Of all the atrocities committed under the cover of darkness within the vast boundaries of London since night had fallen, this was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose like a foul scent into the morning air, this was the most cruel and cold-blooded.
The sun—the brilliant sun that brings not only light but new life, hope, and freshness to humanity—burst upon the crowded city in radiant glory. Its rays shone equally through expensive stained glass and windows repaired with paper, through the domes of cathedrals and the rotting crevices of slums. It lit up the room where the murdered woman lay. It truly did. Sikes tried to shut the light out, but it continued to stream in. If the scene had been ghastly in the grey morning light, it was now unbearable in the brilliant sunshine.
He had not moved; he had been too afraid to stir. There had been a moan and a slight movement of her hand; then, driven by a mixture of terror and rage, he had struck her again and again. At one point, he had thrown a rug over the body, but it was worse to imagine her eyes and picture them moving toward him than to actually see them staring upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of blood that shimmered on the ceiling in the sunlight. He had pulled the rug off again. And there lay the body—mere flesh and blood—but such flesh, and so much blood!
He struck a match, started a fire, and thrust his heavy club into the flames. There was hair on the end of it, which blazed and shrivelled into ash before being carried up the chimney by the wind. Even that sight frightened him, strong as he was. He held the weapon until it broke, then piled the pieces onto the hot coals to burn away into nothing. He scrubbed himself and rubbed his clothes; there were stains that would not come out, so he cut those pieces of fabric out and burnt them, too. How those stains were scattered throughout the room! Even the dog’s paws were bloody.
During this entire time, he never once turned his back on the corpse—not for a single second. Once his preparations were complete, he backed away toward the door, dragging the dog with him so the animal wouldn't step in the blood and carry evidence of the crime out into the streets. He shut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.
He crossed the street and glanced up at the window to ensure nothing was visible from the outside. The curtain was still drawn—the curtain she would have opened to let in the light she would never see again. She lay nearly right under that spot. He knew that. God, how the sun poured down on that very place!
The glance lasted only an instant. It was a massive relief to be free of that room. He whistled for the dog and walked rapidly away.
He passed through Islington and strode up the hill at Highgate. He turned toward Highgate Hill, though he was unsteady of purpose and uncertain of where to go. He turned right again almost as soon as he began to descend, taking a footpath across the fields until he reached Hampstead Heath. He crossed the hollow by the Vale of Health, mounted the opposite bank, and made his way across the heath to the fields at North End. There, in one of the fields, he lay down under a hedge and fell asleep.
Soon he was up again and moving—not further into the country, but back toward London by the main road. Then he turned back again, retracing his steps over the same ground. He wandered aimlessly up and down the fields, resting on the edges of ditches, only to start up again and head for a new spot, wandering on and on.
Where could he go that was nearby but not too public to get food and drink? Hendon. That was a good place, close by and out of most people’s way. He headed there—sometimes running, and sometimes, with a strange perversity, moving at a snail’s pace or stopping altogether to idly break the hedges with a stick. But when he arrived, everyone he met—even the children at their doors—seemed to look at him with suspicion. He turned back again, lacking the courage to buy a single bite of food or a drop to drink, though he had not eaten for many hours. Once more he lingered on the Heath, unsure of his next move.
He wandered for miles and miles, yet he always ended up back at the same place. Morning and noon passed, and as the day began to fade, he was still rambling back and forth, circling the same area. Finally, he managed to pull himself away and set his course for Hatfield.
It was nine o'clock at night when the man, completely exhausted, and the dog, limping from the unusual exercise, turned down the hill by the village church. They plodded along the quiet street and crept into a small public house, guided by its dim light. A fire was burning in the tap-room, and a few local labourers were drinking in front of it.
They made room for the stranger, but he sat in the furthest corner and ate and drank alone—or rather, with his dog, to whom he occasionally threw a morsel of food.
The men’s conversation was about the local land and farmers. When those topics were finished, they talked about the age of an old man who had been buried the previous Sunday. The young men thought he was very old, while the elderly men claimed he had been quite young—no older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was. He could have lived ten or fifteen more years, the old man remarked, if only he had taken care of himself.
There was nothing in this talk to cause alarm. The robber, after paying his bill, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner. He had almost fallen asleep when he was woken by the noisy entrance of a newcomer.
This was a lively fellow, part pedlar and part street-performer, who travelled the country on foot selling various goods: razors, soaps, medicines for animals, and cheap perfumes. His arrival was greeted with jokes from the locals, which continued until he had finished his supper and opened his box of treasures. He then began to cleverly mix entertainment with business.
"And what is that stuff? Is it good to eat, Harry?" asked a grinning countryman, pointing to some small cakes in a corner of the box.
"This," said the fellow, holding one up, "this is the infallible and invaluable mixture for removing all kinds of stains, rust, dirt, or mildew from silk, satin, linen, or wool. Wine stains, fruit stains, beer, paint, or mud—they all disappear with one rub of this incredible composition! If a lady stains her honour, she only needs to swallow one cake and she’s cured instantly—because it’s poison! One penny a square! With all these virtues, only one penny a square!"
Two people bought some immediately, and others were clearly considering it. Observing this, the pedlar talked even faster.
"It’s being bought up as fast as it can be made!" he shouted. "We have steam engines working day and night to produce it! One penny a square! Mud stains, pitch stains—blood stains! Look, here is a dark stain on the hat of a gentleman in this room. I’ll take it out completely before he can even order a pint of ale!"
"Hey!" Sikes cried, jumping up. "Give that back!"
