The rifle was disassembled immediately. Each movement was carried out with practiced efficiency. The components were placed in their case. Within thirty seconds after the shot, I was ready to depart. I left by the rear, as before. The street beyond had not yet fully grasped what had occurred. There was confusion, certainly, and the first raised voices, but the shape of the event had not yet solidified into understanding. I became part of the movement. My pace was measured. Neither hurried nor slow. I passed others who were beginning to speak of something they did not yet comprehend. A man turned his head as a shout rose behind him, then continued on his way. I did not look back. My route was indirect. I turned where it was natural to turn. Paused where it was natural to pause. At one point, I stopped before a shop window and allowed my gaze to rest upon its contents, though I had no interest in them. Such actions create continuity. They place one within the ordinary flow of the day. By the time I reached my rooms, the news had begun to spread. A shooting. A man down. Speculation, already forming. Inside, I closed the door. The rifle was attended to once more. Cleaned, examined, and hidden in the compartment below my chest of drawers with the remainder of the bullets.
In the evening, I returned to my club. Routine must be maintained. The atmosphere was charged. Groups had formed, conversations overlapping, each man eager to contribute his interpretation. “Have you heard?” Hargreaves said as I took my seat. “I have heard something,” I replied. “Shot in broad daylight. Extraordinary.” “Indeed.” “Do you think it was personal?” I arranged my cards before answering. “Such acts often are.” He nodded, satisfied. We played. The others were distracted. Their minds occupied elsewhere. Errors were made that would not ordinarily occur. I played as I always did. Observing. Adjusting. Remaining within expectation. I won more than usual. Not by design. Merely as a consequence. As the evening progressed, the intensity of the discussion began to diminish. Other subjects emerged. The event, so immediate only hours before, began its transformation into something else. A story. A matter to be discussed rather than experienced.
Over the following days the Newspapers hinted at a foreign assassin with Pembroke having been involved in nefarious arms dealings with a displeased unnamed Nation.
No doubt the Professors doing. London slowly returned to itself. The streets bore little sign of disruption. An extra constable at a distant corner. A small gathering. Otherwise, life continued. It always does. In my rooms, I prepared for bed as I always did. My thoughts did not return to Pembroke, nor to the shot, nor to any detail of that day. I had been well compensated. In the morning, at half past six, I would rise again