I see no Church, says he. But these were desperate Words, for he was tied like a dead Bird to a Tree. And it was some time after when I returned to my Lodgings, singing old Songs in the silent Feelds.
On the fifth Day after I did see an Advertisment for that pritty young Fellow: Run away on Friday last from his Master, Mr Walsall, in Queen's Square, a Boy about 12 Years of Age, Thomas Robinson; he had on dark grey Cloaths all of a sort, the Sleeves of his Coat faced with Black, a brown Peruke, a red Mark on one of his Hands. Whosoever brings him to Mr Walsall's aforesaid, or at the Red Gates in Grape Court, shall have £5 Reward and no questions ask'd. This is well put; ask no Questions and you shall hear no Lies, Mr Walsall, and I shall tell you this also without a Recompense: your Boy has more Marks now.
And so I busied my self about the Churches of Bloomsbury and Greenwich with a lighter Heart, and this in spite of the Fact that Walter had not return'd to the Office and, it was said, had grown so heavy with Hypochondriacall Melancholie that he was like to sink into the Ground. It was some Days following that I made a Visit to him in his Lodgings in Crooked Lane, on the east -side of St Michael's Lane, where a nasty slut his Landlady whisper'd to me as I enter'd through the Door: He is sick of the Feaver and we despair of him, sir, (at this she clinched her Hands as if there were Silver in them) and he speaks mighty strange and is sometimes crying or roaring like a little Boy that has been whipped. What shall we do, sir?
Then she led me to his mean Chamber which stank of Sweat and Piss like the Hovel of a Car-man; when Walter saw me he tried to rise from his Bed but I put my Hands upon him: No, no, 7 whisper'd, stay, stay, Walter. Then he showed Signes of great Terrour which perplexed me: Do you know me? I asked him.
Know you? Yes, very well.
How do you do, then?
Very bad, master. I care not much indeed what becomes of me. Here he stopt and fetched a Sigh.
I tried to cheer him: And then, Walter, what then? You cannot Sigh for ever, and what will you do with your self then?
I don't know, not I; hang myself, I think. I don't know anything I can do better.
Tell me, Walter, what is the Matter? Is it such a Secret that you dare not tell it? I hope you have not committed Murther.
But he did not Laugh as I had hoped: I am not sure, he replied, and now it is no such great matter neither.
No great Matter, and yet you talk of hanging your self! I made a Stop here and, taking my Eyes from his Face which was wonderfully Pale, I saw fastened with Pins to the Wall divers Planns and Draughts of my London Churches; and this touch'd my Heart for the poor Boy, silent as he might be in the Office, showed his Devotion here. And now, as he lay Sick among my Images, he raised his Head from the Pillow: I thought, said he at last, that you might leave your Post and forget me.
Why so, Walter, when I can never cancell my Obligation to you for your Labours? You are my right Hand.
No, no, I wished you to leave: I wished to be free from your Service.
You are filled with disturbing Thoughts and melancholly Vapours, Walter. You must lie now and rest.
But then he raised his Head a little higher still: How far is the Pillar at Bloomsbury advanc'd, he said, let it not stand upon the cold Ground but lift it above the Tower! And have you finished the Moddell of Greenwich Church? At that he took Pen and Ink, and wrote down a great many things upon his Paper, and made Lines with a short brass Rule, but I understood nothing of them.
Let them alone, I said, you are too Sick, too Sick.
Then he glared at me: You saw the Lines I wrote before?
I saw some Musty Stuff in Anagram placed in the Box beneeth your Chair, I replied, but it was of no account.
Walter grew yet more agitated: I assure you, there was no Anagram.
I speak of the Letters I left for you.
This is not clear to me, Walter.
I wish'd to entice you to leave the Office for I was so much at your Mercy there, said he staring at me wildly, but I never wish'd to cause you such Agonie. I was in a Box and could not creep out of it: I wish'd to be free but instead I have bound my self.
Those letters were the work of the villain Hayes, I replied (without thinking of what I said), and they were not of your Doing.
