It had been over a month ago, now. Spandrell was dead. No one knew who had told the Freemen, and it was a topic of constant debate. For some, it was a pleasant, light subject, used to politely express the delight they felt, however unconsciously, in Webley's death. For others, it was discussed out of a desire to show gratitude to the unknown party, as tribute to said party, the practice of vigilantism, or, paradoxically, the legal pursuit of justice.
For Illidge, it was a topic entered upon in hopes that the perpetrator might be proven to know nothing beyond a single name.
He found himself drawn to those gatherings in which he invariably proved himself a fool, shadowing and occasionally prodding Lord Edward through the dining halls and cocktail hours, so desperate was he of news.
And what would you do? Asked an unidentified voice that another might have called a conscience. What would you do if you found him? Kill him? That is what you do now, right? You kill people. Because the entire thing had been wrong, really. Loathsome and vile and wrong.
When he closed his eyes at night he could still hear it, the dull thud as the body hit the floor. He could still feel the cords in his hands as he bound the corpse. Packaged for transport, that detached part of him commented with a morbid snicker.
He couldn't understand how Spandrell had been so calm, he really couldn't. He would certainly have killed the parleur, but, of course, he hadn't been given the chance. (Of course, knowing Spandrell's queer humors, he might well have agreed to prison, just for the fun of it.)
He hadn't had more than a bite a day for well on three weeks. Even the Bear was beginning to worry, to emerge from his zoological cocoon long enough to tell his assistant to take a break, if only because said assistant could no longer focus on his work.
Even political arguments failed to draw him out. He simply could no longer see the point in bickering. Besides, what's the value of a murderer's opinion? snarked the voice in his head.
He had taken to walking the streets, alone, like some ghastly character from a cheap novel. It was about seven when he entered the subway, and darkness was beginning to fall. Hopping down the dank steps, he was reminded suddenly of his absurd attempt to appear aloof at Tantamount House. Had he not checked himself, he would have laughed aloud. Seeing a stone loose from the pavement, he kicked it ahead of him two or three times. Tiring of the childish game, he sauntered on.
Above it all hung an awful sense of expectation, of oppressive tension. Try though he might to distract himself, Illidge found himself drawn ever closer to the looming cause of it all, the sense that he had to do something to end it. What that something was, he could not bring himself to think, let alone speak.
Suddenly, it occurred to him. That was really the only proper word for it. He was in between distractions, and the thought simply popped into his waking mind, filling the void that had been created to receive it. Once it had entered his thoughts, he didn't stop to consider it. That would have been useless, a denial of Fate, of his responsibility. Questioning it would've been absurd, unthinkable. Quickening his pace, he dashed off to complete his task, his face expressionless.
Oddly enough, it wasn't of his kind mother or his poor neighbors or his deed or his work that he though. He simply enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that his task was complete, its final loose end tied up.
The conductor didn't realize what he'd hit until it reached the papers the next morning.