Preparation, if it is to be effective, must extend beyond the obvious. It is not enough to identify a vantage point or acquire the necessary instruments. One must inhabit the pattern of the place, become part of its rhythm until one’s presence ceases to be perceived as separate from it. To that end, I had altered my habits slightly, though not in any way that would attract attention. I took my midday meal at a small establishment not far from Pembroke’s residence, informing the Anglo-Indian club that I was dining at a visiting friends club for a few days. It was the sort of place frequented by clerks and tradesmen, where a man might sit without being observed too closely. The proprietor, after two or three visits, came to recognize me. We exchanged the usual pleasantries. Weather. Trade. Nothing of consequence. From my vantage point, I read a newspaper watching the streets in the vicinity at varying hours, noting the flow of traffic, the patterns of movement. There are rhythms to a city that reveal themselves only through repetition. A cart that arrives each morning at the same time. A servant who lingers at the door a moment longer than necessary. A constable whose route is predictable in its circuit. These details, insignificant in isolation, form a structure when considered together. From the empty house, Pembroke himself I observed more closely. On two occasions, he paused at his door upon returning home, his gaze moving briefly along the street. It was not suspicion. There was no tension in it. Rather, it suggested the habitual awareness of a man accustomed to being observed in some capacity. He looked, saw nothing of note, and proceeded inside. Yet the gesture remained. Some men sense imbalance without understanding its source.
In the morning itself, I woke up at the usual hour. There was no alteration in my routine. To change it would have been to introduce unnecessary variation. I shaved, dressed, and had breakfast as I always did. The walk that followed was longer than usual, though it appeared otherwise. I traced the route I would later take, confirming that nothing had altered. A man who relies upon assumptions invites error. It is better to confirm even what seems certain. The weather was overcast, a thin mist hanging in the air. It softened the outlines of buildings and muted sound. Such conditions are advantageous. They obscure without concealing entirely. At noon, I returned to my rooms. The rifle was prepared. It required little attention, but habit demands thoroughness. I cleaned it, examined each component, assembled and disassembled it until the motion required no thought. The bullets were handled with equal care. Each was placed, then removed, then placed again. The sequence repeated until it was as natural as breathing. There must be no hesitation. At three in the afternoon, I left my rooms. The journey to the house was uneventful. The city moved as it always does. Men and women engaged in their own concerns, unaware of the part they play in the designs of others. I entered the empty house as before. Inside, the air was unchanged. The dust lay where I had last seen it, save for the small disturbances I had introduced. The path to the upper floor was known to me now. I ascended without sound. The room awaited. Everything was as I had left it. I took my position. The waiting is the worst of it for most men. I have never found it so. There is nothing to do but observe, and observation has never troubled me. The angle of the shot. The distance. The slight movement of the mist beyond the glass. The rhythm of the street below. I observed. At intervals, I adjusted my posture slightly, ensuring that no stiffness would interfere with the act when it came. The rifle rested where it should. My hands were steady. At half past four, the carriage arrived. It drew up before the house with the same regularity I had observed on previous days. The driver descended. The door was opened. Pembroke emerged. He stepped down, adjusted his coat, and paused. It was a small pause. Barely a moment. Yet within it, there was something that might, under other circumstances, have drawn greater attention. He looked along the street. Not sharply. Not with alarm. Simply looking. Then he turned toward the door. I raised the rifle. The movement was smooth, without interruption. The barrel aligned with the point I had selected long before. The distance was known. The angle accounted for. There is a stillness that comes in such a moment. It is not the absence of sound, but the absence of distraction. The mind contains only what is necessary. Everything else falls away. My finger tightened on the trigger. The shot was taken. The sound, though distinct, was softened by distance and circumstance. It did not carry as it might have in clearer air. The driver was the first to understand. He stood quite still for a moment in a way that men do when the mind is ahead of the body, then shouted something I couldn’t hear through the glass. A woman further along the pavement stopped walking. She hadn’t seen anything. She’d only heard the quality of that shout and knew from it that something was wrong.