'Comes from, sir?'

'Where you come from, where I come from, where all this comes from.' And he gestured at the offices and homes beneath him. He was about to say something else but he stopped, embarrassed; and in any case he was coming to the limits of his understanding. He was not sure if all the movements and changes in the world were part of some coherent development, like the weaving of a quilt which remains one fabric despite its variegated pattern. Or was it a more delicate operation than this -like the enlarging surface of a balloon in the sense that, although each part increased at the same rate of growth as every other part, the entire object grew more fragile as it expanded? And if one element was suddenly to vanish, would the others disappear also -imploding upon each other helplessly as if time itself were unravelling amid a confusion of sights, calls, shrieks and phrases of music which grew smaller and smaller? He thought of a train disappearing into the distance, until eventually only the smoke and the smell of its engine remained.

He turned from the window, and smiled at Walter: 'I'm sorry, I'm just tired'. There was a noise in the corridor outside, and abruptly he walked back to his desk. 'I want new men brought in,' he said, 'add that to the report. The others are getting nowhere, and I don't like their methods -' he could see once again the chaos in the Incident Room, and the detective with the cigarette hanging from his mouth 'And next time, Walter, next time tell them nothing is to be moved, nothing at all!'

Walter rose to go, but Hawksmoor put up his hand to detain him.

'Murderers don't disappear. Murders aren't unsolveable. Imagine the chaos if that happened. Who would feel the need to restrain himself then?' And for a moment Hawksmoor saw his job as that of rubbing away the grease and detritus which obscured the real picture of the world, in the way that a blackened church must be cleaned before the true texture of its stone can be seen.

Walter was impatient to be gone. 'And so what do we do next?'

'We do nothing. Think of it like a story: even if the beginning has not been understood, we have to go on reading it. Just to see what happens next.'

'So it seems that we've lost him, sir.'

'I don't mind losing him for the moment. He'll do it again. They always do it again. Trust me on that.'

'But we have to stop him before then, don't we?'

'All in good time, Walter, all in good time.' Walter glanced at him curiously, and he hesitated. 'Of course I want to stop him. But I may not have to find him -he may find me.' And then he paused. 'What time is it now?'

WHAT A Clock is it, dear Mr Dyer? I have let my Watch run down.

It is almost six o'clock, I replied as I took off my dark Kersey-coat and placed it upon a Pin by the doorway. Mrs Best gasps at this and, looking down on me from the Stair-head as I entered the street Door, puts a Hand up to her Breast. And this Thought ran around in my Head for a Moment: you damn'd confounded pocky Whore.

The time goes so swiftly, says she, I wish I were able to Recover it a little and that, Mr Dyer, in more ways than One.

Time cannot be restored, Mrs Best, unless it be in the Imagination.

Ah the Poets, the Poets, Mr Dyer. Then she looks on me again and says sighingly: I would have no need for the Memory of Things past if that which were Present were more agreeable. She put her hand upon the Rail as she spoke and then cried out: more Dust, and I cleaned here only yesterday!

It was my Desire to make my self pleasing to her at this Point, for in the wide World who was there to trust besides? Are you Sick, I asked her.

I am I know not how, she replies as she comes down the Stairs to me, but I sicken for want of Company: I must entertain my self with my little Dogge and Catte; I am a poor Widow, as you see, Mr Dyer, and in this antient House there are so many Noises to Disturb me. Then she laugh'd giving me a little Push, and I smelt the Liquor upon her Breath.

Well Mrs Best, they say these old Houses have as many ghostly Tenents as a Mossoleum, so you will not starve from want of chitchat.

It is not Words but Deeds I require, she replied, and you know, Mr Dyer, I do not have a bit of Nun's flesh about me.

At this I stepped back from her and was at a Loss what to say, but even then Nat Eliot came from my Closet and I called up to him, Nat you Rogue, come down to the Kitchin and employ your self about my Supper. And Mrs Best said to him also: tell Mr Dyer about the Gentleman, Nat.

Which Gentleman, I asked.

He left no Name is that not right, Nat?

And no message neither, added Nat.

And this Image was drawn in my Mind: Mr Hayes, the maggot-headed Rogue and no good Surveyour and writer of Letters that threaten me, had come to the Door of my Lodgings when he knows that I am not withinne, so that he might Disturb me and Confound me and Perplex me. I have watched him these last Seven days, since I left my own Note to him. And I beleeve that he follows me where he may.

Mrs Best was talking above my Thoughts, and I could hear her latest Noises like the tolling of a Bell: Nothing, says she, is to be heard of but Disputes about Elections do I say right Mr Dyer? (You are right, adds Nat furiously) I saw Mrs Wanley in the street -she has the House by the Corner (I know that House! cries Nat) -and her Conversation was a little Surprizing to me, for this Politicking is a Fever even the Women seem to catch (What can be done about it? asks Nat confounded at the News). Well, she continu'd laughing at Nat who had sat himself down upon the bottom Stair, a little Opera may drive away that Sicknesse, am I not right again, Mr Dyer? And then she sang out: Tho' the Years sail away on a Wherry, Be merry, my friends, be merry.

And tho' Time may spill from the Cup,

Drink it up, my friends, drink it up.

I will eat now, says I putting on a cheerful Air to fitt her Catch, for if I go to Bed hungry I will rise in the Night.

Oh, says she, be sure to wear your Night-gown and I will be obliged to you.

Nat enters the Kitchin and I climb the Stairs of Eternity to my Chamber, expecting a Moment when one small Thrust shall plunge me into the Pitte. Mr Hayes, Mr Hayes, what do you know and what can I do? I am so far from finding an End to my Work as never to be able to hope for any End: when I enter'd my Closet, I wer. t to Stool at once and the vast Outpouring caused me Torment.

And then, on the next Day, another Stroke fell upon me. I knew how to guard my Thoughts in the Office, and even with Walter Payne I was more private than before tho' I knew not how this affected him.

The villain Hayes still watch'd me and on this morning he happened to be examining some Draughts in my Chamber as I worked there with Walter. Do I understand this right, says he, that in the new church of St Mary Woolnoth you wish the wooden Cornice to be continu'd round, the Ceiling plain without pannells, and the steps in the Cupola to be of Portland stone?

That is how I have fashion'd it, Mr Hayes.

And there is to be no Pinnacle?

There is no Necessity for a Pinnacle: those express'd in the first Désignes were much too Slender.

Well, well, says he, you are the Architect. And then he goes on: does Sir Chris, know of this, and of the long Delay?

I gave him a Report on the Pinnacle long before this, I replied keeping down my Bile, and as for the Delay Sir Chris, knows that the death of the Mason stopp'd our Work. He knows also, I continu'd, that I will complete my Church withinne the Time granted to me even tho' the originall Building was in so bad a Condition. (To give this Fact another Turn: the death of his son, Thomas, by falling from the Tower of the Spittle-Fields Church, work'd strangely upon the Mason, Mr Hill. He died suddenly in his Chamber for, when taken with an apoplectical Fitt, he fell upon his Hearth where the Coles lay lighted, and his Back and Side were so grievously Burnt that there was no Hope for him.)