"I’ll take it right out, sir," the man replied, winking at the others, "before you can even cross the room to stop me. Gentlemen, look at this dark stain on this gentleman’s hat—no wider than a shilling. Whether it is a wine stain, a mud stain, or a blood stain—"
The man got no further, for Sikes, with a terrifying curse, knocked over the table, snatched the hat back, and rushed out of the house.
Driven by the same indecision that had plagued him all day, the murderer realized he was not being followed. The locals probably just thought he was a grumpy drunk. He turned back into the town and, avoiding the bright lights of a stagecoach, walked past the little post office. He felt he knew what was coming, but he crossed the street to listen anyway.
The guard was waiting for the mailbags. A man dressed like a gamekeeper approached him.
"Anything new in London, Ben?" the gamekeeper asked.
"No, nothing I know of," the guard replied, pulling on his gloves. "I did hear talk of a murder, though, down in Spitalfields."
"Oh, that’s quite true," said a gentleman looking out from the coach window. "And a dreadful murder it was."
"Was it, sir?" the guard asked. "A man or a woman?"
"A woman," the gentleman replied. "It is supposed—"
"Come on, Ben!" the coachman called out impatiently. The mailbags were finally brought out, the horn sounded a few notes, and the coach was gone.
Sikes remained standing in the street, seemingly unmoved by what he had heard, though he was debating where to go next. Finally, he took the road toward St. Albans.
He walked on stubbornly, but as he left the town and entered the darkness of the open road, a deep sense of dread began to creep over him. Every object he saw, whether a real thing or a shadow, looked like something terrifying. But these fears were nothing compared to the feeling that Nancy’s ghastly figure was following at his heels. He could see its shadow in the gloom and hear its clothes rustling in the leaves. Every gust of wind seemed to carry her last low cry. If he stopped, the phantom stopped. If he ran, it followed—not by running, but like a corpse moved by some silent, invisible force.
At times, he turned around with desperate determination, resolved to confront the ghost, but his hair stood on end and his blood ran cold. It had turned with him and was now behind him—always behind him. He leaned his back against a bank, but felt it standing above him. He threw himself onto the road, lying on his back, but it stood at his head—silent and still—like a living gravestone with an epitaph written in blood.
Let no one speak of murderers escaping justice. Sikes experienced a hundred violent deaths in every minute of that terrifying agony.
He passed a shed in a field that offered some shelter. Three tall trees stood before the door, making the interior very dark, and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walk any further until daylight returned. He stretched himself out against the wall, only to undergo new torture.
A vision appeared before him, more terrible than anything he had escaped. Those wide, staring eyes—so dull and glassy—appeared in the darkness. There were only two, but they were everywhere. If he closed his eyes, he saw the room in London with every detail in its place. The body was where he had left it, and the eyes were exactly as he had seen them when he fled. He rushed out into the field, but the figure followed. He returned to the shed, and the eyes were there before he even lay down.
He remained there in total terror, trembling in every limb, until suddenly the sound of distant shouting and a roar of voices broke the silence. To him, any sound of human life, even if it meant danger, was a relief. He regained his energy at the prospect of a physical threat and rushed outside.
The sky seemed to be on fire. Huge sheets of flame and showers of sparks rose into the air, lighting up the countryside for miles. The shouts grew louder as he heard the cry of "Fire!" mixed with the ringing of alarm bells and the crackling of flames. There were people there—activity and noise. It was like new life to him. He ran toward the fire, leaping over gates and fences as madly as his dog.
He reached the scene. Figures were running back and forth, some trying to save horses from stables, others driving cattle away from the heat. Red-hot beams were tumbling down. The roar of the fire was immense. Sikes shouted until he was hoarse, and to escape his own memory, he plunged into the thickest part of the crowd. He worked at the pumps, climbed ladders onto shaking roofs, and ran through smoke and flame. He seemed to have a charmed life; he suffered no injury and felt no fatigue until morning dawned, leaving only smoke and blackened ruins.
Once this excitement ended, the dreadful consciousness of his crime returned with even more force. He looked suspiciously at the groups of men talking, fearing he was the subject of their conversation. He signaled to his dog, and they crept away together. He passed some firemen from London who were sharing food. As he drank some beer, he heard them talking about the murder. "He’s gone to Birmingham, they say," one remarked. "But they’ll catch him soon; the scouts are out."
He hurried off and walked until he nearly collapsed. He lay down in a lane and fell into a broken, uneasy sleep. When he woke, the fear of another solitary night oppressed him. Suddenly, he made a desperate resolution: he would go back to London.
"There’s someone to speak to there, at least," he thought. "It’s a good hiding place, too. They’ll never expect to find me there after I’ve fled to the country. I can hide for a week, get some money from Fagin, and escape to France. I’ll risk it."
He acted on this impulse immediately. Choosing the quietest roads, he began his journey back, planning to enter the city at dusk by a roundabout route.
But then he thought of the dog. If a description of him had been released, people would know the dog was missing, too. This could lead to his arrest. He decided to drown the animal and looked around for a pond, picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he walked.
The dog looked up into his master’s face. Whether the animal sensed the danger or noticed that Sikes' look was unusually stern, he stayed further back than usual and moved slowly. When Sikes stopped at the edge of a pool and called him, the dog stopped completely.
"Do you hear me? Come here!" Sikes shouted.
The animal approached out of habit, but as Sikes leaned down to tie the stone to his neck, the dog growled softly and jumped back.
"Come back here!" the robber commanded.
The dog wagged its tail but did not move. Sikes made a loop in the handkerchief and called again. The dog advanced, hesitated for a second, and then turned and ran away at full speed.
The man whistled repeatedly and waited, expecting the animal to return. But the dog did not appear, and eventually, Sikes continued his journey alone.