The police wouldn’t see it that way, though. They’d try to pin it on him, for sure.

Still, they’d have to catch him first.

Novak pulled back the greasy curtain. The air was thick with smoke the colour of French mustard. He could taste the nearby station through the dirty panes, and the gasworks and the factories along Regent’s Canal, the airborne scum of industry lining his teeth. The factory chimneys pierced and sanctified the murk like giant fingers pointing heavenward. From his third-storey room, Novak had a view over the rooftops of the closely packed houses in the surrounding streets. Or rather of their chimney pots, lying like ruined battlements over a smoking ground.

The settling dusk freighted the smoke with a ponderous gloom. Soon the darkness would be deep enough to encompass him.

He had the money that Dunwich had given him. It was enough to get him across London and out of the country. Once he was on the continent, he’d make his way to Serbia. Look up some distant cousins and put all this behind him.

He could see the future as if it had already happened. The past … the past was nothing but a smear on the grimy, cracked window.

Keep moving, that was the thing. Always, ever, forwards.

He was glad to leave the hotel behind, though the darkness outside was choking. Invisible particles clogged his throat. For a man of his habits and lifestyle, Novak was in many ways a fastidious individual. Paradoxical as it might seem, it was even possible that this was the driving impulse of his character. The need to leave it all behind, the detritus and the waste. The dirty, peeling walls, the flea-ridden bed, the palimpsest stains of previous occupancy. The filthy air. The dead and discarded business partner.

He kept moving through the shrouded streets. But didn’t hurry. It was important to keep his step steady and consistent. No shrinking from the beam of a passing vehicle. No cowering from doorway to doorway. And if there was a street lamp ahead, his step wouldn’t waver or deviate.

You see, it wasn’t just a question of donning false whiskers, dying his hair and stuffing a pillow up his shirt front. He had to become the character. And for that he needed a new walk. He had experimented with a stoop, and then a limp, but rejected them both as too obvious. They would only draw attention, when what he wanted was a walk that would render him invisible.

Novak looked upon it as an acting challenge, although his objective was exactly opposite to an actor’s. An actor wanted to be noticed, to steal the scene if possible. The audience couldn’t love you if it didn’t see you.

And so it took some self-control to tone down his walk, to draw it organically from the character he was seeking to create. To imagine a man, and then imagine how he would move.

Of course, Novak congratulated himself on understanding all this. There were few actors he knew who would be able to pull this off. They were all such show-offs.

His first real test came at the end of Albion Street. A policeman, held in a cone of yellow light from a street lamp, bobbing on the balls of his feet (Was that why the limeys called them bobbies? he wondered), flexing his wrists against interlocked fingers. Looking for trouble, up and down the street, with one eye larger than the other. They always had one eye larger than the other.

The thing was not to panic. Hold steady. Trust the whiskers. Trust the padding. But most of all, trust the walk.

He passed the bobbing bobby without provoking anything more than a courteous nod of greeting. To which he responded with a more deliberate bow, in keeping with the character that his walk imposed on him. He was careful, at any account, to look the policeman squarely in the eye. The golden rule.

It was all a question of timing. Don’t hold the gaze for too long. That would seem bold, provocative. As much a sign of guilt as shifty evasion. Keep it natural, that was the thing.

Oh, he was good. There was no point pretending otherwise. He didn’t even allow himself a small smirk of triumph once he had left the bobby in his wake.

He heard the chug of trains and the screech of steam whistles. A moment later he saw the looming shadow of King’s Cross station ahead of him.

As he stepped out of the churning smog into the flux and bustle of the station concourse, it occurred to him that perhaps he needn’t be in such a hurry to leave the country. His experience with the policeman had given him confidence, and the beginnings of a new plan. As long as he had his theatrical make-up and his talent, he could go anywhere he pleased.

THIRTY-NINE

The house was in darkness when Quinn got home. He had remained at the department for as long as possible. Not because there was much that he could usefully do, more because of a reluctance to return home. This, he knew, was connected to the arrangement he had established with Mrs Ibbott concerning Miss Dillard’s rent.

His mouth stretched into a private grimace as he closed the door behind him.

He was surprised to see Mrs Ibbott coming towards him with a candle in her hand. ‘Oh, Mr Quinn. I’m afraid something has happened to the electricity supply. Mr Timberley and Mr Appleby are looking into it for us. They think it is something to do with a fuse.’

‘I see. Thank you for telling me, Mrs Ibbott.’

‘We never had this problem with gas, I have to say.’

‘That’s true. But there are other advantages to electricity, are there not? It is cleaner and safer, I think.’

‘It’s all very well when it works, Mr Quinn. Would you like a candle for your room?’

‘I believe I have some candles, thank you, Mrs Ibbott.’

‘Very well, Mr Quinn. I shall light your way upstairs for you.’ Mrs Ibbott turned and then hesitated. ‘Oh, Mr Quinn …’ There was an ominous tone to her voice. Quinn recognized an old detective’s technique, to begin the conversation with something inconsequential, before dropping in the main thing on your mind, as if as an afterthought. ‘I’m a little worried about Miss Dillard.’

Quinn said nothing. He felt a weight of dread settle inside him. His feet dragged to a halt behind her.

Mrs Ibbott still had her back to him. ‘I’m afraid she found out about your generous offer.’

‘She found out? Mrs Ibbott, I asked you not to tell her!’

‘I did not. I did, however, tell my daughter, who must have let it slip to the Misters Appleby and Timberley. I fear those two gentlemen may have conducted some indiscreet banter on the subject, which Miss Dillard somehow overheard.’

Quinn groaned.

Mrs Ibbott at last turned to face him. ‘She has practically kept to her room since, although Betsy saw her coming out of the kitchen earlier. She seemed to be hiding something, according to Betsy. We wondered whether she had stolen something to eat. The silly woman, she knows she only has to ask. At any rate, no one saw her at dinner. I do not believe she has any gin left to consume, or money to buy more.’

‘I truly wish you had not said anything to anyone about our arrangement.’

‘I am sorry, Mr Quinn. I do regret my indiscretion.’

‘What is to be done?’

‘Perhaps we might … look in on her … together. You and I. As concerned friends.’

‘Is it not rather late?’

‘I do not think Miss Dillard has been keeping regular hours recently. I do feel that it would be better to have everything in the open, if we are to move to the arrangement you suggested. I feel Miss Dillard has a right to know who is paying her rent. And why.’

Quinn had to accept the justice of this remark. He nodded for Mrs Ibbott to lead on. ‘Very well.’

They came to the first landing. Mrs Ibbott tapped on Miss Dillard’s door. There was no reply. Mrs Ibbott pressed her ear against the door. Her eyes widened in alarm.

‘What is it?’

Mrs Ibbott stood back, allowing Quinn to listen at the door. He braced himself for the sound of weeping. But that was not what met his ear. It sounded like someone was throwing furniture around. Or using the bed like a trampoline. If he had not known Miss Dillard better, he might have said she was entertaining a lover in a violent and energetic act of coitus. ‘Good grief!’