CHAPTER XXVI. THE WICKSTEED MURDER

by H. G. Wells

The Invisible Man burst out of Kemp’s house, consumed by a blind rage. In his frenzy, he violently shoved a small child playing near the gate, leaving the poor kid with a broken ankle. After that, he slipped from sight for several hours. No one knew where he went or what he did, but one could easily picture him racing through the sweltering June morning, up the hill and onto the open fields behind Port Burdock, filled with anger and despair over his unbearable situation. Eventually, he sought refuge in the thickets of Hintondean, exhausted and overheated, where he could gather his shattered plans against humanity. It seems likely that this was where he re-emerged in a grim and tragic way around two in the afternoon.

One can only wonder what thoughts raced through his mind during that time and what schemes he concocted. He must have been seething with frustration over Kemp’s betrayal. While we might understand the reasons behind that deceit, it’s hard not to sympathize with the fury that must have consumed him. Perhaps the shock of his earlier experiences on Oxford Street returned to him, as he had clearly relied on Kemp’s cooperation in his brutal vision of a world filled with terror. Regardless, he vanished from human view around midday, and no one could say what he did until about half-past two. This absence was perhaps fortunate for humanity, but it was a critical moment of inaction for him.

Meanwhile, a growing crowd of men spread across the countryside, busy with their own tasks. In the morning, he had still been just a legend, a source of fear; by the afternoon, thanks to Kemp’s dry proclamation, he had become a real threat—one that could be wounded, captured, or defeated. The countryside began to organize itself at an astonishing pace. By two o’clock, he could have still escaped the area by catching a train, but after that, it became impossible. Every passenger train running through a vast area between Southampton, Manchester, Brighton, and Horsham was locked down, and freight traffic had nearly come to a halt. Within a twenty-mile radius of Port Burdock, groups of men armed with guns and clubs were setting out, accompanied by dogs, to scour the roads and fields.

Mounted police patrolled the country lanes, stopping at every cottage to warn residents to secure their homes and stay indoors unless they were armed. By three o’clock, all the elementary schools had released their students, and frightened children hurried home in clusters. Kemp’s proclamation—signed by Adye—was posted throughout the district by four or five o’clock that afternoon. It clearly outlined the conditions of the struggle: the need to keep the Invisible Man from food and sleep, the importance of constant vigilance, and the necessity for immediate action at any sign of his movements. The authorities acted swiftly and decisively, and belief in this strange being spread rapidly. By nightfall, an area of several hundred square miles was effectively under siege. And as darkness fell, a wave of horror swept through the anxious countryside. The chilling news of Mr. Wicksteed’s murder spread quickly, whispered from one person to another.

If we assume the Invisible Man took refuge in the Hintondean thickets, then it’s likely he ventured out again in the early afternoon, driven by a plan that involved a weapon. We can only speculate about his intentions, but the evidence that he wielded an iron rod before encountering Wicksteed is compelling.

The details of that encounter remain unknown. It happened near a gravel pit, not two hundred yards from Lord Burdock’s lodge gate. Everything suggests a desperate struggle—the trampled ground, the multiple wounds inflicted on Mr. Wicksteed, and his shattered walking stick. But why the attack occurred, beyond a frenzied desire to kill, is impossible to understand. The theory of madness seems almost unavoidable. Mr. Wicksteed, a man in his mid-forties, served as steward to Lord Burdock. He was a mild-mannered individual, the last person you’d expect to provoke such a violent adversary. Against him, the Invisible Man wielded an iron rod, likely torn from a broken fence. He ambushed this unsuspecting man, who was simply on his way home for lunch, overpowered him, broke his arm, knocked him down, and brutally smashed his head.

He must have pulled that rod out of the fencing before he encountered his victim—he had to have been holding it, ready for use. Two details stand out beyond what’s already been mentioned. First, the gravel pit wasn’t directly on Mr. Wicksteed’s path home; it was nearly two hundred yards off his route. Second, a little girl claimed that on her way to afternoon school, she saw the murdered man “trotting” oddly across a field toward the gravel pit. Her imitation of his movement suggested he was chasing something on the ground and striking at it repeatedly with his walking stick. She was the last person to see him alive. He disappeared from her view just before his death, the struggle hidden from her by a cluster of beech trees and a slight dip in the ground.

To me, this shifts the murder away from being purely random. We can imagine that Griffin took the rod as a weapon, but without any real intention of killing. Wicksteed might have noticed this rod moving through the air for no apparent reason. Without any thought of the Invisible Man—since Port Burdock is ten miles away—he may have decided to chase it. It’s quite possible he hadn’t even heard of the Invisible Man. One can picture the Invisible Man slipping away quietly to avoid being discovered, while Wicksteed, intrigued and excited, pursued this inexplicably moving object, eventually striking at it.

Certainly, the Invisible Man could have easily outrun his middle-aged pursuer under normal circumstances. However, the position in which Wicksteed’s body was found suggests he had the misfortune of cornering his quarry between a patch of stinging nettles and the gravel pit. For those who understand the Invisible Man’s notorious temper, the rest of their encounter is easy to imagine.

But this is all speculation. The only undeniable facts—since children’s accounts can often be unreliable—are the discovery of Wicksteed’s lifeless body and the bloodied iron rod tossed among the nettles. The fact that Griffin abandoned the rod suggests that in the heat of the moment, whatever purpose he had for taking it was lost. He was undeniably self-centered and callous, but seeing his first victim, bloody and pitiful at his feet, may have unleashed a wave of remorse that temporarily overwhelmed whatever plans he had.

After killing Mr. Wicksteed, he seemed to have headed across the countryside toward the downs. There’s a story about a voice heard at sunset by two men in a field near Fern Bottom. It was a strange mix of wailing and laughter, sobbing and groaning, punctuated by shouts. It must have been an eerie sound, echoing across a clover field before fading into the hills.

That afternoon, the Invisible Man likely realized how quickly Kemp had acted on his confidences. He must have found houses locked tight; he may have lingered around train stations and prowled inns, and he undoubtedly saw the proclamations, understanding the nature of the campaign against him. As evening fell, the fields became dotted with groups of three or four men, noisy with the barking of dogs. These hunters had specific instructions on how to support each other in case of an encounter. But he evaded them all. One can imagine his frustration, especially since he was the one who had provided the information that was now being used so ruthlessly against him. For that day, at least, he lost his resolve; aside from his confrontation with Wicksteed, he was a hunted man for nearly twenty-four hours. During the night, he must have eaten and slept, for by morning, he was himself again—active, powerful, angry, and vengeful, ready for his final showdown with the world.