The Meaning of Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

eye-glass,
    like a jeweller eagerly examining some object of great worth. Then I removed my jacket
    and trousers, then my waistcoat, shirt and cravat: all were subjected to the same frantic
    scrutiny. Finally, I inspected my hat and placed my boots on the table, washed now in
    pale sunlight. I went meticulously over the upper surfaces and soles of each boot with a
    dampened handkerchief, using slow circular movements and stopping every few seconds
    to see if the white linen had taken up any incriminating residue of blood.

    Having satisfied myself that I could find no other physical traces that could link
    me to my victim, I returned to the wash-room, where I diligently soaked my shirt collar in
    cold water to remove the blood-stain. In a few minutes, washed, shaved, and combed, and
    with a clean shirt on my back, I prepared to face the day.

    It is the twenty-fifth of October, 1854 – St Crispin’s Day. Far away in the Crimea,
    though we in England do not yet know it, Lord Cardigan’s heroic Light Brigade is
    charging the Russian guns at Balaclava. For me, the day passes quietly. In the morning, I
    occupy myself with the subject to which I have now devoted my whole being: the
    destruction of my enemy. Of him, you shall learn more – much more – in the the course
    of these pages: for now, you must take it on trust that certain events had made it
    impossible that he should be allowed to live. The trial of my will that had its culmination
    last evening in Cain-court had demonstrated to my satisfaction that I was capable of
    doing what it was necessary to do; and the time was fast approaching when he and I
    would meet face to face for the last time. But until then, I must think, and plan, and wait.

    In the afternoon I had a little business to attend to, connected with my
    employment, and did not return to my rooms until late, with evening coming on. There
    was a copy of The Times on my work-table that had been left earlier by Mrs Grainger. I
    can see myself idly turning the pages of the newspaper until my attention is suddenly
    arrested by an announcement, and my heart begins to thump. Hands shaking slightly, I
    walk over to the window, for the light is fading fast, and begin to read:

    Last evening at about 6 o’clock . . . Cain-court, Strand . . . Mr Lucas Trendle,
    First Assistant to the Chief Cashier of the Bank of England . . . Stoke Newington . . .
    savagely done to death . . . distinguished public servant . . . Elm-lane Chapel . . . many
    charitable works . . . horror of his many friends . . . authorities confident of success . . .

    He had been on his way to a meeting in Exeter Hall of some charitable enterprise
    dedicated to providing copies of the Holy Scripture and serviceable footwear to the
    Africans. I now recalled a throng of clerical gentlemen in subfusc gathered outside the
    grand Corinthian portico of the Hall as I’d passed down the Strand after leaving
    Cain-court. It was clear from the report that the police could discern no obvious motive to
    explain the crime, for nothing had been taken from the victim. I drank in the details of his
    respectable and blameless life; but only one thing held me, and holds me still. He was no
    longer the red-haired man. He had a name.

    On first reading the report, I’d paced about the room somewhat in a sulk,
    unexpectedly vexed by this knowledge. I had wanted him to remain eternally immured in
    his former anonymity; now I could not prevent myself picturing the possibilities of his
    revealed individuality. I began to find the confinement of my attic room intolerable. At
    last, I could stand no more. In these moods, I need to have the raw taste of London on my
    tongue.

    With rain beginning to patter against the skylight of my little bedroom, I threw on
    my top-coat and ran down the stairs into the gathering night.

    And a merciless rain it soon became, pouring in thick frothy streams from
    water-spouts and ledges, tumbling in vertical sheets from roofs and spires and