Quill went on his way and left Tunstall to his walking.

*   *   *

He found Rupert Rudlin in the middle of a crowd that kept grabbing him and hauling him over to waterboard him in a barrel of beer. Quill spared him that for a few moments and asked him his questions.

‘No,’ sobbed the young man, ‘I don’t know why I was killed! I don’t!’

The crowd grabbed him from Quill again and kept on with their torture.

*   *   *

Quill discovered, much more easily than he expected, that the real name of the final person he wanted to interview was Eric Wilker. He was something of a celebrity. Quill arranged to meet him in a pub. He was a small man with threadbare clothing – someone so average that it took Quill a while to pick him out in the crowd. ‘People tell me there’s all this kerfuffle about me,’ he said, sipping his half-pint of mild and bitter. ‘I thought it’d all die down when I did. Back in 1888, I killed them filthy whores as a public service. One of them they say were mine wasn’t, I can’t remember which. Two more they say were other people were me. All the time I was working as a draper’s assistant. I just did what I felt like with them after, and I laughed when I saw what they all made of it. Didn’t mean nothing. I never sent no letters to anyone, I never wrote no message on any wall, I ain’t daft. I stopped when it got too hard. Every now and then I was tempted, but then I thought, no, I’ve done my bit. I died of a fever when I was in my sixties. Thought about telling my old lady on my death bed. Decided against. Ended up here. And younger, which is nice. And here I get to keep on doing what I’m most famous for. Only, every now and then, they get a chance to do it to me. We take it in turns, you might say.’ He took a slow, sad sip of his beer. ‘All a bit pointless, really.’

That was true of Quill’s investigation as well. He’d interviewed everyone he could find who was involved in the case. He was aware of Hell laughing at him for how short a distance that small hope had taken him. Now that small hope was gone. He knew who was guilty, but he had no way to tell anyone.

*   *   *

At one point, as Quill was walking down the street, picking his way through the enormous crowds, someone grasped him, flung him to the ground and started kicking him. ‘It’s your fault!’ screamed Barry Keel. He seemed to be an alderman now, smart in his coat and tails. But his eyes were lost to madness.