of the corpse, trying to imagine them in the act of running, but the pathologist now switched off his tape and Hawksmoor relaxed.

The mortuary assistant came forward and cut both of the boy's hands off at the wrist, taking them to a separate bench for examination.

The pathologist then made a single incision from the throat to the pubic region, cutting in a slight curve to avoid the umbilicus; then he stripped the tissue away from the ribs. The tongue, aorta, oesophagus, heart and lungs were removed in a single operation and placed on a dissecting table beside the gutted corpse. The stomach contents were put in a glass jar. Once again the pathologist switched on his recorder as Hawksmoor suppressed a yawn: There is bruising behind the voice box, and a fracture of the hyoid bone, which suggests that the killer had considerable strength -' at this last phrase his voice rose a little and he glanced at Hawksmoor. 'So I would say definitely asphyxia by strangulation.' The pathologist's hands, which he now held over the corpse, were red and dripping: he was about to scratch his head, but stopped in mid-gesture. His assistant was now carefully examining the nails on each finger of the severed hands. Hawksmoor, watching all this, felt a rapid tic in his left eye and turned away so that no one might see it.

'I need to know when,' he said, 'In this case when is more important than how. Do you have a time-table?' For although images of this murder now surrounded him, and the parts of the body had become emblems of pursuit, violence and flight, they were as broken and indistinct as the sounds of a quarrel in a locked room. Only the phases of time could be known clearly: the quickening and deepening of respiration at the first shock of the hands around the throat; livid congestion and laboured respiration as the grip tightens and consciousness becomes confused; infrequent respiration, twitchings, loss of consciousness; terminal vomiting and death. Hawksmoor liked to measure these discrete phases, which he considered as an architect might consider the plan of a building: three to four minutes for unconsciousness, four to five minutes for death.

'And so do you have a time-table?' was his question.

'A time-table is going to be difficult.'

'And how difficult is difficult?'

'You know that temperature rises sharply during asphyxiation?'

Hawksmoor nodded and put his hands in his pockets. 'And you know that heat loss is variable?'

'And so?'

'I don't know about the time. Even if I allow for a rise of temperature of six degrees at death, and even if the rate of cooling was only two degrees an hour, his present body heat would mean that he was killed only six hours ago.' Hawksmoor felt the tic returning as he listened to this intently, and he rubbed his eye. 'And yet the extent of the lividity is such that the bruises were made at least twenty-four hours ago normally they can take two or three days to come out like this.'

Hawksmoor said nothing, but stared in the man's face. 'You say the timing is crucial, superintendent, but I have to say that in this case I don't understand the timing at all.' The pathologist at last looked down at his bloody hands, and went towards a metal sink to wash them. 'And there's another thing,' he called out over the sound of running water, 'There are no impressions, no prints. A strangler's fingers pressed into the neck will leave a curved nail impression, but there are only bruises here.'

'I see.' And Hawksmoor watched Walter suddenly leave the room.

'I will have to do more tests, superintendent, but I'm almost sure that there are no prints.'

'Could the murderer have chilled his hands?'

That's possible, certainly. Or they might just have been very cold.'

'And if there was a struggle, I suppose the boy might have clutched the fingers to loosen them and then disturbed the prints?' Although this sounded like a question the pathologist did not answer it, and for the first time Hawksmoor stared down at the opened corpse. He knew it was not yet completely cold, and in that moment he felt its heat blasting his face, and as the air crumpled like silk around him it was his own body upon the table.

Walter was sitting with his head bowed forward over his knees when Hawksmoor eventually joined him in the corridor. He put his hand on the young man's shoulder: 'Well, Walter, what do you make of that timing?'

Walter looked up at him in alarm, and Hawksmoor averted his eyes for a moment. 'It's impossible, sir.'

'Nothing is impossible. The impossible does not exist. All we need is a new death, and then we can proceed from the beginning until we reach our end.'

'And what end is that, sir?'

'If I knew the end, I could begin, couldn't I? I can't have one without the other.' And he smiled at Walter's evident perplexity. 'Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. Just give me time. AH I need is time.'

'I'm not worried, sir.'

'Good. And since you're so happy you can go and see the father.

Tell him what we've found out. But don't tell him too much.'

And Walter sighed: Thank you very much. I appreciate the gesture, sir.'

Hawksmoor remembered another phrase which his colleagues used: 'Life is full of grief, Walter, life is full of grief.'

He walked back to St George's-in-the-East, which in his mind he had now reduced to a number of surfaces against which the murderer might have leaned in sorrow, desperation or even, perhaps, joy. For this reason it was worth examining the blackened stones in detail, although he realised that the marks upon them had been deposited by many generations of men and women. It was now a matter of received knowledge in the police force that no human being could rest or move in any area without leaving some trace of his or her identity; but if the walls of the Wapping church were to be analysed by emission spec troscopy, how many partial or residual spectra might be detected?