But then he took from beneath his Pillow a seal'd Letter, conveyed it to me, and as our Eyes met he sank back affrighted. I will tell you a Mystery, says he, I followed you and then I lost you. That night I dream'd I killed Mr Hayes and then on the next Day I found his Corse.
Was there Truth in this Dreame? And what must I do?
The nasty Slut appear'd in the Room againe: He is always disturbed so, said she, since he discovered the Body. And his wild Talk is filled with you and Mr Hayes.
The Fever has grown so considerable, I told her, that you must tie him firmly to the Bed. We must make Time his Cure.
Walter lay groaning, and I contemplated his Face for the last time before I turned my Back on him and went on my own Way. This visit had given me News indeed, and as I climbed down the narrow Stairs I unsealed the Letter which he had left with me: at once I saw it to be one of those which had threatened me and which I had layed to Mr Hayes.
And so my own Assistant had watch'd me and plotted against me: it was he, he alone, who wished to be rid of me. It was he who laid deep Planns for me to be gone. And who knows what else he might now have committed to Paper in his Delirium? I was uncertain which way the next Winde might toss me, and as I walked back to my Lodgings I watched as those who travel in suspected Places.
I spoke nothing of my Visit to Walter when I came into the Office on the next morning, for I had too private a Sense and was too close in my Manner of speaking to give them a Rod (as they say) to beat me with.
But they suspected me of I know not what, and the absence of Walter was cried up as a Stroke against me: they whispered against me so as not to be over-heard, but I needed no Trumpet-tongued Devils to understand all their Plots and Intrigues. They avoided me as if my Breath were Contagious, or a Plague-sore running upon me. And then three days following this, Sir Christopher asked to see me: he did not tell me what the Purpose was and, tho' I imagined my self to be Undone, I did not ask Questions for fear of giving him Suspicion. I went into his Chamber trembling, but he did not so much as Hint at Walter but spoke of Mr Vannbrugghe his Projects in a most familiar Manner.
I was easy for a while but then the Purpose behind his Discourse became most plain when, in the next Week, I received a very flaming Injury which was so loaded with Aggravations that I cou'd scarce get over it. For I read this in the Gazette: His Majesty has been pleased to appoint Sir John Vannbrugghe to be Comptroller of His Majesty's Works in England. One remarkable Passage I had like to forgot: the new King had made Vannbrugghe a Knight, but that was as nothing beside this new Case. What are we coming to, and what is to be expected, when those like this Reptile Knight are advanc'd before me? Yet I am held in such Despight that I cannot over-reach him, and so I must burn. It is the same the World over: Persons that have nothing to recommend them but the Marks of Pride and a high Value for them-selves have gained Esteem; being supposed to have some Merit only for pretending it, the Cox-comb struts like a Crow in the Gutter while the others laugh at me behind their Hands. With the Queen dead, Sir Chris, shall lose all Favour with those now in Power and what Hope for me then?
They wish to turn me out and thus destroy me, and there is a known Maxim for this purpose: Throw Dirt and if it does not stick throw Dirt continually and some will stick. So I must stay out of their Way: suspicious and jealous Men have good Eyes, and they will now be fasten'd on me.
Such Thoughts were heavy upon me when I enlarged upon my new Work to the Commission thus: We desire the Honble. Board to know that the Walls of the Bloomsbury Church are complete and all is prepar'd for the Plaisterers; it will be proper that they begin the Ceilings and Walls during the best of the Winter, that the Work be thoroughly dry before any Frost take it. The Church is bounded by Russell Street to the North, Queen Str
eet to the West, and to the South-east Blooms bury Market; this area being very populous in the months of Summer, the Fields being close by, what Preparations are to be made for outside Doors so that the Church may be shut from the Rabble? The West Tower is advanc'd about 25 or 28 Feet above the Roof of the Church, and I will place upon that my Historical Pillar which will be of square Form and built with rough Stone. (And this I do not add: on the Apex of this Shaft will be placed the sevenedged Starre which is the Eye of God. The Empereur Constantine set up a Pillar at Rome as big as this, in one Stone, and placed the Sunne on the Sumit of it. But that parhelion or false Sunne was forced to leave Shineing: my Fabrick will last 1000 yeares, and the Starre will not be extinguish'd.) I also humbly offer to the Commissioners the following account of the present state of the Church of Greenwich, viz. the Stonework on the South side and part of the East and West End is advanc'd about four feet above the level of last year's Work, and the Masons have a good Quantity of Stone wrought to cany on the side next the Street. (And this I keep conceal'd: Dr Flamsteed, the Astronomer Royal and a man of snivelling covetous Temper, predicts a total Eclipse of the Sunne on the date 22 April 1715: at that dark Time, when the Birds flock to the Trees and the People carry Candles in their Houses, will I lay the last Stone secretly and make the Sacrifice due.) Further, I have been ordered by the Honble. Board to prepare and lay before the Commissioners a particular Estimate of the charge in building the Church of Little St Hugh in Black Step Lane. I have examined the Prices proposed and find them the same with the Churches of Limehouse and Wapping. The parts of Land shaded with a faint Brown are granted already, and the parcels of Land in private Hands are shaded Yellow. The vacant Ground in the Front is worth 3 pounds per annum and at 20 years purchase of 60 pounds; the Buildings backwards are let at 72 pounds per annum at six years purchase and worth 432 Pounds, viz. the Tobacconist, the Tallow Chandler, the Pewterers and the Weavers. These are washed with Blew. All of which is humbly submitted, N. Dyer.
And across these mean Dwellings of Black Step Lane, where as a Boy I dwell'd for a while, the Shaddowe of my last Church will fall: what the Mobb has torn down I will build again in Splendour. And thus will I compleet the Figure: Spittle-Fields, Wapping and Lime- house have made the Triangle; Bloomsbury and St Mary Woolnoth have next created the major Pentacle-starre; and, with Greenwich, all these will form the Sextuple abode of Baal-Berith or the Lord of the Covenant. Then, with the church of Little St Hugh, the Septilateral Figure will rise about Black Step Lane and, in this Pattern, every Straight line is enrich'd with a point at Infinity and every Plane with a line at Infinity. Let him that has Understanding count the Number: the seven Churches are built in conjunction with the seven Planets in the lower Orbs of Heaven, the seven Circles of the Heavens, the seven Starres in Ursa Minor and the seven Starres in the Pleiades. Little St Hugh was flung in the Pitte with the seven Marks upon his Hands, Feet, Sides and Breast which thus exhibit the seven Demons -Beyde lus, Metucgayn, Adulée, Demeymes, Gadix, Uquizuz and Sol. I have built an everlasting Order, which I may run through laughing: no one can catch me now.
AND HAWKSMOOR laughed at this. 'You can see things in whatever order you want, Walter, and we'll still catch him.
He's cunning, though.' Then he pointed at his own head.
'He's very cunning.'
'Time will tell, sir.'
Time will not tell. Time never tells.' Once more he raised his arm involuntarily, as if in greeting. 'So let's start again. Where were the bodies found?'
They were found at St Alfege's, Greenwich, and at St George's, Bloomsbury.'
Hawksmoor noticed that the sky had cleared quite suddenly, going from grey to blue like an eye which had suddenly opened. 'And what was the order again?'
'One after another, within a few hours.'
The report said that it could have been minutes.'
'Minutes is impossible, sir.'
'No, we can't deal in minutes.' And yet what might happen in a minute, when his back was turned? He looked down at the pattern of dust on the carpet and, as he did so, he heard the noises within his head like the sounds of a crowd roaring in the distance. When he looked up, Walter was talking again.
'What I can -well I can't -1 mean, we have nothing positive off the paperwork.' And they both looked at the documents scattered across Hawksmoor's desk. 'I can't believe,' Walter continued, 'I can't believe it.' And he picked up the forensic report on the two most recent murders. Both victims had been strangled with a ligature which had not been tied -there was no mark of a knot, at least -but had been held tight for at least fifteen to twenty seconds at an unusually high level in the neck. The ligature was evidently a folded hard cloth of some kind, set in four distinct lines across the front of the neck. The marks extended around the sides, especially the right, but faded at the back, showing that both victims had been strangled from behind on the left.
In spite of the closest possible examination of the cuticle, the pathologist was unable to detect any weave or pattern that would reflect the actual structure of the ligature. Exhaustive forensic tests had also failed to identify any prints, marks or stains which might be connected with the perpetrator of these actions.
Two days before Hawksmoor had crossed the Thames in a police launch to Greenwich, and as he came up to the dock he leaned forward over the side and allowed his index finger to trail in the oily water. He walked from the harbour and, catching sight of a church tower, turned down a small alley which seemed to lead in that direction. Almost at once he found himself surrounded by small shops in which there was very little light: they were of an old design, leaning forward over the pavement, and in his confusion he hurried down another lane only to stop short when the stone wall of the church apparently blocked off the end; but this was an illusion since a child then walked across it, singing. And at last Hawksmoor emerged into the street, just in time to see the church rising above him. He calmed himself by reading the gold script painted upon a board by the portico: This church was built on the traditional site of the martyrdom of Alfege. It was rebuilt by…'. His eyes wandered down the elaborate scroll, but such things bored him and he was distracted by a flight of birds returning to the branches of a single tree, each bird distinct against the winter sky.
He walked around the side of the church where a group of police officers waited for him -from the way they stood, self-consciously talking in low voices, Hawksmoor knew that the body was behind them on the grass. He walked over and, in those first moments when he was staring down at it, he wondered how he would look to the strangers who encircled his own corpse; and would the breath have left his body like a mist, or like the air evacuated from a paper bag which a child blows up and then explodes? Then he returned to the others: 'What time was he found?'
'At six o'clock this morning, sir, when it was still dark.'
'Do we know '
'He might have fallen from the tower, sir. But nobody knows.'
Hawksmoor looked up at the spire of St Alfege's and, when he blotted out the sun with his right hand, he noticed the white dome of the Observatory which was half concealed by the dark stone of the church. And he remembered that there was something here which he had heard of many years before, and which he had always wanted to see. Eventually he was able to break free from the others, muttering his excuses, and when he came to the foot of the hill he began to run, bounding over the short grass until he reached the summit.
There was a guard by the iron gate in front of the Observatory and Hawksmoor stopped in front of him, out of breath. 'Where,' he said, 'where is the zero meridian?'
The meridian?' The old man pointed to the other side of the summit. 'It's over there.'
But when Hawksmoor came to that place, he found nothing.
'Where is the meridian?' he asked again, and he was directed a little way down the hill. He looked around, and saw only dirt and stones.
'It's over there!' someone else called out. 'No, over there!' was the cry from another. And Hawksmoor was bewild
ered for, no matter how he turned and turned about, he could not see it.
Walter had put down the forensic report and was grinning at him.
'And so we're stuck,' he said. And then he added: 'As sure as eggs is eggs'- Hawksmoor smoothed the pages of the report which had been creased by Walter. 'Where does that expression come from?'
'It doesn't come from anywhere, sir, not as far as I know. I mean, everyone says it.'
Hawksmoor paused for a moment, wondering what everyone said about him. 'What was it you were asking me just now?'
Walter no longer tried to conceal his impatience: 'I was asking basically, sir, well, where do we go from here?'
'We go on. Where else should we go? We can't turn back. No one can turn back.' He had heard the annoyance in Walter's voice, and now he tried to console him. 'He's at my fingertips -don't worry, I can reach him. I feel it.' And after Walter had left him, he drummed his fingers on the desk as he contemplated new aspects of this problem: at the same time as the body of the child had been found in the grounds of St Alfege's, another body had been discovered propped against the back wall of St George's, Bloomsbury, where it runs alongside Little Russell Street. Hawksmoor had visited that spot also, and to those officers already working there he had seemed almost indifferent; it was not indifference, however, but agony. The pattern, as Hawks- moor saw it, was growing larger; and, as it expanded, it seemed about to include him and his unsuccessful investigations.
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.
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